The egg is the worst - Ilha Grande, Buzios, and Jeri

It´s been a while. Sorry. Last we left off, our two protagonists were circling the four square blocks of Ipanema, their safehaven in Rio de Janeiro (a beautiful, exciting city, but unfortunately one deserving of its sketchy rep.) The Noodles then hopped on a bus, followed by a big sail boat, and explored the wonderful island of Ilha Grande, 2 hours southeast of Rio. The island is indeed grande, with steep, tropical-forrested mountains sloping gently downward to meet the cool, clear sea, but its only inhabited town is tiny and filled with nothing but pousadas and restaurants (and a cart of homemade sweeties that the Noodle with the sweet tooth tried to climb into and make her home). No cars. We spent our days there hopping on schooners which took us to and from Praia de Lopez-Mendez, one of the best beaches either have us have ever stepped foot on - sand as white and fine as baking flour and dazzling clear, turquoise water. Every day we lined up at the dock with the rest of the youthful backpackers and cute Brazilians. Every day boats would take off one by one until the only people left standing at the dock were the Noodles, some 65 year olds, and a weird German dude. We don´t know why, but for the rest of our time on Ilha Grande, we never made it onto any of the boats with anyone under 65.

Next stop - Buzios. A very cute and upscale beach town 3 hours north of Rio(technically it´s around 2 hours but the bus likes to stop every four minutes. For the return we thought we could avoid the unnecessary extra travel time on the bus by booking a mini-bus private transfer, but the mini-bus driver thoughtfully decided to stop en route for a car wash so I guess the Brazilians will do what they have to in order to make the Rio-Buzios route a 3 hour tour). We checked into our cute pousada, Buzios Guesthouse ($100 Reales), and immediately it began to rain. Boo. We checked out the town anyway and ran into a kid we went to high school with. Weird (the kid and the coincidence). The next day was exactly the same, sans high school kid. It´s too bad it was raining. Buzios seemed really nice.

After Buzios, we began our 2 day journey to Jericoacoara, a coastal town in the northeast. We flew into Fortaleza, a hooker´s paradise, and hopped on a bus early the next morning that arrived in Jeri 7 hours later (including 1.5 hours in an open-air 4WD Universal Studios tour type tram that made the last leg of the journey to Jeri driving on the beach and over the sand dunes). The landscape of this place is like nothing we´ve ever seen before and in many ways is more what we'd expect from a Saharan oasis than an equatorial fishing village. Miles and miles of enormous golden sand dunes, all within meters of the ocean. Throw in some cows, a few horses and palm trees and lots of growling dune buggies, and you've got Jericoacoara. We´ve spent the last few days lazily wandering around the tiny town with no paved roads. At 5:30 every night, the entire town walks up the enormous dune and watches the sunset. Once the sun goes down, the capoeira guys gather on the beach and defy gravity with graceful flips and maneuvers so powerful and swift that we get chills watching them. We got up enough courage last night to inquire about capoeira classes. We asked a guy who spoke some English, ´When are the classes?´ His answer went on for about 25 minutes during which his name changed from Elin to Wesley, he told us classes are held every day on the beach at 4:30pm, except for Sunday when there are no classes, but on Sunday the classes are at 7pm, and so I'll see you tonight at 6pm. Huh? (blank Simpsons face). We have no idea when the classes are.

And now for some general ranting. To all those out there who hate America, hate Bush, hate Americans - we hear you. And the reason we hear you is because you talk about these things in front of our faces and direct your comments at us while we are all eating papaya together for breakfast. No, the Noodles did not vote for Bush. No, not EVERY single American spends their days hopping between Home Depot and Wal Mart with a Dunkin Donut in one hand and a Starbucks Frappaccino in the other. Especially not the two Americans sitting right in front of you! And then there is the persistent ripping on Brazilian culture for being so "Americanized"? What is this American influence? The traffic! Yes, America is solely responsible for the overcrowding of city streets worldwide with diesel coughing vehicles. Fuck off! (A British couple we met today practically suggested that Brazilian culture would be much more authentic and interesting if the Brazilians were poorer and lived in mud huts by a river.)

But perhaps this criticism of America is part of the general tendency of travelers to be overly blunt and opinionated. Last night we dined with an Italian friend and the following conversation ensued when it came up that Ande is a vegetarian:

Italian: Ah but you don´t eat the meat.
Ande: I eat fish.
Italian: But the fish is the worst. [Meaning the most toxic?]
Ande and Jen: Why is that?
Italian: Yes, it is a proven scientific fact.
Ande and Jen: Blank Simpsons faces.
Italian: Ah no. The egg is the worst. Unless the chicken lives together with you in your home. Then the egg is okay. Then the shrimp is the worst.

The waitress comes and the Italian orders a giant plate of shrimps.

I hate reading

Salinas Grandes, Argentina

Ande salt-skates

We made it!

Obligatory tourist pose

Remember the glacier? (Perito Moreno, Arg)


Look how big it is (see the people at the bottom)

South America´s Next Top Guanaco Supermodel

Ciao Argentina, Bom Dia Brazil

We spent our last two days in Argentina in the tropical border town of Iguazu, the base point for trips to the magnificent 2 km stretch of jungle-forrested waterfalls in Parque Nacional de Iguazu. As soon as we stepped off the plane we liberated our bodies from the fleece and our feet from the confines of closed-toed shoes. So happy to be out of the cold weather, we wandered around town with perma-grins on our faces. There is not much else to do in the town of Puerto Iguazu besides see the breathtaking falls. The town is like any other in the tropics - slow, hot, and full of toucan tsotchkes.

We shared a cab to the falls with a mis-matched British couple (he was nearly 40 and she was maybe 18 and had the look and demeanor of a Russian mail order bride) and decided to skip all the Disney-esque excursions (jeep trek and boat ride that sticks your face right under a booming waterfall so that you come up soaking wet like Roaring Rapids at Magic Mountain) and walk around on our own. The falls are stunning and really do-able in a single day by hiking along numerous well, maintained, easy to follow paths and trails. They stretch across the corners of 3 countries - Argentina, Brazil and Paraguay - and viewing opportunities (e.g., opportunity to suck tourist $$) are available from all 3 paises. But most people agree that the Argentine side offers the best views, and by the end of the day, we had seen enough pouring water for a lifetime and so skipped the more arduous than necessary border crossings and bus rides to see the falls from the Brazilian or Paraguayan point of view.

The real highlight of the falls is the giant El Gargantua Diablo (or something like that...we happily tossed our outdated Encyclopedia of Lies Argentina (a.k.a. Lonely Planet) on our way into Rio). This is the biggest waterfall in the park and it has to be seen to be believed. The sheer power of the water plummeting to indeterminable depths below is both breathtaking and a little horrifying. You view Diablo from a platform that you know in your mind is safe, and yet on first glimpse of the enormously powerful waterfall, your first instinct is to recoil with fear. But then with the cooling spray of the fall on your face, you become mesmerized by its size, and the raw gracefulness with which the water surges and plummets over the rock face. Watching the water carefully, you notice a brief moment as it passes over the lip of the falls where the water looks weightless and seems to pause - almost as if in a moment of prayer in anticipation of its upcoming fate - before regaining its heft and thundering furiously down, down, down. It´s like that small, gravity-defying instant at the top of a rollercoaster when you are perfectly poised between the upward and downward slope of the tracks, and you feel just a second of weightless, tranquil freedom. But you know that drop is coming, and then it does and you lose your breath and your stomach and then bye-bye. El Diablo was awesome. Don´t miss seeing it if you are anywhere close by.

Our plane leaving Argentina the next day was at 6:00 am. We ordered a cab to come at 4am and take us over the border into Brazil. That sucked. The Gol Air flight was cheap ($120 US), but made 3 stops on its way to Rio. It was pretty much a flying bus.

We made it to Rio and took an air con bus (Real Bus, $2 US) to our hotel in Ipanema. The favelas (slums) we witnessed as we were leaving the airport were enormous and we understood the reason for so many tourist muggings in this country. The beach in Ipanema is gorgeous and exactly how you picture it from movies and postcards - lively and packed with umbrellas and chairs and volleyball and vendors sweating up and down the sand selling everything from fried cheese to ice-cold coconut juice to brightly-hued sarongs, and all the people in tiny Brazilian bathing suits and tan, tan, tan! The Noodles gave everyone something to gossip about with our bone white bodies. But if we are persistent, and carefully follow the instructions of the Brazilian masters, we may end up coming home a lovely shade of off-white. Success!

Salta and the Andean Northeast

Not all bus companies are created equal. We found that out the hard way as we piled on to our Flecha bus (which was supposedly cama - meaning full fold-down bed) and braced ourselves for our 17 hour trip from Mendoza to Salta. Unlike Andesmar, Flecha bus did not provide blankets, pillows, or a clean chair. And where was our flat cheese sandwich to welcome us aboard? Our old host Martin was nowhere to be found and in his place was a family of flies, screaming babies, and soccer hoodlums. They were the perfect audience for the Polish teenage lesbian drama that someone decided to pop into the VCR. Huh? Anyway, the entire ride was bad. And long! Fuck you Flecha bus!

But we arrived, dirty and tired, and were pleased to find friendly faces and pleasant accomodation at our fabulous pueblo-looking hostel Las Rejas ($18 USD per night). Salta is a cute mini-metropolis, famous for its wealth of well preserved Colonial architecture. On one side of the city´s central square, Plaza 9 de Julio, sits a giant pink birthday cake of a cathedral which rivals in gaudiness and grandeur the best that Florence or Madrid has to offer. On the opposite side of town is the Cerro San Bernado. We climbed Bernado´s 1,070 steps to its peak, were kind of ¨eh¨ about the view of the sprawling, smoggy urbanscape below, and then enjoyed a leisurely ride in the cable car (also known as ¨the scary box on the string¨) back down the mountain. (We later learned from a native Salteño that Cerro San Bernardo is hated among the city´s youths whose monthly P.E. exams involve racing their instructor up the thousand steps of San Bernardo and only passing the exam if they beat the instructor to the top. Clearly Argentina has much more fit gym teachers than the gray and paunchy ones we remember from junior high; must be the futbol.)

The thing about Salta, though, is that while at first blush it appears all quaint and picturesque, it´s actually driving one Noodle insane right now. Too much diesel exhaust being sprayed in your face in front of the big pink birthday cake, too few mufflers as you try and enjoy the serenity of the courtyard of the Franciscan monastery near the central square. We´re hoping to find sanctuary in the Museo de los Montañas Altas which supposedly has some baby Inca mummies on display and is set away from the street and insulated in glorious silence by thick, double-paned glass.

Having to skip Bolivia because of a yellow fever vaccination complication (Brazil requires one for Americans if you´ve been in Bolivia 90 days before entering Brazil; Noodles are not vaccinated) we were stoked to find out that Salta had some equally impressive salt flats. So we ponied up the $195 pesos ($60 USD) and went on the excursion to see the impressive salt. In the morning, we followed the tracks of the Tren a las Nubes (Train to the Clouds - a 17 hour trip that goes up a beautiful mountain and then comes right back down it - in the dark. It´s supposed to be great, but only runs on Saturdays this time of year. Ande was secretly excited we missed it.) By mid-day we were at 4,000 meters (around 12,000 feet) and feeling the high altitude effects. Both of us felt slow and heavy and a little short of breath. Jen had a strange tummy feeling and Ande fell asleep in the car while the breathtaking multi-colored mountains passed us by. Hours later we saw the salt flats in the distance. Our guide Luis explained that they look close, but are actually 100km away. Some more hours later, we drove right onto the Salinas Grandes - both of us hanging out the window in anticipation of the stunning sight before us. In the middle of the desert, for as far as the eye could see, was bright white salt - literally an entire dry lake bed composed of salt crystals compressed into broad, hexagonal tiles. We jumped all around it, licked it, and took a zillion pictures. Having traveled to a lot of places, both Noodles agreed, the Salinas Grandes was one of the coolest things either of us had ever seen.

Back to the city of Salta we went with a short stop in the small Argentine willage of Pumamarca. Finally, a willage! With the small mestizo looking ladies in the black hats selling fuzzy llama hats. We had a go at some Te´ de Coca (tea made of coca leaves). Our guide told us it would wake us up, supress our appetites, and help with digestion. What a miracle this coca is. We finished our glasses and Ande fell flat asleep, but not before complaining of starvation. Both of our tummies felt great though. I guess one out of three isn´t bad. Pumamarca is a small cute town on the side of a multi-colored hill. That´s all there is to say really about Pumamarca.

More pictures are coming soon...we promise.

Mendoza, Argentina

We came to Mendoza with the promise of, 'with every breakfast...a cuddle.´ (After a long and tiring internet search for accomodation in Mendoza, Jen had found a hotel which charmingly extended us this special, if not slightly mysterious, offer.) Believe it or not, the 13 hour bus ride between Buenos Aires and Mendoza was great ( Andesmar $US 40) and included plush leather seats that folded all the way down into beds, a host named Martin who played Bingo with us, and fine cuisine (purchased from someone's trunk off the side of the road before we hit the highway no less). But when we arrived in Mendoza, Argentina's wine capital, the cuddling hotel was nowhere to be found. Instead we ended up at the comfortable and centrally located Hostal Confluencia ($US 16 /nt). It's a decent place with the real benefit being its super friendly and helpful owners. (For their mug shots, click on the link).

Mendoza is located near Argentina's eastern border on the other side of the Andes from Santiago, Chile. The city is small, but bustling, and the streets are lined with old, stone aquaducts once used in an irrigation system developed by the area's indigenous people. Diesel cars and teenagers compete for space in Mendoza's tree-canopied streets and plazas, while Argentina's omnipresent cadre of old, distinguished gentleman in fine gauge wool sweaters conspire in corner cafes. Each one looks like a retired professor working on a Gabriel Garcia Marquez-esque novel.

We took a tour of two local wineries - the bodegas Lopez and Guadron. Lopez was the larger and more commercial of the two - probably run by J.Lo herself. The wine we tasted there was so bad we were instantly struck with headaches. Family run and more intimate, Ande liked Guadron much better. Especially when the guide instructed our group during the tasting, 'OK, everyone nose in the wine.' The tour even included a special moment of politically-incorrect awkwardness when our guide enthusiastically (in her broken English) asked the group, 'So, who picks the grapes in your countries?' Silence. 'Come on now, you two from South Africa, who picks your grapes? And the California girls?' Uh. 'Well, here in Mendoza, we have the people from Bolivia pick the grapes. Yes, they are very hard working people.' Without missing a beat, the guide then turned her attention to the next topic. Some kind of tree.

We were invited to a BBQ tonight. It starts at 11:30pm. It's still pretty cold so we will be wearing the fleece. In a few days, we're moving north to Salta and Jujuy in the Andean northwest, and then on to the warm climes of Falls de Iguazu in the east and Brazil. Countdown to fleece burning: 7 days.

Baby steps

Someone bought a fancy camera to come on this trip. Someone forgot the fancy camera´s UBS string at home. Boo. We will buy a new one. In the meantime, here are a few pictures from the cute, but much less fancy camera (not many pictures have been taken with her, so excuse the crap selection). But, as proof that we are not in fact still in L.A. blogging from the corner booth at Norm´s...

Torres del Paine, Chile


The picture Ande is taking is probably much better


Cows in the mist


¨Survivor¨-style supper (um, nice deodorant in the background)


Noodle or egg?


Recoleta Cementerio


Dios?

Be careful or they spit you - and The Vile Human

We´ve just re-settled into our fancy room at the El Calafate Hostel (or, as we like to call it, ¨home¨. Did we mention it also has a heated floor and a bidet?) after spending a day and night in Chilean Patagonia. We left for Chile way too early on Saturday morning and along with some seriously geared-out Spaniards were driven fast and furiously for five hours through the darkness and dense fog to Parque Nacional Torres del Paine in the southern-most stretch of Chile. Our time in the park was long, freezing and sometimes raining, but was nevertheless spectacular. The park is enormous, with numerous turquoise-colored lakes (some sprinkled with icebergs), red and amber-hued trees changing color to mark the beginning of autumn, and lots of interesting and unusual wildlife. All of this is set against the backdrop of the snow-covered mountains and the three distinctive ¨towers of blue¨ granite which jut out above the other mountain peaks and give the park it´s name (¨Torres del Paine¨ means ¨Towers of Blue¨in the language of the local indigenous people).

The color of the lakes is hard to describe and difficult to believe. It´s bright turquoise like the Caribbean ocean (due to the minerals carried by the glacier ice), but with a slightly milky tinge so that it appears etheral and not quite real. At one point during the day, we hiked to a raging waterfall created by the run-off of some of the park´s glaciers. It looked like liquid blue neon thundering onto the rocks below. Our guide, Daniel, was awesome and showed us a lake that is salty in the winter, but has fresh water in the summer, another lake that is 10 times saltier than the Dead Sea where flamingos like to congregate, and introduced us to the cousin of the camel, the South American guanaco (face of a kangaroo, body of a llama, ´tude of a camel). The guanacos are protected from humans within the park (they still have to contend with resident pumas) and so are very docile and don´t mind if people get close to them to take pictures (although Daniel famously warned us, ¨Be careful or they spit you.¨) There were a couple professionals in the herd that we stopped to gawk at and Ande got an amazing picture of South America´s Next Top Guanaco Model posing seductively on top of a hill, with postcard-perfect, snow-capped mountains in the background.

The journey back to El Calafate from Torres del Paine was long and shared with a hideous man and the two Spaniards. We first encountered the man the night before in the lovely fish restaurant we retired to in Puerto Natales, Chile with some awesome people we met on our trekking trip. Although Daniel´s plans to drop us off at a vegetarian restaurant in Puerto Natales didn´t work out (much to the dismay of Ande and our two new veggie, British friends who bonded over shared stories of eating nothing but bread and potatos for days on end in South America), the fish restaurant turned out to be great (and non-smoking...holla!) and we enjoyed a brilliant dinner with new friends and shared travel stories. As we were about to leave, the vile man approached. He was a head-to-toe British stereotype, from his mangled teeth all the way down to his drunken feet. He put his arm around Jen and our veggie friends and asked if we´d join him at the Club later on. We were in a town of about 4 people, what the fuck club was this drunken fool talking about? We politely turned him down and went off to pass out at the Alcazar Hosteleria.

Bright and early next morning, we and the chain-smoking Spaniards woke up and hopped on our mini-bus for the 5 hour ride back to El Calafate. We jetted 3 minutes down the street of the tiny town and suddenly stopped in front of another hostel. Our driver rushed in to fetch another passenger but came out empty-handed. Some Spanish was exchanged and we pulled away, drove around the block and came right back. The driver went in a second time and this time returned with the ´let´s go clubbing´ Brit from the night before (hereinafter referred to as the ¨Vile Human¨). The Vile Human stumbled onto the mini-bus reeking of alcohol and other odors and announced to no one in particular that it was quite a night he had and that he had been passed out the first time we came to pick him up. By quite a night, we imagine he pounded cheap tequila, gyrated to 80s techno, and went to bed with a 13 year-old prostitute (who we hoped was really a 20 year old man who robbed him blind). The Vile Human took his seat in front of us and we prayed to Dios that he did not barf all over our fleeces. We immediately plugged into iPods and closed our eyes. Some time later, the Vile Human turned around and started speaking at us. He was relentless and Jen finally opened her eyes and gave him a few sentences before re-closing them moments later while he was still talking. It only got worse once we hit the Chilean-Argetine border and our driver for the second leg of the trip realized he had forgotten his keys for the next mini-bus back at the hostel in Puerto Natales. We piled into a small roadside cafe to wait 2 hours for someone to go retrieve the keys. Despite our best efforts, the Vile Human plopped down at our table and continued to talk at us, this time with half of his sandwich hanging off his face and the other half flying out of his mouth in little chunks as he spoke. He was awful and rude and burping and STILL drunk. We found solace in our driver, the two Spaniards, and every other person within a 10 mile radius who shared a mutual disgust for the man. As he started blurting out his interary for the next 6 weeks in South America, we shuddered as we realized it was nearly identical to ours. Would we have to cross paths with the Vile Human in every city we visit from here on out, dodging his drunken, projectile spittle like he were some sort of backpacking, Queen´s English-spewing guanaco? Bahhh. Hopefully he was too drunk to remember us.