Come What May

LifeLogue: Springtime in Patagonia

2010-10-19T21:40:00.000-07:00

While I have been based in El Bolson for well over a year now, I missed last year's transition from Winter to Spring for a trip to the States. I experienced the transition this year and it was moving. It started and accelerated subtly, with rainy days petering out and giving way to sunny ones and then sunnier ones. The first flowers were a few scattered periwinkles, then plum trees, narcissus, and then the willows and elders started to send out green shoots. The wasps and bumble bees started to putter around and then the honey bees got to work. The grass started growing faster and took on a more lively shade of green. In a matter of several days all seemed to turn from something that isn't quite misery or drudgery but its not so great either to something more akin to hope and cheer. The odor of flowers thrown around by the strong, cold winds. Hummingbirds. Less cool birds returning from Winter trips, making an unholy racket all night as they catch up on old times. But that's fine that they make so much noise.

First and foremost I noticed the end to consistent and overnight frosts. I could lift my head and see clearly out the window, free as it were of frozen condensation. And I could get up and go to the kitchen without a sinking feeling that the water pipes had frozen. Most importantly I could get out of bed earlier with a desire to do something other than sit by the stove and eat. Like plant the first crops of the Spring, peas and fava beans. And build a little box to plant Tomatos in, because they need to be inside still to guard from the occasional frost, like the one that came on the one night I forgot to bring them inside. And they died. But its ok because I'll just buy little plants this year and do better next time.

Nature's waking up and getting in gear is mirrored in my life. I got my first paid job here, working on an extension to the house I was taking care of this winter. The extension will be a large "winter garden" eating and sitting area. I'm working with a great carpenter who runs in the same natural construction circle as I do. We are doing the structure with round timber and will be installing a "living" roof covered in grass. I am getting great first-hand construction experience and have been invited to work on coming jobs this summer which will include work with various forms of adobe walls and natural, clay-based finishes.

I have also resolved for the time being my living situation and been given the chance to realize my dream of building my house. A friend of mine is lending me use of his land on the farm where I lived last summer. The idea is that I will build a small house and have the right to make my home there at least for the next several years, but that in some future the house will remain for his use. It's an unwritten arrangement between friends and is convenient for both of us. I'm finalizing the designs, but it will be a circle about 15 feet in diameter with some combination of straw bale and adobe walls, a mini greenhouse built into one wall, a high-efficiency wood stove that heats an adobe bed, and a living, "reciprocal" roof. While I'll have limited access to internet this summer, I plan to write extensively about the whole process, which in reality already began when we marked the site and start clearing out the invasive rose-hip bushes.

My plan is to set up camp on the building site in a yurt. Yurts are the tents of mongolian nomads, but mine will be made by these guys. I'm in the process of building an octagonal deck on which to put the yurt so it stays off wet ground and to give it a more homey feel inside. The yurt will be about 17 ft in diameter with a wooden door and a chimney to allow for a wood-stove, so although it is easily transportable it's more like a cabin than a tent. Having this base will allow me to approach the house-building with more comfort and less anxiety. After living for almost two years in other people's homes, this private refuge will be welcome.

In addition to building my house and building other people's houses, I'll be working with a group of friends to host a huge sustainable living workshop called "Bioconstruyendo" in February of 2011. In the months leading up to the workshop we'll be preparing to host an estimated 200 people for a week of courses on building, farming, and alternative energy.

The other exciting project in my life is my violin. I'm taking a course on instrument making with a local instrument maker and building my own violin. So far I have glued together the boards for the top, cut out the form and begun to carve out the inside. It looks kinda like a violin. My plan is to chronicle the process, which I expect to take several more months, quite thoroughly, so I'll write about it another time.

That's the skinny for now. If you are reading this I'd love to hear from you.

Winter in Patagonia: Motorcycle Diaries

2010-07-24T09:55:00.000-07:00

I recently bought a motorcycle. A 1993 Suzuki TS125. For those of you that don't know motorcycles, its an "enduro" bike, which means it's a sort of street-legal motorcross bike. I know, it's a step away from my professed goal of granola self-sufficiency, but I decided that, to really take advantage of this place, I need to be more mobile. I'm going to classes on beekeeping, medicinal plants, and tai chi, starting a nursery with a group of friends, and even scored a small gardening job recently. I need to be able to get around more easily to make all this work, and the bike consumes less than a car. I must admit that I am hooked, so hopefully someone is working on the used cooking oil version.

Despite my enthusiasm for the two-wheeler, I am not quite a Hell's Angel yet...

For starters, most people would say that someone of my size needs a bigger bike. Well, I looked at some bigger bikes and they scared the crap out of me. This bike is fine, though. Struggles on the steep hills, but the little engine that could always makes it up.

I had never driven a motorcycle before, so buying one inevitably led to the mildly embarrassing moment when the young mechanic offered me a test drive. It spit and sputtered and stopped and screamed around the block under my mediocre management of pedal and throttle and clutch. "You'll get it in no time, " he cleverly assured me.

A couple days later I stopped at a gas station to get an empanada. When I walked out to the bike I realized I had neither my helmet nor my key. I smiled sheepishly as I turned to find the cashier bringing them out to me.

I did get it, but over the next few days I made it scream and shut-off a fair amount, sometimes in the middle of what is thankfully light traffic. One night in the rain I thought it was broken because every time I put it in first it shut off. A little throttle was all I was missing, I realized as a friend got it going with no problems.

The first time I tried to take it up a big hill, the big hill that is an elemental part of the route between my house and the town, I stalled halfway up. I cursed myself as I struggled in the freezing cold to start it without rolling down the hill or falling over. That only happens occasionally now. Almost never.

One day I had stopped by the side of the road to look at something and I lost my balance and the bike just fell over. Thankfully I didn't fall and nobody was around to see. Frantic only with embarrassment, I inefficiently struggled until the bike was upright again. That was, to be clear, a one time occurrence on day 3 of ownership.

Speaking of ownership, I'm not even really clear on my status. I have the title and a bill saying I bought and paid for it, but I have no license plate and no registration and no insurance. In short, I'm not sure that if I get stopped they won't just take it away from me. Thankfully my area of circulation is limited and largely rural, police presence is near non-noticeable here, and I wear a helmet and have working lights. People, and by people I mainly mean the guy who sold me the bike, say that lots of people here roll like that and that as long as I keep between the lines I'll be ok. So far so good.

The turn blinkers don't automatically turn off as they do in all cars I have driven, so I often drive all over town with a blinker on before realizing it. They are also wired wrong so I have to think left to turn right and vice versa.

Temperatures hover around freezing here on most days, and with the wind rushing by it can be painful. One morning I had to stop into a gas station and just go stand inside after only a few minutes of riding. I couldn't even get my helmet off my fingers were so numb. I realized my gloves were not enough, so I bought these handlebar covers that look like oversized cooking mittens. For a while it really bothered me that I couldn't see my hands. Not to mention that waving while driving is even more complicated than ever.

These struggles are behind me now, for the most part, and I'm on my way to being a true motorcycle man.

Winter in Patagonia: Bringin' the Heat

2010-07-15T14:55:00.000-07:00

I’m spending the winter house-sitting outside of El Bolson. The house is near to the farm I lived at all summer and shares the stunning landscape of the valley of the Rio Azul. While life in the country is tranquil and beautiful, it is also a fair bit of work.

The biggest issue is heating. Temperatures are regularly well below freezing and my house is not well-insulated, which means I have to blast one or more of the three wood stoves (one is a “Russian” masonry heater, one is a wood-fired cooking stove, and one a water-heating tank) to provide comfort. Keeping these fires going requires lots of wood. In April, we worked on cutting and piling a stock of firewood in the forest behind the house, but retrieving it requires a trip up a considerable incline with a wheelbarrow. It takes less than five minutes to get up, but it’s a huffing five minutes of muddy or icy path, depending on the time of day. I have a frustrating propensity to try and pile as much as possible into the wheelbarrow. I then spend the downward trip stopping every few steps to pick up and repack what falls out. I am starting to learn to moderate my cargo, but the gamble is tempting.

I get the wood down and then I have to split it with the ax. Usually pretty easy and a welcome meditation, but once every batch I bury the ax head in a knot and have to either break my back to bust it out by brute force or surgically open it up with a chisel and hammer. I need to get this wood into the house, so I make several trips in and out, amassing stockpiles by each stove that give me great comfort in the moment despite the fact that I know they will later submit with terrifying ease and velocity to the flames.

I made a mess bringing that wood in, so I need to sweep up. As I sweep wood chips and dust teleport themselves from the dust pan to the place I just swept. I have learned to accept a measure of rustic mess, but, as it is not my house, I feel compelled to strive for cleanliness always.

Starting the fires is a whole ‘nother task. A cold chimney, result of said below-freezing temperatures, does not, what we in the fire-world like to call, “pull,” and thus a fire is prone to die until its pathway out is heated up. Add to cold chimneys humid wood and prospects are less than ideal. I persist and succeed and I have tricks and techniques, but every now and then, despite best intentions and preparations, I encounter a smoky, resistant bastard like the one I encountered this morning. I burned dozens of grade-school homework sheets and filled the house with toxic smoke before my teary, burning eyes saw sustained flamery.

I start to read, write, enjoy my breakfast, but every time I settle into my chair I realize that if I forget to keep putting logs in, I will lose the fire and all my invested time and lung cells, so I return dutifully to the beast and feed it what it wants. Now I feel guilty because I went to all this trouble and burned all this wood to make an apocalyptically hot fire, one I am really proud of. I am obliged to make cookies, which means I need to stop typing and make dough.

I finished the dough and put it in the oven, but a wood-fired oven generally heats unevenly and requires constant vigilance. During vigilance, I cleaned up the mess I made cooking and residual messes from isolated incidents occurring over the past 24 hours.

The sun is low in the sky and patches of crisp white frost persist anywhere there is shade. I’m wearing holey sweat pants and morning grog. I guess you could say I finished breakfast, but it was really an undefined event marked by stolen sips of tea and munches of bread during maintenance of fires and food and order. I’m listening to the Beatles. It is now 12:45 in the afternoon. The goat is slowly transforming herself from farm animal to house pet, sleeping outside the front door and following me to get firewood just like the dogs. She expresses indignation, fear, loneliness, confusion, insecurity, and mockery all at once.

One batch of cookies came out and I’m distracted by worrying about the next. I have just swept and passed a damp mop around the house. It is a beautiful day so I really need to go up and get more firewood.

Here is the view from the front steps of the house...

Updates from Granja Valle Pintado

2010-03-07T11:57:00.000-08:00

Lack of access to internet and non-stop action on the farm have kept me away from the keyboard for quite some time, but I am going to attempt a brief update on all the highlights of the last two months. I have some pictures up on Picasa at http://picasaweb.google.com/JSant27/GranjaVallePintadoMarch2010Update?feat=directlink

First off, for those of you wondering, the earthquake did no damage here, although some people outside of town reported feeling small tremors. A couple years ago the volcano in Chaiten, further North of us in Argentina, erupted and covered Bolson in a layer of ash. That volcano reportedly had a small eruption a couple days ago but no ash fell here. Just goes to remind people that we are in a geologically active area.

The farm has been a full house since the new year began, with an average of over ten people living together. Smooth community living requires lots of patience and careful planning, especially when there is no electricity, limited indoor space, and limited access to food and materials, but it always seems to work out and the atmosphere is one of sharing and learning and caring. It is also an atmosphere of fiesta, so there are constant bonfires at night with everyone playing various instruments and drinking out of 5 L bottles of wine referred to as "Dama Juanas." The people that come are a fairly diverse bunch--Americans, Canadians, Argentines, Colombians, from 18 to 43 in age, some hippies, and ex-banker, some college students, a beekeeper, girls, boys.

In January we had a special asado. Some vegetarians wanted to experience this traditional Argentine barbecue, but they decided they would feel better going through the entire process, so we bought a live goat and butchered it ourselves. We had a small ceremony prior to the slaughter in which we said thanks. We sensed that the animal sensed what was happening as it relaxed under our tensed hands. It bled from the jugular for several minutes. The gurgling and gasping and small seizures were unsettling but I was left feeling that we killed it in a conscientious way, far more humane than industrial slaughterhouse methods. We skinned it and butchered it and tried to use all that we could, saving the skin to dry, eating the liver, brain, and heart, making blood sausage. The meat was delicious and the experience was powerful. For me its healthy to know and understand what happens before the food hits the plate.

We also caught a hare in a trap set to prevent it from eating the vegetables in the garden. It was skinned, marinated, and cooked in a delicious stew. Alex's cousins made a hat out of the skin.

I have gone on a couple overnight hikes. One was to the summit of Mount Piltriquitron (mapuche for "hanging from the clouds), which affords 360 views of The Andes in Argentina and Chile, as well as the vast Argentine steppe. We camped at a refugio the first night and summitted in the morning. The other was to a refugio near a glacier called Hielo Azul, a 17 km hike from the farm. Both refugios are stocked entirely by supplies carried on long, hard, steep trails, either by people or horses. A crew of people live up there all summer to maintain it and receive guests, who pay to stay inside the refugio or camp outside. There are bathrooms and food for purchase.

We poured a concrete floor in the community kitchen over the course of four days and finished it with natural paints and plant imprints. The job involved carting at least 20 wheelbarrows of sand and the same of gravel up from the river. Cement is a tough material to work with and I'm glad to have had this learning experience. Pending jobs for the community kitchen include finishing the roof with a cement/earth mixture and finishing the walls with clay plasters and natural paints.

Every Wednesday we do harvests for the associates of the farm. We get up early to get the vegetables before the sun hits, as sunlight sends sugars and nutrients into the roots and out of the leaves. We separate, weigh, and rinse the vegetables and put together some killer baskets. Recently we have been sending out things like kale, chard, rutabaga, carrots, onions, lettuce, parsley, tomatoes, squash, zucchini, basil, dried mint, homemade beer, elderberry wine, etc. We have about 6 or 7 varieties of tomatoes and they are incredibly beautiful, by far the most impressive product of the garden. We have harvested garlic and it is drying.

The summer has been peculiar in the sense that it has been rainy and cold more than it should be rainy and cold. There are hot and sunny days but not as many as the locals expect. This weather has led to reduced or tardy harvests for fruits, a big income producer for the region. We did have a few weeks of beautiful raspberries from our bushes and are now enjoying the fruit of a gorgeous plum tree outside the kitchen. I am time and again shocked at how cold it gets at night versus how hot it can get on a sunny day. Makes dressing for work pretty difficult. A couple weeks ago we had a killer frost overnight and lost all of the outside squash and much of the corn. Such is the difficulty of farming in Patagonia.

We just started harvesting the rye and will soon begin with wheat. A friend of Alex´s built a thresher that takes the plant in and sends out clean separated whole grain. We still harvest the plants with a hand scythe so its a pretty labor intensive process. Yesterday we did a process of making bread from the field to the table, hand milling freshly harvest grain and baking it in the brick oven.

Several weeks ago we joined with some local friends to collect seeds from natural plants for a project of re-greening the Argentine steppe and areas affected by fire or deforestation. The idea is to fill clay balls with many different types of seeds and distribute the balls throughout the affected area. The clay provides a contact point with the earth and over time the seeds that are most suited to develop will develop and start the process of re-greening.

I recently spent 10 days at a workshop on natural construction. Over 100 people participated in various projects from solar water collectors to green roofs to different techniques for clay-mud walls to natural paints and plasters. We built a geodesic dome (8 m diameter) out of pvc pipes that can be taken apart and put back together as a portable community ¨space.¨ I helped build a small structure that will serve as a seed bank using the technique of ¨super adobe.¨ The idea is, in a basic sense, sand bags full of packed earth layered on top of each other to form dome structures. The dome is then covered with plaster and the result is an anti-seismic, cheap, and quick-to-build structure that uses primarily local materials. Throughout the workshop there were chats on alternative energies, permaculture, and different aspects of natural construction. Lots of great ideas and community links were created during the week and its likely that a group of people who organized the workshop will travel to other parts of South America to keep spreading the knowledge and furthering the idea of community work.

I recently had to leave Argentina to renew my visa, so I took a 2 day hike across the border to Chile. On the second day I walked four hours to receive an entry stamp and exit stamp from Chile at the same moment, turned around and walked four hours back to Argentina, where I sat and watched the full moon come out over turquoise Lago Puelo.

We just finished hosting a five day workshop at the farm. The workshop was led by Max Edelson, Alex's brother, and was dedicated to the construction of a high-efficiency heating stove. The stove will be used for heating the community kitchen and for some cooking as well. The stove channels fire through a series of tunnels that pass through a large bench which can be used as a heated bed or seating area. The design allows wood to burn closer to a temperature needed for "true combustion," a reaction whose only byproducts are water and carbon dioxide. This means less smoke pollution and more efficient usage of firewood.. The stove was constructed (its not totally done) over the course of five days by approximately 8 students led by Max and is made of adobe, refractory bricks, clay mortar, cement, and gigantic river rocks. It has some iron pieces made by local metalworkers that are friends of the farm. I was part of the kitchen team for the workshop, which meant cooking two meals and an afternoon snack for over 20 people each day. Alex's mom, a trained chef and kitchen master, and Max's girlfriend Eva, also a master, were my partners in this endeavor and, while the kitchen was nonstop intensity, we had a blast and I learned a lot about cooking for groups. In two days we host a workshop on clay plasters and paints so the madness will continue.

A neighbor asked me to take care of his house for a few days last week, so I got to sleep in a bed, use electricity, take hot showers (heated by firewood), use a full, indoor kitchen as well as a massive wood-fired brick oven for pizza.

I finished the massive novel Infinite Jest several weeks ago and loved it. I have also finished Siddartha, The Revenge of Gaia, and am currently reading Sailing Around the World Alone, The Open Veins of Latin America, and bits and pieces of several books on permaculture, no-till agriculture, and natural building

I am happy here in Bolson and enjoying what is a continuing learning process. I feel at home in the community and am thinking of staying through the winter if I can find a warm and comfortable house which needs caretaking. Plans are to focus more seriously on practicing the guitar and singing, start learning some woodworking and traditional carpentry, keep learning natural building techniques, learn to weave, get into making cheese, and keep making beer. Winter would be a time for beginning or continuing some of these projects, reading and planning for others, reflecting on what has been a busy summer, and starting to write more again.

Errata from Painted Valley Farm

2009-12-30T10:28:00.000-08:00

I have now spent 53 days at Granja Valle Pintado and it feels as much like home as anything can to ol' itinerant me.

Night after night I slide into my sleeping bag liner into my sleeping bag under my blanket and don't worry about the the fact that I'm going to bed with feet the color of charcoal. The morning wake up is always a little difficult and seems to come too early even though it's not that early. I have moved out to my tent in a nest in the woods, which is tranquil and private compared to my former loft in the community kitchen. The route to my tent, which in the morning gives me a hilltop view of the entire farm as sunlight creeps towards it, is also one of the preferred walking trails of the cow Rosa, which makes walking with my head down a necessity in terms of navigating the minefield of robust cakes she sets down wherever she pleases, wherever she pleases generally meaning in the middle of the already-too-narrow road I need to take to avoid being raked by thorny rosehip. I'm used to cow manure now, though, and recognize it as a useful resource on the farm, but its easier to work with when its dry than when its squishing between your toes.

I wash my clothes every so often in buckets and have found that water left out in large plastic bottles all day gets warm enough for a great shower. It's still preferable to go to the municipal gym in town, where a shower that used to be free is now less than a dollar.

The other day Jeremy and I were talking to this guy in town, and the guy looked down at Jeremy's battered, sandaled feet, then looked up at Jeremy, and, with a solemn, almost bitterly regretful tone one might hear in a conversation between two grizzled warriors discussing the casualties suffered in a particularly messy foreign conflict, said, "man...............your feet must get real fucked up out there." His lips curled in in anticipation of forming the word "fucked" and then just whipped it out forcefully with a heavy emphasis on the "fu" sound. I sliced my heel on some rocks in the river the other day and that's taken a while to heel, but my general biggest problem is thistle thorns as I walk barefoot around the garden.

Tao, our wonderful dog, kindly accompanied me to the river one day and, while I was stumbling into the icy rapids, stole one of my Croc sandals and then, on another day, another sandal before I realized it was her and not mysteriously rising water to blame. She ripped up my Croc but I mended it with found items. I chastised the hell out of her but she just smiles and still steals peoples' footwear. She also messes with the geese and the horse despite repeated admonishment. On the positive side, she helps to run loose horses off our land, loves to play, and is generally a joy to have around.

Alex recently purchased several new chickens to increase our egg production. One day after he brought them home we found one of the laying hens hanging from a nail on a post by her neck, apparently having fallen victim to some freak jumping accident. To take advantage of the bad situation, we had to drain it, scald it, pluck it, and butcher it right then and there at 11 PM. In the belly of the hen we found no fewer than 12 eggs at various stages of development. We had chicken and rice stew the following day. We then started to find eviscerated chicks in the coop and uncovered a sinister network of subterranean tunnels under the whole chicken complex. Add to that the increasing incidence of local birds called Tero's being found deconstructed and strewn about the garden and its been a tough time for birds in these parts.

I have been fishing with an improvised reel, consisting of nothing more than a pvc pipe--design borrowed from a man met on a family trip to Alaska circa 1996. I have not yet caught anything, but I have a great cast.

It has been great to see tangible progression on the farm. The beer we made on my second day has been bottled and already tastes like beer, but needs a few more weeks to properly finish gasifying. Radish seeds I planted exploded into bright red radishes the size of racquetballs (I was looking for something in between golf- and base-) and we have been harvesting them like crazy. The beginning forms of tomatoes are sprouting and we will have solid zucchini in just a matter of days. The pea plants are practically gushing crisp, sugary snap peas. The goslings I met several weeks ago are adolescent GEESE.

Our one bee hive split into two hives and they stopped stinging us so much, but then one of the queens left and/or died and they started stinging us again. One of the farm associates is a bee cultivator and explained that bee venom contains two very powerful and beneficial proteins or something like that, and so now when I get stung I pretend I just got a shot at the doctor's office and say thanks and take a small but not excessive amount of comfort in the fact that the offending bee (or, in the mentioned metaphor, the doctor) is dying for having stung me. Putting clay on the sting helps.

The Christmas season came and went without too much fanfare, the farm's isolation making dates something of an abstract concept. We did have a lovely dinner and gift exchange at Pastor's house in town on Christmas Eve, however, and, the big kicker, a traditional Argentine asado out at the farm for my birthday. A traditional asado consists of an entire lamb splayed out on an iron cross and slow cooked over a fire. The tender, juicy meat was the best I have ever tasted and fed about 20 people.

It has been raining off and on for several days, but the system seems to have broken and sun is coming out in force just in time for the New Year, which also happens to coincide with a full moon. In terms of the watering, which is my job, its a good thing we are about to line and fill and connect to 300 meters of tubing a 30,000 Liter spring-filled irrigation tank.

I am going to buy empanadas and take a shower.

Return to Patagonia: Down on the Farm

2009-12-03T12:30:00.000-08:00

One month ago I arrived in Argentina, set to continue my journeys for as long as time and money and mind allow. After a few days in Buenos Aires I headed back to El Bolson, situated along the 42nd parallel at the foot of the Andes. Spring is in full swing with the sun shining hotter and longer and the greens growing greener than they did during my last stay, in Winter, but nights are still chilly and the surrounding peaks are still covered in snow.

I am currently staying at the Granja Valle Pintado (Painted Valley Farm) as a volunteer, working in exchange for food and shelter and knowledge. My goal is to learn about sustainable living practices including farming, building, and community living. We are three volunteers (two Americans and one Argentine) and the farm´s owner, Alex. Alex is an American citizen but grew up in Indonesia and has lived for the past several years here in Argentina. He and a group of several people from Argentina, Canada, Chile, and the US bought 20 acres in the wake of the peso collapse in 2001 with the goal of creating a small, self-sufficient community. So far, the only one who lives permanently on the land is Alex. He accepts volunteers during most of the year to help in advancing projects on the farm and to share his extensive knowledge about biodynamic agriculture.

He recently organized a community-supported agriculture program where people can pay the farm a regular contribution for a ¨share¨ of its produce: each week during harvest season each member receives a "basket" of the farm's goods. CSA's have prospered in the US and can be found in every state (Manhattanites can even participate), but in Argentina the idea is still in its infancy. The idea is to reunite people with local sources of food and rescue agriculture from large-scale production methods. Why? Because the methods used to produce, process, package, and transport the food we buy in supermarkets cast more than a shadow of doubt upon the quality and safety of that food. Moreover, large-scale agriculture depends on an unsustainable exhaustion of natural resources and an unacceptable destruction of habitats for all living organisms.

We generally work from 9 to 8, with a healthy three hour siesta in the middle of the day. The volunteers have one day and a half free each week and we use them to go into town (a 1 hour hike) or relax around the river. Tasks we have been keeping busy with include weeding, watering, planting, transplanting from greenhouse to outside, applying mulch and compost, preparing earth for planting with a hoe, digging a 300 meter ditch for an irrigation pipe, putting in posts for a corral, caring for the chickens, making beer, grinding flour, making bread, and cooking meals.

Crops we have include carrots, rutabaga, kale, leeks, corn, garlic, onions, tomatoes, lettuce, cabbage, broccoli, cauliflower, parsnip, bok choy, quinoa, wheat, corn, millet, flax, potatoes, radishes, beetroot, basil, chard, arugula, squash, zucchini, cilantro, parsley, oregano, mustard. There are fruit trees such as apple, peach, plum, and cherry, but many of them are too young to give fruit yet. Rose hip grows like a plague everywhere and, while its fruit is good for everything from jams to vinegar, will cut you kindly if you forget its thorns. We share the farm with the cow Rosa, the horse Volcan, the dog Tao, 16 chickens, a family of geese, and a hive of bees for making honey. The bees are exceptionally aggressive: After 25 years with only one bee sting, I have been rewarded with no less than 7 over the past few weeks.

On a final note, I recently celebrated the one year anniversary off my being laid-off from JPMorgan.

after a day in the fields

Steps from home

view of the farm from a distance (greenhouse on right)

"associates" of the farm came out for the corn planting; here after lunch in the community kitchen (i sleep in a loft in this building)

Travelogue: Pause

2009-09-20T10:23:00.000-07:00

After 7 months in Latin America, I am back home in the States. I will be returning to Argentina at the end of October to continue working on organic farms in Patagonia and explore more of the continent, but the sojourn is at a temporary end. My trip back ended, fittingly, with one last adventure as I was sequestered at Miami immigration due to my appearance, which no longer matches any of my IDs I don't think I look that suspicious, but judge for yourself after the jump.

I sat in a back room and watched for 45 minutes as a stone-faced woman either a) searched Big Brother's database, or b) played an intense game of minesweeper. She ultimately sent me along with no explanation and a "welcome back," but I have a feeling I might be on a list now.

In a temporary "looking back" mode, I would like to share a few interesting characters from the trip that did not make it into my past accounts.

Cuban-American from Miami who stayed in bed all day at the hostel in Buenos Aires, only getting up to mix Sambucca drinks. He told me that, after a bout with lymphoma, he developed narcolepsy. Something to do with the drugs he takes to stay alert requires a healthy and consistent dose of alcohol, hence the Sambucca. His bed was surrounded by at least three empty bottles and I found more in the bag lockers. When he did go out, he went out in fantastically flamboyant suits with fitted smoking jackets that went down to the knee. One morning he offered me a drink at 8:30 AM, saying, "it's just like a cordial." In our first conversation, he asserted that all Argentines are out to scam him and that they generally lack honor, primary piece of evidence being an escapade to a "titty bar" that cost him over $200.

Young German backpacker in Mexico who took two showers every morning, one with water, and one with an entire bottle of AXE body spray right by my bed. His voice was a mix between Lisa Simpson, Steve Urkel, and Chewbacca from Star Wars. I cannot forget him because he made off with an electric adaptor I lent him.

Guy renting an apartment next door in Catamarca. The first time I met him he invited me over for lunch and we had a great conversation--he was really interested in all things about the U.S. He offered to take me to the bus station when I left, in the car tells me, out of nowhere, that he had wanted to invite me for a threesome with his mistress but couldn't find me. After telling me way too much about their sexual history, he capped it all off by showing me his mobile phone photo gallery of his escapades, including one of his naked mistress serving as a coke-snorting table. I was happy to get out of that car.

A certain host of mine from a certain piece of land in Chile who said things such as "you can't trust latin people." He claimed to have 360 degree "awareness" that is unattainable for the regular human being. Had a manic obsession with japanese telephone cards and needlenose pliers. So insecure that once, when I laughed and told him his headlamp was on strobe mode, he claimed that he did it on purpose to save batteries. For days after this encounter, any time I would run into him with the headlamp on regular mode he would quickly change it to the seizure-inducing strobe to save face.

The son of a high ranking Dominican politico, who told me he lived for a year in an apartment in New York's West Village, sharing the place with the 10-15 kilos of cocaine stashed under his bed. Every so often a man dressed in surgical scrubs would come to pick it up, transport it in his backpack to New Jersey, and sell it to a brigade of Puerto Rican and Dominican distributors whose crackhouse happened to be next to a hospital. "I didn't ask questions because the apartment was a great deal." He also claimed to have shot a man after witnessing him berate his girlfriend in a cafe.

An American guy traveling in Mexico who had recently had a mercator projection of the world tattooed on his back, the idea being to color in the countries he visits.

The old Argentine woman, descended of Scottish immigrants, who invited me in for tea when I went to suss out a potential house-sitting arrangement. She hummed along absentmindedly making tea and bread, every now and then looking up vacantly to say, "we used to smoke grass all the time...I'm a hippie!...hahahahaha!" At one point she looked at me seriously and said, introspectively, "what is a hippie?"

A young guy from Paraguay working as a traveling vendor who had dedicated his life to joining the Knights Templar. I was unable to confirm that he was anything but serious.

Travelogue: Hare Krishna

2009-09-15T15:12:00.000-07:00

I spent the past several days at an ashram. Simply put, an ashram is a monastery. The one I visited is for devotees of the Hare Krishna movement and is also an organic farm that accepts volunteers. The movement is based on some pretty basic ideas about keeping life simple and healthy, and is all about yoga, mantras, and praising Krishna. It is also a little bit like laws and sausages, in that it might spoil your spiritual appetite to know that it was founded in New York City in the 1960s.

Life on the ashram is soothing. The community consists of gardens, temples, and dormitories on 9 hectares of land in the Pampas outside of Buenos Aires. Despite the proximity to the Grand Capital, the farm is quiet and the air fresh, with the majority of neighbors being lazy cows, horses, and pigs. A few families live in separate houses on the land, while devotees practicing the monastic lifestyle live in communal spaces at the center of the community. The devotees make offerings to their gods several times a day in a fantastic temple that looks like a space ship.

Despite the spiritual nature of life on the ashram, religious views were kept at arms length on a "take it or leave it" basis for guests. All were honest about the fact that this life is not for everyone and that you have to, after having gotten your ya-yas out in the material world, really want to dedicate yourself to finding an inner peace.

What follows is the schedule of a sample day for the volunteers who, it should be noted, paid a nominal fee and were treated more as guests than laborers:

7:30 AM: Wake groggily in your spartan, monastic, yet comfy room. Stumble to dining room for breakfast of chapati bread, banana marmalade, and custard.

8:30 AM: Head out to the construction site for the day's work. Work consisted of pounding posts into holes in the ground for a future floor. The girls did gardening with Maria.

10:30 AM: Sit in the sun to share a mate and discuss American imperialism, spiritual wanderings, and the invasion of Argentina by Monsanto and the Soy lobby with Ariel and Gustavo, our "supervisors." They are kinda mercenary eco-construction workers who recently moved to the ashram from an eco-village called Gaia and are not involved in the monastic lifestyle.

11:15 AM: Resume working.

1:00 PM: Finish work, go put on sandals and lie in the sun.

1:30 PM: Lunch, followed by siesta.

4:30 PM: Yoga and Meditation

5:30 PM: Tea and snack

8:30 PM: Dinner

9:00 PM: Read two pages, fall asleep in spartan, monastic, yet comfy room.

Every day was exactly the same, save for Sunday, during which we did not work and had an extra meditation session.

Sometimes DVDs were played in the dining room, and I feel obligated to note that I watched an anti-abortion video that had been crafted out of scenes from Kill Bill.

Ariel lived in this cozy little trailer.

One of our gourmet, lacto vegetarian lunch dishes.

There is pleasure to be had in the monotony of pounding rubble into a hole for hours at a time.

Typical afternoon activity.

This young lad claimed to be something of a Dr. Doolittle.

The gardens and the house under construction.

Pizza!

The great Argentina Pampas.

The temple, called a "truly," and another sacred building next to it where they keep the clothes of the gods.

Fiesta Del Poncho

2009-09-05T16:08:00.000-07:00

The Fiesta Del Poncho has been one of Argentina's grandest cultural festivals since its inception in 1967. Taking place in the capital city of the Northern province of Catamarca, "El Poncho," as it is generally referred to, is a 10 day extravaganza of song, dance, food, and art and takes its name from the hand-woven garments which are plentiful, and famously well-made, in the province.

I had the good fortune to be invited by my friend Pastor to participate in Poncho 2009. Artisans come from near and far to advertise and sell their handiwork, but also to just be part of the experience. Many of them know each other from other stops on the national crafts fair "circuit," so the atmosphere is one of a big reunion. Some stay in the back of vans, some in tents, some at hostels, some with family nearby. In between attending to customers, they just sit around and smoke, drink, eat, and shoot the shit. Some have big operations while others are rastafarians rolling out a mat of bracelets on the sidewalk. Most of the more established artisans seem to care little about how much they sell, being happy enough to have gotten away from home.

Due to a late night arrival and runaway confusion regarding his name, Pastor and I stayed for free in a room in the city cathedral complex. In this most unlikely of places I found my first high-powered super-hot shower in over four months. Despite the fact that I was no longer cold, I took full advantage.

We started "work" each day around 1pm and went until 11 or 12 pm depending on the day. The work consisted of hanging around the stand chatting and sellin' them chimes--our stand was a big hit. The weekends were busy and the chimes chimed continuously. We drank milkshakes and we drank beer and we drank wine in the middle of the day. We ate empanadas and hot dogs and sweets and stews and steaks.

A pudgy man with a limp and a nasally voice wandered around the hall selling coca leaves and muna muna, a plant rumored to augment male virility--"Muna muna, coca!....Muna muna, coca!" was his constant refrain. A white-haired Chilean selling Andean flutes played the same song once every five minutes for ten days and I started to hum it in my sleep.

I explained to no less than 500 people, confused by my accent and appearance, that "Yes you are right, I am not from Argentina, I am American but, for the time being, I live in Argentina....and I met this guy down South and I am learning about what he does and helping him in the workshop." They told me how great that is and that they have a cousin in Michigan. Many of them personally welcomed me to Argentina. Old men clasped my shoulders and called me "son" and old women kissed my cheek with smudgy lipstick. One group of teenage girls conducted an informal but thorough interview and later offered me some orange juice.

Every evening we went home wiped out. We ate dinner almost every night at the same place on the plaza because it was good, it was easy, it was cheap, and they knew us. We went to bed late and woke up late and had coffee in the morning and went back to sell them chimes.

my friend sebastiana is michelle obama's brazilian cousin

kids out front getting busy
pastor fixing some breakfast in the room
glass mandalas and windchimes
the puesto

setting it up on the first day
in the truck on the way to the first day of the Poncho

On the Road Again: Catamarca

2009-08-23T10:58:00.000-07:00

I have temporarily moved on from the kingdom of mud and sustainability to get more in touch with my traveling artisan roots. I am now selling windchimes with Pastor, my mud and sustainability mentor, at the Fiesta del Poncho, a 10-day cultural festival and arts fair in the Northern Argentine city of Catamarca.

To get here I had to endure 36 straight hours on a bus and an Adam Sandler movie called "Click," which must have been produced as a model for how to go straight-to-DVD. All worth it, however, because I am wearing sandals and only one shirt for the first time in 18 weeks, and even starting to get my tan back. On top of that, I have credentials--a distinguished artisan badge around my neck that lets me get the secret artisan discount (four pesos instead of five for a delicious piece of cake.)

Gotta get back to work.

Staying Put in Patagonia

2009-07-29T08:47:00.001-07:00

This trip has comprised several markedly different "stages." There was the "blowing through Central America's Highlights" stage, the "camping with a crazy Dutchman" stage, and the "freezing my ass off to hike and sail at the End of the World" stage. Yet another stage has begun, and, for the first time on my trip, I feel like staying put. History will refer to this as the "farming, working with mud, and really going off the reservation" stage.

El Bolson blossomed with an influx of European and Argentine hippies in the 1970s. New Age homesteaders gobbled up plots of free land in this fertile valley, surrounded by snow-capped Andean peaks and traversed by the truly-blue Rio Azul. They created lives out of the land, making homes, making crafts, making cheese, making beer, making jam, making families. The town's Feria Artesanal became (and still is) a serious tourist draw and source of income, and I would guess that it indirectly or directly supports more than half of the town's 30,000 permanent residents (the population in Summer skyrockets to over 100,000 due to tourism).

I am currently volunteering for a local artisan and staying in the mud-walled hut/tool shed in his yard. Temperatures are consistently below freezing here, but a small wood-burning stove and a down comforter make the place comfy. I help him build mud ovens, plant trees, build greenhouses, and make windchimes in his workshop. He gives me food and a place to sleep and teaches me about everything he does. I usually eat lunch and dinner with the family and it's a rare day that I don't watch at least one episode of the Simpsons with the kids.

One of things that makes El Bolson so interesting is its heavy emphasis on local production, self-sufficiency, and community. Despite continued growth and commercialization, its lifeblood is the self-made craftsman. The town is full of transplants that arrived to try and make something out of nothing. Pastor, for example, showed up fifteen years ago as a 20-year old with no money and a baby on the way, and has made a name and a great living for himself out of the windchimes. He spent a substantial part of those fifteen years building two gorgeous houses by hand, progressing bit by bit only as time and money and help would allow. These type of people are used to making do with what they have and, most importantly, helping others. One community outside of town, for example, has a semi-formal system whereby the same group of people meet once every couple weeks to work on one of the group member's houses, rotating until all are finished.

The spirit of cooperation makes El Bolson a great learning environment. Many people rely on groups of friends and volunteers to do small and large-scale building projects and, even in the winter, help is always needed. Whatever the project, volunteers are incorporated in such a way that, rather than just working, they learn. In general, everyone here seems to be learning, whether about construction, knitting, farming, or websites. I have attended a course on seeds and a course on electricty, and last night a woman I met in the gas station invited me to come to her creative writing group later this week.

Pastor is part of a loosely-knit group of people, jokingly referred to as "the tribe," that are linked by a common interest in sustainable living. These are the folks that are developing off-the-grid communities outside of town with the the goal of self-sufficiency and cooperative living; the folks that build houses out of clay, sand, water, and cow shit; the folks that make windows out of broken windshields and wine bottles; the folks that treat toilet water with complex systems of rocks and water plants; the folks that, in the wake of the Argentine peso collapse in the early 2000s, created a local system of barter and trade divorced from government currency. Some of them also happen to believe that the world is, in some sense, going to end in 2012, and that giant energy-producing crystals occasionally come down from other galaxies, but, refreshingly, these ideas are not forced upon anyone.

I think that, like many people, the "crisis," as well as my particular experience on Wall Street, has prompted me to explore what it means to be happy, successful, and/or comfortable. To that end, getting to know "the tribe" and El Bolson, and the complete culture shock that entails, has been especially refreshing and rewarding. I am continually surprised at the way these people use a combination of creativity, enterprise, simplicity, efficiency, and patience to create wondrous things, whether it be homes or pieces of art or communities or lives, in the vague sense of the term. I am going to stay here a while and soak it all up, but, for the moment, I'll leave the neophyte's naive wonder at that.

Work: Brick Ovens and Greenhouses

2009-07-14T09:38:00.000-07:00

In El Bolson, Argentina, a town with roots to a hippie "colonization" in the '70s, I have been volunteering with some locals in order to learn about bio-construction, organic agriculture, permaculture, etc. Here is a link to photos of the two projects I have been working on:

http://picasaweb.google.com/JSant27/ElBolsonTrabajos?feat=directlink

Travelogue: Hitching

2009-06-30T11:45:00.000-07:00

I recently spent six days on the road, hitchhiking from Ushuaia, in Tierra del Fuego, to El Bolson, in the Northern part of Argentine Patagonia. My original hope was to hitch from Ushuaia to Bolivia, but I found getting rides to be harder than expected in some places and, on two occasions, had to ultimately take a bus. Hitching in Patagonia is neither easy nor comfortable, but, having talked to other travelers, I knew it was at least possible and had to try.

I logged over 2000 km of Northwesterly travel, and ended up splitting the distance between hitchhiking and buses. I rode in one long-haul cargo truck, one truck carrying pipes for oil rigs, four pick-ups, and two cars. The drivers were as diverse as their vehicles: Raul owns sawmills in Brazil, works as a part-time translator of Portuguese for the government, and drives for fun; one guy who's name I didn't get was just driving an unrelated old woman to her hometown so she could vote in congressional elections; Dario and his son Felix were driving to Rio Gallegos to check in on the family business, which maintains gas and oil distribution networks; Sergio drives a truck carrying equipment to and from the oil derricks outside of Comodoro Rivadavia; Pedro is a soil environmentalist working for an American oil company; the other guy who's name I didn't get works for a state-run agricultural institute; Sebastian made a bundle when the Argentine peso collapsed and, despite being trained as a lawyer and holding a government job, makes his money renting houses and selling produce from his land; the other Pedro, who saved me during the most perilous of my waits, works for the government and was traveling to Bariloche, consistently doing over 100 mph, to visit a mysterious "amiga."

Conversations, obligatory in such situations, were easy and interesting, although, topically speaking, they became somewhat repetitive: our backgrounds, U.S. and Argentine politics, football, the weather (my fault), and Swine Flu. Instead of being tiresome, the common themes allowed me to draw some conclusions as to what might be the "Argentine opinion" on a certain topic: All are frustrated with Argentine politics, most dislike Chavez (their president is cozying up to him), all like Obama, most think the climate is changing, most wanted the U.S. to beat Brazil in the Confederations Cup, and all think the current fuss about Swine Flue in Argentina is a misguided campaign fueled by a self-interested government and press.

I was surprised to uncover a certain self-loathing of Argentina in almost every conversation. Sergio grew up in a working family and only studied through second-grade, yet travels in Argentina and Chile with his family, when he can, and, judging by our conversation, thinks deeply about the world beyond his trucking job. He abhors what he perceives as Argentine disinterest in culture and learning and thinks it puts the country at a disadvantage. Raul, as we discussed the poor maintenance of the icy road between Ushuaia and Rio Grande, told me about the entrenchment of corruption in local politics and mused that "Argentina would be a wonderful country if it were not for the Argentines." In answering my question as to why Argentina exports 100% of its crude oil and imports refined products, Pedro asserted, quite sincerely, that Argentines are lazy. A supervisor at the oil company, he told me that he can always count on the Bolivians and Paraguayans to have completed their assignments, and then some, whereas the Argentines can be counted on to spend half of their time working and half drinking mate. Each conveyed the sentiment that Argentina has not lived up to its potential, and, from an economic standpoint, may be irreparably broken.

Outside of the cars, I did a lot of walking and a lot of waiting. The best place to wait for rides is at the final exit of a city. Getting there sometimes involved a walk of several kilometers which, with a 60+ pound pack on my back, became quite a workout. On several occasions I did the walk out and, in defeat, back in to town. Twice, I was picked up within moments of reaching my spot, but in most places I spent several hours standing on the side of the road. I did plenty of thinking, but the hours were long and thinking became dangerous, so I turned to music. The iPod saved my life.

Rio Gallegos was the big distaster. A transportation and shipping hub, it is the first city in continental Argentina as you travel North from Tierra del Fuego. Despite the volume of long-haul traffic and the fact that I spent the better part of thirty-six hours thumbing on the roadside and asking around the truckstop, I could not get a ride. Battered by the cold wind and losing hope, I gave in on second day and bought a bus ticket.

The gas station in Gallegos was near the bus terminal, and, mostly for convenience, I slept two nights in the terminal waiting area. The first night I shared the room with another hitchhiker, an Argentine, and slept rather fitfully as I kept expecting to be kicked out. Amidst my tossing and turning, a cute little black dog showed up to sleep under my seat. I woke from my half-sleep some time later to find that he had taken my gloves out of my boots and chewed a hole in one of them. More distraught than angry, I gave him a hard smack. His puppy dog eyes made me regret it, and, making sure to stash my belognings carefully in my bag, I let him sleep with me the next night.

The biggest obstacle was the cold, with temperatures in the daytime at or below freezing. Moreover, because the sun does not really come out until after 9 AM and I wanted to get early starts, I often began my walk in the dark. It is hard to stay warm standing on the side of the road, no matter what you wear, so I paced, jumped, clapped, jogged, and rattled my body like an insane person.

The act of "thumbing" became problematic in and of itself. I wore a thin pair of liner gloves because my thicker ski gloves did not allow for an adequate extension of the thumb. Better than nothing, these gloves nevertheless left my fingers almost numb and I would sometimes have to abort the thumb as a car passed to tuck it underneath my fingers. Aside from the cold, I actually developed a slight case of tendinitis at one point and had to change thumbing form to avoid the pain.

Simple as it seems, hitching took some learning and some getting used to. Aside from having to learn where to wait, who to look for, and how to ask around, I had to overcome a subtle sense of embarassment. At it's essence hitchhiking is begging, something which is, to me, completely foreign and decidedly uncomfortable. At the start I would reluctantly and timidly stick out my thumb, always a split second too late to avoid outright rejection. After a few short hitches in and around Ushuaia, however, I warmed up to it, lost my inhibitions, and boldly begged everyone that passed.

Even once I became accustomed to thumbing, I had trouble looking drivers in the eye. I did not want to see the disgust and disapproval I imagined to be emanating from behind the wheel. After a while, though, I began to feel ownership of my role as a hitchhiker and to even take some pride in it. I started to look at the drivers because to not look at them is to let them off easy. "Not picking me up is one thing," I thought, "but at least acknowledge me." Another benefit to looking at people is that many people that don't stop will visually apologize. For example, many drivers will look at you and gesture that they are heading somewhere else, or simply wave to acknowledge your wait and apologize for the pass. Instead of saying "I reject you," they are saying, "I really would like to help you, but, for some reason that is out of my control, I can't, and I wish you the best of luck." Even though you are still out in the cold, these looks are great for morale.

All told, the scorecard is not that impressive: I saved about $60 dollars on transportation costs, but added more than four days to my travel time (with different luck, however, I could have saved double the amount in half the time). I slept very little, walked a lot, and shivered more. At a couple points in the trip I was quite distraught, wanting to give up quickly but feeling as I did that I owed it to myself to keep trying. When I finally arrived to El Bolson I was so exhausted and dirty that I was pretty worthless for the next two days. As the days wear on, however, it is harder for me to remember the bad times and easier for me to remember how, every single time I got out of the car, the driver shook my hand, looked me in the eyes, smiled heartily, and wished me good luck. A few of the drivers even hugged me.

I would now advocate hitchhiking as a personal exercise, something akin to shaving your head completely, fasting, or running a marathon. Not only do you learn about yourself, and your limits, but you pick up a little bit of empathy along the way. I certainly did not set out on the hitchhiking trip with grand visions of a social experiment, but I did, on this selfish endeavor, learn a little bit more about what it's like to go without. Key for me is the idea that you don't have to go out of your way to make someone's day. Sometimes, all you have to do is stop.

Travelogue: Sailing

2009-06-19T17:04:00.000-07:00

A week ago I walked onto the docks at the yacht club here in Ushuaia and, in what was for me an uncommon feat of audacity, asked for a ride. I ended up three days later on Tranquilo, a 57-foot boat captained by a Dutchman named Bart. Bart made millions developing and marketing Vox Vodka. After 17 years of work he decided to hang it up, at age 34, and commissioned a world-famous boat builder--the guy who designed the Maltese Falcon--to build him a state-of-the-art beauty. Like a nice black suit, his boat conveys class, luxury, and confidence in an improbably subtle package. Despite Bart being a relative newcomer to the world of sailing, his boat has afforded him entry to the most exclusive of sailing circles and is the envy of many an old hand.

Bart himself designed the interior in a luxury minimalist style (think this), packed the boat full of toys (jet boat, skis, scuba gear, deep-sea fishing rigs) and set off around the world. Three years later, having crossed the Atlantic and sailed solo to Antarctica, he is exploring Tierra del Fuego and planning to continue up the Pacific coast of the Americas.

In Puerto Williams we moored Bart's boat against another, the Kiwi Roa, from New Zealand. This aluminum-hulled 50-foot boat looks like a tank and was built by the captain and owner, Pete Smith, who has been sailing around the world for 30-years with his wife Jo. Between those on the docks and those moored away, the Micalvi Yacht Club was hosting dozens of sailboats, but almost all were empty, locked up for the winter as their captains have gone home to various places around the world. In fact, aside from Kiwi Roa and Tranquilo, the only boats with owners present were Ocean Tramp and Santa Maria Australis. The town is small (pop. 2500), but the yacht club community is smaller, so within a couple minutes I knew everyone.

Ocean Tramp is owned by Charlie Porter, a legendary American climber turned scientist. Charlie has pioneered solo routes of El Capitan, kayaked through the Patagonian fjords and around Cape Horn, patented a type of climbing nut, made maps for the Chilean Navy, and hunted seals during a winter living with natives in Greenland. He now works as a glacial geologist, studying climate change by monitoring the glaciers of the Southern oceans from his sailboat, which he has converted into a scientific super-station.

Wolf, a German captain not nearly as grizzly as his name, runs charter tours on Santa Maria Australis. He bought his first sailboat at 22 and sailed it around the Mediterannean until it was crushed, made money importing and exporting in Germany, and relocated to Chile 15 years ago. His trips are high-octane (kayaking/climbing/scuba) customized adventures to Cape Horn and Antarctica for Europeans with deeeeeep pockets.

These boats, and the others moored at Puerto Williams and Ushuaia, are made for long-term, offshore "cruising." Bart's and Pete's boats, which are sturdy enough for world travel and can comfortably house a few people, are two of the smaller ones. The larger ones, such as Wolf's and Charlie's, are upwards of 70 feet with two masts and covered cockpits. Below deck, they have sleeping space for 8-10 people, at least three bathrooms, common areas for dining and seating, a well-equipped galley for cooking, and storage space for toys, supplies, luggage, and food (boats going to Antarctica are required to have one year's worth of food).

Certain paradoxes infuse the world of sailing and make it all the more intriguing. Hardy, brave, and practical to the core, each and every one of these captains keeps a clean, organized cabin (shoes off before entering) and, while they will face the harshest of elements to bring in a sail or tie down a line, they just as readily expect to enjoy hot tea and a good snack once below deck. They take pride in their adventures, and in being hardcore, but they place an equal premium on class, cleanliness, and comfort. They can be hard-headed, "type A," and narrowly focused on their boats and their journeys. The yacht clubs, however, are places of sharing and cooperation. For example, due to limited dock space boats must moor against each other, three and four deep against the docks. It is thus necessary to walk on other boats to reach your own--just wipe your feet first and nobody minds. Likewise, when you arrive, the crew of the boat you will moor against should be there to help you tie lines. When we arrived, the couple in Kiwi Roa were cooking or sleeping or otherwise unavailable. Bart blew a loud horn to get them out on the boat, and nobody thought twice about it.

The atmosphere is convivial and familial, with captains hosting each other for dinner, swapping stories, sharing weather reports, and generally looking out for one another. The world of ocean cruising seems relatively small, as sailors who have never met can triangulate their relationship to each other with reference to the names of other boats they have encountered in distant ports and anchorages. A kind of self-monitoring membership system exists in that anyone who sails into these docks has done serious ocean crossings and most have been to Antarctica. Necessarily then, each is worthy of the other's respect and trust.

Supporting the captains in these nautical dramas is the crew. Most larger boats, save for the Maltese Falcon, cannot be sailed safely by one person over long distances. Putting up and taking in sails, making repairs on the fly, mooring, night watches for safety, and, for charters, taking care of clients, generally necessitate an extra hand or two. Some boats have regular crews, some pick them up as they go. Some couples, like Pete and Jo, handle the boat themselves, but for longer trips they might also solicit crew members. Some crews get paid while others share expenses with the captain for the privilege of passage. Others sail in something of a volunteer capacity, working for their bunk and food.

Thilo, from Switzerland, is a 23-year old I met in Puerto Williams, and had just crossed the Atlantic on a six-week voyage crewing for a private boat. He had no prior experience sailing and is simply traveling the world like me, but ended up on a fantastic voyage with an old, party-loving German captain, his girlfriend, and two young fellow crew members. They shared cooking duties, night watches, and general work onboard to keep the boat above water and on course, but otherwise had a free, fun, and priceless journey.

Martin, a former geography teacher from Holland, is in Ushuaia trying to score a job as a crew member on one of the Cape Horn or Antarctic charter boats, such as the one Wolf captains. He sailed down from Buenos Aires and is hoping to get around the world by crewing. He worked as a sailing instructor in Holland and knows what he's doing, so thinks he might find a paying gig, at least one that will cover a plane ticket home at some point.

Websites exist that serve to connect those seeking boats with those seeking crews, but the positions offered are usually for "shared expenses" arrangements (expenses include diesel, food, port fees, etc.). The really great trips, on private boats going to fantastic locations, require patience, diligence, and luck. Thilo, for example, spent two months waiting for his lucky day and Martin has spent three months in Ushuaia cultivating relationships with the sailors here. The season does not begin again until late October, so he has to kill time until then.

It appears that I, too, may have a chance to join the company of these modern-day explorers. Charlie Porter invited me to accompany him and his group of scientists on a three-month trip later this year to the islands of South Georgia and Tristan de Cunha. Not set in stone yet, but this is the trip of a lifetime, so I have accepted the offer. Before entering the open Southern Atlantic, however, I need to address a less exciting aspect of sailing and test my resistance to seasickness.

Photos: Carretera Austral, Tierra del Fuego, Isla Navarino

2009-06-18T20:30:00.000-07:00

Photos from the last three weeks. As always, over-captioned for your enjoyment.

Carretera Austral,Tierra del Fuego, and Isla Navarino

If that doesn't work try: http://picasaweb.google.com/JSant27/CarreteraAustralTierraDelFuegoAndIslaNavarino?feat=directlink

Re: The Docks

2009-06-08T07:17:00.000-07:00

I went back to the Docks yesterday and found the mysterious Dutchman with the beautiful sailboat. After a brief chat, Bart agreed to give me a ride to Puerto Williams, 5 hours across the Beagle Channel. The trip usually costs $100 for a 20 minutes ride on a small Zodiac motorboat, so I'm pretty proud of having secured such a superior alternative. Furthermore, due to Chilean territorial ambitions and the arbitrary nature of political boundaries, Puerto Willliams is actually part of Chile's Antarctic claim. Thus, assuming all goes to plan, on Thursday I will be able to claim having visited all 7 continents (although there will be an asterisk by my name due to the tecnhicality).

Cultural Connections: All your 80s ski wear

2009-06-07T16:00:00.000-07:00

Every Southern Chilean town, no matter how small, has at least one shop that sells "Ropa Americana." These second-hand clothes come by boat from the United States and Canada and are bought up by enterprising merchants throughout Chilean Patagonia. By the looks of the merchandise, an enterprising exporter in the U.S. or Canadaa buys up a quantity of clothing and then lets it "age" before releasing it to Chilean importers. Right now, the 1985-1988 vintage is hot.

Chile is home to several super ski resorts, but few of them are in Patagonia. When it comes to being warm, however, style matters little in this part of the world. Consequently, what would only pass for ski clothing in the U.S. is everyday wear during frigid Chilean winters.

I am primarily talking ski bibs. At some point 10-15 years ago, savvy American skiiers decided that a bib with suspender straps was no longer either necessary or acceptable. Discovery of the magic of elastic, and the modernization of ski jackets to include advanced features such as powder skirts, ushered in an era of fancy ski "pants" with all sorts of nooks and crannies built-in. A sea change also took place in terms of colors. Bibs had been available in a veritable neon rainbow of colors, but the era of pants has been dark hued.

The World's carpet littered with bibs, Chile stepped in to vacuum. If you can handle the color, there are deals to be had. Having sifted through bins and racks and more bins and racks of neon green and fuschia, I am convinced that we made a mistake. The only thing that has stopped me from buying 13 neon ski bibs (most with polyster inlaid somewhere) is the size of my bag. These bibs are national treasures, and I plan to start a business exporting the imports back to the U.S. Note the superman suit below, one of my personal favorites.

The Docks

2009-06-06T19:16:00.001-07:00

Greg is from Vancouver, but left five years ago to sail around the world. He looks about 65. He told me he bought his first sailboat before I was born, and is on his third. His wife is with him for a couple of months but will return to Canada in August. I asked him if I could hitch a ride to Puerto Williams, a Chilean settlement that is the actual Southernmost town in the world. Trying to be polite but trying to say no, he explained that there is not much space and if the weather is bad he may have to anchor somewhere for several days, in which case I would be stuck with them. "I can handle that," I said desperately. "Well," he stuttered, "what I really mean is we would be stuck with you."

No hard feelings, we continued chatting for a while. He had crossed the Pacific Ocean from French Polynesia to Chile and is now rounding the Southern tip on his way to the Falkland Islands and then up to Buenos Aires to have some repairs done. I was curious about Antarctica seeing how Ushuaia is fewer than 700 miles from the polar continent. "In my younger days I was ballsy," he explained, "but now I'm more careful and the ice just makes me nervous."

I was at the docks with some fellow travelers, Enrico and Casey, looking for a cheaper alternative to the sightseeing trips that take tourists around the Channel. The city has a dock where people can pay to anchor as they pass through. The "club" also has a kitchen, bathrooms, and lounge facilities. We found a man on shore who said to just go ask around the boats. Somehow feeling that we were trespassing, we tiptoed onto the docks, marveling at the array of sailboats. Some were old and basic, some were new and fancy, but all gave the impression that they had known wondrous voyages.

After our chat, Greg told me to check with a Dutchman moored nearby, who has a large, beautiful sailboat all to himself. To get to the boat I had to walk on another. It belongs to a French guy and is chartered for 25 day trips to Antarctica. After a few timid attempts at "hello?", I decided nobody was home and skittered back to the dock.

We spoke with a local man who keeps a small sailboat at the club. We told him we wanted to just take a spin around the channel, maybe see the local penguin colony. He pulled on his cigarette, looking a bit disgusted by our ignorance and a bit confused as to why we did not just go to the tourist agency. "There aren't any penguins," he said, squinting through his own smoke. He lightened up after that with some joke about how they didn't like the cold, and suggested we ask Mickey, who goes to Puerto Williams and Cape Horn.

We couldn't find Mickey, so we took our by then well-practiced query to a sailor on one of the tourist boats. He had a perfectly formed, silver handlebar moustache and hunched down in his coat as he smoked. Openly pessimistic about our prospects, he pulled out a cellphone, saying he knew of one person that might help us. Phone to his ear, we saw his eyes light up as the line connected. "Mickey?!" we heard him say.

After some hefty laughs, a brief explanation of our situation, and friendly banter we didn't understand, he passed the phone to Enrico. Enrico told him we had heard he might be going to Cape Horn and that we would love to come along if possible. Casey and I listened with glee as we heard Enrico answer that, yes, we did have raingear, warm clothing, and shoes. We were convinced we had just scored a free trip to Cape Horn--surely such details would only be discussed at the conclusion of a successful call. Then we heard Enrico say "1500 dollars?" and sank back to Earth.

The captain of the Antarctic-bound charter boat, a French expat, emerged at that point, and I asked him if he knew anyone going to Puerto Williams. "This is a really bad time," he explained, with a touch of condescension. "There are not many people going and you may get stuck." After a bit of an awkward conversation in which he presented problems which I insisted didn't bother me, he suggested I call Wolf, who would be going in a few days. Thrilled, I waited giddily for the number and off we went. Wolf's wife Jeanette was lovely on the phone as she explained that yes Wolf would be going soon and could take me, but that he might stay for a week. "No problem," I answered. She went on to mention that the cost would be $100 each way. Too expensive, another defeat.

Our mission, though unsuccessful in terms of finding a cheap excursion, was nevertheless encouraging. What I learned is that private boats come in and out of the docks going in all directions, and that most of the sailors are happy to talk with visitors. People like Greg, for example, are also travelers and are not out to gouge anyone. I am convinced that, if I keep trying, I'll meet someone looking for help or even just company. If I do meet that person, regardless of where the boat is going, I'm getting on.

People: The Cyclists

2009-06-06T16:40:00.000-07:00

Ushuaia, because of its generally accepted status as "Southernmost City in the World," attracts travelers with pretty amazing itineraries. I have met two cyclists here whose trips blew my mind:

Daniel is about 40 years old, from the province of Buenos Aires, and works in the family business selling bicycle equipment. He is going to bicycle all the way from Ushuaia to the Northern reaches of Alaska on a trip that will last more than one year, and has been ten years in the planning. His budget is 25000 pesos, which comes to about 6,600 USD. He also spent about 15000 pesos on his gear (about 4000 USD), which includes a bike, a trailer, and good camping gear. In 2001 he cycled the whole of Argentina, from North to South, but his family thinks he is too old for this trip.

Jaffie is 24 and from Nepal. A UCLA graduate in Anthropology, he has spent the past 20 months cycling through the Americas. He ran out of money in Ecuador, and has since earned money writing the occasional travel article, working odd jobs, or selling musical equipment he left back home. A girl in Costa Rica pitied him after he was robbed and he ended up staying in her house for a month. A police officer in Bolivia helped him cross the border illegally to avoid paying a visa fee.

Having seen the mania that is the Central American highways, I asked them if they feared getting hit. Both downplayed the danger and have covered thousands and thousands of accident-free kilometers. Daniel uses a small mirror to monitor oncoming traffic. Jaffie pointed out that on long stretches of road in Latin America, most of the traffic is commercial trucks with professional drivers.

Los Antiguos Border Crossing

2009-06-02T21:05:00.000-07:00

The border towns of Chile Chico (Chile) and Los Antiguous (Argentina) face off somewhere between Northern and Southern Patagonia. Both have beautiful surroundings and small town charm, but serve mainly as gateway cities. I spent a lovely evening in Chile Chico, chatting with the senora of the hospedaje, a city councilwoman and ardent socialist, before boarding a morning mini-bus for Los Antiguos. On the way I chatted with a local guy who was crossing over to shop for flour and other supplies in Argentina--its much cheaper there. He asked about typical salaries in the U.S., the cost of my North Face jacket, and, with a look that said he would be very sensitive to my answer, my opinion of Chile. I evaded the last question, explaining that much of my time in Chile had been on the "campo" with foreigners.

Chile bid me adieu with no problems. Argentina stamped me through and bid me good trip. As I walked back to the mini-bus, however, the driver called me back.

"Oye," he called. "There is a new woman here who wants to check your bag. Usually they don't ask but she's new..."

"No problem," I said, hefting my backpack, which is by now a delicately packed behemoth, into the customs office. I had a few apples and a cucumber and said so immediately, not wanting to appear evasive and knowing they would not be allowed. Head's shook: "We have a plague of apples right now." Oops. Argentina, unlike Chile, does not fine for such indiscretion, but they certainly wag their fingers at you.

The real problem was the pills. My dopkit is full of them. When I left I took about 60 ibuprofen out of a large bottle and put them in a clear ziplock. I didn't anticipate a problem but now it is clear to me why it might not be a great idea. This anonymous, suspicious baggie full of Argentina-knows-what lent a certain suspiciousness to everything else: the bottle of tylenol, the ziplock full of antibiotics, the generic Mexican stomach meds, the multi-vitamins! That and sheer quantity. Several times I heard other guards ask the bag-searcher how many pills I had, obviously implying that if there were few, it would not be a problem. Her pained response, after a sigh, was "there are lots."

These two poor customs women, I'll call them Stickler and Amenable, were flummoxed. Pills abound and no way to identify them, and now a smug backpacker on his way to irate, indignant that his well-traveled pills would meet their fate in this forgotten backwater of a border town. I insisted that I was not parting with anything unless they could show me the written law. Amenable seemed to understand my displeasure and sought to ameliorate it, calling other offices for clarification on the rules and advice on this situation.

Meanwhile Stickler proceeded to dismantle the whole of my luggage. She held at arms length, pinched between the tips of cautious, condescending fingers, my collection of plastic baggies, my scraps of newspaper, my pieces of string, my packets of soup, my Argentine Playboy magazine (traded for my last New Yorker in a hostel, but just for language practice). I curtly identified each item, lingering close, exuding distrust.

My driver had already left once to take the other passengers across the border and returned to get me when I realized I had been at this border station for almost 2 hours. While Stickler insisted that I could not bring any medicine into the country Amenable was attempting to identify the mystery pills. There seemed to be a lack of agreement in policy. Despite the initial statement that transporting meds was not allowed, full stop, they were allowing me to keep the seemingly more "heavy" amoxicillin. Also, despite their contention that the ibuprofen was a problem because it was "loose" and unidentifiable, they did not have a problem with the open bottles of Tylenol and vitamins, nor with the several blue Advil PM (if anything the most dangerous of all) floating loosely in the dopkit itself.

Seeing the hour, I pleaded, although not desperately, that I did not have time, that I had a bus to catch and did not want to hold my driver any longer. Still, I had to wait. I realized that Amenable was trying to form a collective identity between us all, trying to foster a sense that all of us in that amateurish border station were in it together against the larger Argentine bureaucracy. I wasn't having that bullshit and maintained my emotional distance. She said we had to wait for a call from some other office, and offered me a smoke in the meantime. I coldly refused.

The much anticipated phone call was of no help, and at this point ouAmenable informed me, with complete apology, that she was going to the local hospital to see if they could identify the pills. I threw up my hands and almost screamed, completely amazed at the ridiculousness of the situation, and tried once more to say, I give up, let's pretend I never protested and you can have all my pills. "I can't," she lamented, "now we have to find out what this is."

I knew the driver was losing money--all he does is go back and forth with border-crossing passengers all day at frequent intervals--so I told him he could leave. He accepted my offer, kindly explaining how I could walk across the border and into Los Antiguos, and then, ever so sheepishly, told me he still had to charge me. "It wasn't my fault," he said with a shrug and some sort of squishing up of his face that was meant to convey sympathy. He had been nice to wait this long, but I was still a bit hurt by the desertion.

Amenable came back from the hospital with no luck and said they had to keep trying. Stickler sat at her computer, having been silent for quite some time. I could tell she felt bad about having launched this fool's crusade and, to augment her regret, I subtly played the part of dejected and persecuted innocent, far from home and all alone in an unforgiving place.

In fact, the place was supremely pleasant, and if I had to be stuck at a border crossing I could have done worse. Warm, with beautiful views of the Patagonian steppes through plentiful windows, I was quite comfortable and did not at all feel threatened. Having made my traveler's rights stand and having tired of doing so, I decided to read my book and wait it out in peace. Thirty minutes later my allied official waved me outside and said, "ok, we're done." When I asked what had changed she answered "nothing." She explained that they still could not identify the pills, but neither could they continue to hold me.

To top off the weirdness of it all, she offered me a ride to town in the customs department car, which I heartily accepted. She explained the recent problems they had been having with drugs, I explained that, traveling for an extended period of time, I had to be vigilant about my stuff. She said sorry, I said sorry, we chatted about this and that, I made it in time for the next bus South. I lost two apples, a cucumber, and more than 60 ibuprofens. Having made it across with the rest, I call it a victory.

Photos: Cagalandia

2009-06-02T19:47:00.000-07:00

This is a well-captioned set of photos that should explain a lot about the "farm" I worked on in Chile.

http://picasaweb.google.com/JSant27/2009TravelsCagalandia#

Travelogue: Emerging from Cagalandia

2009-05-28T10:35:00.000-07:00

Five days ago I left Cagalandia for good. My departure marked the end of 42 straight days of what I would consider "roughing it."

I am having to acclimate to sleeping in beds, using regular showers, being indoors, and not being able to pee anywhere, any time. Despite these practical matters, I largely attribute my "out of sorts" feeling to the fact that my activities are no longer so restricted by my surroundings. Freedom brings alternatives and demands decisions. What to do, what to eat, where to go...its a bit of a shock. I am still decompressing after what was in many ways a dramatic experience, and, despite several attempts, am not sure how to relate all that has transpired. I am stalling trying to process it all and so will just catch up on my recent travel. Pictures of Cagalandia are forthcoming.

After two straight weeks of rain, the sun came out, on Sunday, and I left. Thomas took me to town on the catamaran. At one point our left front tried to submarine, along with my bag, and I thought we were goners. He pulled us out of it, though, and I manned the jib as we landed without incident in Raul Marin. Early the next morning I took a minibus, a new service run by a local man, to La Junta, another tiny settlement slightly larger than Raul Marin. I spent the night at Tia Lety's Hospedaje and had a thrillingly hot shower, watched Spider-Man 2 and Yo, Robot in Spanish, chatted with Tia Letty about her arrival 30 years ago as one of the initial settlers of the village, and hung the contents of my bag all over the room in an attempt to dry these victims of the prior day's sailing trip.

At 5AM the next morning I hopped on another minibus to Coyhaique, capital of the Aisen region. It's a six hour ride along one of the world's wildest roads, the Carretera Austral, which lumbers unpaved through glacial river valleys beneath snowcapped peaks. For hundreds of kilometers you see nothing but landscapes, and then, amazingly, a city. Bursting out of an isolated and deserted countryside, Coyhaique boasts 50,000 residents, traffic lights, public transport, two supermarkets, a North Face store, and a beautifully designed public library where I now sit using free wireless internet. Despite its big-city aspirations, wilderness is still a walk away and wood-stoves reign.

I am using Coyhaique as a base from which to provision and plan for the next stage: continuation towards the southern tip of the continent. The weather has become a factor, as it is now the beginning of winter, and I want to take stock of what I can realistically do given my equipment and the conditions. Attempting to be intrepid and thrifty, I pitched my tent my first night here--I paid a nominal amount to a local hospedaje for use of the yard, kitchen, and bathroom facilities, but have since moved into the house. Despite the conditions, I have it stuck in my head that, being this close, I should go all the way. The next big stop is the epic Parque Nacional Torres del Paine, in summertime a trekkers Eden. Afterwards I will explore what I can of Chilean and Argentine Tierra del Fuego, probably bottoming out at Ushuaia.

Travelogue: Cagalandia

2009-05-05T15:26:00.000-07:00

Six hours bus from Puerto Montt, at the Southern tip of the island of Chiloe and the terminus of the Pan-American Highway, lies the port of Quellon. A nighttime ferry named Alejandrina departs Saturday evenings for more Southerly ports situated amidst the fjords of Patagonian Chile. Most passengers are fisherman or other laborers heading for extended stays of work down South, so three Americans and one grizzly-looking Dutchman draw a few stares, but not as many as you would expect. We claimed as many seats as we could in the indoor cabin as it was raining outside and watched "Runaway Bride" until departure at 1 AM. Next day around mid-morning we navigated narrow channels between lush green mountains and lumbered into Puerto Raul Marin Balmaceda in a gray drizzle. We unloaded all 21 boxes and bags into a wooden shack near the docks, all the while counting and keeping eyes out for locals that might be bold enough to commit a crime of opportunity (Thomas assures us they would.) Thomas' contact Jaime could not take us in his boat out to the land, so we had to camp the night. We pitched tents by the docks, painstakingly started a fire with wet wood and cooked a not-bad dinner of soup and crackers with pate.

Arrived by Jaime's boat the next morning...pure beauty. Cagalandia--688 hectares and named jokingly for the Spanish verb cagarse, which means to make a mess (literally to shit on onesself), and reflects the constant state of disorder and disaster at Thomas' place--is 688 hectares of temperate rainforest and has a river that roars when it rains, a beach that affords daily sightings of dolphins and sea lions, and a views that make me gasp time and again. It is wet, wet, wet, and pretty cold, but we always have hot tea and sometimes hot baths. So far I have helped fortify a muddy path in camp, cleaned a fish caught in the net, built and deployed an amazingly successful crab trap, chainsawed planks out of tree trunks, harvested mussels from nearby rocks, started hacking a path by machete through dense bamboo forests to a lake, made bread, built a kitchen table, taken a japanese hot bath powered by wood fire, sat in a canoe amidst a colony of yelping sea lions, tended to three unruly goats, made the forest my toilet, burned leaches off my legs, learned how to charge an iPod with water power, stepped in mud up to my waist, and submerged myself in freezing cold water beneath a star-filled sky. My hands are cut in dozens of places and perpetually dirty. My clothes are dirty and always damp. I am, however, generally comfortable and well-fed to the point that I may have gained weight here.

This afternoon I canoed with two others 2.5 hours in a misting rain to Raul Marin to drop off a volunteer who is heading North. It is my first chance in 3 weeks to use internet and, amazingly, to be inside anywhere.

I am probably going to stay at Cagalandia another two weeks or so, then head south and try to tackle Torres del Paine and the Southern reaches of this continent despite the harshness of winter down there. I may not return to the U.S. until late Summer, but am still playing it by ear.

Signing off for a bit

2009-04-11T16:17:00.000-07:00

After much hemming and hawing about going into the ¨wild,¨I seem to always manage to find some internet connection. I am in Quellon right now waiting for our ferry to Puerto Raul Marin. It was supposed to leave at 10, but now will not leave until 1 AM. We had to buy tons of food here so the extra time is a bit helpful, but after the stores close it will just mean lots of waiting.

There is limited internet access in the hamlet of Raul Marin (i think its about 50 households large), and none on Thomas´ land (a fishing boat or hour´s canoe ride from the town), so, as warning to you ardent followers, I think I will be out of touch for several weeks.

JS

Travelogue: First WWOOF Experience

2009-04-10T15:16:00.000-07:00

I met two other Americans who will be volunteering at the Dutchman's land here in Chile. Max and Matthew are both 25, from Boston, and have already stayed at two other WWOOF farms during the past several weeks. Their current location is conveniently located 45 minutes from Puerto Montt and I spent a night out there a few days ago to get out of the city.

The farm they are staying on grows all sorts of vegetables and has bees and goats as well. The property has several homes--one for the owner, one for his parents, one for his sister, and one, the former main house, is dedicated to the volunteers. The land is close to the sea and is best described as "cold jungle." It is very wet and green with small family farms hidden amongst low rolling hills and babbling brooks. Nearby is a pristing lake, and the views of surrounding mountains are epic. Edible berries such as blackberries and murta grow wild and plentiful.

During Summer there may be more than ten volunteers, staying in the house and camping outside. For the past couple weeks it has only been Max and Matthew. The house includes three small bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs, a small kitchen, and an amazing, spacious, add-on living room with a large skylight and a tree in the middle. This last room is where we slept--on mattresses on the floor--and where the guys, understandably, spent most of their time. It has electricity and running water, but only a few light bulbs work so candles are key. A treasure trove of old junk, the house is filled with books, maps, guitars, clothes, old leather suitcases, and spiderwebs.

The guys had previously stayed at a farm with strict working schedules and family meals, but here they are largely left to themselves. They are free to use vegetables and food from the land, but have to supply their own staples such as rice and flour, as well as gas for the camping stove in the house. The work schedule is loose: Mattias, the owner, comes down to their house every few days and asks for help with various tasks such as picking vegetables, erecting or fixing mobile greenhouses, and working on the construction of a new beehouse.

My brief stay at the farm was amazing, especially after too many days cooped up in the gray, dirty confines of the city. We arrived at night and walked up the road to the farm in the dark, hopping over puddles and streams. The smell of damp earth, wood fires, and cold clean air was refreshing.

That evening we ate some fresh vegetable soup by candlelight and listened to the soundtrack of From Dusk til Dawn, found amongst the rubble. I caught a few hours asleep amidst the sounds of some animals in the walls and on the roof.

In the morning Matt convinced me to take a morning swim in the nearby lake. That morning I saw clear blue sky and sun for the first time since arriving in the South, and it was an amazing sight. The lake itself was fit for a dream the water was so glassy. The water was utterly icy, but afterwards, standing alone in the morning sun in complete quiet, I had one of those "wow" moments for which I have been searching.

We picked a shirtload of murta berries on the way home--the guys wanted to make jam for our trip. Before leaving, I paid my dues by helping to erect a mobile greenhouse. After four months without any sort of gainful employment, it felt great to get my hands (very) dirty and get something done. The trip out to the farm was extremely rejuvenating after so many cities, and I think it is a good omen for the trip ahead.

Travelogue: Southern Chile

2009-04-09T18:54:00.000-07:00

From Santiago I traveled by night bus to Puerto Varas (13 hours) and was greeted by gray skies and a steady drizzle. Thankfully I had heeded the advice of my friends in Santiago--most were aghast that I was traveling South at the front end of a notoriously wet time of year-- and beefed up my gear to include waterproof coverings for my backpack and me.

This part of the world reminds me of Siberia. Colorful wooden houses, weather that changes from gray to bright blue in an instant, and people whose existence in a relatively remote place has blessed them with the peculiar combination of warmth and gritty toughness. Puerto Varas has beautiful views of lakes and towering snow-capped volcanos, none of which I really saw given the weather. I did have a TV there and was amazed and happy to find the Final Four games being broadcast. Puerto Montt, where I have spent the past several nights, is 20 minutes away and is a grittier, more industrial sea port.

I hoofed it down South from Santiago in order to meet up with Thomas, the Dutchman whose land I am going to live on for the next several weeks. I then left more-charming Puerto Varas for Puerto Montt, also to meet Thomas, who again arrived a day after originally planned. Puerto Montt is crummy enough that all guidebooks suggest skipping it entirely. Nevertheless, our next bus departs from here and I had to meet Thomas. It has not been all bad, though, as Puerto Montt is a bit cheaper than Puerto Varas. Also, I have had a chance to slowly observe life in Southern Chile, prepare more thoroughly for my trip into the wild, and experience a new type of accomodation: hospedajes.

Hospedajes are local homes converted, partially, into guesthouses. The family lives in the house and rents out rooms, going about daily life as usual. There is usually a "senora" or "duena de casa" that acts as manager, receptionist, cook, and all-around house mother--I have only been in a few, but have yet to see one run by a man. To my delight I have found that common practice is to charge per person, regardless of the number of occupants. Consequently, as a single traveler, I can get my own room with two beds and only pay for one bed--generally between $7-$10 per night around here. Some have TVs, almost all offer shared bathrooms. If you want a hot shower, you have to turn on the water heater or ask to have it turned on. The guests are a diverse bunch--some are travelers like me, some are Chileans passing through, and some are students or workers living for extended periods of time. The extended stayers are on the basis of "pension," meaning they pay per month for lodging and meals. I use the kitchens and there have been able to chat and interact with the family. At my current lodging, in Puerto Montt, I have been fortunate enough to share some wonderful meals with Dona Leticia and her daughter Karina. I have cooked a few things to share with them in return, and today had a wood chopping lesson with the great-uncle of the family so that I could contribute to the wood pile for the stove.

In other big news, I finally met the Dutchman, Thomas. Long hair and long beard, he looks like Rob Zombie, but not nearly as menacing. He is incredibly interesting and I have only begun to scratch the surface in terms of getting to know him. He bought land in Patagonia 15 years ago and has been spending several months per year here ever since. He and I have been spending the past couple days provisioning for the trip, as his place is far removed from any developed town. We have to stock up on food, tools, and various odds and ends. For example, he walked into a hardware store and ordered 36 square meters of plastic for a greenhouse and hundreds of feet of nylon cord. In another, liters of caustic acid for making soap from fat, hooks for fishing, and replacement cleats for his catamaran. Foodstuffs include kilos of flour, oats, rice, beans, sugar, and butter--a complete list would be exhausting, but we are bringing a lot. Fish, mussels, and crabs are plentiful at Thomas' land, and he has a greenhouse with some vegetables, but it sounds like at this point a large amount of his food is provisioned ahead of time.

Our journey on Saturday will begin with a six hour bus to the town of Quellon, on the Southern tip of the island of Chiloe. From there we will board an overnight ferry to tiny Puerto Raul Marin, and from there we will hop on with a local fisherman to Thomas' estuary. My plans for the next several months will depend very much on the nature of this upcoming challenge. As such, I am thrilled that I will soon get to see this place for myself.

Dilemmas: Canine family planning

2009-04-04T14:20:00.001-07:00

Spending time abroad you become acutely aware of cultural differences between your home country and the ones you visit. Language, money, food, social customs, clothing, cars--the substantial and trivial alike begin to stand out. Of late, I have found myself hyper-aware of a phenomenon that is strikingly foreign: Dogs with balls.

Testicles, that is. The fact that they are swinging around everywhere, for all to see, is shocking to a guy who grew up in Bob Barker's world and never really thought to ask why his dog had one part but not the other(s). I know little to nothing about canine anatomy, but field research has taught me that the dog's testicles tend to be disproportionately large and prominently featured. Call me weird, but, for someone with nothing to do but explore and observe, its hard to miss a dachsund with avocados dangling between his hind legs.

Generally cause for a gasp and a juvenile snicker, there is a sad side to the free-ball regime. "Raining cats and dogs" is not an idiomatic expression in Central and South America. Many balls means many dogs that belong to nobody and everybody. Plentiful as Hollywood zombies, they scatter fleas, disease, and garbage about the streets. Also detrimental to public health is the noise pollution generated by frequent pack fights and chases.

I have never seen so many dogs sleeping--all day and all over. They lie down in sun and in shade. On streets, in gutters, inside stores and out, they conserve what is sure to be precious little energy by lying for hours at a time. Some are lucky enough to find "mattresses" of cardboard to keep off cold, wet cement. In this mode, they do not get up for anybody or anything. The females seem most exhausted, having been suckled ragged by litter after litter of pups.

When they are awake, they are incredibly attentive, frisking any passersby for possible nourishment. They are generally too tired to be mean, but I have been growled at by tiny lap dogs and attribute their misguided anger to hunger. In Puerto Varas, in Southern Chile, a too-thin Husky followed me around for 30 minutes one morning while I checked out hostels. He trotted patiently at my side, occasionally sniffing and hoping that I might have a morsel tucked away somewhere in my bags. Later that day I found two dogs knocking over a trash can and searching it voraciously. The larger of the two ultimately found a promising bag in the mess and carried it away in his teeth.

Obviously these countries--I have noticed said phenomenon in parts of Mexico, Guatemala, El Salvador, Honduras, Argentina, Ecuador, and Chile, as well as in Asia and some European cities--are taking public policy one step at a time and may have larger issues to address. Nevertheless, balls, when it comes to urban-canine best practices, seem to be a bad thing. While it might be tempting to romanticize the notion of letting an animal stay "whole," the observed negative consequences of letting nature take its course in this case far outweigh any potential gains.

Photos: A selection of the past two months

2009-04-01T11:07:00.000-07:00

click here to view picasa album

It's not a Mexican vacation until you get robbed by the Police

2009-03-30T18:55:00.001-07:00

On our first night in Cancun, Jamie and I were amped up to go out. We had been traveling for 19 hours that day and had spent the previous several days in dirty, chaotic, stressful places. We showered, drank a bottle of cheap cane liquor, grabbed a couple of "road sodas" and then went out to the street to catch a bus to the hotel zone.

I knew we were not supposed to drink on the streets, but it was past midnight, not many people were out, and I did not think it would be a problem. To be safe, we wrapped them up in paper. Sure enough, a pick-up full of cops pulls up to the corner where we were standing and, despite our best attempts to play it cool, they were on to us like sharks to blood.

Three of them jumped out, each holding a machine gun, and told us it was against the law to drink in public. At first, I tried to say we had just arrived, grabbed a couple of beers, and were heading right back to the hostel. My attitude said "No problem amigo." Did not fly.

They told us we were going with them, so we hopped in the back of the truck. As we drove off, uncertain of where we were going, I sternly interrupted the mumbling officers to remind them that I spoke Spanish and understood every word, lest they do too much colluding in front of us. Not wanting to beat around the bush, I asked the officers what we could do to avoid going to the station. They chatted between themselves and replied that the fine would be $150 USD each. Aghast, I told them, truthfully, that we did not have that kind of money on us, to which they replied that we would have to go to the station and spend 36 hours in jail.

They drove us to a dark dead-end street and shut off the truck. At this point I started to get nervous/frightened, because they did not seem willing to budge and I was not willing to give up $150 so easily. Jamie and I openly discussed our options in English: He though we should demand to speak to someone from the consulate. I was certain that would not fly with these guys, and wondered if we should try and call their bluff about going to the station. I was, however, doubtful of our prospects for staying whole in prison if it should come to that. As I became more certain we would have to pony up, Jamie kept a cool head and decided we should just keep talking with them.

We decided to play up the fact that Jamie had lost his debit card (true) and was waiting for a new one in Cancun. The story somehow took on a life of its own and soon we were saying that we had both lost our cards, were living on our last few pesos and waiting for replacements. For a while, they did not want to accept this and said we would have to take our chances at the station, where, they made clear, things would be much more difficult.

I played dumb and willing, but unable, to help. Jamie said we should offer them the 2 beers we had left and a bag of chips. Embarassed at such a silly idea but willing to try it, I relayed this offer, adding that we could all go out for some beers like friends. They did not jump at the suggestion but did not scoff either, and the mood loosened up a bit. Ultimately, I said I would give them every last peso in my pockets, which came to around $10 USD, but that we could not offer anything else. They finally accepted, to my extreme relief. Once we had agreed, they frisked us both, obviously checking for more money. One officer found my wallet but did not notice my credit card.

True to my word, I gave them every last coin in my pockets, and Jamie threw in a few Jalapeno chips for good measure. They became friendly and smiling, and one officer even put his hand on my shoulder and told me how to get back to the our hostel. My elation at getting off so easy far outweighed the anger and frustration at having been outright robbed at gunpoint.

Our story is amazingly common. The very next night a friend of ours lost almost $40 to the police after they caught him peeing behind a tree. Another traveler reported that a friend of his was held at gunpoint until he agreed to go to an ATM for hundreds of dollars. I will concede that these situations usually are borne out of dumb decisions by travelers. Nevertheless, the impunity with which these armed robbers operate is truly unsettling and has no place in such a great country. Afterwards, I found myself worried about jaywalking, not wanting to give the swarming patrols any further excuse.

Despite the fact that, as many will point out, a public drinking ticket in the US would probably be more expensive, I'll take the rule of law any day.

Travelogue: Next Steps

2009-03-30T18:33:00.000-07:00

Tommorrow I will fly to Santiago, Chile, spend a couple days there, and then head to the far South to volunteer on a "farm" in Patagonia. I signed up for an organization called "WWOOF" (Willing Workers on Organic Farms, google it) and found the listing below. Sounds amazing, and my hope, pending confirmation that Thomas is not insane, is to spend 6-8 weeks there before exploring more of South America. I think it will be an amazing opportunity to see a beautiful part of the world up close, to get my hands dirty, learn some new skills, and, importantly, live for a time without spending money.

Apologies for the late notice, but due to the enigmatic scheduling and pricing of flights, I will be spending 7 hours in Miami tomorrow. If anyone is dying to see me, we can meet on South Beach for a mojito.

See below for a more thorough explanation of what the heck is going on in Chile. After reading you will know as much as I do.

-------

My name is Thomas, I am from Holland , I travelled around the world several times and came across this natural paradise in Patagonia , Chile. I fell in love with the valley , the waterfalls , the untouched jungle (Cold Jungle) I am active and enterprising , I need help building log cabins , perfecting my dams, turbines and windgenerators to make electricity. I also bought materials to build a katamaran and heaps of tools for all kinds of mad scientist projects. I own this beach right on the estuary. Plenty of fishing seafood , swimming kayaking and more. Dolphins and curious sealions often come spy on us strange human beings . I heard a ferocious roar of a puma (american lyon) a while ago. All I need is a few helping hands as the challenges of survival in pure unadulterated nature are many . Lodging in tent, meals rich in fishs. Come see . Adelante. Bienvenidos! But I need wwoofers remain 3 weeks or more.

Total freedom to choose from...to participate in whatever projects you enjoy :

1) exploring & clearing the jungle ( small scale ) using machetes
2) making a path to the lake ( 6 kms )
3 building a bridge over the stream/small river involving some cement work
4) farming and 2 greenhouses .
5) making repairs .......tents or structure or broken tools
6) some work involving chainsaws
7) setting up tents and alternative accommodations
8) building log cabins
9) cutting, drying and storing firewood ( using only dead trees )
10) cooking with woodstove , baking whole wheat bread or raisin bread
11) installing copper tubes into firewood systems in order to make hot water for
boiling baths and hot showers ( involves bending and soldering copper tubes )
12) washing your own dishes and /or taking turns ......I am not the maid
13) fishing witha net and collecting buckets of seafood ( mussels ) for meals
14) Smoking and preserving seafood which I give to friends , no charge .
15) Sailing a catamaran to go into town for shopping and picking up volunteers
16) Enlarging present DAM/reservoir to store 20 times more water
( Water is delicious and safe and used for drinking , cooking and generating electricity )
17) Some small scale electric projects ( mostly lighting and music )
18) taking care of livestock ( limited to 3 goats at present ) the challenge here is to keep them safe from PUMA
19) Learning , participating and actually helping in various projects .
20) Taking photos of projects and activities ...in order to improve my very amateur
internet site and helping me prepare the way for ADVENTURE TOURISM
some time in the future

Tikal to Cancun

2009-03-29T17:44:00.000-07:00

We arrived in the small town of Flores, Guatemala, late at night after more than 16 hours of travel. We couldn't make much of the town in the dark and were unsure of whhat it had to offer, so we took the first hotel we saw, right outside the bus station. It was by far the worst place I have ever slept. Dingy concrete rooms surrounded a dingier courtyard. Shared bathrooms were dark and disgusting, and the place generally smelled of waste and refuse. On top of that, multiple cockroaches were crawling around our room when we entered. I pulled the bed out from the wall and tried to sleep tight in my sleeping bag until the suffocating heat forced me to brave the bugs and sleep coverless.

The next day we took a trip to the mind-blowing ruins at Tikal. Truly in the jungle, the park encompasses 100 square kilometers, only 20% of which has been excavated/restored. Street signs on the road that enters the park (the kind that would show deer in the US) warn of jaguars and snakes crossing. The site is a tourist mecca, so it is high-priced and relatively crowded, but for good reason. Towering structures of stone rise out of the trees, looking down upon amazingly well-organized plazas. We climbed several of the larger temples and were rewarded with vistas of endless jungle, all the way to the horizon, as well as the surrounding structures. It was impossible to resist closing my eyes and imagining the plazas teeming with Mayans involved in some sacrificial ceremony (no historical knowledge here, so I channeled images from Mel Gibson's Apocalypto)

We had to spend another night in Flores, but found a cheaper and better hotel in the daylight. It would have been a good deal regardless, but the attendant actually gave me the wrong key so we ended up with a large room that had four beds and a private bathroom for about $4 each. We ate our second meal in two days at the same friendly roadside eatery and chatted with the young daughter as she tried to practice english and get Jamie to give her his passport. The next day we awoke at 4:45 AM for a bus to Chetumal, on the border of Mexico and Belize. We spent all of 5 hours in Belize, but had to pay $15 for the privilege. The day was grueling, 19 hours of travel to Cancun.

Crossing the border into Mexico felt like going home for Jamie and I. Strangely, after having been through a few Central American countries, we realized how developed Mexico is and how comfortable we had become with it. Tacos, beer, accomodations...it all seems easier and cheaper in Mexico. Mexico has by far been the biggest surprise of my trip. Having lived so close to it for so long, I am shocked at my misstep of not having explored it sooner. One could easily spend several years exploring and not see it all.

Having said that, we all know Cancun is a different animal. I was here seven years ago for a high-school graduation trip and did the hotel all-inclusive thing. Now, I'm staying in a $8 per night hostel and eating on $3 per day. In that context I am seeing that Cancun was and is a true Mexican city, even if it does have several miles of coastline that might as well be The United States. As the saying goes, "When in Rome...," so we ponied up for a Spring Break bar crawl on our first night. Like watching Snakes on a Plane, you need to be able to suspend disbelief if you are going to enjoy it. We felt our age, however, as we laughed into our beers upon hearing the emcee scream "showing me your fucking beers and say USA!" That pretty much summed up the evening.

I'll spend a couple more nights here and head on to phase two of my trip: Chile.

Perquin, El Salvador to Bay Islands, Honduras

2009-03-29T14:19:00.000-07:00

We caught a bus on the side of the road headed for Honduras. The dusty, dusty--can't emphasize that enough--dusty, rocky road winds up, down, and around the border mountains. People had to cover their faces with scarves and cloths to block out the dust and babies were buried beneath blankets by protective mothers. The border was not much of a border--no gates or demarcation, no stamps. There wasn't even a representative from El Salvador present. Our border crossings have been hit or miss--sometimes you pay unoffical "fees," sometimes you walk right through. Here, the Honduran official that boarded our bus tried to hassle me a bit, but thankfully let it go and sent us along with a smile.

A couple hours later we arrived in Marcala, a small town surrounded by fragrant coffee plantations and beautiful countryside, but itself a dusty, dirty, and dodgy place. We just spent the night and headed out in the morning for La Ceiba, on the Caribbean coast. A two hour bus ride to the side of a highway, a half-hour bus to a larger town, a three hour bus to the large city of San Pedro Sula, and a four hour bus to La Ceiba got us there by evening.

In a relatively short time we had been transported to quite a different world. Coastal Honduras, in contrast to inland Central America, is heavily influenced by its Afro-Caribbean population. There is a definitive "island" vibe in the food, music, and people. The town is known for its parties, so we drank cheap rum on the beach and went out to a local disco which, despite the crumminess of the town, was fancy enough for any European city.

The next morning we boarded a ferry for Utila, the cheapest of the three famous "Bay Islands." After an hour and a half struggling not to vomit, we arrived to a strikingly "white" bunch of salesmen, all pushing various dive courses and hotels. The island has developed a world-famous diving industry, and many travelers and expats end up living in Utila owning, operating, or working in dive shops, restaurants, hotels, and related businesses. Almost all travelers are in Utila to get certified, so we baffled with our plan to just "chill out."

I'm honestly not very clear on the island's history, but English is the official language and the local population seems to be a mixture of white colonial descendents and afro-caribbean descendents of slaves. The owner of our hotel lamented that they are governed by Honduras and made clear that her daughter "don't speak no Spanish."

The ferry to get to the islands was quite expensive ($23 each way), so we lived a spartan existence in our time there, abstaining from alcohol and cooking our own rice and beans with sparing amounts of vegetables.

We spent a lot of time at the beach. One day we rented a kayak and paddled out to Water Cay, a deserted island with picture-perfect beaches, palm trees, and turquoise water. We ended up missing Water Cay and landing on another small island that had a deserted house on it. Nobody else showed up and we had the place to ourself, save for the pelicans. We collected coconuts, paddled out to deep waters for a swim, and just lazed around in complete serenity. The coconuts proved difficult to open, but we perfected a technique that involved a 50lb piece of coral and were savoring the milk and meat in no time.

After a few lazy days we embarked on a grueling day of travel--16 hours of ferries, taxis, buses, and minibuses to get to Flores, Guatemala, jumping off point for tours to the epic Mayan ruins of Tikal.

Travelogue: San Salvador to Perquin

2009-03-28T10:59:00.000-07:00

We left San Salvador after four nights and headed for the small town of Alegria. This tiny mountain town (population 5000 or so) is postcard charming, perched on a green mountaintop and surrounded by beautiful flowers. Our simple hotel, a converted home, was right on the plaza and came complete with old folks sitting on wooden chairs around the garden, chatting the days away. The room we stayed in came with a large poster of Jesus' face. On arrival we walked to nearby Laguna Alegria-- a cold, sulfurous lake in the crater of a dormant volcano. We celebrated St. Patrick's Day with a few cold Pilsner beers.

After a night in Alegria we took four chicken buses and a pick-up truck east and north to the small town of Perquin, in the mountain jungle near the border with Honduras. This area was an intense battle ground during the Civil War, and our hope was to take a guided tour with a local ex-guerrilla guide. Our "hotel" was a converted wood mill, simple and super cheap ($6). One of the workers there told me times have been really tough over the past year, with tourism markedly down. He actually asked us to pay part of our stay in advance because they had no cash to buy soap, toilet paper, and food for the guests.

We ate all of our meals during our 2.5 day stay at a local eatery we found on the first night. A lovely woman cooked in the open kitchen while her husband sat watching tv and drinking beer in the dining room--he did help bring out the plates and collect our bill. She cooked up big plates of rice, salad, steak, tortillas, and beans for about $2--we really enjoyed our meals and her friendliness and, on the day we left, hugs and kisses felt natural.

On our first day we toured the local museum, filled with artifacts related to the war. It has the original radio equipment used by the guerrillas to send clandestine broadcasts to troops and supporters, 500lb American bombs dropped on the town, and bullet-proof cars donated by Mexico and France for guerrilla leaders. Evidence of the fighting is obvious 17 years later: The area is littered with tunnels, trenches, and bomb craters that would swallow a minivan.

A former combatant, Ephrain, showed us around and shared his story: He joined the guerrillas when he was 15, two years after his father and brother, non-combatants, were murdered by the military government. He took a grenade blast on one side of his body and now has limited mobility in his right arm and leg and metal plates in his head. When asked whether he believes war is useful, he said, "it was a bad thing, but we had no other choice."

While in Perquin we took an emotional trip with another ex-combatant to Mozote, where, in 1981, almost 1000 villagers were killed by soldiers attempting to eradicate the guerrilla threat. Oscar, with war scars of his own--his leg and arm were shattered by bullets--answered our questions patiently and told of his time in the war. His eyes spoke of sadness, on the verge of welling with tears as he told of his experiences: finding the bodies of decapitated children burning in Mozote, helplessly watching friends die as helicopters rained fire upon his platoon, and feeling that fighting was the only way out of a repressive situation. The one lighter moment of the trip came on the banks of the pristine Rio Sapo. We spent an hour diving and swimming in a pool set between cascades and boulders, thrilled at having found a clean body of water in Central America. We left Oscar with hearty handshakes and lingering smiles, feeling unable to truly express our gratitude at his having shared such a difficult and emotional experience.

That afternoon Jamie and I said goodbye to Ciaran as he headed for Nicaragua and we for Honduras.

Update

2009-03-28T00:28:00.000-07:00

For the few avid "Crisis" followers: I am still alive and well, but have been hopping quickly between dusty cities on dusty buses with spotty access to internet; I am back in Mexico, which in terms of development now feels like home, and will be filling in the blanks soon.

In the meantime, a reflection from my trip to El Salvador:

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/jon-santiago/revisiting-american-invol_b_177841.html

Best,
JS

Travelogue: Antigua, Guatemala to San Salvador

2009-03-18T19:45:00.000-07:00

We left Antigua on a chicken bus bound for Guatemala City--notorious, even amongst hardy travelers, as a dirty and dangerous place. We hopped off the bus somewhere along a busy highway, as we had been advised, and hopped into a taxi driven by Milton, a former computational math teacher turned taxista. Despite his best efforts to screw us we had been advised of the going rates and was able to get what we wanted. Turned out to be a great, thoughtful guy and of course gave me his number in case I ever "dropped by" Guatemala City in the future. He dropped us off on a dirty chaotic street in front of a dirty chaotic hole-in-the-wall bus station. Inside we paid for tickets to El Salvador and dropped our bags to go exploring for a bit. Central Guatemala City is crazy. Stores, food carts, people, trash, animals, trucks, smog...all heaped right on top of each other like a living, moving collage. People were absolutely gobsmacked, to steal a term from my Irish mate Ciaran, that three "gringos" were just walking around, eating and scoping things out.

The bus to El Salvador was great. The border crossing was easy: quickly stamped with no fees and no trouble. Hordes of food vendors boarded on the Salvadoran side and we got our first taste of pupusas, the national dish. We made friends with people around us including a heavy-machine operator just returned from an 8-month trip to Australia and a freshly graduated doctor from San Salvador. We had intended to stop at a small town just across the border, famous for its weekend food fair, but were convinced by the young doctor, Gonzalo, to continue on to San Salvador.

We found, to our complete surprise, that we had inadvertently stumbled upon a truly historic moment. The presidential election was to be held two days away, on Sunday, and it was widely expected that the leftist FMLN would end their rivals' 20+ year reign. The sale of alcohol was to be cut off nationwide from midnight Friday to midnight Monday, so early Friday was supposed to be a big party and Gonzalo offered to take us out.

The machine operator, Carlos, rocked my world with his story. He had been in Australia visiting his brother and sister, who had emigrated there during El Salvador's 12-year civil war. Apparently hundreds of thousands of Salvadorans ended up in Australia as part of a refugee program (also, 2 million out of 7 million Salvadorans live in the U.S.) He himself had fled earlier to Mexico City--he was in danger, as were many, because he refused to pick sides in the war. For a period of several years, he had no contact with his family and they thought he had been "disappeared" by the government. After a glorious reunion and his trip to Australia, he is now trying to relocate there with his own family.

Our first night in the city, Jaime and Ciaran were attacked a couple blocks from our hostel. Upon realizing the attackers did not have knives, they fought them off and escaped more or less unharmed, but shaken up.

As far as tourist attractions go, there is not much to see in San Salvador, but what we saw was remarkable. We saw a city that, despite its reputation as dangerous and worth missing, embodied a friendliness that boggled the mind. In conversation we told locals about the mugging and they invariable apologized. I think, despite the inexcusable violence, we all recognized that the attack was one of opportunity--two drunk guys, clearly not familiar with the place, walked by three drunk guys who "owned" the place--and did not represent a pattern of violence endemic to the city or country. At every turn we met people fully willing to welcome us into their daily lives, whether it be on the street, in the market, or at the celebration of an historic victory. More to come on the elections, but this section of the travelogue ends here.

Photos: Election Night

2009-03-17T08:47:00.001-07:00

Photos: Election Day in San Salvador

2009-03-16T09:45:00.000-07:00

People: Klaus

2009-03-15T19:16:00.000-07:00

Klaus has never had a mobile phone, owned a home, kept a steady job, attended college, or voted. When he was 19 he left the U.S. and has been traveling ever since. He is now 35. For the past twelve years, he has lived part of the year in a small town in Guatemala, part of the year with a family in India, and the rest at his parents' homes in Hawaii and Seattle. His father divorced and remarried with a divorcee, who had a fortune estimated at $60 to $70 million dollars as a result of her previous husband's investments in Costco. As part of a tax-sheltering strategy, she and Klaus's father gifted Klaus a substantial amount of bonds, and he now lives off the interest. He supplements his income by finding odd jobs wherever he lives. The day I met him he was washing windows at a new restaurant being opened by a friend of his. His circle of friends is some mixture of wandering expats and locals. He claims to have once sat down for a coca-cola with a 15-year old boy in El Salvador who, having been sufficiently convinced by Klaus that Klaus wasn't worth it, aborted an armed robbery.

Travelogue: San Pedro, Guatemala to Antigua, Guatemala

2009-03-15T14:52:00.000-07:00

San Pedro La Laguna, situated on the shore of Lake Atitlan and at the foot of a now-dormant volcano, looked charming as we approached the dock in our water taxi. Closer inspection revealed a disturbing reality.

The town is a hippie backpacker mecca, with dozens of cheap hotels, funky restaurants, expat bars, and a surprisingly well-developed spanish-lesson industry. Everyone doing the Central America route says to go there, that it's a great place to chill. Unfortunately, the profusion of travelers has led to a profusion of little businesses (restaurants and hotels) and a profusion of drunk young men who solicit your patronage with mind-blowing persistence. Add to that the violence: three days prior a local man was shot in the head three times on the main street in a drug-related killing (we saw the blood and bullet holes), and one year earlier a young Czech woman was raped and beaten to a pulp by a group of local thugs. Despite the infrequent and isolated nature of the violence, I myself could not reconcile the town's placid reputation with such mindless brutality.

Many of the town's expat residents have lived there for several years and love the place. Some own bars or restaurants, some just come for a few months out of each year to chill. My impression was that they do a lot of drugs and generally try to avoid reality. Two told me the identity of the criminals is widely known, but nothing has been done, and had a "what can you do?" attitude about it.

The street harassment, the drug-running families, the drug-using expats, surprisingly expensive food, and a general unease led us to leave less than 24 hours after arriving, to near-universal exclamations of "already?!"

Guatemalan local buses are known as "chicken buses" because people can and will board with animals. They are old Blue Bird school buses, colorfully painted, adorned with crucifixes, and christened with names such as Melissa, Gonzalez, and Santa Rita. We took three of them--total time of around 4 hours, cost of $5.50--to get to the town of Antigua. Vendors board during the frequent stops to sell food, drinks, and light-up pens, while others of various maladies and ill-fortunes make flowery pleas for charity. A young boy hangs out the door, pulling the ear-splitting horn and screaming out the bus's destination in an effort to fill the bus. When passengers have large bags he jumps on top, ties them down, and climbs back in through the back door, all while the bus is moving. Everyone stared in awe at the pale-skinned travelers with the fancy bags, but for every scowl there were 5 or 6 smiles, and we got off each bus having made a few quick friends.

We arrived in Antigua and began preparations for a trip up the Pacaya volcano.

People: Javier

2009-03-13T07:43:00.000-07:00

Javier is from Mexico City, but told me he knows more of the U.S. than he does of Mexico. He arrived to the U.S. several years ago with no job, no family--only a few contacts through friends. He found work apprenticing with a family friend in woodworking. He now has his own business, based in Maryland. He has a driver's license--he showed it to me--and owns a car with Maryland plates. He pays taxes. He is an illegal immigrant.

Every time he wants to enter the U.S. he must do so covertly, dangerously, and expensively ($2000) with the help of a "coyote." The trip includes a twelve mile walk through mountains which, looking at a terrain map of the border, leads me to believe it's somewhere along the barren expanse of West Texas. When I met him he was driving his Chevy pick-up to Honduras to pick up his fiancee, whom he met in Maryland. They will have a civil ceremony in Honduras, a festive wedding in Mexico, and then pass once again into the U.S. where they hope to live.

Despite his recent life having been centered in the U.S., Javier maintains a transnational lifestyle, owning a car, a house, and a taxi in Mexico City. When I asked him about the downturn in building in the U.S., he said that if things look too rough there, he'll drive the taxi, with which he can earn around $200 per week, but he would rather be in the States. He is 28 years old.

Travelogue: San Cristobal, Mexico to San Pedro, Guatemala

2009-03-12T21:30:00.000-07:00

I left San Cristobal with two new traveling buddies, Jaime and Ciaran (pronounced Kai-Ron). Jaime is an Australian pilot mucking around for a bit in Latin America and Ciaran is an Irish unemployed young-professional like myself, also just wandering a bit.

We decided to ignore the direct-route buses and cobble together our own way to Guatemala in the interest of cheapness and adventure. A few evenings ago we took a bus to the border town of Ciudad Cuauhtemoc, arriving around 9:00 pm to find a town that consists of a few blocks of homes, buildings dedicated to Mexican customs/immigration, and a dingy restaurant/trucker motel/bus station. We inquired about crossing the 4km no man's land to the Guatemalan border town, where we had heard there is a small guesthouse, and were told in no uncertain terms that we shouldn't go anywhere unless we wanted to be robbed. The Guatemalan border and Guatemala itself is notorious for being extremely dangerous at night, so we decided for safety's sake to spend the night and cross in the morning.

The "motel" consisted of a few rooms that were all more or less connected. We took one with two beds because it had a door that closed and decided to try and drum up some food and beers to calm us down. We skittered across the street nervously towards the lights of a taco cart and spoke with the nice family operating it. We didn't have trouble here or when we bought beers, but a certain sense of lawlessness pervaded the dark town and we were definitely on edge and on guard. We were sitting out on a balcony drinking beers when we saw one of the girls from the hotel open our door with a man in tow. The three of us jumped up and ran in to see what was happening, and, once cleared up, found that she was just showing him a room and made a mistake. Still nervous, we watched the man from the balcony as he wandered up the street and wandered back drinking a beer. He walked up the stairs with a big suitcase and, feeling a little more confident, I decided to feel him out by starting a conversation about his Texas Longhorns hat.

Turns out he's from Mexico City and driving to pick up his fiancee in Honduras so they can get married. We get to chatting and, after seeing that our destination is on his way, he offers to give us a ride. The next morning we rose about 6:30 AM, but soon found out that, because I had not received a receipt of payment for my Mexican entry fee, I would have to pay it again, and could not do so until 8 AM. We had breakfast at a local comedor (brick hovel eatery, mice scurrying on the floor) until 8, took care of my business and proceeded on our way. We drove through the no man's land, where people actually live, and arrived at the Guatemalan crossing, which, despite the early hour, was quite chaotic with money changers, vendors, officials, and non-officials clamoring about the dusty streets. The border was nothing more than a crude boom-gate and it did not seem to me that anyone would have cared if we had just walked across. Paid, stamped, and cleared, we headed into Guatemala. Guatemala's roads, while paved, are rare. From this border town to the Capital there is only one main road, so everything from tuk-tuks to semi's to motorbikes to sports cars uses it. Our new friend Javier flew, weaving around the slow truckers, sometimes blindly passing on curves, but always seeming more or less in control. He spoke a little bit of English so we all were able to chat along the way and found him to be a really nice, enjoyable guy with an interesting story (to come). The only bad part was when we ran over a stray dog that, confused by the horns, ran right into our left-front tire. I cringed, but Javier didn't flinch.

We arrived at the town of Panajachel, on the shores of beautiful Lake Atitlan, in the early afternoon and bid farewell to Javier before boarding a water-taxi to the supposedly delightful hamlet of San Pedro La Laguna.

Travelogue: Mexico D.F. to San Cristobal, Mexico

2009-03-10T17:15:00.000-07:00

I left Mexico City on the 3rd and headed by bus to Puebla, 2.5 hours to the southeast of the capital. Although it is Mexico's fourth-largest city, Puebla has a lovely historic neighborhood (it was one of the most important colonial cities) and a tranquil town plaza, complete with free WiFi. I spent one night and a day exploring the city before boarding a night bus to San Cristobal de las Casas.

Situated in lush green highlands in the state of Chiapas, the city is rich in charm, culture, and history. While tour operators and backpackers are plentiful, it provides some great opportunities to just mingle with the locals. Although taken under siege by Zapatista rebels in 1994, San Cristobal is now plenty safe to allow exploration beyond the tourist centers.

The municipal market was my favorite part of the city, a labyrinth of stalls selling everything from carrots to toe-nail clippers. I marveled at the endless rows of tomatoes, avocados, beets, potatoes, onions, mangos, oranges, bananas, chili peppers, etc. All neatly arranged in little pyramids, the produce was tantalizing for its price and freshness. I bought enough tomatoes, avocados, beets, carrots, onions, ginger, garlic, jalapeno, and chorizo (sausage) for a couple days meals and had spent a little more than $3. Some butter for cooking and a 1.2L bottle of beer took me almost to $5. Had I wanted to, I could have also procured any single part of a chicken (including the head), huge dried fish, dried or fresh shrimp, a slab of pork, a live chicken, a pirated DVD copy of the Dark Knight, and some underwear.

My five days in San Cristobal were pretty lazy, filled with reading, writing, aimless walks along cobblestone streets, trips to the market, and sociable cooking sessions at the hostel. I did manage to visit a museum of Mayan indigenous medicine and take a day trip to the gorgeous Canon del Sumidero, but the lack of a blockbuster tourist attraction keeps the city calm and is, in my opinion, essential to its charm.

From here it was on to Guatemala, but that's another story.

People: Young Subway Singer

2009-03-09T11:48:00.000-07:00

Panhandling by young children is quite prevalent in Mexican cities. While many simply stick out a dirty hand and plead with their eyes, some get more creative. One such youngster gave us a great show and a few touching moments in a Mexico City subway car. He had unkempt hair, dirty face, dirty fleece sweater a few sizes too big. Something about him, perhaps his tired eyes or his solemn confidence, seemed mature and I initially mistook him for a dwarf. He sang a song that was equal parts mourning and hopeful. The words I couldn't catch, but the tune still floats in my head. His performance was interactive, and it was then that I realized he was just a child, not even a teenager. He stopped in front passengers and took their heads in his hands, pressing his forehead to theirs and rubbing their hair. He would tightly hug standing passengers, or, as happened to my Scottish friends, would rub their stomachs. People generally just laughed, and while a few gently nudged him away, people were tolerant of his charade and certainly not unkind. Stoic, unmoving faces melted into smiles, silent strangers began to chatter curiously, and the car was filled with a sense of lightness and warmth. He seemed like a little medicine man, chanting and delivering goodwill throughout, clearly wanting money but refusing donations until he had visited every last passenger. When I gave him a few coins, he touched me gently and said, "gracias, abuelito." Abuelito is the diminutive form of the word for "grandfather." I laughed and smiled for some time after, as did everyone else.

Crisis Update: Mexican Impressions

2009-03-09T11:20:00.000-07:00

During my time here, I have tried to get a sense for how the global economic crisis is affecting Mexicans. The anecdotal evidence I have cobbled together does not lend itself to dramatic nor universal conclusions, but it nevertheless adds perspective to my understanding of this still unfolding drama. The overwhelming reaction to my prodding about life in Mexico during this period has been one of indifference. Most people I've asked, from a taxi driver in Mexico City to a vendor at Teotihuacan to a workless peasant in San Cristobal de Las Casas, have asserted that things are not all that different now than before. The one exception has been a consistent sense of shock and fear regarding the rapid plunge in the value of the peso versus the dollar. A gynecologist from Ciudad Juarez, a city smack on top of the U.S. border, recounted with dismay his realization that his significant peso-denominated savings have plunged in dollar value by almost 35% since September (not to mention market losses). He pointed out, as have others here, that it is a cruel and frustrating twist of fate (or financial markets) that the dollar has surged despite the crisis being centered in the U.S.

The vendor at Teotihuacan pointed out that things are not all bad, however. He claimed that the surging dollar has increased, if only slightly, American travel to Mexican tourist sites as well as the amount of money they spend on souvenirs. The taxi driver in Mexico City claimed that things are business as usual. "I know this is a business that has ups and downs," he said matter-of-factly. Likewise, the unemployed peasant in San Cristobal told me that things are more or less normal for simple laborers like him. "If you want to get work you can get work," he told me. He did say that wages for labor have been decreasing slightly, but when pressed to cite signs of more deeply-rooted trouble he could not.

Some say that when the U.S. sneezes, Mexico catches a cold. With the U.S. vomiting and in cold sweats, you might think Mexico would have already perished. A general sentiment has been that the worst is yet to come. It should also be noted that I'm not reading the newspapers here or watching the news as I was in the States, and so am not inundated with crisis coverage. Nor have I interacted much with the "professional" corps, which is likely reeling from the increasing pressure on global corporate earnings. In the conversations I have had, however, a sense of urgency or exceptional concern hasn't revealed itself save for worry about the peso.

My take-aways are as follows: a)The consequences of the crisis are still radiating outwards from the centers of commerce and finance, and while seemingly at doomsday proportions in the States, they have not fully manifested themselves elsewhere. b) many basic laborers have lived for years in difficult circumstances; as such the change in fortunes may not be as salient for them. Further, the indifference of Mexicans with whom I've spoken, largely of the lower-classes, leads me to wonder if this crisis, here and elsewhere, might be more accurately described as one of the upper and middle classes, at least for now. I am convinced that much of the media attention in the U.S. is due to the fact that so many previously well-off folks are suffering such huge losses in personal wealth and security--the harder they fall, the better the story. (Would welcome any thoughts on that interpretation. I certainly do not have a good sense of lower-class life in the U.S.)

Latest sign that the Crisis does indeed speak Spanish, and has followed me here to maake life difficult: I have not been able to sublet my room in NY after 8 weeks of trying, and after having lowered the rent by $300. It's in the West Village for christ's sake. If that's not a sign of the apocalypse, I don't know what is. Cross your fingers for me.

Sunday at the Plaza de Toros

2009-03-06T10:07:00.000-08:00

A Sunday afternoon tradition from November to March, largely of the upper class but with cheap-seat diehards as well, Mexico City bullfights take place in the Plaza de Toros. A local offered to take me and some Scottish pals and I jumped at the chance. I had to see for myself.

The fights progress in a calculated manner, with carefully orchestrated steps and stages. Initially the helpers cajole the bull into running around the ring a few times. Then a fighter or his "picadores" (stabbers) will insert various knives in the bull's hunchback. Some have long ribbons or flags attached and, if well placed, will stand up in the immediate center of the bull's back. Once weakened, the bull is run through various movements by the figther, the most popular of which is the "pass," in which the bull chases the cape, rushing past the fighter and then quickly turning to face him again. Each pass draws the shout of "Ole!" from the crowd.

Towards the end, with the bull bleeding extensively and more deliberate in its movements, the fighter calls for his sword. His job then is to manipulate the bull such that it stands with its front feet parallel. This way the sword will pass directly through the bull's lungs. A well-placed thrust drives the sword in to its hilt, a poor one sends it bouncing to the ground. After a good sword thrust, the fighter stands back triumphantly while the helpers make the bull jump tire itself until it collapses. If the fighter cannot kill the bull, a specialist, who my Scottish companions referred to as the "wee-knife man," bounces into the ring with a small knife and drives it directly into the bull's brain.

We saw seven fights, seven kills, seven bulls dragged out of the arena by a train of horses. Only one figher, the first, received an award from the judge (one bull's ear, out of a possible two ears + one tail). The others had to call in the wee-knife man and were booed loudly. The bad kills were extremely hard to watch, as the bull bled profusely and endured much before dying. The last one was the worst, with the wee-knife man, usually the last resort and a quick killer, needing several stabs to fell the writhing bull. In disgust the crowd rained debris upon the arena and booed as they exited.

Drinking is a tradition in the stadium, and usually done from a leather wine-skin, or "boot." Being able to direct a steady stream into your mouth and not onto your shirt is a necessary skill, and frequent contests were held to see who could chug for the longest count. I set an interim record of 43 seconds before being soundly beaten by a local's 60 second gem. An older man with few teeth offered me a chance to redeem myself with a flask full of cheap tequila, but I declined to a chorus of boos. Beer is also served in large glasses by a "beer man" who, lest you forget he is there, constantly shouts out in slang, "Cheves! Cheves! Cheves!" At one point he actually chanted that the crowd was watching too much and drinking too little. Chants are common and rarely related to the match. One old man riled up the crowd by drunkenly slurring a ditty that went something like this: "I'm so happy happy happy, because my wife is not here."

The anti-bullfight crowd will be happy to know that the tradition seems to be on its way out. I asked several people in the city for information regarding the fights, and they either did not know or did not want to speak of it. The stadium, the world's largest for bullfighting, holds 41,000, but on this Sunday you would have been hard-pressed to find 5,000 in attendance. The lack of attendance was all the more surprising when you consider that it was late in the season and a rejoneador--fights on horseback and in a different style--was making a rare appearance. While the more expensive, lower-deck seats were filled with white shirts and fancy cowboy hats, the upper-deck was full of soccer-jerseys. This crowd was more interested in the party than in the fights. A group we befriended was actually a club that supports the Pumas football team and had only come because there was no match that day. Even our host, who used to attend with his father, had not been in years.

I was in awe throughout the show. In awe of the festivity, blissfully incongruous with the premise of the event. In awe of the ring, a circle of caramel-colored sand marked by clean white lines, watered and swept by a sand-zamboni after each kill. In awe of the choreography of the kill, despite the fact that on this day the execution (apologies) was poor. Admittedly, I was swept in by it all and had a great time, cringing as I did throughout and guilty as I may have felt afterwards. What sits with me now is the blood, the realization that it is not a universally "Mexican" pastime, and the fact that despite attempts to be artful and sporting it only achieves cruelty.

Great Things: Sundays and Powerful Coins

2009-03-05T19:44:00.001-08:00

Sunday mornings in God-fearing cities are great. The biggest city in the world is quiet enough on Sunday morning that you can sit in the central plaza and hear yourself think.

Coins with buying power are great. My favorite coin is still the British 2 pound coin, but Mexico brings the heat with its heavy-weight 10 peso coin. When 3 pesos gets you a taco, thats a coin you're happy to find in the bottom of your pocket.

Cuisine: tacos, worms, mole

2009-03-05T18:09:00.001-08:00

A sampling of my sampling thus far:

Hole in the Wall/Street Cart Tacos -- I've had at least one every day in Mexico. eat them standing up or at a narrow bar in front of the kitchen/cart. small but thick tortillas filled with a spoonfull of chicken, pork, beef, chicharron, shrimp, etc. usually there is a vegetable mix you can shovel into them, plus red and green salsas. messy but great. $1.50 will get you fat and happy.

Gosanos de Maguey -- a delicacy I was told. the same worms you find in good tequila, fried up crispy and served with tortillas, guacamole, and salsas.

Mole -- Mexico's special sauce, usually served on top of a piece of meat, but can be served separate with tortillas and other fixins for make-your-own tacos. My only fancy dinner in Mexico City included the "Festival of Mole," which was a sampling of 12 different types of Mole. The best, and most famous, was mole poblano, a dark brown sauce incorporating chocolate and chili flavors.

Elotes -- a street staple. Corn on the cob, slathered in mayonnaise, sprinkled with cheese, salt and pepper, chili powder, and salsa. I could take one out in about 60 seconds.

Sopes -- crispy tortilla topped with refried beans, meat, salsa, and sprinkled cheese

Chilaquiles -- like sopes but the tortillas are broken up and drenched in a whole plat of salsa.

Mescal -- at least as I tried it, the nasty moonshine cousin of tequila. comes in a bottle that looks like vegetable oil. only muted with lots of soda, delivers a mean hangover.

Noche Buena -- brewed by the makers of the Sol/Tecate family, and only sold in Mexico for a week or so around the Christmas holidays. Served free to visitors at the Cerveceria Cuahtemoc.

Travelogue: Monterrey to Mexico, D.F.

2009-03-05T16:13:00.000-08:00

Monterrey was a wonderful first stop. The hostel was pretty small so I easily got acquainted with a few really nice travelers, some of which I saw again in Mexico City and one of which I'm going to continue traveling with for a while. I was also able to ease into my Spanish with the owner and his family as well as some Spanish speaking travelers from Mexico and Argentina. Monterrey is cosmopolitan, so while we ate tacos on the street ($1 to stuff your face), we also went to a mall, a great modern art museum and a fancy rooftop bar/club. While I really enjoyed the company and the hospitality, there isn't a whole lot to do for tourists so I needed to move on after a few days.

The trip to Mexico City was 12 hours on an overnight bus. I've been trying to do that where I can because it saves a night in a hostel, and new cities are always less intimidating in the morning than at night. The only incoveniences are Spanish dubbed movies blasting well into the night and the Air-Con overkill. Massive Mexico City was, as I had hoped, extremely peaceful on Friday morning when I arrived, and I easily found my way to the city center via subway. At my last stop I exited on to the Zocalo, the 2nd largest plaza in the world, and gasped aloud at the breathtakingly huge Mexican flag waving high above its center.

The city gets a bad rap from many travelers, but I was pleasantly surprised and could easily have spent a few weeks exploring. I saw blue skies every day (only slightly tinted by smog), found the congestion (population) to be manageable and the people to be extremely friendly and helpful. It has beauty of both modern and antique vintage, and wants for nothing in the way of art, cuisine, history, sports, nightlife, or architecture. More on some particular experiences later.

JS

Travelogue: San Antonio to Monterrey

2009-03-04T16:11:00.000-08:00

I caught a bus in Texas from San Antonio to Monterrey, MX. The bus company I used, Turimex, is part of a Mexican conglomerate and only operates a website in Spanish. Likewise, Spanish is the primary language at the station and, while I'm certain the employees know a bit of English, they certainly did not offer to use it. Thus my immersion actually began on the US side of the border. It was also a reminder that while Spanish slowly becomes our second language nationwide, in pockets of Texas and other states it has been firmly established as number one for quite some time.

The station and, later, the bus, was abuzz with chatter and laughter as if everyone knew everyone else. My backpack drew plenty of stares and I was not included in the familial revelry, but I was content to just sit and enjoy the atmosphere. On the bus I chatted briefly with the older woman next to me, who had arrived with three large suitcases, each heavier than she. She told me her trip was for business rather than pleasure. She makes three trips to the US annually, during which she stays with a friend and buys gifts, toys, and clothing to sell in Monterrey. Taking notice of other passengers' luggage, it seemed that her reason for travel was not uncommon.

We crossed the border at Laredo, TX, and when the call came for Americans to pass through immigration, I was the only one to get off the bus. I filled out my entry card in front of the immigration officer and gave him the requested $20 entry fee. I hadn't expected the fee, and when he simply dropped it into an empty bottom drawer of a wooden dresser I began to think I had been fleeced. Subsequent research, however, has assured me that all was in order. After 8 hours of driving through the barren scrubland of Southern Texas and Northern Mexico, we pulled into the industrial metropolis of Monterrey, situated amidst clusters of craggy green peaks. From a distance one sees evidence of increasing rural-urban migration: hastily built shanty-towns expand the city outwards such that it's borders begin to lap at the surrounding hills that used to contain it.

The bus station had the familiar chaotic buzz of porters, ticket sellers, and other various vendors, but was much more civil than those I've experienced in South America. People outside were helpful in giving me directions and a quick trip on the subway got me to my hostel, a restored Colonial house called La Casa del Barrio.

Travelogue: Out West (WY, CO, TX)

2009-03-02T09:52:00.000-08:00

My first stop was Wyoming, somehow beautiful in the immensity of its desolate expanses (most of Wyoming, despite your mental image of Jackson Hole, is flat and bare as far as the eye can see), where I was hosted by my brother Corey, a budding sports anchor at a news station in Casper. It was really fun to see that he has his own commercials and sweet old ladies stop him on the street to give him props. Despite a population of around 50,000, Casper has as many motels as New York has Starbucks (it also has exactly 1 Starbucks) and as many liquor stores as it has motels, but it also has plenty of wild west charm and that type of friendliness you can only find in the middle of nowhere.

From Casper I headed to Ft. Collins, CO, home to the New Belgium and Odell's Breweries, Colorado State University, and a good friend of mine, Ben Smith. Ft. Collins is a great town that might aptly be described, and with no offense intended, as "granola." Bicycles, beards, big dogs, and Subaru Outbacks are almost requisite, and a sandwich shop called "The Cheeba Hut" advertises "munchies." I thoroughly enjoyed both the friendly, laid back attitudes in town and the free beer at the breweries. I was also fortunate to get in four days of skiing in the Rockies and, despite the fact that my leg muscles and knees gave out every day around 2pm, found that I could still "shred the gnar,". A brief stop in Denver to visit my cousins Katy and Gina and I was off to Texas for some relaxing home-time in Seguin.

The genesis

2009-03-02T09:07:00.000-08:00

I lost my job at the end of November in a mass-layoff. With the layoff came opportunity, but also immense pressure and confusion. I toyed with all sorts of ideas, interviewed for new jobs, was offered none, auditioned for a high school musical (not embarassed), wrote the obligatory and now cliche account of my impression of Wall Street's implosion, sang at open mic night, cooked, cleaned, went to the gym. One night I was gripped by an uncontrollable urge to hit the road and not so much travel as just wander. I said to myself, "hey, this isn't working, try another tack." Traveling rejuvenates me by providing perspective, and I realized that thus far I had been ignoring a golden opportunity. I decided the easiest and cheapest option would be to head south to Latin America, avoiding long, expensive flights and going to a place where I know the language. With the dollar surging I could stretch my savings for quite a while. In my view the opportunity cost of this seemingly impractical move is probably at an all time low, given the horrible job market. Why spend my severance pay (a blessing for sure in these times) trying to find a job in one of the world's most expensive cities at a time when the only response you get is "I'd love to help you, but..."? Hopefully things will have marginally improved in three to six months, at which point I will be able to search more efficiently for gainful employment. In the meantime, I can see new places, work on my Spanish (marketable skill), and give more careful and measured consideration to what I would like to do with my life. Someone put it best by saying that I am choosing to "sit this one out."

I plan to post here as time and internet access permits, in lieu of mass emails. Some of my posts will be "Travelogue" entries, giving an update of where I am and how I got there, while others will just be my own miscellaneous ramblings on topics light and heavy. I've been away from NY for a month, but I'm just now starting this thing, so there will be a few catch-up entries posted in succession.

JS