Sell Bolivian, Feds in Oblivian...

Caught an early bus for La Paz from Copacabana, with one view out over towering snowy mountains, the other over the calm of Titicaca. We had to stop and cross the lake at one point, and or bug drove onto what essentially amounted to a floating dock slightly larger than the bus itself. Thankfully, we were off the bus as it crossed, having our passports inspecting by the Bolivian Navy. (remember now, Bolivia is landlocked, so the Navy just tootles around Lake Titicaca and shakes down gringos). One on our tour had her passport on th bus on the floating dock, which gota little bit sketchy for a moment as the passenger boat threateneed to pull away without her, but she somehow managed to tell him she would come back with her passport, miraculously no bribe required.

La Paz, sprawling as it is, didnt take long to get to, we arrived first in El Alto, a suburb that is now bigger than La Paz, and is the worlds largest city of indiginous americans. The men tend to dress in standard western gear, but the women wear multiple broad skirts, woven tops and petticoats, carry bright pink swaddles on their backs that are filled with either groceries or babies. They also all wear these tiny top hats (almost like clown hats) perched atop their braided heads. The bus wound its way through snowy dirt roads of El Alto and on down into the valley, watching the city spread endlessly, slums and buildings climbing up cliffs and seeming to be precariously build about to tumble down ravines. In fact, the only end in sight was where the city met the smog, and just faded to white in the distance.

Found a hotel without much difficulty in spite of demonstration related traffic, and started exploring. Thinking we heard gunshots, or at least smoke grenades, we headed immediately in that direction, having heard a demonstration was happening. We made our way through crowds of people, down to the central plaza which was swarming with riot police in terrifying uniforms complete with tear gas cannisters, shotguns, and full on riot gear. The gunshots and gas grenades we thought we heard were just protesters shooting fireworks indiscriminately. Or perhaps they were aiming for the cops. The policia nacional however, were none too receptive to our questions, or seemed amused at being photographed. Whats amazing about these demonstrations is that they are so typical that everyone else was just going about their business in spite of the noise and police and marchers, hell- there was even a guy walking along with the marchers selling them cotton candy! In spite of the normalcy of it all, and the fact that ultimately it WAS peaceful, we thought we skedaddle before the next pickup truck full of policia kindly asked us to permanently borrow our cameras.

So on to the witches market, which was not as big as I had hoped, but did have an excellent selection of dried llama fetuses if thats your thing. Plenty of bizarre curses and potions as well, sold by people whos spanish was barely better than my own, not being their first language either.

So we decided to hit up the Museo del Coca, or Coca Museum, about the Coca plant that is now infamous for processing into cocaine. The exhibits were a little dry and a little propagandistic, but quite informative and thought provoking over all. Coca leaves- the raw material of cocaine, has been used in the Andes for tea or chewed for thousands of years as a mild stimulant. The spanish came and the church immediately declared it officially diabolical, banning its use by the subjugated people. That is, until they discovered that the slaves in the mines would work longer hours and harder when they used it. The church reversed its ruling, and blessed the stuff, with the whole colonial operation feeding coca leaves to the miners as their only sustenance during 48 hour shifts in the mines! The history of so much of the world is full of exploitation and horror. And the colonialism and wretched mining conditions continue today, hence the strikes that nearly kept us from travelling by bus. (more on mining when we get to Potosi) The museuem continued on with the explanation of pharmaceutical uses of coca, and its refinement by western powers into these drugs we know today. Like the church in the 16th century, the solonialist UN and US declared coca to be diabolical in the 20th, except when it suits them. Essentially, the museum told the story of a native plant, indiginous to the culture and used for spiritual purposes, that becomes alternately vilified and commodified by Western powers. The museum points out, somewhat accurately, that most profits from the drug trade benefit non-Bolivians, whether it is the Colombians who control the trade, the Russians, Swiss, Panamanians and Americans who control the money laundering, or Americans who conbtrol the distribution, little goes back to the Bolivian people who make the cocaine at the price of 2.16 per Kilo!!!! The import of refining chemicals in banned in Bolvia, but it is European and American firms who make, sell and ship the chemicals needed for refinement. Still, although I agree that fighting drugs on the supply side rather than demand side is hopeless, especially after seeing coca fields that are thousands of years old, and trucks full of coca leaves, can buy myself coca leaves outside this internet cafe, whose proprieter, like 90% of the people here chew coca leaves. So how do you destroy the coca leaf without significantly damaging the culture- bearing in mind that most Cocaleros (coca farmers) are also Aymara or other native groups. Still, the museum was a bit lopsided, and could have placed more responsibility on Bolivia. After all, the cocaine trade accounts for up to 40% of the Bolivian economy.

Interestingly, Evo Morales, the current president and first indiginous president in the Americas, was the former head of the coca growers union. He wants to replace the laurel wreath on the Bolivian flag, which he sees as a western symbol, with the coca leaf, a symbol of native indiginous pride.

Pictures: Riot police with indiginous Chola woman, Dried Llama fetuses

Menos Caca..

Titicaca was angry today, I literally had a few minutes in which thought I was going to die. But let me back up... We made it to puno, on the lake without trouble- thought that the roadblocks by striking miners would keep us (see pictures), but they gave us a break. The lake town of puno was fairly unimpressive, and our hotel was right over the loud street and bedbugs kept us up all night. We got ourselves booked on an island tour the next day, to see the floating islands of uros, and the stationary island of Taquile.

The first were the floating islands where Aymara speaking indians moved hundred of years ago to escape first the incas, then to escape the spanish they moved further out. They are essentially huge rafts woven of woven reeds kinda like the movie waterworld. Sounds amazing, I know, but I dont think I´m too jaded here to say that with many tourists, and one horrible family that kept grabbing the kids and taking pictures with them and even just marching right the families´ reed huts it was a little exploitive feeling. I just wanted to scream ¨They´re not dolls!!¨ if I had spoken Hebrew. The indians all were selling artisan crafts and such, and even put on a song and dance that really felt a bit like a shuck and jive routine. The whole thing left me feeling a little icky, even though it was fascinating to see.

We then headed further out into lake Titicaca to see the next island, Taquile, which also is mostly Aymara speaking, a little spanish and no english. The two hour boatride was beautiful on the way out, a little rain and clouds, and we could see the snow capped peaks of bolivia coming into view over the water. The immense sky and ever changing clouds made the water change from dark black to bright white to shadfes of blue and green in between, with the water texture changing from perfectly flat to whitecapped,m and of course the hills and mountains rising in the distance, when you could even see land. We arrived at the island, essentially a mini mountain and hiked way up these ancient incan paved roads, through grassy terracesa with grazing sheep, and men and women all wearing traditional bright clothing that was sort of half spanish half indian. We had lunch and the usual guide explanations about the local food and the symbolism of the traditional clothing and other cultural traditions, changed slighlty with the arrival of the spanish, and little again thereafter.


We ambled around a little, then back down the trails to the docks as a storm was hitting, rare for this time of year. We arrive just in time to see the waves crashing two boats into each other, shattering the windshield and side windows on our boat. Too dangerous to board on that side of the island, our guide sent us back up over mountain to go to the other port, as fast as possilbe to leave by 4 when we could get navigation help. We hiked over, getting an even better view of the island and lake, down through terraces and old archways that felt almost mediterranean and onto our boat. We were forced to leave five of the party behind in order to leave by 4 o clock, and took on a few people who were trying to get off the island. Halfway through the boat journey the storms kicked up again, blacking out the sky and suddenly lightning and thunder, with lightning coming terrifyingly close to the boat. All I could think of was remembering to never be out on open water in a storm, especially in a tiny metal boat. Next thing I know we start hearing a staccato ratatat (not the band), and realize that it is hailing, a few inches accumulating on the bow and stern of our boat as a Colombian woman exclaimed "es una locura!" Bear in mind the lack of windshield and broken windows, no lights on the boat, and I´m not a big worrier, but am literally imagining a story buried in the back of a newpspaper about a boat sinking in lake titicaca, a few american aboard and presumed drowned-electrocuted. Does anyone have my name in town, how would my family and loves find out. Thank god the lightning cleared up, and at leat we made it into port even if it took six hours. Had mediocre pizza for dinner at the creatively named machu pizza and straight to bed.


This morning into Bolivia easily, in spite of having to bribe the busdriver to let me get my backpack out from under the bus to get my passpòrt. Seems its fairly common, he even gave me change for my bribe! Bolivia greeted us with more snow and sleet at the crossing, but we are safely here and I write this after a six hour power outage, during which we played scrabble and backgamman at a cozy cafe. The place was run by a colombian woman who had a giant poster of Pablo Escobar, and was lecturing her staff about left wing activism, globalization great to see politics so passionate somewhere. The rest of the town of Copacabana was charming, an amzing cathedral of moorsih design, bright white with colored tiles and somewhat incongruous in the snowy mountains of Bolivia. Inside the church a stunning solid gold and silver altar, the better to really wow the natives I suppose the Spanish were thinking, and outside they were blessing peoples cars with flowers and incence. Titicaca is for prettier on this side, great views of Isla Del Sol, birthplace of the sun in Incan legend, and a landscape that reminds me oddly of Montana. Tomorrow onto La Paz, highest capital in the world...


Pics of Taquile, roadblocks, titicaca

To Colca (Con Coca)

As I was saying about the food: I dont think i had realized that peruvian cuisine is its own thing, primarily ceviche dishes and potato based things, with some other interesting Andean surprises. Arequipa is also the cuisine capital of Peru, making for some great eating experiences.

Ive now tried rocoto relleno, a stuffed pepper dish witha potoato and cheese pancake this, which was quite delicious. Similarly, Ocopa Arequipena, a potato in dried cream with spices, cheese, olives and a few other ingredients and excellent. Had a abodo last night, a stewed pork chop in vinegar, beer and onions, similarly tasty and very tender. On the more exotic side, I did give the alpaca chops a try, and cant say i´d do so again. Thankfully they were smothered in garlic butter, but otherwise tasted basically like a tough piece of lamb. ¨Cuy¨ of course, is the most infamous Andean dish, yes, the translation is in fact Guinea Pig. I tried some of Ben´s who had it in the traditional deep fried style, and though it literally ¨tasted like fried chicken.¨ The shape of it was quite undeniably guinea piggish, ´further reinforcing my lack of need to eat it ever again. It should also be noted that potatoes are a major part of every meal, predating Columbus, who introduced them to Europe. Local women sell spuds of all shapes, sizes and colors (white to red to blue to yellow) on the street corners, and any meal you get has french fries on it. Steak- with french fries on top, garlic bread, with french fries on top, pizza- with french fries on top. Even rice- as in, a plate of rice with french fries on top is what a lot of vegetarians down here seem to eat. I also am dying to try some ceviche, but apparently you cant get it at night- peruvians believe it makes you sick to eat at night, same with ice cream, which in Arequipa they call queso helado or frozen cheese. The coffee has been surprisingly awful, usually nescafe, and I´ve actually weaned myself off of coffee, close to a miracle for those who know me and my 6 cup a day habit. Of course, the coca leaf mate helps a bit, but I don´t even drink much of that.

I dont think I mentioned we are taking some conversation classes and staying with a family. They are quite a lovely and kind family, though the breakfasts leave something to be desired (ie, hot dogs and cheese microwaved on stale bread, washed down with coca mate tea or nescafe). My converstaion teacher is also quite intense, we were talking about the power of institutions, and whether they exist solely to prepetuate themselves or for any other reason. Then, she literally asks me if I´ve read Foucault and what I think of him. Now, my Spanish is okay, but come on! I was able to explain in spanish that ¨¨Yes I have read Foucault and barely understand him in English, I do not think I can have a conversation about him in Spanish!¨¨ Thankfully, she steered the conversation to simpler topics!! However, she has a tendency to steer toward heavy and difficult subjects, like culture, history, economics, politics. Weve read and discussed testimonials by female prisoners during the civil war, opinions on drug policy, the rise of indigenous movements and neo-progressivism is latin america, US imperialism, and the social and individual origins of mental illness. Ive also learned how to say indie rock in Spanish ¨el indiroc.¨ She also warned me about human sacrafice still happening near Lake Titicaca where we are going, though I personally think its a leyenda urbana.

So we spent the weekend taking a tour to Colca Canyon, the worlds second deepest canyon and some indian villages in the surrounding area. its one of those experiences that is far better understood with pictures than with an explanation. But- i will try, and I will also try to get some pictures up on here one of these days.

The area where were, aroud the town of Chivay, is far higher than we are here, about 10,000 ft up, and yet still manages to be in a valley. The mountains all around are cut with pre-incan terraces, (see picture) essentially stone retaining walls that create flat areas for growing crops like corn, potatos and quinoa, but give a very strange and otherworldly look to the mountainsides, especially when each terrace has a different colored crop. The region remains one of the fertilest in Peru, still thanks to the 1000 year old irrigation systems and stone aqueducts that carrywater down from the mountains. We hiked our way up past some terraces, through the still standing ruins of incan villages destroyed during the conquest in the 16th century. The walls of the village and the clifftop temple of the sun were still crumbling from where the spanish calvary had shot them with cannons. So high in the mountains, with more snow-capped peaks behind, it looked (to sound super-nerdy) a lot like the Lord of The Rings.

The Spanish then rounded up the population and killed them or forcing them into collective towns, laid out in the grid pattern so common to the Americas, but its origins were in controlling the populace. And, I had never known until I started researching this trip how advanced the Incans were, and how close to actually beating the Spanish as each carried cannons and armor into these stunningly high mountains where we could barely catch our breath sitting still. We viewed some ancient pre-Incan tombs, which i was somewhat shocked to discover when I looked in that they still actually contained piles and piles of bones of forgotten Incan nobles. The current Indian villages dont look much different from the ruins sadly, some wild boars or alpacas in the stone wall enclosed yard, with cactuses planted atop the walls for security. Brightly dressed indiginous women wash clothes in the creekbed. The churches, spanish-catholic in name only, still retain iconography and gods of Incan beliefs carefully hidden into the church decorations without the spanish noticing.

We hiked down as the sun set, with looming snow-capped Mt. Mismi in the background, now understood to be the source of the Amazon. If a raindrop falls on one side, it travels 40 miles to the pacific, if it lands on the other side, it travels 4000 miles to the Atlantic. Dinner was unmemorable, though we did spend some time in the local hot springs.

The next morning we were off to an early start to see the canyon more clearly and hope to catch sight of a condor as the left the canyon for the day. We strolled around, taking a few pictures of the canyon when suddenly out of the depths condor came flying right above us, about twenty feet away, hardly flapping its 6 ft wings once. It was incredible, but then more and more kept spiralling out of the canyon, there must have been about 20 or 25 in all that we saw, one of the best days for condor viewing, apparently you are lucky to see just one!

Peru - Lima to the White City*

Well, the flights down were quite interesting, by which i mean highly stressful. Literally every flight (bos-dc, dc-atl, atl-lima, lima- arequipa) was delayed to the point I thought I was going to miss them while still on the other flight making sleep all but impossible, to say nothing of just relaxing on the plane. Got to Atlanta way late, convinced I had missed my Lima connection and would be spending the night in Hotlanta. THankfully, after running to the gate, it was delayed by two hours. Oh, but Ben didnt get there until about a half hour before the flight. We made it though, arriving in Lima at about 7AM. We bumbled around asking at ticket booths for prices and times of flights to Arequipa, most of which we had just missed. 1245 was the enxt, giving us two hours to sit with our bags, then check them, then sit around without our bags. Of course, by 1030 when we could check our bags, our flight was pushed back to 145. Sleepless, we decided to hit up Lima for a few hoursand maybe get some lunch and check out the fine peruvian cuisine (primarily steak, potatos and ceviche) weve been hearing about. After explicitly giving us the price into town in Nuevos Soles, our cabbie announced halfway into town that we were confused, he had said dollars, tripling the price of the overpriced cab. Utter bullshit, which I tried to just wait out silently, telling him to let us out right there or take us back. ¨I will not let you out here, too dangerous, and double price to go back to airport.¨ He was right, it was a less than desirable neighborhood. We decided to cut our losses and head into the Plaza De Armas or center of the city. We were met by a multithousand person marching anti government union demonstration, complete with molotov cocktails and stone throwing mobs, national police at the ready with teargas canisters. Streets were blocked off, and traffic was insane, it now looked like we might miss our flight we had just bought tickets for. We cut our losses and returned to the airport, to find our flight further delayed. Finally, we pile onto the plane and take our seats, only to be removed again from the airplane for another half hour delay.

Thankfully, by 300 we were winging our way over the Andes southward. The thing about flying over the Andes is that it is really like flying next to the andes, passing by and barely over the 20,000 ft peaks, with visions of cannibalistic soccer team andean plane crashes dancing in our heads. It was a spectacular flight though, over the worlds two deepèst canyons, over the Nazca desert lines, next to snow capped peaks on one side sliding down to the pacific on the other.
So at least, we arrive in Arequipa, about a half mile higher than Denver, and noticeably thinner air. They call it the white city, because the colonial buildings are all built from white ¨sillar´¨ a volcanic rock that is so soft that the walls of many buildigns are six feet thick. (this also helps the rich landownging spanish criollos, most of whom live here, defend against uprising farmers and indians). Many of the archways in the buildings (which as 16th century structures also predate the pilgrims), have signs that say ¨zona seguro de los sismos¨´ - safe place during earthquakes. NOt sure if I´m reassured or not. But it is a beautiful city, white colonial buildings framing the central plaza, where you can sit balconies sipping coffee (or coca leaf tea- no really, its good for the altitude) and watch the people on the plaza, the weddings outside the cathedral and the sunset over the snowcapped peaks beyond. Everyone seems to spend their time outside, even though nights get pretty chilly this high up and technically in the dead of winter, perhaps just the meditarannean cultural legacy is too hard to shake. The restaurants even provide blankets for chilly nights sitting outside, though I could do without the constant stream of peruvian windpipe players-amusing at first but quickly tiresome. A few other random things, like the Santa Claus who is always wandering around, every car is either a slightly-larger than bumper-car sized taxi or an enormous 1970´s Dodge Dart or Plymouth Valiant, the garbage trucks that play ¨fur elise,¨and the interesting fact that google peru can be used in Quechua, the local Incan language. Reminds me more of continental Spain than my trips to central america have, perhaps because it is less poor, or perhaps the architecture and the thin white sunlight creating shadows on the buildings. Also has a bit of a moroccan feel with rooftop terraces and small back alleyways, not surprising given the intertwined history of all the countries. Not at all bad and more on the food next time...

*although the guidebooks say its the white city because of the white Sillar stone, an incan-mestizo guy said it was because its where all the white people live

Books April/May

A Path With Heart: Jack Kornfield
Sort of memoir about Jack Kornfield’s time as a monk in Burma and Thailand, sort of just a basic book about contemporary Buddhism and practicing mindfulness. If you have any interest in this sort of stuff, I highly recommend this book, or anything by Jack Kornfield for that matter.

Pimp: Iceberg Slim
Man would I have thought this book was the coolest back in high school! Still, glad I read it, though it was a bit incongruous to read on chicken buses in El Salvador. It really is a modern classic, though highly disturbing. The account of a genius (literally) pimp working the Midwest in the 1940’s. Pulls absolutely no punches, frequently nauseating but at the same time offers an extraordinary glimpse into inter and intra-racial politics and sexual politics of the time, as well as a striking portrait of street and prison life in African American America. The redemption ending felt a bit abrupt, but still worked. Also was amazed at how influential this book was in terms of culture, pieces of it reflected in literature, film and music even today. Recommended if you are in high school, or find exploitation books and movies interesting.

Platform: Michel Houlebecq
A great satire of western decadence and repression, and the exploitation and offers of the developing world. A somewhat repressed man becomes more sexually liberated following his vacation to Thailand, and he and his new girlfriend work to set up essentially a neocolonial system in which the raw materials of the non-western world are essentially sex. Funny and thought provoking, as well as prescient about the reactions of these cultures to our attitudes. Also had some great sex scenes, in spite of the fact that it was ostensibly mocking them at the same time, a la Bret Easton Ellis. A very good novel, recommended.

Guests of the Ayatollah – Mark Bowden
More blow by blow action than a geopolitical analysis of an international political crisis (the Iranian hostage crisis). Bowden gives a decent amount of context to the situation, but not as much as I would have liked. Still, I learned a lot about the history of Iranian-US relations, the Iranian revolution and their nation’s culture and government. Overall an entertaining and informative read about the Iranian revolution and the hostage crisis from 1979-81. I did take issue with the last chapter that felt like an attempt to varnish the whole thing with a weirdly patriotic bent. If youre really interested in the topic, there is probably a better book, but this kept my interest up.

Imperial Life In The Emerald City: Rajiv Chandrasekaran
We hear all the time about the problems in Iraq, but this book really explains how the stage was set for the specific problems that Iraqi and Americans now face there. Analyzing attitudes and policies, the book lays out the failures of planning not just in a military sense. The economic policy that attempted to privatize a socialist economy in 30 days (cf: soviet bloc), institutions like education and health care that were given no funding and inept leadership. De-Baathification policies that dismantled an imperfect municipal and ministerial beurocracies but replaced them with nothing. Idiotic decisions like paying people with debit cards in a country with no ATMS and blackouts half the day. Halliburton serving friend chicken for black history month while making Muslim workers carry boxes of bacon into the cafeteria. Contractors using weapons banned by Geneva conventions. Politically terrifying was the pentagon’s installation of loyalists in key CPA jobs over experts, literally conducting background checks and asking potential workers their political preferences, voting histories and party donations. Nicely complements Babylon By Bus with some more depth than that book provides. Read if youre interested in the topic, one of the best ooks on Iraq yet.

Inside The Jihad: Omar Nasiri
The memoir of a Moroccan who worked as a spy for French and British intelligence in the Algerian and later global jihadist movements. Tracing his time with radicals in Belgium and Algeria to the camps of Afghanistan, the books was certainly gripping, but also showed through narrative what a lot of the movement is like from the inside. Some disturbing revelations also- that links between Saddam Hussein and Al Qaeda were intentionally falsely confessed to drag the US into an unwinnable war, and other revelations about the extremely high level of organization and sophistication of many of the movements leaders. At the same time, enormous levels of factionalism within the movement, slowing it down and also accurately presaging contemporary Sunni/Shiite conflicts as well as civil conflicts within the Palestinian territories and Lebanon just this month. Read if youre interested and have the time.


Reluctant Fundamentalist: Mohsin Hamid
There was something very enjoyable about this little novel, in spite of the sometimes overwritten language. I don’t know why I found it so hard to put down, the plot wasn’t particularly exciting or unique, but the character and world was just so vividly painted and the Edgar Allen Poe- like mysterious other character so compelling that I couldn’t help but like it. It also managed to be a bit self-serious without ever slipping into silliness, which if you described the plot would be hard to avoid. Essentially the story of a Pakistani who graduates at the top of his class from Princeton, works for a high powered consulting firm, and becomes disenchanted with America, his adopted home, following the responses to September 11th. Definitely recommended.

El Salvador I

From Suchitoto onward, the excitement waned a bit.

The busroad down a dirt road to the crossroads town of Alquilera was uneventful if scenic, including a few towns that were still rebuilding from the war even fifteen years later. After a few hours standing around a dusty sweltering crossroads in northern El Salvador, with no one around but venders who swarmed each passing bus like flies, I was starting to worry my bus wouldn’t come. I also got a chance to examine the tires of the ancient chicken busses rolling past, almost all of which were completely bald. Finally, a bus to the Honduran frontier came, and I crammed myself on with a few dozen farmers carrying bags of grain and feed, and the stereo blasting not Latin music but some 80’s mix that included “Ghostbusters” about three times. I got off the border stop of La Palma a few hours later, and encountered the first gringos and spoke the first English in nearly a week. We all split a hotel room and swapped tales about the ins and outs of backpacker travel on various continents. It was two Brits, one American and one Israeli, all of whom were pretty cool and I stayed with for the next few days into Honduras.

The border crossing was painless again, and the guards refused to stamp our passports, even when we asked! I was a little annoyed to discover that my companions had, um, not exactly declared everything they were traveling with, but I suppose no border agents want the extra hassle of searching bags or the extra paperwork of arresting a few foreign nationals.

The trip across Honduras was beautiful if seemingly endless, and we rolled in Copan a little before nightfall. Copan sits on the border with Guatemala, and its main claim to fame are its lovely colonial cobbled streets and some Mayan ruins about a kilometer outside of town. We even caught the red sox game at a local bar, owned by a twenty five year old American who had bought the place sight unseen about six months earlier. He had moved down to Honduras with almost no Spanish and having never even set foot in the country, he was also getting sued by about three different locals.

The trip to the ruins themselves was moderately disappointing. I suppose it’s hard for much to live up to Tikal for Mayan grandeur, and certainly Angkor Wat where I was not too long ago… Still, the wildlife of parrots and macaws was impressive, and the level of detail preserved in the ruins and hieroglyphics was far greater than any I’d seen in the Americas. I bid adios to my companions, most of whom will be traveling until autumn- Carmel the Israeli will even be in Peru and Bolivia this summer by the time I’m back there traveling!

Antigua Guatemala remains as beautiful as ever, though more gentrified than I remembered. Perhaps my perception of “touristy” has changed in the years since I was last here, or perhaps the place has changed. It can’t be that touristy though- I heard another story about the kid who got robbed twice within ten minutes in Antigua- oh yeah did I mention it was BY THE POLICE, who were basically demanding a wallet inspection/ID check of all drunk tourists (which I’d imagine made his insurance claim more difficult- he probably had to bribe the same cops that robbed him to write up a report to submit to his insurance company) Still, it was nice to be somewhere somewhat familiar, even if my hostel was terrible- dirty, loud, full of coked up Australians partying till 7am- thank god for ear plugs and note to self not to stay in hostel ever again. Oh yeah, and the bathroom door electrecuted you inless you used a flip flop as a barrier!

Had a great hike up Volcano Pacaya, which restored (somewhat) my faith in humanity after such a frustrating night. We drove through dense fog part way up the volcano to the town of San Francisco, an hourlong hike from actively flowing lava. (I cannot believe people live that close to an active volcano!!) The hike was gorgeous through foggy jungle, past farms and long since past lava flows. Just as we made it out of the jungle to an area that was entirely rock, the fog and clouds cleared, giving us a view of the jagged black volcanic rock, (some only formed in the past few weeks) that made up the rest of the volcano and our hike. We could see smoke and lava flowing from the volcano’s peak, and, well, headed toward it. We hiked another half hour across the moonlike surface (why do people describe things as moon-like? I mean, how many of us have actually been on the moon, and yet the description somehow aptly captures something…) The rock is incredibly sharp and tore up my sneakers in no time, of course, after a few minutes of hiking you could even begin to smell the rubber of your sneakers melting on the hot rock. Finally we got up close and personal with some real lava and the opportunity to toast marshmallows over lava. Taking my picture even ten feet from the stuff, it must have been about 300 degrees- it was opening an oven door except the heat doesn’t cease. A beautiful moonlit hike down, watching the sparks flying from the top of the mountain made quite a dramatic end to another great trip.

Wednesday, April 18, 2007
El Salvador I

(SUN) Today after class (i'm brushing up on my spanish) i walked to the bus stop with my teacher, who didnt want me to get lost. She wanted to take the bus to the station, but it was only about five blocks- whats the deal with these people in these countries taking public transportation to go 300 feet? I mean, its hot but... We walked though the market, which was a little sketchy, and past some brothels where I did get some kind complements on my eyes.
The town of Juayua where the feria gastronimica (food fair) that i wanted to go to is incredibly beautiful and charming. A classic coffee country of central america town, nestled between three volcanos covered in coffee fincas, blooming with white flowers, and just a small town square surrounded by some sun drenched colonial buildings and a looming white church. The fair itself was great, food stalls lining the central park, the smell of grilling meats and frying cakes and such, and tons of people- though all salvadorean tourists. (though i did see two canadians- the first nortes yet). I had me some grilled rabbit, some tacos and churros, among other gastronomic delights. I missed the bus on the way home, because i was standing in the wrong bus stop, but a santa ana bus came, and i asked but it was an excusrion of old people. They let me sit on the steps next to the open door (bear in mind this is a 30 year old school bus!!) and chatted with the old ladies about my life and about their various relatives who live in the states. Its amazing how many people have friends or relatives or have themselves lived and worked in the US. This one guy i met in the park was so proud of his time there, where he earned 5000$ building houses in las vegas and santa monica. He showed me his working papers (fake) and his social security card (real) and even complained about the taxes! Once the bus was dropping people off, I was in front so was helping all these three foot tall old women off the bus, which everyone found uproriously funny. Another word on buses, which are all ancient american schoolbuses, (painted in insane colors and decorated inside with all kinds of holy charms,) and thus VERY uncomfortable on semi-paved or cobblestoned streets, is that i read in the newspaper here that the government might start inspecting all public buses more than 20 years old. Not a bad idea.
Santa Ana itself is fine, some nice old colonial buildings, but a bit grimey overall. No tourists though, and I've already gotten to know some locals who like to chat with a norteamericano while sipping coffee in the park. Its also funny how far high school spanish can get you- even though i'm more advanced, these very down to earth people literally ask me questions like "what do you like to eat?" and "do you have any relatives?" "what sports do you like?" "what do you do for work?" I suppose this is okay, because they accent here is insane, plus they haev many different words from other latin dialects. In Nicaragua, i thought it was hard because they dropped the end of the word, here the literally drop the beginning AND the end. The trip so far feels like one of those trips you hope for- weird encounters with locals who turn out to be incredibly kind and generous, days passing without seeing another tourist, and those things I really like here. Not to mention the best food in central america and some amazing scenery.

Tuesday:

The day began as usual with purchasing my last cup of 15c coffee in the park, (yes, starbucks is literally more than ten times that) and then attempts to travel all over Santa Ana by bus to find a working ATM machine, which I FINALLY was able to do. Its amazing what a difference just having 50$ in cash makes, I feel like I can now survive until Monday if I need to. Funny how ones perception of life changes with some cash, worries evaporate, all with just 50$. Took the bus to San Salvador, which was both better and worse than I expected- basically your standard sprawling third world metropolis, with lots of fast food places and quasi-Arabic looking gang grafitti for MS13 and other infamous LA gangs that are apparently down here. But I successfully got into town, took a bus across town, and found the Suchitoto bus. I used the bathroom, which was surprisingly clean, and they gave me a ticket, they give you tickets and bits of paper constantly down here- every bus, every site every whatever. On a bus, I understand, maybe they want to check your ticket at some point, even on a five minute city bus, okay, I guess. They even do a lot of coming to collect your piece of paper on long bus rides, and then handing you a different piece of paper. But whats going on with the ticket to the bathroom, will I be in there and suddenly the bathroom inspector shows up and demands to see my ticket? I read somewhere once that all the beuracratic redundancy is a legacy of colonialism, Spanish colonialism in particular where every massive shipment of gold and treasure needed to be sealed and resealed and stamped and approved, and given triple redundant checks to keep it all safe, and that is why there is still the legacy of beuracracy. Who knows, either way, I hope I don't get caught in the bathroom without a ticket!

I got on the bus which soon filled itself to capacity, then beyond as we were pulling out of town through market stalls, weaving past women carrying impossible amounts of fruit or whatever laden baskets on their heads. The venders came through the bus, somehow squeezing past the two or three to a schoolbus seat and full aisles to sell their wares. At first it makes sense someone selling bags of water or sliced mangos, which I really wanted to buy, though was too cramped to reach my wallet (which I hoped also meant too cramped for anyone else to reach my wallet) then it gets a little weirder- shark fin pills, and people literally selling snake oil, then a guy just walking through selling dried packages of spaghetti and pasta. What next women's lingerie? YUP!

Suchitoto is an amazingly charming town, straight out of a movie. Old white colonial buildings with red brick roofs, a backdrop of jungled volcanos pocked with bomb craters and trenches, glimpses at the enormous and impossibly royal blue lake suchitoto down cobblestone alleyways. The women are wearing hand-sewn dresses, the men dressed in cowboy hats, unbuttoned shirts, boots and all seem to have mustaches- so in that case, maybe it's a little more like the west village…. But the kids are playing soccer in the cobblestoned central park, using the gate of the Moorish looking church as the goal.

My hotel is great, though its kind of eerie to be the only person staying there, and there was no one at the other hotel (too expensive) in town either. Its like an old villa with an overgrown central courtyard, complete with rusting wrought iron furniture, and low hanging mango trees that the kids throw sticks at, in spite of the fact that there are mangos all over the place on the ground. They also kept falling on my brick ceiling through the night and scaring me awake until I realized what the sound was.

Its a very liberal little corner of the country that saw much fighting. Lots of handpainted murals about farming cooperatives, for women"s and indigenous rights, against globalization and privatization. The region saw a lot of fighting during the war, and I was hoping to go take a tour of the mountain strongholds with an ex-guerilla, but he wanted more than a day's notice. Apparently you can go out and see the old guerilla camps, tunnels, trenches and field hospitals that are still in the mountains, as well as taking in some rainforest beauty and 300 foot waterfalls. Oh well, next time- Ill have to make do with just the waterfalls today. Also sat inside the church just to cool off- it was beautiful though, white sheets were blowing in the breeze, leftover from easter, and there were literally doves flying around the apse like I was in a John Woo movie or something...

March Books...

Palestine Peace Not Apartheid: Jimmy Carter
Can’t say I entirely understand all the controversy, I found the book did not blame one side or another. Who it did put a lot of blame on was power hungry politicians rather than on the people of the two sides. Surprisingly Christian in tone also, I forget that Carter is an evangelical Christian himself. I’d recommend this book highly, though I’d also like to read other perspectives on the whole issue if anyone recommends any.

Undercover Economist:
If you want to get some real life examples of how larger economic theories work, this is an excellent book that is easy and even fun to read. Starting with microeconomics and moving to macro, the book explains why coffee shops are so expensive, why lousy restaurants prevail in touristy areas, why used cars are always terrible and other economic phenomena. Great until the very end, when it got a little too pro-free trade for my opinion.

Spiral Staircase: Karen Armstrong
An interesting new genre- the “academic memoir.” Armstrong’s book started a bit dull but I cant not finish a book and so kept going with it. Armstrong, if you look at any other books I’ve reviewed, is a somewhat popular religion writer, but I didn’t realize she had had such a fascinating life. From living in a catholic convent, to pursuing a Ph. D at Oxford, to all manner of mental and physical illness in between she tells a wonderful story about finding a place for spirituality in her life. Her study of the world religions brought her closer to the divine than all the practice ever good, and I felt like I really began to understand on a deeper level what religion meant, how it operates in cultures, and how it intersects and departs from dogma.