My Santiago layover

December 22nd, 2010: Staying at my friend Daniella’s for almost the past two weeks it has been a wonderful reminder on how nice it is to spend time with a friend for more than a few days and to be around a real live family. In the process I lost my Yatzee Chilean Championship Title to her Dad who consistently rolled dice as magician. I will have to set this behind me and move forward, either perfecting an undetectable way to cheat, or…just accept that dice games are all about chance.

From seeing a huge concert with musicians dressed like overgrown sperm to backcountry camping, throwing a football around – deep breath – seeing a ballet and wine tasting at my favorite Chilean winery, it was all great. One of (only one) of the best parts of this was the simplicity of lounging around a functional house. I could not have asked for anything more - almost anything more.

Santiago was a great layover to do some well needed internal repairs, refreshing my mind as I now head out to the Pacific Ocean to find myself a good spot for my most favorite holiday, Christmas.

Spit Guzzling Park

December 20th, 2010: I went to a park today in Santiago that was suggested by my friend to visit. As soon as I began making it up the stairs I noticed that it looked more like an outdoor hotel room than a park as about every grassy spot and patch was taken up by couples and their hands. I felt like it was wrong for me to stop to look around or take photos for that matter since I didn’t want to come across as a voyeur.

Step after step, passing body after body tangled on the ground, this was definitely not the place to go if you are single making it more and more of a depressing park each step up leading to the top. Reaching the peak there was a nice view point of the city, with even an option to jump off of if you didn’t pass the mental test of Spit Guzzling Park.

Occupying the only empty bench of 10 benches at one lookout, I sat there enjoying the views of the city as couples deeply tongue each other, guzzling each other’s spit making me…thirsty. Deprived of the tasty 100% natural beverage, thinking that if they could only bottle the stuff I would be completely self sufficient and not need to get anyone else involved. If Coca-Cola would consider hiring me, I could make them billions and at the same time get a lot of homeless people of the street and employed as they could have a job filling up bottles.

Today, I managed to I successfully towered Spit Guzzling Park right before Christmas…making it without contemplating suicide or hiring a prostitute – remembering from the moving Pretty Women…that prostitutes don’t kiss on the lips anyhow.

2 cups of fruit a day…does that mean 2 Double Gulp sized cups?

December 9th, 2010: I have been happily stuck in Mendoza for about 1.5 weeks waiting for my new Visa card to arrive. Needing to pass by time I happened to visit about 10 wineries during 3 of those days to help me exceed the United States Department of Agriculture’s suggestion of consuming 2 cups of fruit daily - with them carelessly not clearly noting on how big or small the cup suppose to be – thinking that maybe they meant 2 Double Gulps (64 ounces each) sized cups from the convenience store 7-11 in the US. Trying to be healthy this also assisted me in getting through the incompetence of my bank, Wells Fargo who might have been more effective if they moved their call centers internationally to the Helen Keller Institute for the deaf.

From the two blurry self guided bicycle tours to the decrepit horse that took me to a few of the grape manufactures, I at one time effectively lost enough brain cells so that my body forget how to process my prior items of consumption in the proper order - which is typically the mouth, stomach and bowels to the miniature porcelain pool. Instead, I somehow miraculously reversed this order going from my mouth, to stomach and back to my mouth skipping the porcelain bowl and going directly to…to…it is not that important.

Needless to say, I think I was trying to be too healthy and will continue to try to be healthier consuming my 2 cups of fruit a day, but maybe…just maybe I will need to look further into what the United States Department of Agriculture means when they say two cups of fruit.

Life as a Grey Hair for the day

December 5th, 2010: Yesterday I took a trip into the rugged mountains running along the Chilean border. This ended up not just being a trip to see a beautiful mountain pass that was used for the movie set Seven Years in Tibet but it turned out to be a wonderful opportunity for me to experience life as a senior citizen for the day - which was not my original intention. It just seemed to happen as I stepped onto the bus that picked me up from my hostel, looking around and noticing that the bus was filled with grey hairs (at least they have hair). At that moment I realized that I might have paid too much for the tour since the mathematical formula for grey hair tourist is the following: Grey Hair tourist price = Fair tour price + 50% markup.

Worldwide, seniors seem to be targeted by tour companies due to the larger profit margin than the cheap, mangy backpackers. The backpacking community typically lives off the penny’s they have accumulated over the years and doesn’t seem to have a pension/allowance such as some of the older tourists. Unfortunately for them, the tour companies clearly know this and are sadly taking advantage of them.

On my tour today there was a few other stray backpackers asking the guide if we were going to do any hiking, gimping, walking, hopping, crawling, rolling or anything else besides stopping the bus and getting out for photos. Our guide made it clear that they are not able to do anything else because she was not sure if everyone was physically fit enough to do that…needing a waiver if they did. To support her case she informed them that on this tour she had 2 people died on her tours from exerting themselves too much.

A lot of people in tourism seem to think that all seniors are extra fragile, reminding me about the trip I took out to the mountains outside Cordoba, Argentina a week or two ago. This is when my friend and I went to this hiking area and wanted to make it to the top but arrived too late for the 4 hours accent – which I was internally grateful for. Standing at the information counter I noticed that the sign said if you were 60+ years old, you needed to hire a personal guide to go on the hike with you - that was quite expensive. I had to laugh but it was at the same time disturbing because I come across a quite a few 60 year olds that were in better shape than me. So how can you just come up with an age making it a requirement and not know the persons physical abilities, I don’t know? Where is AARP when you need them?

My day acting as a senior was extremely pleasant and relaxing, taking plenty of photos from the window of the bus to several photos only a few steps outside the bus doors. Perhaps it would have been nice to be able to walk a little bit more, by say…parking farther from the restroom doors. If I wasn’t a cheap mangy backpacker and decided to enter the restaurant for lunch when the rest of the bus did, I could have added to today’s excitement and used the typical senior citizen terminology to those individuals in the service industry such as “honey,” “sweetie,” and “darling” and get away with it. Never the less, I was still happy to see what I came to see and to have experienced a trip living life as a grey hair.

Shoulder bag accidently stolen…or not

December 4th, 2010: New traveling security rule created. Rule #1234: Don’t approach subject who has possession of your belongings until 90% certain of the intentions for the subject in question.

I say this because when soaking in the water I noticed a group of seemingly law abiding individuals in their early 20’s or late teens place all of their stuff around my shoulder bag that I had sitting next to a rock wall. One oddly even placed their shorts on top of my bag. As time passed they ended up moving to different hot springs and one guy seemed quite awkward by how he was looking around and then casually grabbed my shoulder bag with about $800 USD in belongings and walked away.

Perhaps it was a mistake I thought, confusing my stuff for one of his friends? Not giving him enough time to make it clear if it was a mistake or not, I came up behind him, putting my hand on his shoulder telling him that was my bag. He apologized saying something else that I didn’t understand.

Was it done on purpose or…not? It would have been nice to know his intensions but I would like to think that it was an accident thinking my filthy shoulder bag was one of the many girls he was with. This reminds me that I need to not relax my personal security policies, if anything, add a few more rules. So this was how Rule #1234 was created: Don’t approach subject who has possession of your belongings until 90% certain of the intentions for the subject in question. This will in turn then give you greater options as for what the next step will be…whether it is legal, verbal or physical.

My roommate worships satin

December 1st, 2010: My roommate worships satin. Okay…I cannot confirm that he worships the beast…but, when you have a male tramp stamp that covers half of your lower back and it is the face of satin (I am not joking or exaggerating) he must at least like him a little bit. It is a safe assumption; because why would you say…get a tattoo of silly parrot on your arm or a tattoo that says mom, if you didn’t like them?

Since he does sleep all day and leaves late at night, not coming back until 4 to 5 in the morning…I might have to restructure my sleeping habits. As for tonight I will practice sleeping like a fish…with my eyes open.

Do you want it…Monkey Style?

November 30th, 2010: Going to another animal prison, this time in Mendoza, I observed that this monkey compound was much different than in Cordoba. This one had a lot more activity, reminding me of a horrific porno I once accidently clicked on when searching for…camping gear.

With an overcrowded cage of about 100 nasty looking red bottomed monkeys, the males ran around chasing the females doing indecent activities in public right before my very own eyes…pulling off the 4 to 5 second “doggy style” position with such finesse. This made me think…why is this position called “doggy style” and why are men called “dogs” for that matter when we look much more like “monkeys” performing this act. Then why are we not called “monkeys”? There is a closer link between men and monkeys than dogs anyhow.

So…from now on, you should properly label men as “monkeys” not “dogs.” Perhaps the positional name changes will be expedited with help from the porn industry by expanding the vocabulary of the stars to 16 words instead of the standardized 14. Another effective way to quickly implement these needed changes could be by the Pope authorizing one more acceptable position besides the missionary.

Before you know it the term “doggy style” position will only used between the grey carpeteers, with the majority of the population soon to be identifying the act as “monkey style.” These new aged labels are much more accurate and should be changed immediately.

ATM card stolen…

November 30th, 2010: The past 20+ months I have held my ATM card really close to me. To be more precise…on my leg in this skin colored holder that has accumulated 20+ months of dirt and calf sweat mixed with about 500ml or so of anal sweat that made it down to my calf on those extremely humid days. The odor itself helped keep all unauthorized…people, away from it.

But…a few nights ago at about 10pm, I was walking around alone in the dark streets of San Agustin del Valle Fertil that contains about 3,903 people. Stopping, I ever so briefly lowered my guard and it happened…my ATM card was stolen. It wasn’t just stolen, but the thief had the audacity to give me a slip of paper, admitting to taking it. The thief didn’t even need to touch this protective holder of mine resting on my calf because I handed it over, thinking that the...ATM machine was going to return it to me with the cash I kindly request. Instead, it consumed my card. After several failed attempts calling the bank and the ATM company - they seem to not believe in 24 hour customer service…resulting in a cancelled ATM card – my lifeline to Argentinean Pesos.

Now, I sit patiently waiting in the city of Mendoza for my new ATM card after two women rescued me by extracting me out of San Agustin del Valle Fertil with the assistance of Hertz rental car. Will I ever get this card of gold, I am not sure. After spending hours and hours on the phone dealing with the incompetence of the banking industries customer service associates and supervisors for their supposal premier customers, I think…I think that I should be getting my new card within the next week or two.

I am happy that I have all the time in the world and there is a lot to do here – such as to continue being a wino since this is Argentina’s top wine producing region. From now on…I will have to carry an extra backpack filled with cash or better yet, just travel with two ATM cards. Lesson learned…the hard way.

I am thankful for not having a sense of smell

November 27th, 2010: My bus ride to the town of San Agustin del Valle Fertil to visit a couple of National Parks to see more truly colorful rocks and canyons turned out to not be, just a boring bus ride. There was plenty of unexpected entertainment seeing a 9 year or old boy about 7 rows in front of me leaning over his chair and expel about a few liters of vomit on the floor.

The people across the aisle handed the mom some toilet paper for the boys face but as for the vomit…it just sat there on the floor, untouched for the remaining 3 hours of our bus journey. It was extremely fluid as it would go up and down the aisle…as I was sitting there with a big smile. Today I was happy that I was at the back of the bus, next to the typical bad located seats besides the toilets and even happier that my nose is not very functional…except to breath.

The Donkey saga continues…with video footage

I need to stress to my friends that might be wondering the unthinkable - I have never been with a donkey…never in that sense. I might have spanked one on the behind and even rode one fully clothed in Egypt, but never have I touched one below the tail – and…what happens in my dreams or in my mind doesn’t hurt anything – so those countless encounters don’t count.

Wanting to know more about these acts of indecency, I decided to do an internet search to see if someone has already researched this subject matter to give my findings more credibility. I found out that there was an investigative report done in Colombia and it explains this in a more professional way.

Click on the link and the video on the page...it shows everything that I been telling you...everything. After watching it, you will probably be laughing with tears and be disgusted at the same time. It is suitable for all ages but I wouldn't let little boys see it just so that they don’t get any ideas.

http://www.prosebeforehos.com/video-of-the-day/05/14/donkey-love/

With this said, I will not bore you with my details on my research in Argentina except for that I did ask a man and he confirmed it…Donkeys get good loving here also in Argentina - as good as in Colombia? I don’t know.

I must say this again; this is a market segment that nobody has yet to exploit. I am thinking about a possible business opportunity if I partnered with a Chinese manufacturing company to produce economical inflatable donkeys’ (with optional 100% washable fur on its sides for more control) to put out into the market. My direct competition will of course be the “real thing” to the inflatable sheep and inflatable women that are currently for sale in the sex shops around the world. Yes, it might have to be a pigmy donkey for cost purposes, but nevertheless I could be a millionaire at this time next year from this invention.

Even if I only make a million Colombian Pesos, I would still be happy that someone somewhere is enjoying my product….”Dolly the Donkey” and more importantly…getting horny boys off a real donkey's back.

Argentina, the country known for its meat…

November 20th, 2010: Argentina is world famous for it quality of meat. With this said…I have been doing my best to enjoy all the meat products I can. From the Big Mac to the McNifica, I been eating it all. You cant blame me…Bolivia hasn’t owned a McDonalds since December 1, 2002 and I haven’t enjoyed the fine cuisine since September 1st, 2010 in Peru – yes this is the last time and it is not a random date.

Remember that I like enjoy tracking expenses as some people enjoy smoking crack. I could also tell you to the dollar on how much of my money I spent at McDonald’s during this entire trip or even going as far back as 2003, but I won't bother you with such silly details. Anyways, McDonalds is not my favorite fast food establishment – perhaps even at the bottom of my list…but, I have adapted because they are a strong international fast food chain that is everywhere and it reminds me of home…when I miss it.

Me encanta. This is McDonalds slogan throughout most of South America. Translation: I love it (literal meaning: It enchants me.)

Photo pulled from: LaMalaPalabra

Disturbing self guided tour of Prison

November 20th, 2010: Doing a self guided prison tour topped my list of things to do today. I didn’t even have to bribe the guards this time, as I did in Bolivia. The prisoners did not seem very happy here…especially in this one section where the cells were quite bare. Though, I guess when you are in prison you don’t suppose to be happy...except if you are in a federal prison.

Walking by the cells they would run to the bars with their hands extended wanting some food. Being in a prison, I completely understand that they have to have strict rules as for not being able to have a razor – meaning, they all looked like members of Jihad or a hippy commune. The hair on these inmates were to the point of making them unrecognizable…surprising me that the prison facility can get away with this in such a developed country as Argentina.

Never the less…these are prisoners, serving out their life sentences for whatever crimes that brought them here. Whether it is because of murder, theft or because of being solely pointed out due to ethnicity; they are here to serve out their sentence to society…to pay the injustices they did or did not perform. So who really care about their level of comfort, right?

Here is a photo that I was able to take quickly before leaving the facility. Murderer? Thief? Rapist? What crime do you think he performed to deserve being sentence to life behind bars?

White men can’t jump - seriously

November 17th, 2010: To not feel so guilty from the excessive relaxation and to save a bit of money, I decided to do a little bit of work for the travel website I write for. From doing a few treks outside of Cafayate to cruising on a quad bike…I came to the conclusion that I enjoy working.

After a little bit of time on the quad bike, I seemed to be thinking less as my confidence grew. It was clear when I got a bit crazy as hit a jump attempting to get massive air so that I could scale a path of imaginary ants – unfortunately crushing them all due to my lack of height.

I heard the saying before that “White men can’t jump” but I didn’t realize it meant for everything. I now have more of an appreciation of the height reached by those extremely brainless psychos that live for jumping motorized machines off of rickety ramps and natural jumps in their back yards with all of their brothers who are also coincidently named Earl.

Temporary wino

November 17th, 2010: Wow, I haven’t seemed to add anything to my journal in 5 days! It must have been all of the wineries I have been visiting – becoming a temporary wino. According to Microsoft’s dictionary, a fulltime wino by definition is: an offensive term for somebody who is addicted to alcohol, especially wine, and is usually also homeless.

I am now in the small town of Cafayate which is Northern Argentina’s 2nd most famous place for producing wine. Much better than the Bolivian wineries but I sort of miss the posters of women in scantily dressed clothing - I guess you can never have it all. This place is not just for adults. There a shop here that produces an ice-cream made of wine to legally assist parents in putting hyper kids into a peaceful rest without the intervention of pharmaceutical companies…leaving all the work up to the wine laced cones.

Lately I have been so confused on where I would like to go next due to all of the locals acting as the most friendly unpaid travel agents you will ever meet…telling you everywhere you should go and everything you should do. The list has become so huge I don’t know how I will possibly see or do it all…putting me into a head spin. I found that the easiest solution to this is to just pack your bags and go to the bus station. Unless you enjoying sleeping at bus stations, a somewhat quick decision has to be made.

So when I decided to go to Cafayate, I didn’t even make it to the bus terminal, it wasn’t until I was in route and someone approached me asking if I needed a ride to Cafayate - having one more seat available in his car. Figuring it was a sign, I said yes and jumped in going 3.524 hours west. Coming here was a most excellent choice. The rocks have created some of the most amazing scenery, adding to my list of “top views from the window of speeding car” – somewhat controlled by a man that must be really into NASCAR or just likes the feel of his tan colored meshed driving gloves. We somehow made it here...without an accident.

Volunteer Argentinian police officer for the day

November 10 2010: Being only first day in Argentina, I was able jump in a middle of a gruesome fight as local bystanders just stood in the walkway watching the blows the fighters were sustaining to head and body with their fists. Not thinking, my body just reacted placing my own life in jeopardy as I intervened to separate them. Perhaps they wanted it to stop as I pulled them apart, grabbing the more aggressive one by the arm and walked him off...ruining the free entertainment they were giving the other adults.

This is how a police office must feel when he needs to step in and maintain the peace. But if I was a real police officer, not a self appointed volunteer, I would not have needed to even place my hand on them due to having the luxury of face painting the two with some mace or getting a few swings on them with a club. Though in this case, it might be considered child abuse since it would have been against two…12 year olds. Sheesh…do you actually think I broke up an adult fight?

Reason #18 on why you should be cremated

November 10th, 2010: Today, I saw an almost perfectly preserved 6 year frozen dead girl found on the 22,000 foot summit of Mount Llullaillacoin in 1999. Since there was no nametag on the body who has been sitting around for the past 500 years, she was given the name… Lighting Girl. This name wasn’t given to her because of her speed – if she was that fast she should have taken off down the mountain escaping from being sacrificed. She acquired this nickname because she actually got struck by lightning after she died, leaving her a bit…charred.

Now lightning girl is an official member of the exclusive mummy club she hangs out in a refrigerator 27/7 with 2 others, being put on display every few months - reason #19 on why you should be cremated.

Photo: Museo de Arqueologia de Alta Montana

Would you like to see some porn with your wine?

November 6th, 2010: Today was an internal battle between Napa Valley, California and Tarija, Bolivia...two countries wine producing regions power houses. In the upper northwest corner stands California and in the south corner sits Bolivia. Going to a variety of wineries today from the big guns to the little ones, it ended up that not much resembled or tasted like Napa Valley.

Today, I mostly saw struggling vines resembling weeds growing along the countryside to some outstanding wine selling strategies looking more like legal office porn for men used to sell wine. Latin America seems set that a woman in skimpy clothing will increase sales of anything from crayons to bread. After seeing the advertisements for some wine at a winery, the strategy almost...worked. I found myself tempted to purchase multiple bottles to see how many of them were necessary for my personal set of wine goggles to form in order to make a one of the local women or...donkeys to somewhat resemble one the woman on the advertisement.

Though after accessing the risk, I might have ended up in the hospital from alcohol poisoning to achieve this…so I decided to do nothing but take the free stuff for sampling. The samples itself on my tour had me drunk by 11:30am…it must have been the altitude I thought as I headed to bed for an extended siesta lasting about…4 hours.

I know that beer companies use this porn strategy to increase sales with women in little or no clothing - depending on what country you are from…but wine companies? I thought a long time ago drinking wine was for the sophisticated. Not here it seems…not here.

The $17.14 Bolivian Teeth Cleaning at Dental Museum

November 5th, 2010: Keeping up with my visits to the Dentist - trying to see one every 4 months or so to minimize the looks of a country’s mouth I don’t want to say…today’s visit landed me into a sort of…Museum of Dentistry. The good thing is that it cost me about as much as a museum ticket would cost back home, $17.14 but this was better than a typical museum since it was a hands on museum with my Dentist using the same tools that might have been used on my great great grandfather – god bless his rotten corpse.

Thankfully, during my visit my dentist, there was no reason to do anything more than just a simple cleaning in which under my circumstances, a monkey could do if given the proper tools. But if something did need some attention…I would have probably searched for a place that had slightly more up-to-date equipment, dating back to at least my parents era…even though that too is quite…old.

Ex-World Champion rock thrower uses me as Target

November 4, 2010: I am usually quite respectfully and ask people if it is okay if I can take their photo. Today…I didn’t ask but didn’t see me needing to ask as these bulky women road workers of steel were busy lifting these giant gut busting boulders…who might I add did not need a back brace due to the natural “tummy tire” back brace. Really, I would never have asked at home if I could take a photo of a road worker, why should I here…I thought?

As soon one of the stocky women noticed that she was my subject, a rock was thrown at me showing me her lack of interest in having a photo taken. Thankfully her days as a world champion rock thrower are over because she missed me. Walking up to her right after one more photo to show her she missed, I for some reason wanted to see if she was going to do it again. She didn’t, it was a bluff…so I…apologized for taking her photo. Reaching out with her man hands, she clung onto my camera strap, briefly becoming nice asking to see her photo. Doing as grandma asked, she then forcefully demanded money. Two other of her friends now surrounded me and also demanded money for their photo that I took. I would perhaps have given these grannies some money if they would have posed for me in say…a 2 piece thronged bikini or perhaps some sexy lingerie, but in their traditional wear including the ever so famous outdoor apron? Mmmmmm…no.

This all took place next to the center of the plaza filled with people that I was more than likely entertaining…so my safety was not a concern. My concern was how I was going to release her grip off my camera strap. Asking nicely for her to let go several times but she would not listen - only having to hear her repeating her demand for money. Little did she know that I am a single traveler without a girlfriend so my right handed grip was far stronger than hers…unless…she managed to do some prostitution on the side.

Grabbing her hand that was locked onto my camera strap, I continued to nicely ask for her to let go and repeatedly told her I was not going to give her any money. My grip became harder and harder and harder and harder, beginning to sound like a parrot with my perhaps too friendly of requests…until she finally let go…going into a rage. Throwing off her gloves she quickly searched for a nearby rock for close combat. Not wanting to see if this next incoming rock was going to make contact, I did a brisk jog out of her range.

Today I learned my lesson…next time someone throws a rock at me…don’t say anything and just throw a bigger one back – or better yet, do what the Israelis would do…throw 20 bigger ones back leaving the well educated to take care of the carnage.

If you are black...stay away or DIE!

November 3rd, 2010: If you are black - in political correct terminology: African Bolivian, African American, African Canadian, African Jamaican, African African and anybody else who’s skin is naturally black…you cannot live in Potosi, or you will die. My tour guide even said when people with black skin would die…within 6 months after arriving here because black people are not made for the altitude - remember that Potosi claims to be the highest city in the world at 4090 meters (13,420 feet).

I thought it was ridiculous when I first heard it, having to ask my guide again to make sure that I didn’t misunderstand what she said. So, the past 2 days I was trying prove her wrong, going on a hunt searching for someone with even a smidgen of African decent to ask them how long they have been in Potosi. On my search, I did not find even one person that was even close to being black – not even the miners after being in the mines all day were black. I only seemed to find people with dark natural tans and a bunch of white gringo crackers. So…where are the black people?

Even though I have no proof, I will still place this myth in my bucket of other myths I come across during my travels…such as, if you eat too much chicken you will turn gay. Lets not forget the one: if you eat piranha you will can have sex all night. To have these myths properly busted, perhaps I should write the TV program Myth Busters for their assistance and their credibility…or…perhaps not.

Inside a 3rd world cooperative mine

Potosi is an amazingly…different place. Potosi is a city that use to claim being one of the richest cities in the world – which is obviously not the case anymore after Spain’s mass raping of the silver that was discovered here back in the year 1544. Potosi now only claim to be the highest city in the world…but with all claims there will always be some sort of conflict because according to Wikipedia, it is the 3 highest city coming in at 4090 meters (13,420 feet) – who cares…it is still very very very high. In a city that you can buy dynamite at any age on the street without a permission slip…perhaps it is better to let them think what they want to think
Going into the stores of this mining town and seeing all of the nicely selection of wrapped sticks of dynamite that anyone can buy. I was thinking it would be nice to travel with a few dynamite sticks in my backpack or even a couple taped around my chest in orderly fashion to possibly make any potential kidnapper or robber think twice if they really want to try to get anything involuntary form me. To make Potosi even better, besides the easy purchase of dynamite…you can get, 98 percent alcohol at most of the miners shops that is somehow meant for drinking. Trying some because….everyone else was, I could feel the alcohols entire path as soon as it entered my month, starting with my tongue all the way down my throat as it trickled into my stomach…I am no doctor but it must not be good for you.

Seeing some of the miners today working in these cooperative mines and even having the opportunity to provide some free labor for a minute or so, made me think…I don’t want to grow up to be a miner – ever. Thankfully I don’t have a working visa in Bolivia so this is not even an option…even though I would be the best miner in the whole wide world. The miners I visited today did it “ole school” with all hand tools in the scorching dusty tunnels that were so small we had to perform the “wiggly worm” to get through some spots.

After leaving the mines today I appreciate my future job even more…whatever it might be. It is unbelievable that kids as young as 10 years old are working the mines. No matter how you look at it, a dead end job when you are only expected to live till 35 to 40 years old. What people do for money will always amaze me.

The colorblind shoe shine gang

October 29th, 2010: After a morning of successfully shedding off a multitude of scrubby kids wanting to clean my already clean shoes in which I personally pulled off every speck of dirt a few days back, I noticed that I was internally breaking…becoming more and more acceptable to saying yes, after every, no. Just at the right moment a gang of three shoe shiners approached me telling me how dirty my shoes were. I know it was just a script of theirs…if I had food at that moment I would have eaten off them – even the soles, to show them that they were not even close to being as dirty as the claimed. Thinking about it, they could have been my military boots after spending days of pulling out spit from deep within as I shinned them and the savages would have still said they were dirty.

The shoe shine gang was very smart for their age and they must have noticed my weakness, capitalizing on my shortcomings. Talking to the gang members a bit whose ages I suppose ranged from 7-10 years old, I collapsed giving in and gave them clearance to somehow shine my shoes.

Not wanting to tell these experts in shining shoes how to properly do their job, I decided to sit back and watch as 2 kids went to work on my shoes as the younger boy talked to me to obviously distract me. After the reasonable brush selection and unreasonable polish selection (black) for my brown leather shoes, I became quite interested on what they were going to do.

Starting to polish my black rubber toes with the polish I was relieved that it looked like they were not going to use it on the leather. Making my rubber toe shinny and black, they continued possibly feeling they needed to do something else to my shoes for the ridiculous prices they were charging me in Bolivian standards. And…that is when they then caked black polish along the sides of my shoes making the grey spongy porous material of my soles…black, along with the bottom leather portion giving my shoe a crazy two-tone look confirming to me that they were all unfortunately color blind.

Watching them, I was attempting to hold in my laughter and I didn’t bother stopping them as they were continuing to destroy my shoes figuring I would buy a brush later in the day and wash them up at the hostel. While all of this was taking place I thought the kids would have known more about shining shoes but I still didn’t want to correct them – this is their profession, not mine…so I let them finish the job they started.

Once they were done, I had to lie to them and I told the shoe shine gang that they did a great job, happily thanking them as I paid them there fee and a little extra for a tip. What they were going to do with the money…I don’t know, perhaps purchase some gasoline to huff, crack to smoke, or some fresh clean needles for their veins - but more than likely, just a candy fix.

I must say…kids are great…just not great shoe shiners…especially those who are color blind.

...elephantiasis of the nuts

October 28th, 2010: This morning on the bus ride to Sucre, the man who entertains the driver during the night came back to where we were all herded and I immediately noticed his cheek…in my half awoken daze. It was HUGE filled with coca leaves busting out his lipped seams. It somehow looked as if his cheek was a shaved nut of some large animal – I cant tell you what large animal because I don’t typically stare at these things, but it was sure in the hell not the size of a typical house cats balls even if he was suffering from elephantiasis of the nuts.

I guess if I keep chewing coca, my cheek will continue to stretch to some great proportions to someday have a face that looks like a hairy nut - if I decide not to shave…or even looking like the cheek of a hamster getting ready for the great escape. Who wants that? Perhaps…I should think about getting back to being more civilized and begin to drink more coca tea rather chew the stuff.

Looking at the widescreen, it really doesn’t matter since in a about two weeks…I will not be able to take any coca leaves across the border once I enter Argentina, unless that is…I decide to stick it up my arse.

Death Road part II

October 27th, 2010: Going back to La Paz last week for my third and final time, I ended up repeating a mountain bike ride down Death Road…this time for work - if that is what you call it. And again, I am sad to report that…nobody died. You could probably put a child on a bicycle with training wheels and there still would not be any deaths. As I said before, they really need to reconsider relabeling this road to perhaps the “Disney Joy Ride” or something in that effect.
Even though this was my second time down this road, I must say that once finished…the trip back to La Paz was much better this time around since it was during the day. Between my nap breaks, I was able to see the spectacular surrounding looking as if I was on the coast of the Hawaiian island, Kauai. This drive back must be added to one of my top 10 drives of all time. I couldn’t help but take a multitude of mostly blurred photos from the window of the moving van.

Needing to move on, yesterday I felt torn if I should go up north to explore more jungles and fight the mosquitoes with my bare hands (which I would like to add which are registered as deadly weapons in the mosquito community) or to start making my way south. Walking to the bus station with now only the mildest limp, I decided to sit there until I made a decision. I thought and thought and thought, finally deciding to go south, buying myself a 12 hour bus ticket to Sucre. So, I leave the high city of La Paz tonight to go to Sucre that is the official capital of Bolivia and another god forsaken high city.

Please note: I am going to attempt to write less and to post more photos, telling my stories with bigger captions in hopes to have more time to read a few enormous books. This is so that I can lighten my backpack for my upcoming trip to Patagonia and to make more time for other things. And please...don't be scared to post comments, it at times feels as if I am writing into a black hole.

Would you like some wildlife with that table salt?

October 21th, 2010: The past 5 days I was on a trip to Uyuni which is the world largest salt flat coming in at 10,582 square kilometers (4,086 sq mi) according to Wikipedia. Viewing lots and lots and lots of future table salt was only a fraction of this 3 day tour (2 travel days). I ended up seeing a billion flamingos, plenty of other animals and a bunch of volcanoes doing my best to record it all…in photos.

Sticking my camera anywhere and everywhere such as would a horny teen, taking so many photos…my camera tried to keep up but when it no longer could, it took up the strategy of the local Bolivians - if you don’t like something…block a road. A camera obviously can’t stop traffic but it blocked me from adding more photos to my memory stick. Fortunately this was only in the morning and in the evening giving me opportunities to overwork it during the day to make up for the lost time.

During the three day tour I took a mere 1,100 photos (more or less). This was before I went through deleting all of the bad ones. Now I have 1,098 photos…should be much less since spots fill many of my pictures due to my cameras filthy internals.

Immediately upon my return I took my…third eye to a camera doctor and had it cleaned it, hoping it is going to stay spot free since nobody likes spots – not even horny teens, adults or…donkeys.

Bolivia’s new motto? “Bolivia is for Donkey lovers”

October 20th, 2010: Standing by the Toyota Land Cruiser, I went up to my guide after 3 days and thought that if I was going to continue my research throughout South America, this was the best time to do it.

The following is my conversation translated from Spanish to English.

Me: “I have a question.”

Guide: “Yes.”

Me: “In Colombia, Venezuela and in Peru it is normal for boys to have sex for their first time with Donkeys. Is it the same here in Bolivia?”

Guide: “It is the same…when they are 17 - 18 years old.”

Me: “Thank you.”

I tried and successfully maintained a straight face…not knowing what else to say after. My friend said I should have asked, “So, how was it?” I thought it is best that I just stick to asking if it is common or not. Though being that my guide was so casual about it might have indicated that he too had sex with a hot looking donkey for his first time. From my point of view his answer was an honest, solid answer. So, with this said, I am not going to do anymore research in Bolivia and I will too label this country as a donkey loving nation.

Perhaps if the State of Virginia in the U.S. doesn’t mind, Bolivia could have the motto: “Bolivia is for donkey lovers” modified from Virginia’s motto, “Virginia is for lovers.” Though seeing all of the llamas around I am surprised that these animals are not prime candidates for this sort of activity– they are much cuter. I suppose that due to the llamas height (needing a ladder for some of these small Bolivian teens) and since a llamas head can turn almost completely around…it might be awkward being starred at and potential spit upon while in action if the llama is not enjoying what is going on back there.

In a few short weeks, my research will be taking me to Argentina. I don’t think this country will be any different than the others…but who knows, maybe they will surprise me – what do you think?

A REAL football enters Bolivian Aerospace

October 18th, 2010: I can’t seem to get too far without having to change plans while walking around the small villages of South America with a REAL football (North American Football). Entering a village with an easily forgettable name – actually for me…every name is easily forgettable. Anyhow, my friend and I took my football and was going to head over to the local cemetery to take a few photos of some stones and to throw around the ball a bit. Not making it more than 20 feet we were stopped by two local kids. They quickly multiplied by the minute growing to team sized numbers.

Trying to teach them how to play a little game of football was a total success – depending on how you look at it. The game of two hand touch became a game that looked a little similar to soccer, rugby, basketball and even a little bit like football. The best was how the kids changed a somewhat slow game at times (American Football) to an action packed event eliminating the end zone and adding a goal keeper to try to block the football from being thrown in. Not knowing enough Spanish to stop the madness and seeing all of the smiles…I didn’t think there was a need to stop them, just join them.

I was hit by…

October 14th, 2010: Last week I was hit by a HSB (human speed bump) that ran across the main street of Samaipata. The human speed bump looks just like an automotive speed bump with the sole purpose to slow things down. Not seeing it, the HSB came from nowhere…as I suddenly felt a pain shooting through my ankle. I did not know the severity of the injury until later…as it began to get worse and worse as each day passed. I am now unable to walk much unless I want to walk with a painful obnoxious limp. I must stress that is not a cool looking MTV gangsta limp…it is more like a blue automotive license plate qualifying limp or the, I have something stuck in my rectum limp.

Adapting, I have shifted the way I am exploring Bolivia until I get better. With my body being about as useful as a…(Blank) year old man, I am now having to travel like one…taking a lot of taxis and only leaving the hostel to get something to eat, hoping on a miraculous recovery that will take place in the next few days before my friend comes to visit. Bringing me a football…a real college football (not a soccer ball), how am I suppose to teach the youth of South America like this?

18 hour shift…and no pay

October 11th, 2010: The typical small unpaid employees of the South American bus system filled my bus on my 18 hour trip back to La Paz. Sometimes I go on murderous rampages killing them…squashing them with my fingers and for the more meaty ones I will pull any random worthless pieces of paper that somehow fill my pockets between washings…sometimes surprising me on how long I...umm…carried the paper.

But today, I decided to not be the executioner and let these cockroaches live as long as they stayed on the windows and walls. To not encourage them to work around me, I limited my food intake keeping them from even needing to be near me hoping they would clean up the crumbs around someone else and the buffet they unintentionally laid out for them.

17 stitches needed after monkey tastes face

October 8th, 2010: I have always liked observing wild monkeys. This is either from a distance in the wild or the confines within a cage, but rarely do I like seeing them at close range. This is especially true when they have a “Kong” complex and are not fearful of humans. Going to a convalescent home for monkeys, I intended to only see the monkeys, not pet, pick up or be monkey bars – in this case…human bars. Not sure what monkey did it but a few weeks prior one of the monkeys opened a kid’s face resulting in needing 17 (or so) stitches to sew the boy back up after the free tasting.

I have had plenty of non-caged monkey experiences from around the world with mostly all of them being bad experiences with the angry miniature sized monkeys who thought they were doubles from the film, King Kong. From the one that wanted to attack me in Cambodia to the viscous one in Indonesia that wanted some bananas when I only had one that is not meant for consumption…I just don’t like monkeys invading my personal space.

As soon as I entered the animal refuge a spider monkey came to greet me being extremely vocal. Keeping my hand out I successful kept him away from me. Seeing too many monkey attacks in my life my body had a small adrenaline test to make sure it was functioning properly.

Then I saw a Howler monkey peacefully sitting in a chair…mentally I was waiting for it to spring on me. None of that happened and I didn’t encourage it either as I walked way, way around him. But then something did happen when I was about to leave. I met some other tourists and in the process of talking to them, the howler monkey had his chance when my guard was down…climbing up onto my shoulders, sitting there with an unbreakable grip around my neck.

That was all that was needed, as he somehow single handily smashed my fear of close contact with monkey. For the next few hours, I played with the monkeys that roamed freely around the sanctuary making it the highlight of my trip here in eastern Bolivia.

The next time I run into a monkey on the street I don’t think I will not be such a hater. I will still be cautious and ready to break some tails if they get too close…but, I will at least know that not all monkeys think they are Kong.

This experience easily tops my past week here in this region. From the stripper I met who wasn’t a stripper to the time I was hysterically laughed at by an entire village of school children as I was trying to find a horse to take me back out of the middle of nowhere to the main road (long story…see photos) – fortunately I succeeded and it was only a village of 100 people.

Donkey research continues…

October 6th, 2010: During the Che tour, besides taking notes for work…I decided to continue my personal research about donkeys here in Bolivia - more specifically...donkey lovin. Knowing that is takes place in the countryside of Colombia, Venezuela, and Peru I need to know how far south this type of activity takes place in case PETA or some other organization would ever be interested into shifting their efforts in saving innocent donkeys virginity from horny boys and men.

Asking the tour guide Marteen, who moved here from Denmark about 3 years ago ended up not being a very good person to ask. He has never heard about the phenomenon. That is fine but how he looked at me after I asked the question, I thought now that he might think that it was me who is into donkey lovin. I should have said nothing…but it was too late, the words were already out and there was no way I could take them back unless I quickly gave him a major head injury so it would be possible that the short term memory loss he would suffer might encompass our last conversation – but, I couldn’t do it…he was too nice.

So the rest of the conversation about this subject was trying to make sure he didn’t think I was here to exploit donkeys. In the evening I could see that he kept a careful eye on me. Perhaps it was due to his concern for the donkeys, or that…he wanted…seconds.

This was a minor setback but my research will continue. Mental note: be more careful when doing donkey research, asking only the toothless locals that are live in the countryside…not the expats. FYI: me profiling the toothless locals is not due to their economic situation…it is because perhaps at one point they lost grip and took a kick to the mouth, being a more credible source for my research project.

All Che’d out

October 6, 2010: I am so exhausted from my outdoor classes the past few days: Che History 99, Che History 101 and the more advanced Che History 256. I traveled to the tiny village of La Higuera, to see how he lived his last few days before his final battle with Bolivian Army Rangers (NOT the US Army Rangers) who were trained by the CIA.

This village was the area where he was shot in the leg, then later shot in the lower parts and finally was finished off after inconveniently being shot in then the upper parts before being laid out for the world to take photos. Thinking about it, for my non-South American friends…do you even know Ernesto Guevara (aka Che)? He was the man who in 1959, helped Fidel Castro overthrow a Cuban dictator and who also enjoys being on lots of tee-shirts, wallets, hats and wall paintings all over South America.

The best part of the trip was standing at a museum looking at the photos of a man's transformation from an innocent child to who he became...Che...a traveler, a world traveler and to the man who enjoyed starting revolutions and infuriating the French in the process. He somehow single handily destroyed the image of the French beret that as he was photographed in everywhere he went as he smoked fat cigars and held machine guns instead of the typical petite French cigarettes and a paint brush.

The saying is true: “People change”…sometimes for the better and sometimes for the worse – it all just depends on what side you are on.

*Photo pulled from dailymail.co.uk

Unauthorized titty feeding

October 1st, 2010: My body lately has been itching so badly the past few days, I feel at times like ripping off my own flesh with my stubs for finger nails, thinking that I would help me for at least a few days without having to scratch - that is until a scab starts to form, starting the viscous cycle all over again. I can feel things moving on my skin and when I look I see nothing...no crabs, scabies - not even a small community of lice - nothing. I even thought that my mind is playing tricks on me but I seem to be accumulating more and more bites everyday so it can’t possibly be just my imagination. I seem to have about every different type of insect bite. If it wasn’t for me wondering why I had the strange urge to keep scratching my nipple in public all day, I might have missed two of the multitude of feeders.

Two plump freeloading healthy ticks decided to take a little ride and have a meal on the house - the house being me. One was nice and warmly tucked into on my nipple and the other on my leg. I was going to wait till I got back to the hotel later in the night to pull them out…but after some thinking, it disturbed me on how they were doing their unauthorized feeding, wondering how responsible they were for my excessive itching the past few days - perhaps hiding in my butt crack or even deeper during my previous body searches. This is where I failed earlier…stopping at the body search and failing to do a body cavity search. It is awkward enough being in these strange positions already when checking my body for bugs with my legs thrown over my head with a tiny mirror and flashlight trying to find the cause to my itching.

Not wanting the ticks to escape and not wanting to titty feed the one who was on my nipple any longer, I ripped him out with my marker sized human handed tweezers - as for the other one...he was experienced the same painful death – decapitating him, leaving his head perhaps still in me as I tossed his limp body to the ground. I knew that I shouldn’t have just haphazardly pulled them out, but it briefly angered me as I saw their legs just sticking up in the air, as I quickly put an end to it as I prematurely stopped their feeding.

As I edit this getting ready to make the post…I have my hands down the back of my pants scratching like a madman…looking as if I am having great pleasure – I actually am…it feels good (there is about 15 bites back there). As long as I don’t smell my hand when I pull it out…the girl that sits across from me who seems to be staring, might not think of me as being THAT…strange.

In Monkeylike fashion

September 29th, 2010: For breakfast I stopped off at the central market to grab a sandwich for breakfast. Decided to be extra healthy today and instead of having a soda to wash down the nutrition…I chose to get some freshly squeezed juice. Walking up to the first juice stand, I noticed something that could have been a scene in the local zoo with the monkeys – no specific species of monkey…just monkeys. The scene looked a little something like this: A woman was hovering over her friend surrounded by a nice variety fruits and a blender…extremely focused as she was going through her friend’s hair with a pair of tweezers…picking out, something.

I can only assume it was lice that she was picking out in monkey like fashion. I decided to go over to the next stand to get my orange juice where the woman…didn’t seem to be as busy.

A nudist colony in its infancy?

September 28th, 2010: Sitting at a roadside restaurant today - sort of a restaurant…it has chairs and tables – I ate a popular cuisine throughout all of South America, so far as I can tell…chicken and french fries.

A pregnant looking man in his third trimester was not far from me, cutting a bucket of potatoes as he sat on a bucket almost naked (I am sure it was for sanitary reasons)… in his underwear and sandals as his man boobs were reaching for the rim of the bucket as the sweat would roll off his nipples naturally salting the fries. It was fortunate that he didn’t have any Italian in his bloodline because if so, besides the bucket of salty fries, it might have contained another foreign additive…chest hair.

When the man finished cutting potatoes, he walked by me saying that it was hot out, probably knowing that it wasn’t normal that he was walking around and working in his underwear on the somewhat busy road. His wife was standing close by not seeming phased by her husband’s lack of clothing. Moments later, another old guy past me in his underwear and he too just said it was hot out - as I was trying to eat without laughing at the strangeness that seeped out of this midsized developed Jungle town of Villa Tunari. Is this town about to become a full on nudist colony and is in its infancy…or was it just too hot?

60 Vampires in my Shower

September 28, 2010: There were 60 bloodsucking vampire mosquitoes (remember guys always like to exaggerate) in my shower yesterday…and 66 vampires in my shower today. All of these insects were possibly carriers of the wonderfully pleasant Malaria virus. I say this because the CDC randomly sends me an email for Malaria area updates and today, I happened to get one – hmmmmm…coincidence or a sign? I am currently not taking any medication due to me being a genius a while back mixing all my malaria pills in one container to save space in my backpack…once one of my three Costco sized bottles expired, I couldn’t tell which ones did or didn’t by looks, touch or smell.

I had only a few options to resolve this matter. I could have taken the expired medication but reading the warnings on the internet, this could give me some serious trip ending side effects. My other option was to give some to one of the mangy dogs or kids in the form of wrapped sweets who are walking around the street and see if he or she still looks as mangy as the next day or sadly, worse. Being much too complicated, I decided it was easier to flush them all and just kill a few fish.

Thankfully, once standing in the shower I was safe from these vampires since the sign of the cross with my two fingers didn’t work nor did my wooden cross. Hollywood is once, again a bunch of liars…or…the cross is not as powerful as it use to be. Never the less, being in the shower for extended periods of time was not bad because I could live in the shower if I was given the option…you could then call me “shower boy”. But, I am now not shower boy and meaning that I had to get out. Also, when I pay so little for a room…I actually feel bad if I take too long of a shower - if the workers are nice.

Standing there, the mosquitoes were surrounding me…waiting for me to make my exit. Looking at my towel, my clothes, and my soap dish I did a precise calculation on every move on what will take me the shortest time to get out of the shower and out of the kill zone. My best bet was to wrap the micro towel that covers half my body (a little more than half - from my Oscar Mayer Wiener to a little over the crack of my butt –laughing…I haven’t used the word wiener since I don’t know when) , don’t dry off in the shared bathroom, grab my clothes and soap dish and make a crouched dash out of the bathroom toward my room hoping nobody will see the partial streaker…even though this place is a nudist colony in its infancy.

The scene worked out like an old B&W western movie as we were waiting to see who made the first move in the dirty shower. My calculations worked out quite nicely as I made my mad dash out the door and to my room with zero injuries.

Now if I could only master going to the toilet without having to look around the whole time afraid that these vampires were going to give me a surprise attack from below, or all other imaginable direction as they decide to pull a Japanese-like kamikaze attack on me as I am trying to peacefully drown my kids in the pool.

As I keep trying to tell everyone...amazing adventures or misadventures don’t just take place in the jungles or high on the mountain tops. It can happen in the depths of your house, toilet bowl or even at your cage in the office…adventures happen every day, everywhere…you just need to, open your eyes.

This is not just a bus…but a super bus!

September 27th, 2010: Took a bus that ended up being a super bus with a super but forgetful driver (didn’t stop at the town I asked him to stop at). A strike was taking place locking up the traffic today – Bolivians like to strike – and our bus decided to take the high road in the hills of Cochabamba driving the bus as if it was his personal compact 4x4 except for it not being so compact coming in at 14 or so meters (no idea). At one point we had to disembark the bus to clear a drainage area. The locals seeing this giant bus were too as surprised as me on where we went. One little girls eyes were about to pop out of her little skull as we went by her mud house on the hillside mini-farm.

On the bus, there was a girl in front of me that seemed quite hungry. As she looked at me she picked and pick and pick her nose and consumed the treats one by one. I was grossed out but strangely, I kept watching. She was a cute plump baby whose mom didn’t seem to want her on her lap anymore so she gave her a bag to sit on in the aisle. I was just waiting for a quick stop so that the 3 year old would take off to the front window but it thankfully didn’t happen.

I have seemed to not worry as much the more I travel about the safety of others. Not that I have become cold or insensitive…my standard of safety is just a lot higher from living in the US my entire life.

I missed the city I wanted to get off at, the bus driver seemed to have forgotten. It could have been much worse if it wasn’t for the guy who I did know - nor did I know he knew where I was going - but thankfully he came up behind me, asking me if I was going to Villa Tunari because we just past it.

That was nice of the Good Samaritan to help me because I never spoke to the gold riddled gangsta. Though, we did have a friendly connection earlier when we were waiting for the bus to fill up as we stood outside the busy main street in Cochabamba. Our connection was through us both being caught checking out at a girl who was walking by on the sidewalk. I am not sure if we were checking her out for the same reasons though. I was looking at her because she had enough tape on her face to wrap a Christmas present - the skin colored tape teenagers seem to use to cover acne here in South America. He on the other hand was thinking about other features that I am unable to say without ruining the vision of the Good Samaritan that went out of his way to help me. A Good Samaritan, Saint or Pope…a guy will always be…a guy.

Aint no trapping me foo

September 26th, 2010: Getting dropped off at the end of the van drivers route as I returned from deep inside the national park, he told me I would have to say in town for the night (if a few buildings makes itself able to call itself a town) and that there was no transport out until the morning.

For starters, I don’t enjoy feeling trapped. So being in a town, in which someone who I don’t believe (taxi driver and van driver fits into the same category – thief on wheels) tells me I am unable to leave…didn’t go over well with me.

Secondly I didn’t bring…my toothbrush. As for showering, that didn’t matter much since the house I was staying only had water in the morning. Yes, I would have rather stayed at a hostel, hotel or even the town jail but since the towns 2 hotels were full with 3 – perhaps 4 people due to being the 2nd Annual Piano festival, this guy saved me and let me stay at his house for a fair price.

Walking down the small road I stood on the side of the main road and began to work. After about an hour of flagging down wrong cars, buses, trucks, motorcycles and anything else with wheels and a headlight, at about 9:30pm I was finally picked up. Almost freezing from the hurricane like cold gales of wind on the side of the dark road, the shared taxi that stopped had space in the back of his station wagon who already had 7 people in a car that is made for 5 – now making it 9 after including me and the guy who was sitting off in the grassy side of the road who was wrapped in a blanket ball (I could see that he has done this plenty of times before - making me do all the work).

While heading to town in the small confines of the station wagon, me and the other guy had to perform the fetal position around a bunch of bags that only a baby could do better (you see, babies are more flexible).

During the drive it seemed as if I went into a time warp as I looked up at the billions of beautiful starts that spattered the sky. I truly felt as if I was taken back into time when I was a wee little kid again looking out the back window sitting in the family station wagon (it could have been the Blazer), feeling as if my brother Joe was right next to me. It was a great, but sad moment somehow magically braided into one another.

Clinging to a dried up waterfall…

September 26th, 2010: Walking out of the house in the wee hours of the morning, I thought I should try to get to Carrasco National Park as early as I can - knowing it was going to be difficult since nobody in town seemed to know how to get there except for a one of taxi driver's I asked on the street. With ZERO tourism offices, I realized I might be in the wrong town to take a trip to the park.

Listening to the Taxi driver from the night before I made it to a small town I waited for a shared van to fill up with other people going toward a village in the national park. Sitting in someone’s house/restaurant I could tell that it was not typical for them to see my kind around since I was the main topic between the 12 or so people inside. Knowing that I speak enough Spanish to hold a basic conservation, the Sons a B#tches switched to Quechua – the common language that is spoken in the Andes in South America.

After a about 2 hours of waiting around we loaded up into the 4x4 van testing its ability to climb, descend and cross rivers to make it to the town the rested at the end of the yellow brick road (which is going to made within the next 50 or 100 years). The driver wasn’t leaving to return to the town I originated from for a few hours until he has enough people to come out of the trees to fill it up. I decided to walk around town and take photos, but some locals were determined for me to not go down this trail and to go fishing with them. This place is a huge coca growing region so I jumped to some conclusions on why he did not me to follow the trail I was on. Fishing sounded better anyhow, so I didn’t say anything and turned back to join them.

Walking for about an 1 ½ hours we cut down into this deep canyon using the dried up waterfalls for our path…figuring that going down was the hard part, it was only going to be easier going back up.

Making it to the bottom of the canyon, it was beautiful. Being at the bottom can give you a completely different perspective of the surrounding area. Following the guys along the river as they tried to catch some fish, I spend most of my time taking photos of them and relaxing on the side of the river. The canyon was steep and narrow on both sides and at one point I couldn’t go any further unless I wanted to get completely into the water…the cold water. Putting some…DEET on early to fight the insects, I…thought it wouldn’t be wise to have it get into the water – potentially hurting the fish. So for my love of nature (not my hatred toward cold water) I decided not to go and I let them go ahead as I waited for their return, which never happened.

When I felt I was going to miss the last bus out of the area, I went back to our stuff that where we first entered the river and wrote a note saying thank you and gave them my email so that I could send them my photos. Happily I left them the boots they let me borrow, not sure if I was going to see them again.

What I thought was going to be easy to climb out of was completely the opposite. For starters, it was much easier to go down than up (not usually the case), as I didn’t remember so many different routes to choose from. And do I even need to say what is next? I got disorientated going the wrong way – which is common for me. I did not originally think that this was a real problem at the time because I knew that there was a road up on top, I just didn’t know what dried waterfall path to take.

I was not listening very well to what I use to tell the kids back at home when I would teach them to climb…that you must have 3 points of contact at all times. And here I would only have two points of contact and at the worse times, only one. In one spot I had a hand grabbing a questionably stable rock and only one foot on a protruding lip, jumping with the intention/hope that I would land far enough on my chest so that I can wiggle up to the next ledge. Each ledge up, the worse off I was becoming because I was making it more and more impossible to make it back down if I could not go any farther up. I felt committed at that point and that there was no way back, but up.

Clinging to a rock wall looking around, not sure what to do…and at that moment, I strangely smiled and even laughed thinking how I got myself into this predicament. At one point I began to think, worse case scenarios…such as what if I have to spend the night on the ledge because of limited daylight hours, having no option but to turn around…or, what if I fell.

Thinking that I heard someone, I did a casual blow out of my whistle that is attached to my backpack hoping they would hear me, though it ended up being my imagination. Why didn’t I wait for them I thought? Why? Why? Why?

Finally I made it to the top covered with dirt, ticks and scratches from all the crawling, climbing and hugging of the rocks I was doing. Walking back I was exhausted but had some new energy that must have been hiding in my body somewhere. As I went along the gravel road that ran around the mountainside I mentally skipped back to the village having more of an appreciation for already made hiking trails instead of the self made ones by a Polish self.

6 feet away…not under

September 24th 2010: A typically case of some major summarizing is about to happen. The past week I was in Torotoro which is a town of 2,124 people – give or take a few people that were not standing in line that day when they were doing a body count. It is south of Cochabamba, taking about 7 looooooooooooong hours on a local bus filled with some really stinky bodies. Torotoro is ironically home to Torotoro National Park that is not a heavily visited park due to it not being very accessible. This place is known for its canyons and dinosaur foot prints.

Getting to the bus company that transported me and the stinky bodies to Torotoro was an adventure in itself. I was dropped off in what the locals call the call “Red Zone” which was the wrong spot, resulting in me roaming the dark, dirty not so safe streets with everything I have at 5:40am in the morning. After bumping into several people that fit the profile of a thief, murderer and a male rapist…I eventually retreated to the confines of a taxi figuring it was safer to be with one criminal instead of many.

To locate the bus company, it took: a series of questions dispersed to random people roaming the streets who gave me all but the right answer, banging on a window of a bus that contained one drugged up bus driver that could barley sit up and finally the right answer came from a boy that I woke up out of his comatose state of sleep who was making an empty bus his temporary apartment.

Finally I arrived to the bus company I was riding with in which I was about 10 minutes late – this was a time that I am glad the bus was leaving at 6:00am “South American Time” not “Western Time”…meaning about 6:45am. Normally it wouldn’t have been a big issue if I missed the bus but, it was Sunday and the next bus that left for Torotoro was on Thursday. Once getting to Torotoro, the first bus out of town was Monday and the next one…Friday. Needing some good quality time to explore…I decided to stay till Friday.

Being that Torotoro is a town that just had electricity installed about 2 years ago and cell phone service as of 4 days ago…I didn’t expect much. What I really didn’t expect was to see Hugu Chavez’s puppet, Evo - who is known to the Bolivian people as their President – and the Puppet of Hugo Chavez. He came to pay a visit to inaugurate some stuff around the town. I was about 6 feet away from him as he left the market and got into the SUV.

This was the second president that I have ever seen in person - the first one being from the US. It really doesn’t matter as from what county a president is from…a president is a president and I could feel his power as he passed me. I should have tried to give him a hug to show him that us folk from the North aren’t all that bad since he is not so fond of the US…but I thought it would not make the man containing an undercover earpiece and the concealed handgun not too happy – even though getting around him would have been extremely easy to do.

Avoiding the “rapists” (Reminder: Rapist =Travel Agency) this week, I managed to find my own tour guides and arranged my own accommodations, meals and transportation costing me around $40USD for the same version of the trip where the travel agency wanted to charge me $380USD for 3 days/2 nights. Staying a few days longer, I saw everything you could see here in Torotoro and still saved hundreds. When you organize things yourself, you don’t have to be rich to travel for an extended period if you have the time, patience and are willing to flexible - not a contortionist, just flexible.

This trip to Torotoro was a 99.8% success. I met amazing people/animals, did some wonderful hikes, crawled around a cave, crawled around my room from exhaustion, saw some beautiful deep canyons and was even able to see some boring mud prints and even more boring marine fossil scraps (the ruminants of whatever fossils that were not stolen). In the middle of all of this, I unexpectantly experienced a somewhat painful tailbone skinning – originally blaming an extended adrenaline filled motorcycle ride to visit some nicely arranged rocks…but the more I think about it, the only logical explanation is that I was unknowingly abducted the other night by some dinosaur ghosts.

Tomorrow I am off to another small microtown, trying to get myself closer to Carrasco National Park. This park should be much more easier to get to, and into…I hope.

Please remember to open up the photo albums on the right hand column and read some of the captions. This keeps me from having to write 1000s upon 1000’s of unnecessary words since as that one saying sort of goes, “a picture can say a 1000 words.”