View high resolution
Sunrise, Bolivia.
Utterly freezing, and I’m wearing flip flops. Idiot. Alternating between jumping out of the car, trying to take in the stunning scenery revealing itself in the days first light, then racing back to the car to massage my numb toes and wonder how long it takes for frostbite to set in.
View high resolution
Middle of nowhere… And about to head deeper into the “nowhere”. Dusty, empty streets, stray dogs picking through trash and a bright cloudless sky. Uyuni, Bolivia. En route to Salt Flats.
View high resolution
Stopover in Puno en route to Bolivia. We walked to the lake and stumbled on a Peruvian celebration (a wedding, we think). We saw local women in bowler hats and aprons dancing and drinking beer. A hired band in horrible 70s era mustard colored suits killed time on the sidewalk. We bought huge cups of sweet watermelon and bags of popcorn from street vendors. The lake was algae coated and packed with decaying wood boats and plastic paddle boats in the shapes of various animals. At the hostel, I crawled under three warm blankets, even though it was only 7pm,and stayed there until morning. It was that kind of night.
The bus to Colca Canyon leaves at three AM. We stumble aboard in the dark; eyes bleary, stomachs empty. The bus trundles through the near-empty streets of Arequipa, passing only the occasional couple, toddling home, leaning against one another for support. We leave the city behind, speeding around mountain switchbacks and climbing to heights that leave us gasping in the thin air. We drive parallel to the canyon, along mountains laced with deep gashes. At 8:30 we are dumped at Cruz del Condor, joining dozens of other tourists, many weighted down with pricey cameras with telephoto lenses. Everyone presses against a rickety railing made from bound twigs, our only barrier from plunging headfirst into the canyon. The scene is chaos, but for good reason. Beyond the flimsy railing, on boulders merely a few dozen feet out of reach, sit the condors. Birds of prey, they can fly soundlessly, barely flapping their wings, soaring on currents of warm air. They can weigh up to 30 pounds and stand nearly 4 feet tall. They feast on the carcasses of dead animals or hunt for their prey.
From our vantage point we can see their wrinkled necks, their tiny lentil bean eyes, their sleek rows of feathers. They preen, and scan the ground below and every once in a while stretch out their wings just enough that the crowd can begin to process the enormity of their wingspan. They ignore the masses, oblivious to the click of cameras and the whirring of lenses and the collective intake of breath every time one of them even so much as adjusts their footing. Of course, we are all waiting for the big moment: flight. We’ve heard about their tremendous wingspan - more than 10 feet from tip to tip. And we’ve been up since before dawn just so that we could witness it for ourselves. A few condors circle in the distance, but this doesn’t satisfy. Twenty minutes or so passes. The crowd grows restless. Those toting cameras let their arms sag a bit. Others wander off to by little packets of Chips Ahoy or knitted socks from the local women who have spread their wares out on smooth rocks nearby. A black condor with white edged wings shakes out his feathers the way that a dog would shake off water after emerging from a swim. This elicits a gasp from the crowd. Cameras raise like rifles. The twig fence strains under the weight. But nothing more. The condor folds it’s wings back underneath itself and resumes with its disinterested preening.
I start to wonder if the condors are messing with us. Clearly they are aware of the presence of the crowd. Their animal instincts must sense our anticipation. As birds of prey, they seem to me innately diabolical and evil. Is it such a stretch to think that they might be withholding flight, waiting for the moment that we all turn our backs and head in the direction of the buses, and then choose that second to dive into the air? And just at that moment, just as I’m considering the vast network of conspiracy possibilities involving not only the condors, but perhaps the park operators as well, the giant black and white condor stretches out to his full 10 foot wingspan and alights from the boulder. He circles the canyon without flapping his wings even once, then flies over the crowd, perhaps contemplating our potential as breakfast, perhaps reveling in his sudden A-list status. The crowd is speechless with joy. The only sound in the canyon is that of cameras clicking away, documenting what will, back home, look like nothing more than a photo of a slightly out of focus, nondescript bird against a hazy grey-blue sky. The condor circles, passing the crowd again. This time he turns his head fully in our direction as he passes, like Superman flying by. The other condors are circling too, now, perhaps hoping for a little of the spotlight to shine on them. They make a few more passes, take some dips and turns, and then, satisfied that they’ve all sufficiently become the subject of dozens of gringo’s vacation photos, return to their boulder.
From the buses, the drivers are yelling “vamos, vamos!” Overhead, the clouds are beginning to break. It’s barely 9AM. We tumble onto our buses, where we’ll settle back into our seats, click through the photos we’ve just taken and be dissatisfied with most of them. We’ll drive deeper into the canyon and commence a long and sweaty stretch of hiking. The day has only begun.
View high resolution
Could this flower be any more perfect? Amazing plant life all throughout the hike into Colca Canyon.
View high resolution
Morning coffee after a 12 hour bus ride along the twisting roads between Cusco and Arequipa. Guide books out, we sketch out the various itineraries we are considering.
My coffee has a little whiskey in it. The sun has returned. All is well.
View high resolution
machu picchu is off to the right, but I cropped it out of this pic because I love this guy’s little pink tongue so much, I thought it deserved all the attention.
View high resolution
We left Argentina, the land of flushing toilets and hot showers, of drinkable tap water and delicious asados. Where the buses have plush leather seats that recline into beds and where, as you cruise along the smooth highways, you’re served not only wine to accompany your dinner but a shot of sweet liquor for dessert.
We entered into Bolivia under a thick veil of heat, prepared for the usual border crossing chaos. We weren’t disappointed: neither of us had enough cash to pay the Bolivian visa fee, which HAD to be paid in American dollars. Off we trudged up a hill and into the border town of Villazano, moving slowly under the weight of our backpacks, to find a money exchange that offered American currency. After a few tries, success! We headed back to the border, cash in hand, only to discover that we understood the fee to be $130, when in fact it was $135. We were both $5 short. Back to the money exchange. We returned again to the border only to have the official inform us that one of our bills had a tiny tear in it, making it unacceptable. Another trip to exchange more money. At last, our fees were paid but we were informed of another hurdle: we needed to give the officials a photocopy of our passports. I had one, but Katelyn didn’t. Off once again to find a photocopier… At last, we received the blessed stamp and victoriously tromped through town towards the bus station.
Crossing from Argentina into Bolivia wasn’t simply moving from one country to another, it was like entering another world and another decade. Suddenly we weren’t just foreigners and tourists, we were pale, strangely dressed gringas, toting backpacks and offering muddled spanish.
Argentina has a strong European influence, as well as an indigenous population, so it’s people are a mixture of skin colors, traditions and styles of dress. As a tourist, it’s relatively easy not to stick out too much. But in Bolivia, everyone is dark complected and has weathered skin that adds years to their actual age. The women wear their hair in a pair of long, long, long black braids and they tie the ends with all sorts of things- braided yarn, beads, scraps of fur. Most also wear beautiful bowler hats that would not look out of place on a Paris runway. Their bodies are universally roly poly, the lumps accented by a uniform of a long pleated skirt, apron, cardigan sweater and shawl, thick flesh toned knee high stocking school and narrow open toe sandals. Many women have brilliantly colorful woven blankets tied around their necks, functioning as a backpack of sorts. The blankets are stuffed with random objects: huge bunches of parsley or carrots, a dozen rolls of toilet paper, garbage bags full of coca leaves. Those not toting groceries or items for selling are instead carrying a child inside the blanket; a hidden wiggling lump tucked beneath the folds of fabric.
The streets are lined with women. They sit sometimes on plastic chairs but more often on the curb, their blankets carefully laid out in front of them. On the blankets are the things they’re selling: root vegetables that Katelyn and i can’t identify, green grapes, emaciated potatos. They lean against the walls of buildings, their babies nestled nearby in their blankets or cradled in their arms, breastfeeding. Other vendors sell muddy colored juices in huge tubs, with mysterious fruits floating inside. Huge straw baskets filled with coca leaves and herbs line the entrances to shops. Peanuts and little plastic baggies of popcorn and fried platano chips can be bought on every corner. Vendors with small wheeled carts proffer liquados and serve them in fancy glasses, or pour them into plastic bags if you want yours para llabar.
Katelyn and i buy a 16 hour bus ride to the cloud-grazing city of La Paz. The ticket costs $7. With time to kill, we eat a set lunch of roasted chicken, rice, french fries and noodles. The bill comes to $2 each. We can’t stop smiling. We had amazing adventures in Argentina but something about the chaos and energy of Bolivia sits better with us. The country seems ripe for exploring. We board the bus, settle into a pair of grimy seats and tip our heads for a view out the window. The flat meadows dotted with pigs and cows give way to precariously stacked rock faces. Night falls, lightening dots the sky. The bus slumbers. We head towards the next adventure.
