Soy Extranjero. #11

I am a foreigner. To surrender homefield advantage and to be far from home is to assume a considerable burden on oneself. In fact, I titled my emails Soy Extranjero (“I am a foreigner”) because it was the most profound aspect of travel I could think of. In Spanish, “foreigner” and “stranger” are the same word and “to miss [someone or something]” is very closely related. I think there’s some music to that…

Anyone who lived through gradeschool will tell you there are few advantages to sticking out and being different. I`m reminded of scientific experiments on schooling fish where they observed how painting a red dot on one individual makes predators single it out. But what`s more to produce good targets: travelers are in the *wilderness* with cultural and language differences and having to continually look at a map or ask rather than just knowing where things are and how things work…

I wanted to explore this concept a little more. So I found a fat kid and punched him muaaahahahahaha. Just kidding. I contemplated travel and travel ordeals… Since medical disaster was covered in a previous email, I decided to go with the other biggie: “third world prison cell”. So here it is. I had a ton of fun with this one, so I hope you enjoy. :-)

—- prison cell begins —————————————————-
In central Lima I started interviewing taxi drivers. It can be a process. Too twitchy, wants too much money, whoa; potential serial killer… You gotta be choosy. Taxi drivers occasionally rob tourists and I face enough sketchyness today without taking chances on the cabbie. The suburb of Callao is close to some of the worst spots in Lima. On about the 5th interview I found a driver with honest eyes and we headed out. I was starting to get butterflies in my stomach.

From the parking lot of the Sarita Colonia Penitentiary in Callao you can see the control tower of Lima International Airport. Raffish to the core, the streets are filled with wild-eyed and presumably wildly-poor people. My cab dropped me off at the door and I showed my passport to get a stamp on my arm. I stood in line with everyone else going to visit, but my journey was different. I don’t actually know anyone on the inside. Today I’m bringing a bag of gifts to some poor traveler who got tossed in a Peruvian hole and probably doesn’t have any family here.

At the gate, they took my passport and handed me a metal badge with a number. They searched my bag of gifts and showed me to private room just big enough for me and the guard. He asked who I was visiting and I said “friend of a friend, a foreigner”. He again asked for a name and I said “you know him, gringo like me”. He asked for $1.20 bribe to enter the prison without a name. I paid up and asked him for a name. He said “Maximum Observacion, no problemo”. I went inside.

The first thing you see when you enter the courtyard is a crappy fast food chicken place with inflated prices. A few cracked-out prisoners were staggering around and I thought about how I stick out. Everything is cold concrete and steel painted a dilapidated aqua blue. I tried to act like I owned the place as I asked directions to Maximum Observacion. At the entrance I found a gang of hoodlems very intent on toying with me. They made me wrestle for it (In Spanish). “This is Maximum Observacion?” Yeah. “Do you have any gringos?” What? “Anyone here from the United States?” Who are you looking for? “I’m looking for a gringo.” What, are you crazy, who are you looking for? “I don’t have a name, I just want to talk to someone from the United States.” There´s nobody here from the United States, but I’d be happy to take whatever is in the bag. “Is there a foreigner here I can talk to?” Foreigners? “Yeah, I want to talk with a foreigner.” (from behind me in English with a thick Irish accent) Faukin’ell boy; we’re all foreigners! I had arrived.

James Shiels had been in the pen over a year and was looking at 2 more. He’s about 50 years old and looks superficially like my Uncle Larry (for those of you who that aids to visualize). Except he´s quite Irish: like Irish Spring Soap-commercial, Irish. I thought I’d be looking for a foreigner like a needle in a haystack, but instead they’re all piled together in one big room. This wing was designed for 58 and currently holds 250 foreigners. The waiting list to get a cell is about 2 years; everyone else sleeps on the floor. To get a bed you have to buy it from a vacating resident. The going rate for a bed was about $6-700 (but you can resell when you leave). James was hoping to get a bed soon, he showed me where he sleeps; on top of a blanket in the hallway on cold concrete. He said 100% of the prisoners here were in for drug trafficking. He wasn’t aware of anyone in this wing who was in for anything else.

We entered the wing´s courtyard, about 50 foot square and brimming with prisoners playing cards. It has the ambiance of a backyard barbque except for the overcrowding and stanky armpit funk. The warm sunlight and barb-wired exterior wall were reminders of the outside world. There was a parilla-grill and kitchenette for dishing out meals. On one wall there were 2 kiosk stands selling bottled water, coffee snacks, ect… I hadn´t expected all this enterprise, so I asked James how it works. He said the prison system is all about holding foreigners here and extracting dollars from them to pad pockets and subsidise the rest of the prison. The establishment gets a hefty cut of all the commerce and prisoners have to constantly pay off bribes. Most embassies give their nationals a little money to keep them alive and most of these prisoners have money or get it from their families. For $5 a day you can eek by and for $15 you can live pretty well. If you have $0 you can clean clothes and toilets for a couple bucks a day. If you don’t have money and you don’t work you are going to die: one cannot survive on only the food provided.

The other wings of the prison only house Peruvians and function much more like a conventional prison. There isn’t so much commerce and maybe the handouts are better. But since there are actually violent offenders: fights and stabbings are common.

James introduced me to an English bloke in his early 30s. Simon was supposedly one of maybe three prisoners here who was actually innocent. The Peruvians thought he was in on something he wasn’t, and he’d been rotting there for 6 months awaiting trial. Trials can take up to 2 years, and most people only serve 2.5-3 years of the usual 6 year sentence. If you get caught with over 10kg you get a minimum 10 years, and I met several of those.

I walked around and talked to a dozen more people. European accents are everywhere, but I also talked to Colombians and a Mexican. Of course I wanted to hear everyone´s story of how they got arrested. It´s tough to ask, and even harder to hear the same story repeatedly. Here’s how the system works:

Foreigner comes to Peru trying to make a years salary in a weekend’s work. The Peruvians sell him the cocaine and then rat him out to the cops. The mule gets busted (almost always at the airport) and the cops return the drugs to the informant. The dealers can then resell the coke repeatedly as long as they pay off the cops. The foreigner rots in Peruvian jail where they milk him for dollars. The cops get to look like they are cracking down on drugs.

I gave James the bag of gifts I bought and told him to be generous. It consisted of 2 big bags of oranges, a current USA Today, and the international currency of incarceration: cigarettes. He about shed a tear when he saw the oranges. He said fresh fruits and veggies were about the best thing visitors could bring, as all the provided food was profoundly vitamin deficient. We said our goodbyes and I again braved the corridor to escape the prison.

Callao didn’t look as bad as it did before I went in. I reflected on seeing people locked up and exploited far from home. A young-looking male foreigner walking the streets of Lima gets offered drugs 2-3 times a day; so I’m pretty certain there`s no drug-crackdown going on. But from gradeschool to “gringo prices” to getting tossed in a Peruvian pen; I guess some people are always going to exploit the outsider.

*** Thanks for reading everyone. I will officially and thoroughly return to San Francisco July 30, and I’m bringing 10 kilos of blow!!! Kidding. But what does blow is the guinea pig vote incredibly ended in a tie: 31-31… So we’re gonna have another vote on what happens in a tie!!! Kidding. I’m off to find a place with warm rodent in the kitchen (and hopefully on the menu.). :) ***

–Lucas

Soy Extranjero. #10

The polls will be closing at midnight on Wednesday for the guinea pig vote. The little guy is losing 21-19, he’s up against the ropes, so i’m hoping the California vote will get out to the polls. C`MON HIPPIE FRIENDS, I reaaaly don’t want to eat the filthy rat.

Here`s the url again if you havn`t voted. (again, no voting twice)
http://perpetualharvest.biz/poll.htm

So, I found myself in Haucachina, Peru: in the coastal desert, south of Lima. There, tucked amid towering sand dunes, was a *classic* desert oasis. The town is pretty much a patch of palm trees in the middle of nowhere. People here take their siestas very seriously. For most of the day, Huacachina simmers in half-slumber and jovial half-assedness. But every day at 4:00pm, the town’s purpose rumbles and rattles to life. This is dunebuggy country. All over town cobbled-together buggies with megaphone exhausts spit and backfire into effect. Late afternoons are when the sand dunes are their hottest and dryest: the optimal conditions for sandboarding.

I’ve been snowboarding for 10 years and surfing for 7, I wanted to try my hand at riding sand. Behind the hotel, my buggie tour assembled. Our buggie was a classic VW Beetle conversion with an red rollbars and an air-cooled engine. Our driver was gritty-smiled man in his early 30´s, named Kike. A 25-year resident of Huacachina, Kike told me whenever life gets to be too much he takes his 5-year old son and drives the dunes all day. He said it fixes everything. I said I could relate.

Kike transformed himself into the spit of “The Red Barron”: donning a floppy-eared hat and alien-eye goggles. We thundered out of town into the sand. The horizon opened up to apocaliptic nothingness. There was not a single shrub or blade of grass as far as the eye could see: only mountains of loose, blowing sand. The buggy is Kike´s pride and joy, and he was anxious to show us what it can do. He started in with some wicked 4-wheel drifting and then used sand berms to bank into extended
2-wheel drifts. He floored it and headed straight for a huge, steep
dune. The afternoon air was warm, our seatbelts were broken. The front wheels launched off the crest, when they settled back into soft sand 15 feet later we in freefall on the steep other side of the dune. Kike never let off the gas. The two skinny Irish girls occupying the other two buggie seats were screaming and cussing. I shreiked like a little girl and i’m ok with that.

We parked the buggy at the top of a huge dune; our first sandboard run. Sandboards here are homemade: a piece of plywood bent up on the ends with slick plastic laminated on the bottom. You wax them with a regular candle. I wrapped the velcro straps around my shoes and scooted towards the edge. The sand here is like Limantour Beach: incredibly fine and light. The dune erodes in that familiar “mini avalanch” pattern: just like fresh snow. The sensation is not unlike sliding on late-season Tahoe “Sierra cement”. The difference is, sand is much heavier and not as slick as snow. Without sufficient velocity, sandboards halt suddenly and throw you over the handlebars. I learned this the hard way on my first run when snowboard muscle-memory kicked in and I dug an edge too deep. I went cartwheeling down the dune. Crashes on sand are quite fun: it’s soft but alot of sand gets wedged in your ears.

By the fourth or fith run I had the hang of it. We went to progressively bigger and steeper dunes until we ran out of daylight. We sat in the sand and watched a brilliant orange sunset over the sand abyss. I sat and pondered the nothingness and how in bloody hell all this sand got piled 30km from the Pacific. When the sun dipped we thundered back to the hotel, but my time on the dunes was something i’ll never forget. And it seems the dunes do not care to allow one to forget. They don’t advertise it, but every tour comes with a free tour-reminder: It`s been almost a week and i’m still picking sand out of random bodily nooks and crannies.

*** Thanks for all your hillarious comments and thanks for reading, everyone!!! *** Guinea pigs aside, the next email promises to be very special, so catch you soon. :)

–Lucas

Soy Extranjero. #9

Bzzzzzzzzzz. Bzzzzzzzzzz. Bzzzzzzzzz. That´s the sound of mosquitos. Bzzzzzzzzzz. Bzzzzzzzzzz. Bzzzzzzzzz. Dollar-sucking mosquitos. Bzzzzzzzzzz. Bzzzzzzzzzz. You´re in Peru´s tourist zone: which pretty much makes you a quart-sized Ziplock full of blood and you`re flanked by mosquitos. Bzzzzzzzzzz. Suerte.

Up until now I havn´t been in too many tourist-intensive areas, and I have to say it´s been quite nice. But in the summer of 2000 I visited Rome and Athens and quite taken; swore i´d hit Peru and the Yukatan to see the remains of other great empires. It was a major factor in deciding the route of this trip.

So for better or worse I found myself in Cusco; the defacto capital of the Inca. The first great Incan king, Pachacutec, laid the city´s grid in the shape of a puma; wicked. Cusco lies in the pass to “The Sacred Valley”¨; where you couldn`t swing a dead cat back in the day without hitting an Inca in a loincloth. The thing i`d most like to impress upon people who haven´t visited Peru is it`s not just Machu Picchu: the entire valley is full of testimonials to this advanced and beautiful society. From my hotel in Cusco, I biked over the pass and started viewing different ruin-sites. And yes, bicycle is the way to experience the Sacred Valley. Without window glass or diesel fumes, I saw the valley as the Inca did; the sound of the river and the smell of the plants coaxing me around every turn…

The first thing you notice when you visit an incan city or fortress are the huge terraces that surround the area. That`s not for the worlds biggest game of Slinky (but thanks for fantasizing with me). The terraces are for crops: the Inca grew most of their food within city limits. Local food production allowed them to work close to home (slackers) and facilitated food security for the empire. The also had the dankest, freshest veggies that drove the ladies from the neighboring tribes crazy. You can´t deny the brilliance of all this and i`m left wondering when our modern societies are going to start growing food closer to home… hmmmmmmh, I wonder if anyone is working on that…

The road ends at Ollantaytambo, and I parked the bike. The cobblestone pueblo still uses Inca-era aqueducts which flow river water through throughout the town. I climbed to the top of the fortress and viewed the surrounding ruins. The Spanish got spanked when they tried to invade this one: arrows and spears rained from the steep cliff walls and sent conquistadors retreating. From my clifftop perch, I tried to imagine South America if the Inca had won. Without colonialism would there be more peace and justice in latin america? Would we be living in harmony with nature? Would the Taco Bell dog speak Quechua or Aymara? My head swims in possibilities…

Since there´s no road to Machu Picchu, the Peruvian government is kind enough to provide a train and price-gouge the eyes out of any tourist wishing to board it. They`re shameless in their treatment of visitors up here: blood-suckers swarming… But as I entered the gate and saw the glory of Machu Picchu for the first time my cynicism was crushed: absolutely unbelievable. :0

Too beautiful to be a utilitarian city, they think Machu Picchu might have been a spiritual center and summer home for Incan elite. The king`s palace is way up on Huayna Picchu (the super-pointy peak you see in the background of the classic Machu Picchu picture). There’s fountains still running on spring water through the middle of the city, and though the climate is perfect, you can see snowy peaks in several directions.

I hiked back down the hill to Machu Picchu village: Aguas Calientes. It was dinner time. The menu read ” La sopa hoy es Criola (noodles). Segundos hay lomo saltado (steak), arose-cubano (plantains-veggie), truches fritos (fish), y ´cuy´”. ” I didn`t know the last one, so I had to ask. Mosa, una pregunta: que es “cuy”? The answer set me back in my seat: Oh dear… ah man, that`s just… oh my…

Guinea Pig: It’s whats for dinner.

Now. I’m from Missouri and all, but rodent splayed-prone on a plate with his cute furry paws still attached? It´s a bit much. However, I realize not everyone can drop it all and travel to Peru. So, I’m willing to take one for the team if democracy wills it… We’ll vote to see if Luke eats Guinea Pig or not. You have to enter your name and NO VOTING TWICE. The best part about this polling software is it tracks your home address so a assault-team black-clad, AK-47-toting, SF-based animal rights activists will bust through the windows of your house if you vote for the death of a Guinea Pig. Vote wisely: a cute furry animal`s life depends on it. :)

http://perpetualharvest.biz/poll.htm

–Lucas

Soy Extranjero. #8

Oh baby, it´s been a long time. Come closer, lover. Yeah, like that. Did you miss me? I´ve missed you so much. I can almost taste your slightly-salty white skin on my lips. I’m opening my mouth, you’re coming close.. Come here, the anticipation is killing me…

I’m talking about TOFO of course. (and y’alls a buncha sicko-pervs by the way)

Sweet, slimey tofu…

The bean-mush of life.

Damn I missed tofu. Ran across a legit Chinese restaurant yesterday, and I about cried. Ran in and ordered huge chunks of tofu. Taste buds rejoiced. It’s just not right to separate a California kid and his tofu.

But one thing that has separated is me and Bolivia. Yup, there’s an empty spot at the campfire and a little more gruel to go around there tonight… But let me say that Bolivia pretty much rocks. I mean, I’m a chest-thumping savage and all: but the fine people of Bolivia showed me I’ve much to learn. We all have much to learn from a culture that parties like they’re not gonna get up and go to work in the morning (because they’re not)…

So here’s some pics:
- Jorge is a Bolivian-American movie producer who grew up in DC. He roommed with Norvell in LA, so I went out and rode his coattails around Cochabamba for a couple days after La Paz. THANKS JORGE! You seriously rock dude, I needed that… :)
-Isla De La Sol. Important Incan ceremonial spot on Lake Titicaka. Beautiful. (as long as you’re not thinking about how many heads were probably chopped off on that table)
- The town of Locke (on Titicaka). OK, I met a guitar-toting-Argentinian-hippie who told me Locke has a good party for June 6 (a big holiday down here). I set foot on the town´s plaza and the whole festival halted like a record scratch. If the town of Locke had a newspaper, a foreigner within city limits would make headlines. I was an instant hit. I was invited to be a guest judge of the potatoes-and-salsa cookoff (“el delegacion gringo vote´…”). The head of the dance troupe declared me her date and forced me dance with her in bikeshoes. I made many friends that afternoon. And in the end they all chose to laugh at me rather than help when the town drunk latched on and started spitshowering me with the ol´ “I love you, man”… So, I made many fickle/shitty friends that afternoon. Town of Locke: I’m never coming back. (Unless you throw another party and I’m within a 100-mile radius.)

http://perpetualharvest.biz/Bolivia/

Tomorrow I will bike through the Sacred Valley and onward to Machu Pichu. The kid in the hotel (who happened to be a cyclist) liked my route so much he invited himself along (TAKE NOTES, people who pay for guides). By the way, I’m in Cusco, Peru: little Disneylandish for my flavor, but I’m totally not knocking anyone who digs it (which is most people). So, onward and out. Do what you love. Eat what you love. Love you all.

–Lucas

Soy Extranjero. #7

I`m on this road. And occasionally I write stuff and send it to you. But it`s not like I can control where the road takes me. Each day I bring my brightest hope and joy to the trail, but in this life we’re forever at the mercy…

Sooooo, unfortunately this posting is going to take a decisive turn towards the un-fun. There’s nothing I can do about that: it’s just what the road delt me.

But preface to the end: i’m alive and well in La Paz, Bolivia: which is an extremely beautiful city. Explaining how I got to La Paz, however, going to take some serious verbiage. So be patient. OR you may skip this un-fun posting as the road gods are bound to deliver me something more fun (an anecdote about a cute furry animal, or the like) in the near future.

—un-fun begins————————————————————————
I arrived at the Bolivian border a little haggard. Altitude, distance, and frigid nights had taken their toll and I needed a rest from the bike. I had 2 days until my birthday and wanted to be someplace rad. I took the train to Uyuni: a geological wonderland and home of the worlds largest salt flats. The Salar de Uyuni is gleaming white and so huge in many places you cannot see the other side. This lack of a horizon enables perspective-trick photography (making objects look bigger or smaller). My birthday goal was to get a picture of me doing a handstand on the tip of my toothbrush. Simple enough. At the hotel in Uyuni, I met 4 Israelis and told them my scheme. One of them (Nir) shared my birthday and another (Anat) was the following day. We joined forces. Working the “3 birthdays” angle we secured a solid discount (and promise of a birthday cake) on a 3-day Salar tour the following day, the 28th.

That day we gathered snacks and supplies. It´s best to leave nothing to chance when traveling the jankfest that is southern Bolivia. Don’t count on your guide to keep you warm or fed and always carry a few extra days supplies for when the truck breaks down. We pooled resources and eliminated worst-cases. That night the 5 of us went out to celebrate mine and Nir’s birthdays.

The member of the Israeli crew I most clicked with was “Shalom”. He was a huge hairy wookie with solid english and spanish and a gentle-giant kind of thing working. Swilling $1 Bolivian brews, we ate pizza and played cards into the night.

Bolivian hotels are famously basic. They cut corners on things like toilet paper (they charge for that) and even in frigid Uyuni, there’s no indoor heating. To compound the insult, at 10pm they shut off the gas and there’s no hot water. At 9:45pm I remembered this fact and (wanting a good hair day for toothbrush handstanding) ran back and took a shower. Squeaky clean, I returned to the bar, ordered another, and at 11:45 the 5 of us went back to the hotel and went to sleep. (Wearing stocking caps and all the cloths we had; under a mountain of blankets in frozen rooms)

I awoke at 8:30am to the sound of screaming inside the hotel. One or 2 screams would mean “cold morning shower”, but on the fourth scream I resigned this was something I was going to have to deal with. I jumped out of bed. Thinking the hotel was being robbed; I grabbed a rusty knife (my room was above the kitchen) and pursued down the hall.

I found Shalom holding the head of a girl I did not know, she was flat on the ground. He was barking commands over his shoulder to Nir, who was holding the head of a second girl and doing CPR (both courtesy of the Israeli army; Nir was actually a medic). I ran back down the hall to the balcony above the street and screamed “Taxi!!! Ambulencia!!!” several times. I ran back to Shalom and suggested we move the girls to the street and continue CPR there. We picked up the girls and carried them to the street. When I lifted the neck and shoulders of the first girl I found she was stiff as a board. There was mucus around the mouths of both girls and their eyes were sunken in. When we got to the the street, a pathfinder SUV was waiting. I rode in the backseat with the first girl, their two traveling companions (whom I also did not know) were in the front, and Shalom in the back with the second girl. When we got to the hospital I carried her stiff body into the ER. When I crossed the threshold I screamed down the hall so the ER workers would be perfectly clear on the gravity of the situation I was bringing them. I laid her on a gurney, and went to the door and yelled down the hall again as sleepy-eyed nurses and doctors filled the room. I stepped outside and as the doors closed behind us all 4 of us (Me, Shalom, and the girl´s two friends) fell violently ill in the hallway.

The girls began punching numbers and weeping french-canadian into cellphones. I sat near the ER door in total shock. When the first body emerged covered I could tell by the feet it was the girl I had carried. I somehow thought Shalom`s girl fared better but 10 minutes later she too was carted to the morgue. I went to the street and sulked next to Shalom and the two girls still sobbing into cellphones. The orange morning sun was thawing crisp air and cold pavement. Schoolchildren gawked at us from a nearby yard.

Without shoes, I hailed a cab back to the hotel and found the others huddled on the curb. They told me that the room had wreaked of gas and that was what killed the girls. I fetched my shoes and went to the tour company to cancel our 3-day adventure. When I told the guide ´two girls died in our hotel´ she said “ahhhh, gas” without asking. The tourist book didn´t mention it, but I guess gas heaters are a regular hazard in these parts. I went back to the hotel and found Shalom convincing the hotel management to let him fish the girls room for ID. When we entered the room the smell of raw gas and death was horrific. We rummaged through their all-too-familiar backpacker gear. For the first time I saw a heater in a Bolivian hotel room: a wall-mount with a crude knob on top, not a portable. Shalom left with two wallets and told me to get photocopies of the passports when the cops came and located them.

I watched the crackerjack-cop-show sloppily process the scene. They took a statement from the hotel owner who said he’d instructed the girls not to run the heater more than an hour and that he shuts the gas main off at 10pm (recall: cold showers). I was the only foreigner present for this part. Clutching photocopies of the dead girls passports, I went looking for Shalom. May and November 1985; they were 22 and 23.

When I caught up with Shalom and the girls I got the full story. The friends, Chantale and Geneviere, were med students doing a program in Sucre. Christelle and Anne were friends from Quebec University, doing a similar program in Cordoba, Argentina. The University had arranged for the four of them to do a three-day tour in Uyani, two weeks before their program ended. The rendezvous point was the hotel. Chantale and Geneviere checked in at 1:30am and were told Christelle and Anne were asleep in their room. When they went to wake them up for the tour, they were dead.

I collected emails from everyone who was in the hotel that night. I pleaded that the tourist-dependent Bolivians were going to sweep this under the rug and it was up to us to raise awareness so other travelers would know the danger. I guess that mission just started. I could taste the salt blowing in the desert wind, but the Salar was out of reach. I couldn´t take another minute in Uyuni: I was on the next bus to La Paz. I wasn`t going to stand on my toothbrush after all. I wasn´t going to see the salt flats.

Leaving the comforts of home to feast on the unknown is a blessing. At every turn, I am broadened and humbled by my experiences. Experiences like meeting amazing people you never would have otherwise and seeing places you couldn´t imagine existed. Hopefully one`s experience does not include getting killed by the heater in the hotel your university booked. But as for me: I’m pushing on. I’m going forward with a blank slate ahead. I’m feasting on the unknown and accepting what the trail brings me as my path. I´m bringing positivity to the trail and god-willing, the road will return me some of that again soon.

–Lucas

Soy Extranjero. #6

OK, since pretty much every single one of you commented that Osito had 4 legs in the picture: i will address this matter. The passenger-side rear on that beast flopped in the wind. When he ran it whapped against him until I did him a favor and duct-taped it to his tail. He couldn’t use that thing as a kickstand, much less a leg: thus I said “3 legged dog” as a matter of speaking. Now, go forth and focus that marvelous attention to truth and fact-checking on the executive branch of our government and we’ll have a better world. :)

Also, in that last set of pictures I included a picture of a dog with his tail in his mouth. He was standing in the middle of a street fair like that, drawing a crowd on onlookers. He would be frozen for up to a minute at a time and then spin in circles so as to chase the tail, and then he would freeze again. This went on for maybe a half hour. This was possibly the funniest shit i’ve seen all year.

Today I biked through Qubrada De Humahuaca, North of Jujuy. It’s a range of mountains renowned for being very very colorful. **Good. lordy. lord.** :0 It’s like wavy gravy’s mountain range: all swirly fuchsia and turquoise and rust and yellow and… The light conditions were mixed, so I don’t know how the pictures will turn out.. but maybe its best that way: I think if you rode it on a full sun day it would straight-up gouge your eyes out. The ride north from Jujuy is some seriously recommendable bicycle touring.
http://www.jujuy.gov.ar/quebrada/
http://www.argentinaxplora.com/news/patrim/humahu.htm

(***Mom: this paragraph is not for you. Seriously. If your name is Kathy French, this is the part where you skip this paragraph and proceed with the next one. Do it now.***)
One fine evening last week, I was walking alone shortly after dark (with only a daypack, the bike was at the hostel). I became aware of people yelling and waving their arms near a bus stop. About 40 feet away, I saw 3 guys wrestling a backpack off another guy. The 2 accomplices were blocking as the runner took off. Now. I wouldn´t reckon that the man cradling the stolen backpack and running towards me knows anything about american high school football: or como se dice “open field tackle”. I got low, wrapped up, lifted him, pushed through and drove his ass straight into the pavement. The backpack skipped free and the victim pounced on it. I bounced up; for the first time becoming aware of my action`s potential ramifications to my own stuff and self. The accomplices fled and the (wildly appreciative) victim and I backed away cautiously like 2 cornered cats. The scumbag rolled over slowly and slithered away. When we reached safety, several bystanders came over and gave me props. Now. I’m merely the observer here: but it turns out that seeing a ratbag get his ass handed to him makes folks really really happy. I hadn’t talked to people that giddy in a while. People were stoked. “Spreading the joy”: I think that´s the point of this story… I bloodied up my elbow and knee, but it was totally worth it.

So, I should be able to spit on Bolivia by tomorrow. I´m almost there. The people are getting shorter and darker by the kilometer. Good thing, as i’m almost out of Argentinian cash. Bolivia has many strong points and i’ve not heard of information technology as being one of them… so we’ll see. In the meantime, feel free to whoop someone’s ass if they beg you really hard… and i’ll do my best to keep it real as well. :)

–Lucas

From Vanessa’s blog: my second night in Buenos Aires… ahhhhh, we were so young then! (you should see me now: hairy, hairy wooley beast!)

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Soy Extranjero. #5

Focus, Luke, focus. *Must. keep. biking.* Many kilometers left to cover today and must keep must keep… hey wait a minute, is that another WINERY?… ah what the heck! :)

Though the absurd concentration of quality wineries slowed progress for several days, i managed to bike hundreds of miles this week and see some truly amazing places. Being back on the bike is very grounding for me. When I grip bartape and get into a rhythm it feels like home. Nevermind the random herd of sheep blocking the road or the fact that I just passed a tiny Fiat towing a huge truck carrying one very-embarrased-looking-cow (true story. hillarious). Luke is always at home and at peace with his surroundings when he`s turning pedals.

From Mendoza, i biked to San Rafael (Argentina). Wanted to see how Argentina`s “San Rafael” stacks up against my former hometown: San Rafael, California. The similarities between the two cities were quite striking. Firstly, in Argentina, much like California: nobody speaks english. Secondly, there are bicycles everywhere. This place looks like Valencia on a crit mass night, except today was a wednesday. Crazy bikey madness.

But several mornings of chipping ice off the tent found me in San Juan, buying warmer cloths and regrouping. I headed back out towards Ischiguasto (try to pronounce it, i dare you) and “the valley of the moon” national park. The road to Ischiguasto was all desert, complete with roadside cow-skeletons and classic 3-prong cactus as drawn by charles shultz. About 20km from the park, from behind an abandoned cinderblock shack, a street dog started chasing me. I sped away, but gutter-mut was quite fast. I clocked him at 23km/hr and then noticed he only had 3 legs! Tripod-dog had speed and stamina: he followed me all the way to the park. He camped with me that night and stood guard over the bike. When I unzipped my tent in the morning there he was, workin’ the big puppydog eyes. He proceeded to do that dog-thing where they look at you and then tilt their head to one side and I flew the white flag. I scratched him behind the ears and accepted him as my sidekick. I named him Osito (“little mangy one”).

Fleafarm and I toured the park. We chased foxes (the size of cats) and ran from rabbits (the size of big dogs) and saw the valley of the moon. So-named because it looks exactly like the surface of the moon . :-0 Wicked. Comparing the park to Zion, Bryce Canyon or Arches is fair. But substitute mule-deer for llamas and i´d say it has a higher concentration of arches, pillars, escarpments…

When it came time to leave I knew it was decision time. I had a goal of 80km, and barely enough daylight to do it in. I packed up and made myself an enormous sandwich. I ate half, and threw the rest to Osito. I knew he couldnt run and eat the sandwich at the same time. I started biking like mad and didn’t look back. I`ll never know if it was ´”hurt and betrayal” or “mmmmmmh, sandwich… what a sucker.” in his big brown eyes as I rode away. But like everyone whom i`ve run with for a time on this adventure: I’m very grateful to have shared the trail with Osito.

http://www.perpetualharvest.biz/ValleDeLaLuna/

Gracias amigos. Don’t eat and run. Always be kind to strangers. Don’t hesitate to call me if you’re hauling a cow and your truck breaks. And see you next time I encounter a town with a computer!
–Lucas