We're Number 1!

Congratulations Wesleyan...
gawker.com/news/kids-today/the-most-annoying-liberal-arts-school-in-the-us-282425.php
And I really like that Eclectic gets a shout out...

El Choro

It was such a strange day in La Paz, absolutely no one on the streets, no cars, no people, nothing was open. Only in the morning when people were gathering on streetcorners with their flags and banners for the march up to El Alto were people around, and then they marched off and it was quiet. Protests are mainly about the possibility of moving the capital- the rich whites in the south are in favor, the poor and indigenous of La Paz and elsewhere are against. (apparently the march drew 2 million people) Its pretty depressing to be in the worlds greatest democracy and have such an uninvolved populace. We´d probably vote for the new capital on a reality show. We did eat at a good Arab place that was open, I suppose they didnt care whether the capital stayed in La Paz or moved. (and if anyone has a good mujadara recipe, please send it to me) I can´t imagine Americans taking to the streets the way the people here do for anything. But anyway, we began our Choro Trek the next day.

The Choro Trek travels for three days from the high mountains above la paz down to the sweaty jungle region of the Yungas, and even better than that, is almost entirely downhill. Oh yeah, and was paved with smooth stones 1000 years ago by the incans. (and in many spots in better shape than the streets in downtown boston) It even retains some original stone and wood bridges over the rivers flowing eastward toward the Amazon from the Andes. The trail begins on an extremely steep and rocky mountain pass, where we began to head down passing caravans of llamas and alpacas heading upward, driven by locals in bright colored weavings, and some of the only people I´ve ever seen wearing legwarmers justifiably. It had a real Lord of the Rings epic feel on the way down, with a bit of Herzog´s Aguirre Wrath of God thrown in. We made it down the steep part, passing the stone remains of an incan waystation, and headed into more grassy green pasture land with old stone houses with thatched roofs and walls penning in sheep and alpacas. We decended into a clouds, or fog anyway, and it felt like we could have been in scotland were it not for the occasional glimpse of enormous mountains through fog breaks.

Took a brief stop in our guides town, an Aymara village in the valley which has probably changed little in the last 1000 years. They still raise alpacas, grow quinua and potatos, and make chuno (freeze dried potatos), and still speak Aymara. Guzman and alejandro, the two brothers in their 50´s who were our guides greeted everyone we encountered with winusakari, an aymara greeting.

By the end of the first day we had descended enough to be wearing t shirts, the vegetation had become tropical and lush, and if the temperature didnt tell us we were in the jungle, the mosquitos did. We made camp in a little stone village of about five houses, a few hours of electricity and in a lovely setting next to the river. No running water per se, but they ingenious had run an extremely long hose from higher up the river waterfall to provide a flow of water in the town. Food was good, tents and sleeping bags we rented a bit short and clearly made for for the height of the average Bolivian. The stars were incredible, could make out the scorpio constellation perfectly, exciting to see a real southern hemisphere constellation. Slept well overall to the sounds of villagers chatting away in Aymara and the wild sounds of the jungle birds and other creatures.

Arose the next day to hike through more jungle, past calla lillies and giant yellow flowers, wild strawberries and tropical butterfly meadows. We wound around some extremely high ridgelines with views back over snowy peaks and ahead toward deeper jungle and hundred foot cascading waterfalls. It looked a lot like how I imagine Colombia, (which I suppose is how Colombia looks in Hollywood movies). You could smell the heady funky smell of jungle rot, and the temperatures were a welcome relief from the coldness of La Paz and the Altiplano. The few towns we passed had almost nothing save for a few banana trees, and a couple shacks looking rather precariously perched on the jungly cliffsides. On the third day we stopped at the Japanese house, three days´ hike from anywhere a tiny little 70 year old Japanese man lived whose hunchback was almost a complete 90 degrees. He had an incredible view and wonderful gardens there, but I couldnt help but wonder why he had decided this spot in Bolivia to move to some 40 years ago. South America was once infamous for its hiding Nazis, and I wondered a bit about this fellow as well.

Finally we arrived to chairo, where we bathed in the freezing river and headed back toward to La Paz in a car that broke down repeatedly. An amazing trek overall, and I´d recommend our guides who grew up in the valley and know all its twists and turns and characters as well.

Attempted to fly to the Amazon bright and early this morning 600 , only to be told around 130 that our flight was cancelled. Couldnt even get a cab to our hotel because of more demonstrations so had to walk. Oh well, here now post nap and feeling halfway human again. With any luck we´ll make the Amazon tomorrow.

Salar De Uyuni - La Sede No Se Mueve - Thoughts on Travel

So the salt flats were pretty incredible. The Salar de Uyuni is the worlds largest salt flat, stretching 12,000 square kilometers and 500 meters deep of pure salt. (yeah, you do the math on your time). Its a desert of salt at about 11,000 ft, and just pure blinding white that almost looks like snow. Its pretty much unbroken, except for mountains in the far distance and the occasional -island-.

Basically, the whole area used to be a lake that collected rain from the andes, which are extremely rich in minerals. Eventually the Andes grew, the lake dried up and the salt was left. (Although our guide explained the incan legend in spanish which I think I mostly understood- the mountain huayna potosi in La Paz is a very sacred mountain or apus, the Incans believed the mountains were gods. (easy to understand when you see them) Anyway, Huayna Potosi was married to the mountain seen in the pictures and they had a baby, in spite of the long distance relationship, the baby was the isla pescado (also pictured). But the baby was far away from the mother, so she flooded the plain with her milk, hence the white salt.

When you approach the Salar, it looks like a distant white ocean, as you get closer there is practically a line where the salt starts and the earth ends. We splurged to stay at a salt hotel, made completely out of blocks of salt, for the last night since it was alleged to be warm and have hot showers which it did. It was the most expensive place we stayed (10$), but definitely worth it AND passed the taste test for legitimacy. The sunset over the pure white was incredible, as was the sunset as we headed out into the whiteness the next morning. Watched the sunrise, pastel colors washing over the white salt and then drove across the plain to the Isla Pescado, what used to be a coral island in the ancient lake that no longer exists. You can still see the coral in the rock, which is now growing with cactuses. It was a great place to stop for breakfast and try to warm up, as well as taking some ridiculous pictures with the white background. (forthcoming).

Stopped at a salt mining factory, not a surprising destination in this location, and browsed all sorts of random trinkets carved from salt- llamas, dice, ashtrays, etc before heading into the town of Uyuni to await our night bus. Bus ride seemed interminable again, 12 hr nightbus over dusty dirt roads, and though they promised us heat I watcdhed the condensation on the window next to me slowly turn to ice between spells of fitful sleep. Arrived in La Paz this morning to find the city entirely on strike to protest the congress{s plan to move the capital from La Paz to Sucre, a wealthier, more spanish city in the center of the country. Well, the people arent having it and NOTHING was open all morning so that everyone (2 million according to the paper) could march and chant Vive Bolivia, Vive La Paz, La Sede No Se Mueve!!! and march up to El Alto. They also blockaded all roads in and out of sucre with boulders, the train too and apparently La Paz may be next. We ll be trekking for the next three days down an ancient incan road from the mountains into the Yungas jungle area, so hopefully no one will be stopping us.

I spent a bunch of time on the trip thinking about what it means to travel. I sat and watched this one volcano in Chile, Ollague smoking across another national border, and started getting philosophical. What is this travel thing, my interest in it and all of our interests in it. Am I just a voyeur at best, or at worst a colonialist with a backpack on? Instead of stripmining the country for silver as the spanish did, or oil as my countrymen have, (or cheap factory labor now) am I just searching for some sort of cultural authenticity and experience to walk away with? Well, yes, I concluded, but is that necessarily a bad thing?

I suppose its also the constant paradox of travel, searching for authenticity and experience, and then ending up so often just bumping into other travellers, even in places like Bolivia, El Salvador and Laos or wherever else I think will be off the beaten track. (lesson- if lonely planet writes the guidebook- the gringos and banana pancakes will come) Still, I do feel like the backpacking gringo trail thing, (which now exists everywhere!) is probably better than well established tourist packages and corporate travel companies in Europe and the US. For one thing, I eat at local restaurants and hire local guides when I need to from local companies who presumably keep the money in country. Its hardly like an international hotel chain in cancun is taking 95% of the money back to wall street and paying the locals pennies. Still, I am paying the locals very little in a sense, taking advantage of how inexpensive travelling here and other such places is. But I{m also helping people make some money, I try to support businesses run by enterprising women and minority groups within the countries who might otherwise have few options, though in truth I often will go for whoever seems to be both inexpensive and honest. Still, I never treat these countries or the people like they exist for my benefit as a neocolonial corporate travel business would. Nor am I arrogant enough to assume that I am always of a benefit to them, I attempt treat the people and cultures I encounter as if they exist for themselves, in spite of the fact that my interactions with people will never be objective. I also make an effort to learn about the local culture, learn some language and talk to the locals about their countries and cultures.

And still I get sick of the backpacker reverse snobbery, everyone trying to prove their cred by talking about how little they paid for this or that, when all of the euros, aussies and canadians (met no americans yet) could easily afford way more. And everyone is searching for adventure and experience, while we claim to love the freedom and antimaterialism of backpacker travel, we have become materialists for experience. Sure, I like to think how much I buy most of my clothes and things secondhand to opt out of the market somehow, and that I maybe dont want that much stuff, but Ive become a materialist for experiences- adventures travelling, spiritual experiences with meditating or whatever. And isnt desire just that- doesnt it lead to suffering the same way? Sitting in the absolutely beautiful salt flats and thinking about sitting in the absolutely beautiful sacred valley and machu picchu next week. Is that really much different than some broker type sitting in a new car or house and thinking about getting a fancier car or house next? Well, I might like to think so, but doubts are creeping in...

Enough of my philosophizing for now. In the end though, travel has opened my eyes enormously to other cultures, (both of the countries I visit and the Euros I meet) my own culture, and myself, even if it is never as pure an experience as we might wish it to be.

Bolivia: Southwest Circuit I

The dirt road busride to Tupiza from Potosi seemed endless, though we did make it through the days dust with a norweigian couple and a whole lot of Bolivians as the land around us grew drier by the mile. Had some tasty food on the way, Api, which is a sweet and cinnamony corn beverage, kind of like a hot liquid corn pudding that really warms you up in the morning. Also some tasty fried thing which I ate while chatting with a local engineer who was asking me how he could get an american work visa. Ate at some street stalls ina little aymara village where the bus stopped, grilled animal parts that were reasonable enough and then in the dusty heat I spotted a man squeezing fresh orange juice. Just the thing to quench my thirst in the dry desert. I watched him pluck a glass from his bucket, and did think twice about the filthy water and drank anyway. It was delicious, though I definitely regretted it come 6am the next morning. But I took my antibiotics and such, and was feeling mostly better by the time we began our southwest circuit tour.

We signed up for a four day tour from Tupiza, apparently less travelled than the tours that go from Uyuni, which are rumored 12 deep convoys of gringo packed land cruisers pulling up at every sight of interest. And thankfully, we were pretty much just alone on our route with the three french canadians in our 4x4. Leaving Tupiza we headed into the dry mountains winding past scenery that looked a lot like the american southwest- Arches, Canyonlands or Monument Valley national parks. Crazy red rock formations, black ridges and golden gray mesas speckled with some scrub brush cactuses. The wildlife were mostly vicuñas galloping past a camelid like llamas or alpacas but more graceful and deerlike, as well as wild. Their wool was allegedly worth more than gold to the ancient incans. We saw ostriches and a condor, even saw it landing and taking off with llama flesh in its beak as it flapped its 9ft wings and soared away.

The southwest like landscape must have felt homey to old Butch and Sundance, as we saked our driver to take us to San Vicente, the mining camp where they died. San Vicente did not appear to have changed much since Butch and Sundance relieved the mine owners of their 90,000$ payroll. A tiny mining encampent in the desert mountains, with just a sign seen below:

Real off-road driving (not to mention on-dirt-road and even piste driving) I would like to point out for the record is extremely different from how things appear in SUV commercials. It is extraordinrily uncomfortable and slow, like 5-10mph, even on -roads-. We were even in a toyota land cruiser, not super new, but the vehicle that 9 out of 10 afghan warlords agree is the most rugged, and I'm not about to argue with them, and STILL were moving extremely slowly. These roads (and mountains, and dry river beds, and frozen rivers, and boulders) really were the proper use of such vehicles, but I'll save the rest of my SUV political comments for another day.

We were really completely off the grid-if you think about 16 hours worth of busses from La Paz, (a city that only one international airline flies into) then three days by jeep. Our driver could neither radio nor cell phone to anywhere, and I felt a pang when I considered the French people I heard about whos jeep broke down and they had to sleep in it overnight, or the woman who fell off a mountain our guide pointed out and died. The villages we saw and stopped in were picture perfect , complete with stone houses, and mud brick churches where we'd practice our spanish and game playing with local children. Most dont have electricity, and if they do it is from a few solar panels. In fact, I kept thinking about how the villages and the region could probably benefit enormously from solar or wind power, but still am not sure if benefit is the right word. They would certainly change is undeniable, benefit is questionable, and someone else would certainly get rich off of the wind and sun in the high altiplano.

We stayed in such towns, in such stone houses where the temperatures were astonshingly cold. Colder even than the summit of Misti, and only a few hours of electricity that powered a bare bulb or two. In fact, it was rather like camping inside, huddled under sleeping bags and three wool blankets it was still freezing. We took our breakfast and dinner inside but of course fully bundled, gloves and all.

Next day we drove through more plains and mountains, the red rocks receding into the distance and giving way to bare mountains and some of the most desolate landscape I've ever seen. Almost no signs of life except for wandering llamas, their shepherds miles away. How I'd imagine parts of Afghanistan, or even Antartica, though that could have been the cold also. The altitude was 15000 feet, higher than even the gran teton in wyoming, and we were just driving across deserts. I was actually feeling fairly altitude sick, having never been this high up before except fro climbing a mountain a few weeks back. Stopped in a weird old ghost town as the sun rose, the town having been snowed in years before causing many of the children and animals to die, with the survivors moving to lower elevation and abandoning the town wholesale. Strange to wander through crumbling churches and an old plaza, overgrown with weeds and just a few rabbits and llamas wandering about in the eerie light of dawn. Would have been an amazing place to camp out or spend more time if it werent so damn freezing.

Onward we motored up and down hills, through the desert and past frozen lakes until about noontime when we reached a hot springs in the middle of the desert. The day was warmer, and we decided to give it a show. Oh my GOD were they wonderful and warm and cleansing and refreshing and relaxing and everything hot springs should be. And with a phenomenol view over mountains and another frozen lake to boot! My soroche, (altitude sickness) was mostly cured by the healing waters, with some help from our drivers coca leaves. We somehow dragged ourselves out and onward. We stopped at some strange frozen mineral lakes, one a bright caribbean green with waves seemingly frozen in place and underneath a perfect snow capped cone shaped volcano. Another was bright red, the Laguna Colorado, and even bore the incongruous sight of bright pink flamingos walking around on the ice. Yeah, like John Waters Baltimore pride plastic lawn pink flamingos! More desolate lifeless desert mountains, looking more like nevada than the more dramatic parts of the southwst. We did make a late interesting stop at some geysers, bubbling with mud and steam and hissing like the sound of jet engines.

Stayed in another bunker-like stone building for the night, less cold than the previous, but still watched my breath as I read my book with gloves on. Met some brits who were climbing 6 6000meter peaks in 6 days for charity, a highly admirable feat on multiple levels. They had started a charity called challenge bolivia and raised 10,000 pounds for school supplies for a few villages. I was deeply impressed at their effort, and if anyone is up for such a similar charity task, let me know and lets think about making it happen!

Day three was more desert, the desierto de dali, a supposedly surreal landscape, which was pretty interesting and stopped at some other bizarre rock formations, including the arbol de piedra, or stone tree. Back into more redrock formation and finally to our salt hotel on the very edge of the salt flats. Yes, a hotel made entirely our of salt, (and passed the taste test) save for the showers (hot! and existent! unlike our last few nights!) Dinner by candlelight, save for a brief hour or two of electricity and an amazing sunset over the salt flats. Which will be my next entry and probably mostly a photo essay. That is, if the strikes dont get in the way. Apparently the people of Bolivia are also restless, and roadblocks have now shut down entry and exit from Sucre, the other large city entirely. Negotiations are underway to keep La Paz open. Heres hoping that they are still negotiating when our bus tries to get to La Paz at 7am tomorrow!!!

photos: San Vicente- sign explanatory, arbol de piedra, me at ghost town, flamingos in laguna colorado, laguna verde)

(for the record, let me make clear that many photos are from the internet until I return and upload my own. I am not that good or bad a photographer)

El Misti

One of the highlights of this trip (and my life) that I´ve not yet described was climbing El Misti, an 18000 ft mountain on the outskirts of Arequipa. (thats three Mt. Washingtons, or 3.5 Denvers)

We found a decent guide (but not porters!) in town, and headed out early in the morning for a long day of hiking. Our companions were pretty good folks, a brit, a french couple and a dutch guy who all had less mountaineering experience than either ben or myself, which was quite reassuring. We drove through town, up past the smoldering dump and to the highest point our 4x4 would go before finalizing our packing and hitting the road. Bens rented pack was falling apart, but our trusty guide managed to sew it up with dental floss and it actually held. The intial hike took us up about to 14000 ft, where the air became noticeably thinner even as the view became more amazing. Arequipa was spread out below us, canyons and rivers flowing into the city and beyond, and we could see ourselves growing increasingly paralell to other snow capped ranges and even barely make out a volcano (ampato?) lazily smoking in the distance. We made it to camp just before sunset, which seemed to light up the whole of southern peru in light golden and pink shades. Dinner was a meager chicken soup, but warm and delicious enough to feel filling and we attempted to sleep in spite of it being only 6pm.

Slept a bit, and woke up at 1am to our guide offering us a breakfast of coca mate tea and some bread and cheese. (summiting montains needs to be done in the morning to avoid being trapped mountaintop in afternoon storms) The stars were magnificent, the milky way was clear and bright, and all the millions of southern hemisphere constellations both comforting and confusing in their unfamiliarity. Arequipa lay sleeping below us, surprisingly large and spread out over the valley, the lights twinkling and bright yet so distant from our perch on the mountain. The climbing was even slower going when we hit the trail at 130 or 2, climbing over boulders was one thing, but the sand and volcanic ash was even worse. One step forward and a half step sliding back in the sand, but the air was almost impossible to breathe. We were hiking by headlamp light only, though it was possible to see by the stars. My lungs ached with each breath, and every ten steps we needed to rest for a few. Oh, did I mention the wind and the freezing cold negative degree temperatures? Thank god I had borrowed some gloves, not to mention wearing three jackets and two layers of long underwear. My mouth and throat were completely dry from the altitude and dryness, and drinking water was a chore given its frozen state and the fact thta it required removing gloves and such. Our guide of course, was practically jogging up the thing, carrying a transister radio to tune in local stations and listen to the big Copa de Americas soccer games.

We pushed on, approaching the snow at the top and the french woman had to turn back. The sun arose at 630 or so, lighting our path and creating an astonishing sunrise but hardly warming us. Because it was still behind the mountain, the sun created an enormous mountain shaped shadow stretching behind us and over arequipa. Every time we looked up the summit seemed the same distance. Our breaks grew more frequent, heads were pounding with altitude sickness, each step seemed like it would wind us. Finally we somehow reached the saddle below the summit, and rested for a while as we attempted to catch our breath. The summit was another forty five minutes, and only the french guy and I were able to have the random luck of not being burdened with altitude poisining. The feeling of summiting though was incredible, and adrenaline got me through the last half an hour. Ten o´clock in the morning and we were 18000 ft above the world, yet standing on it. I somehow expected I would feel like I would in an airplane, but it really was completely different and absolutely exhilerating. I shook hands with the frenchman, and lamented the fact that my camera was still in our hotel. Still, there was something nice about having it only as a memory. I did ask the frenchman about his mountaineering experience, and he said he had never been in the mountains before (and did I mention that he smoked the whole way up?). The downward trek was far faster, getting to base camp in about an hour and a half I literally laid down on a pile of rocks and fell asleep. I woke up about forty five minutes later, still out of breath from the altitude but absolutely feeling incredible. Chatted with the guide on the remaining hike, which was mostly just sliding down sand and volcanic ash. He was a pretty interesting guy, used to be a miner and now leads gringos up and down enormous mountains 3 or 4 times a week. Insane that such a triumphant day for me is essentially another day at the office for him!

Back to Arequipa for an enormous steak dinner and slept the sleep of the just.

Bolivia: The Mines and Miners of Cerro Rico Mine in Potosi

Long overnight bus to Potosi from La Paz, not terribly comfortable and arriving us to Potosi at 530 AM. The first hotel we tried didnt answer the door, so frustrated, on we went to the next which was perfectly decent. We got about two hours of sleep there and then up for breakfast.

Potosi is a very old colonial town that is loomed over by an enormous mountain, the Cerro Rico, which has been mined since the conquest. The Potosi silver mine essentially bankrolled the Spanish Empore for hundreds of years, with the mountain giving massive amonuts of silver to the spanish, in exchange for the lives of literally millions of miners who have toiled there since the 16th century. 8 million indian and african slaves gve their lives to the mountain, and the conditions today are barely improved. This was the mine where coca chewing miners went for 48 hour shifts from childhood until their early deaths. Obviously someone was getting rich, and it was the spanish and later the mine owners, who helped make Potosi the richest and largest city in the Americas at one time. Dozens of ornate colonial churches and hundreds of colorful buildings make up the city (claimed to be the worlds highest) with winding little streets apparently to keep the freezing altiplano winds at bay.

So we decided to take a look...
We got a guide and waited around a bit for the car to pull up. An ancient minivan with bench seats that were literal backless benches pulled up and we clambered in. It wasnt until the second or third stop that I noticed that the van always stopped on a hill so as to begin with a rolling start. Our guide, Oswaldo, introduced himself to us, cheerfully reminding us that we could remember his name because it was like Lee Harvey Oswald. This should have been a sign...
We headed up the hill toward the mountain to stop at a market to get some gifts for the miners to thank them for showing us around. It seems the main thing the miners want as gits from tourists is booze, cigarettes, coca leaves and dynamite, an excellent combination any way you think about it. I bought myself an extra stick of dynamite from a six year old girl, who very casually took my 10 bolivianos (about a dollar) picked a stick of dynamite from a bag, cut a two foot length of fuse, and dropped them in a bag with a handful of ammonium nitrate (an explosive accelerator).
We drove the rest of the way up to the mine, changed into rubber boots, hardheats with headlamps and allegedly protective outer gear. Our guide explained that miners drank this certain kind of booze which is 96% pure alcohol and smells like industrial cleaning solvent. I politely declined his offer as he tossed a few back, not before spilling out a few drops as an offering to the mountain and goddess Pachamama.

In we went. We walked down an olding mining track, stopping occasionally to let the rumbling mining carts piled with 2 tons of tin ore go past (they dont have brakes apparently). Each time we met some miners, they were called Tarzan, the Terrorist, The Killer, or other such fanciful nicknames and our guide Oswaldo would hand out presents from his bag like Santa Claus, then insist on doing a few shots with them. At this rate, he would be plastered by the end of the tour. But in fact, he was already quite plastered only a few minutes into our tour it became apparent.
The miners were friendly enough, talking abuot how long they had worked in the mines (most since mid to early adolescence) how much they made (about 5-10$ a day), and what the work was like. They all appeared exceedingly drunk and glassy eyed, I suppose from the tennis ball sized wads of coca leaves stuffed in their cheeks. My tiny amount of coca leaves had started to make me feel a little off, so I spat them out. We watched as they drilled holes for dynamiting, holding the bits as they turned and sprayed out bits of rock. We watched as they lowered wach other down seemingly bottomless pits on ancient frayed ropes. One even complained to me about getting paid in American dollars, that they had gotten increasingly less valuable since he began working, and all the Europeans laughed at us. Oh, and none of the miners wore ANY protective gear at all.
We wandered deeper into the mine, about mile or two in in where it began to really feel claustrophobic. Our feet were wading through mud and clay, with rocks occasionally falling on our hardhats. The walls could touch my shoulders in many places, and I was constantly bumping my hard hat if I wasnt ducking. Faces and walls were lit by headlamp alone, rendering an eerie lighting effect. The air pressure would change suddenly, or a completely strange odor would waft past and we could only hope it wasnt poisonous. Our guide lead us to some extremely rickety looking and mud caked ladders and instructed us to go on up. All I could think about was the Far Side cartoon abuot the controversial exposure therapy for fear of heights, small places and the dark. The ladders were about 20 feet high each, and barely attached to the mud and rock walls. We climbed about six, and I was first and terrified to look down in the dark at what was below, especially when my headlamp knocked off and I fumbled to reattach it while on a wooden ladder hundred feet above solid ground, which was a mine tunnel floor in the dark. Falling might not have been so bad, given how narrow the mine shafts were I probably would have just gotten wedged in somewhere. The guide then pulled me off the ladder and over to a landing that I had to walk across a two by four over another bottomless pit to get to. I sat and waited while he chatted with some miners and then they left. a few mintues later I saw the group start to climb past me on the ladders again, ¨¨um, are you guys still going up?¨¨ I asked. It seemed that Oswaldo had forgotten about me in the side tunnel. They were. We climbed up another dozen ladders or so, and entered another tunnel where we chatted again and watched out guide do more shots of whatever that stuff was. suddenly, we could feel the mountain move slightly, and the air pressure changed as we listened to the dull thudding sounds of detonating dynamite somehwere else in the mine. Even though it was muffled by the mountain and not so loud, it still felt immensely powerful. Here he had us turn off our headlamps for a moment, and I can definitely say I have never expereinced such absolute deep blackness. We slowly headed down the ladders, descending another few hundred feet but more slowly as one of our group had his headlamp go out.
Ben and I asked the guide about whether we could now help detonate some dynamite, a task that Lonely Planet had assured us was both possible and safe. He told us to wait while he called and attempted to track down some miners for us to drill some holes that needed blasting. He came back without any, but furtively beckoned us to come with him, directing the rest of the group to stay where theye were. They did not much appreciate being literally left in the dark. Oswaldo had us jump over another mining shaft, and then had us prepare our dynamite. We unpeeled the wrapper slightly and jammed the fuse into the mushy stuff inside (which I think means it was actually TNT, but I´m no demolition expert). The stick went in a bag with the ammonium nitrate and we stood waiting for the miners to help us, feeling rather like Wile E Coyote, stick of dynamite in one hand, fuse in the other. But no miners came, now did we put the dynamite into any pre drilled holes. Oswaldo, breath reeking of firewater and coca leaves, just had us set it in a pile of rocks, light the fuse and walk away back over the uncovered shaft and around the corner, warning us not to run as thats how accidents happen and we had a five minute fuse. He began to explain about Tio, the sort of demon protector of the mine, when suddenly the group was literally blasted off our feet by the shockwave of the dynamite that definitely did NOT have a five minute fuse. More like 60 seconds. Ears ringing, Oswaldo hustled us toward Tio´s shrine, where we hastily offered his red diablical statue booze and coca leaves, and we were on our way.
Checking with the other tour groups we learned that they got rubber raincoats and face masks, not crappy windbreakers and nothing to protect their mouths. They also did not go up somethingteen ladders in the dark, nor did they light off sticks of dynamite, nor was their guide too drunk to walk straight by the middle of the tour. Well, we got our adventure I suppose. And that dynamite might have been the best dollar I spent in Bolivia.
I got back to the hotel and showered for the first time in days now that we had hot water (I know, cold showers arent bad, but they suck when you are in an unheated hotel in the middle of winter in the mountains. I blew my nose and was horrified at the blackness that came out from just a few hours in the mines. It may seem like a wacky adventure to me now, but it really is astonishing that people live and work in those conditions as mine owners get rich and the rest of us in the west live cheaper lives with inexpensive metals. 10$ a day for one of the highest paying jobs in bolivia, where the miners work and live a hard life starting in childhood only to die at silicosis by about age 35. But I won´t get into politics now.

And don´t worry Olivia and Mom, I promise thats the last dangerous thing we are doing!!
Now to the salt flats, back to civilization on friday.

Bolivia: WMD-R

Ah Bolivia...

Land of over 100 revolutions since your independence...

Land where the presidential palace is called the burned palace, (palacio quemado) due to the number of revolutions that burned it to the ground.

Land of the worlds highest international airport, highest ski run and highest golf course.

Land where Che Guevarra was gunned down by CIA trained assassins and buried under a military runway.

Land where Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid met their maker in a hail of gunfire...

Land of the infamous Bolivian marching powder, making up nearly 40% of the GDP, and, of course, home to the world´s most dangerous road according to the Inter American development Bank. This 40 mile stretch is between La Paz in the frozen mountains and the tropical jungle coca growing region of the Yungas toward the Amazon Basin. Some years see up to 300 deaths, from cliff plunges over fogged out and unpaved muddy passes, a sheer drop of over half a mile in some places. And the world´s most dangerous road which we bicycled down yesterday, trying to get as stupid and irresponsible as possible.

The first delay was when the road TO the road was too iced over to even let trucks or buses on, and we sat and waited by a sign warning caution and 13 deaths so far this month. Two hours later, we reached the top of the Worlds Most Dangerous Road, and prepped our mountain bikes for the descent, quadruple checking our brakes and the quadruple checking them again. We began in snow capped mountains, down a slightly icey and mostly paved stretch downwards, past some beautiful passes, a few old incan stone ruins and downward into a narcotics checkpoint. We were waved through, as were most of the busses and trucks travelling to and from the coca region. (the DEA must have had the day off from trying to convince the police to enforce the gringos law.)

The road got a little more sketchy, and though the ice cleared up it replaced by patches of cobblestone in a few spots and stomach churning glimpses of sheer cliffs to the left of us. Cars and vehicles, ourselves included are required to go on the cliffside of the road due so that its easier to see how much space you have. Yikes. We even had to pass a few trucks, and I was quite literally white knuckling it with my hands on the brakes as the fog rolled in, obscuring visibility to about 30 feet or less. Good thing the thrifty bolivian drivers like to save gas by not turning on their headlights. Finally, after a brief uphill, we reached the end of the ¨paved¨ section of the road, leaving us with only gravel and mud. The fog of the mountains gradually gave way to the steam of the jungle, equally impenetrable. Thankfully, we were getting lower in elevation and no longer needed our winter hats and jackets, so changed, snacked, and steeled ourselves for the next section, which we were then informed was the real dangerous part. Only a few minutes into the mud, the road shrunk to about eight feet wide in a few places, the gravel slipping hundreds, no thousands of feet down into the whiteness. The road wound constantly, every turn seemed blind, sudden and 180 degrees.

We paused occasionally for a snack, or to view one of the roadside memorials, or look at the wreckage of a bus where dozens had perished in one bad skid. And its no wonder when you look at the bald tires on the busses and trucks either, not to mention the places where the road is crumbling away. We paused to see a marker where the first bicyclist died, an israeli in 1999, and the most recent bike death, just a few months ago another israeli went over the side only about 100 feet later. It was understandable given that it was essentially a 180 degree turn that went under a waterfall. From time to time there would be a small shack, or an Indian trudging up the hill carrying sticks- coming from god knows where and going to god knows where. It was a hell of an adrenaline rush, the whole thing from start to finish. Not only that though, it was through some of the most beautiful landscape I´d ever seen. From rocky outcroppings and snow at the top to jungle covered steaming mountains toward the bottom as we rolled through coffee, banana and coca plantations and on into the town of Coroico, trendy vacation spot for wealthy narcotraficantes and mine owners.

(Pictures do not show bottom of cliff.)

Bus was sold out, so after many frantic attempts to get on another, we got the night bus tickets for tonight and spent another day in La Paz and visited the ruins of Tiwanaku, a pre incan civilization outside the city. Drove again through El Alto and on into the Altiplano, some of the highest plains in the world, with little but a few mud huts on the prairie and the Cordillera REal mountains gleaming in the background. The ruin were fairly impressive, though only partially excavated at this point. There were some enormous carved figures that looked like tiki dolls, and the architecture was overall very different from the Incan architecture, and dates back to BC times. Overall though, I was glad that we had gone here before Machhu Picchu or we would have likely been quite disappointed. Part of the problem could be seen in the town, where the beautiful church and many buildings had been constructed out of rock that the Spanish removed from the ¨¨heathen¨¨ temples. Stone was also apparently used to lay the bed of the railroad. And its one last meal at La Paz´s best cuban restaurant, where we´ve eaten nearly all our meals (besides the lunch at the fake Hard Rock Cafe) and onto a 10 hour overnight bus to Potosi. The saga continues...