Photos

Kid playing with his dog in a rural Mapuche community outside Nueva Imperial, Chile

Grandpa Don and cousin Courtnae on the beach in Puerto Saavedra, Chile.

Courtnae cuddling with street animals again.

Earthquake damage in Villarica, Chile

Grafitti art in Villarica

Mapuche mom and daughter in Rulo, outside Nueva Imperial

Cochamo Valley trail, which has been used as a cross-Andes trading route since Inca times.

View from the campground in the Cochamo Valley after a 20km trek.

Pulley system across the river to the refugio.

Rio Chochamo.

Bum-style camping after missing the last bus out of Cochamo.

Chilean solidarity after the earthquake in Castro, Chiloe Island.

Curanto, a Chiloe specialty. It is what it looks like – a pile of shellfish, chicken, sausage and ham.

Giant sailor and his maiden in Puerto Montt, Chile.

(What’s left of) Glacier Martial, above Ushuaia, Argentina

Penguin.

Penguin staring smugly at his brethren.

Uploading pictures has proven more costly and time-consuming than expected. I´ll try my best going forward but make no promises. I´m enjoying the end of the world, but excited to get back north to where it´s summer-ish.

Things I´ve learned in Chile

- The mullet did not go out of style, it just went to Chile.

- I wish to be euthanized when I reach the age of 60.

- Trying to learn Spanish in Chile (and perhaps in Argentina as well) is like trying to learn English in Arkansas.

- Just because someone is white does not mean they speak English.  Address people in the language that is spoken in the country in which you reside unless you wish to look like an asshole.

- While hitchhiking is a legitimate and reasonably safe way of getting around, it should not be relied on as your primary form of transportation.

- Gorging yourself on empenadas and white bread for two weeks and then hiking 24 kms with a 50 pound pack is not a good idea.

- The five minutes it takes to take off your boots and socks and cross a stream is not as bad as the five minutes spent looking for a good route across and still ending up with wet feet.

- There are Chilean hipsters, punks and lots and lots of Chilean hippies.  They are just as rediculous as their American counterparts.

- When the rest of the world calls Americans stubborn and arrogant for not switching to the metric system, they´re right – but that doesn´t make it any easier for my mind to comprehend how long a 24 km hike is.

- Despite the fact that they make it possible for me to have fresh-cooked pizza dozens of miles away from the nearest paved road, horses are vile creatures that exist only to defecate and ruin perfectly good hiking trails.

- In Chile, everything costs a little more than your guidebook says and every bus trip takes a lot longer than your guidebook says.

Pictures coming at some point.

Part Duex

So if you haven’t heard, I’ve been blessed with the opportunity to head down to Chile and Argentina for a couple months.  My grandfather, who does a mission trip in Chile every year, invited family along this year.  We’ll spend two weeks doing repairs to a high school and helping build a church building in Temuco, Chile.  Afterwards, I’ll be meeting up with my friend Captain Spanish in Tierra del Fuego, where we will make our way north to trek the Paine Circuit in Torres del Paine National Park.  I’ll let Google Image Search give you an idea. I’ve got some other goals in mind further to the north, most of which revolve around steak, wine and absurd mountains.

I’ll be using the blog to keep everyone at home up to date.  I can’t guarantee that there will be quite as regular updates as the last trip – I’d prefer to focus on quality instead of quantity and not spend my whole trip in internet cafes.

Leaving Tuesday afternoon.  At this point I’m a bit overwhelmed at the prospect of getting everything I need for two months of wildly varied climates (80 degrees and sunny in Temuco, 40 degrees and rainy in Tierra del Fuego and 75 mph winds and snow in Torres del Paine) into a backpack.  Looking forward to getting in the air and going with the flow.

Back in the US of A.

I am currently in Moscow, Idaho celebrating Christmas with the family.  I`d been planning to be home by Christmas for a month or so, but wanted to keep it under wraps so as to suprise my mother and family.  A combination of dwindling funds and a bit of road-weariness made coming home seem like a good idea.  (Three and a half months out of a backpack is quite a while.)  I`ll be uploading the rest of my pictures and posting some final thoughts in the next couple days.  I`ll be back in the Seattle area in the next couple days – I’m sure I’ll have plenty of time to see you all in the next few weeks while I start the next wonderful phase of my life: searching for a job.

Paga nada.

It turns out graduation is a week-long event here. There was not one but two religious ceremonies, one a Catholic mass and the other an amalgamation of all the “other” religions. There were two separate graduation ceremonies. The first was longer and more celebratory, the second shorter and more formal. And then there was the party, an all-night bash requiring formal wear with three bands. Suffice it to say the occasion was sufficiently recognized.

A crowd gathers for a political demonstration in front of Cathedral Metropolitana, in downtown Sao Paulo. It had something to do with “taking the power back” from the capitalist pigs and ended with a march down the street. As Law Graduate Joe says, “the commies are everywhere in Latin America.”

Anyone who has ever complained about the length of a formal event should attempt to sit through a graduation ceremony in a foreign language. After nearly three and a half hours, your correspondentfelt like a lobotomy patient. But it was quite a bash, with a light show, an orchestra playing adaptations of bad American pop songs and spirited speeches I didn´t understand from faculty and students alike.

Joe’s family did not come to this ceremony, since there would be several more happening later in the week. So while other graduates got formal pictures with their families, Joe got a picture with the resident Gringo.

Joe and Flavio celebrate Joe’s law degree.

The beautiful meeting hall at San Francisco University, one of the oldest and most prestigious schools in Brazil. This was the setting for the “other” religious ceremony and the “official” graduation.

Jose Luis de Rosa Santos Senior with Jose Luis de Rosa Santos Junior.

Joe´s girlfriend Bea, middle, with her mother and father, a well-mannered but intimidatingly large man who is has black belt in judo. Scariest potential father-in-law ever.

Flavio, Felipe, Joe and I after graduation. Bea and Sara, Felipe’s girlfriend in back.

Joe shows off his degree to his father and mother.

Formal wear was required for Saturday’s big bash, which posed a problem for someone who had been living out of their backpack with four changes of clothes for the last three months. Luckily one of Joe’s friends Alex was just as tall (though a little thinner) than me and had an extra suit. Ironic that I wore a suit for probably the third time in my life in Latin America, but what can you do? Joe’s family and friends were all in attendance at the party, which took place in a giant warehouse outside Sao Paulo. An estimated 7,000 people were there to enjoy three bands, free drinks and excellent catered food until 6:30 a.m. Once again, I fear I am getting too old to party like a Brazilian. The night was tons of fun, despite Leandro and Fozzie both over-imbibing and caking the floor near our table in catered food and Johnny Walker Black Label. At about 6 a.m., it was time to leave – the Brazilian equivalent of modern country music was a bit grating that early in the morning. The night ended and morning began on an even more somber note as we came upon a motorcycle wreck on the freeway within minutes of it happening. The police had just arrived but hadn´t had time to put sheets over the two that looked to have perished.

I’ll be sending this along with a job application to the CIA when I get back.

Fozzie and Leandro pose with the infamous “big wooden spoon” of Mount Si High School Class of ’02 fame.

From left, me, Fozzie, Leandro, Augusto and Joe.

I´m a bit jealous hearing about the cold weather at home, since it doesn’t seem like Christmas time without a bit of cold. But Paulista Avenue is full of Christmas spirit, with the banks putting up huge displays and trees and the park covered in lights. And though it is supposed to be getting into summertime weather here, it has mostly been cool and cloudy with occasional rain – like Seattle in March. Damn global warming.

Perverted Brazilian Christmas store display.

Brazil

Sorry for the lack of posting. The last week since I got off the plane has been a bit of a whirlwind, between going from graduation event to graduation event with Joe, heading to Rio de Janiero for a few days by myself and going to a beach town with Joe and his friends. Pics are uploaded now, so here we go.

For those that don’t know, Joe was an exchange student at our high school and was quickly adopted by our friend group as our equivalent of “Fez” from “That 70s Show.” After we graduated, Joe came home to study law and is graduating from law school this week. We´ve madethe rounds to family, who I can tell are exceptionally proud of Joe, and events such as birthday parties and soccer games (more on that later). I was struck when I came here four or five years ago and am reminded now how naturally warm and friendly Brazilians are to one another and visitors. When a group arrives at a table at a restaurant or bar, everyone makes a point to stand up, shake hands and exchange hugs. This wouldn’t be that notable if it was done when greeting an old friend you haven’t seen in a long time, but here it is done nearly every time, even if you saw the person just the day before. The proper way to greet a woman is a quick peck on the cheek – normal in many parts of the world but a bit different for bashful Americans like myself. I think I’m able to do it now without looking like a total moron, but it took a few days. My trip to Rio also taught me that the custom depends on where you are. In SaoPaulo it is a single kiss on the cheek, but in Rio both cheeks are required. To do anything less is considered impolite and borderline offensive. It’s a small thing in the big picture, but just one example of the inherent warmth and affection here. Or maybe the lack of it in the States.

Having picked up enough Spanish to get by over the last few months, I was hoping it would at least help me a little bit in communicating in Portuguese here in Brazil. No dice. I may as well be speaking Pig Latin. Aside from a handful of nouns that are the same, it´s very different, with sounds from all corners of the world. There are lots of pronunciations that sound French while some fast-talking locals occasionally sound like they´re speaking an Asian language. In general though, Italian seems to be the closest relative to Portuguese, which of course doesn´t do me any good. Most Brazilians who have a college education have been forced to study enough English that they can get by, so conversing with Joe´s friends has not been a problem. Asking for directions or ordering food while out in public, though, is another story. In the beginning I would speak Spanish, thinking that the average Brazilian is more likely to know the language of their neighbors than English. Mostly this has just gotten me a lot of “You stupid gringo, we don´t speak that language here” sort of looks, since whatever I am speaking is some sort of butchered bastardization of Central American Spanish. Luckily, Joe and his friends have stepped in and taught me a few key phrases: “Obrigado” = Thank You, “Tchau” = Goodbye, “Paga nada” = It´s all good or No worries, as well as an assortment of colorful curse words to yell during soccer matches.

We are staying with Flavio, Dennis and Minheiro at an apartment on Paulista Avenue, the Sao Paulo equivalent of Times Square in New York. All three are law students at the same school as Joe and a handful of their friends all livein the same complex here. Last time I was here we stayed with Joe’s parents and grandparents, who live in nice places that are a ways away from the attractions around town. In a city as large and spread out as Sao Paulo (currently the fifth biggest in the world, according to The Economist), it is nice to be in such a central location this time around – there are newsstands, stores, restaurants, banks and a Starbucks all nearby. I sleep on a mattress on the floor of a living room, but it seems downright swanky compared to some of the places I´ve slept in the last few months.

Everything you´ve ever heard about the women of Brazil only begins to describe the splendor. Dark-skinned or light, thick or thin, tall or short – they come in all types but they are nearly all attractive. There is something in the water. As I told Joe, at home an attractive girl catches your eye. Here there are so many lookers that an unattractive one gives you pause. Now only if I knew how to do more than call someone a “son of a bitch” in Pourtuguese.

Joe´s friends doing a gift exchange to celebrate the end of the semester.

Paulista Avenue, where thousands of people dressed much nicer than Caleb go to and from work at high paying jobs.

Joe and many of the friends and roommates are busy during the day – most of those that are done with finals still have full-time jobs at local law firms as well. I haven’t gotten board yet, though. The Tuesday after I arrived, I decided to make my way to Rio de Janeiro. Joe played the mother figure (since I didn’t tell my real mother) and gave me a talking to about safety in Rio, which is known as being a hell hole of crime and poverty. See: 2002′s award-winning movie “City of God.” It was all the same sort of horror stories and advice I had heard about tons of places I’d been in Central America: Don´t travel at night, don’t leave the area around your hotel, take taxis where ever you go, don’t carry around valuables, don’t trust any locals, etc. Having gotten through three months with no trouble at all, I wasn’t phased. So after getting a quick lesson in navigating SaoPaulo’s subway system (which is more comfortable and nicer than I remember New York´s being) and buying a Lonely Planet guide to Rio, I headed east toward Brazil´s second city.

Rio is an intense place on many levels. Geographically, it seems like the least likely place you would ever want to build a major metropolitan city. Giant, towering mountains of stone (some 2,000 feet or higher) shoot up randomly from sea level. Some are covered in thick jungle-like vegetation, others are sheer rock faces. Around these rocks is a sprawling metropolis, with miles of high-rise condos and apartment buildings 25 or 30 stories high. In general, the neighborhoods near the beaches are made up of the wealthy and the extremely wealthy. The “favelas” (shanty towns) cling to the sides of the hills and surround the city for miles. Ipanema, where I stayed (the birthplace of “The Girl from Ipanema”) was like how I imagine a European city being – beautiful parks and sculptures, expensive condos, fancy restaurants and stores selling designer clothes. This is not my type of scene, of course, but the hostel was nice and after hearing so many horror stories I’d rather have stayed in a neighborhood of snobs than a sketchy part of town. Ipanema also hugged the beach, which was just as beautiful as you would haveimagined, with many locals playing volleyball, soccer and some sort of hybrid of the two that consisted of kicking and heading a ball back and forth over a volleyball net. The weather wasn´t all that cooperativeve during my time in Rio (it was like Panama Pt. 2), but I spent one drizzly and windy afternoon walking from one end of Ipanema to the other end of Copacabana (which you also probably know from modern song) and back. Copa is home to many of the older generation of Rio-ites and is a bit more “rough,” with more locals and favella kids walking around, though it is still relatively safe. Brazil (and Rio in particular) is of course known for its musical heritage, as the country has been a melting pot of European, African and Latin American styles and cultures for centuries. I got to experience this first hand many times while in Rio, from a late-night jam session in the hostel with the animated Brazilians who owned the place to a late, late night at a samba club downtown. Brazilians as a whole know how to have a good time, but this is brought to wild new heights in Rio. Sometimes I think I’m too old to stay out until 4 a.m. on a Tuesday, but when in Rio you do as the locals do. I was told that the partying is even more crazy on weekends and off the charts around New Years and during the infamous Carnival in February, which is supposed to be like a Latin American Mardi Grason acid. I’m pretty positive I am too old for that.

It is hard to get a good picture out of a moving bus, but this was about as close as I got to the famed favelasof Rio. These sorts of neighborhoods stretch on for miles and miles around the city – all the more shocking when you see how comfortably and posh people live in the nice neighborhoods. What I did get a chance to see looked even sketchier than the “bad” parts of Central America we saw. They made Guatemala City look like Paris, essentially. The hostel I stayed at offered “favelatours” and I went back and forth about whether I wanted to do one or not. I eventually elected not to – asidefrom the inherent threat of being robbed, I read that many of the programs that do such tours don´t give much money back to the people of the favelas and keep it themselves. It´s also someone´s home, not a zoo. Part of me regrets not doing it now, but what can you do?

Caleb goes clubbing, dressed in the same dirty backpacker clothes he has been wearing for three months. I´m not much of a dancer, but it seemed like the thing to do at the time.

Nice cars, nice buildings in Ipanema.

Wind and rain greet Caleb during his first day on Ipanema beach.

Nice part of town with a favela in the background.

Fisherman tends to his boat on Copacabana.

Locals play a goofy half-soccer, half-volleyball.

A Santa sand sculpture on Copa.

How come we don´t name our streets after journalists? And how come evil car companies are entitled to government bailouts but newspapers aren´t? Life is full of questions.

Brazilians love their buffets. This is (amazing) food by the kilogram. Just remember not to go when you´re starving, or you will end up accidentally paying $18 for a meal. Joe promises we´ll be going to a rodizio this weekend, which consists of unlimited cuts of any meat you could ever dream of. I dropped quite a bit of weight lugging a backpack around for three months, but I am pretty sure a steady diet of beer and meat will bring it back by the time I get home. They are also partial to sausage and other type of greasy Italian-ishmeat here, including for breakfast. I am trying my best to live up to the stereotype of the glutenous American.

Crazy Brazilian dude who resembles a bear plays us some Brazilian standards in the hostel. Eoan (Ian) from Ireland was lugging a guitar around with him through central America, which led to hours of attempting to find songs that everyone knew. Eventually a drunken group of Irishmen came by and insisted on Oasis, much to my chagrin.

Too dark to make out much, but a live samba band played at Democratica, one of the oldest clubs in Rio. My white hips don´t move that fast, but it was a hell of a lot of fun to watch.

Christ the Redeemer.

I can´t figure out if this is sacrilegious or not.

Eoan poses with Christ.

They neglected to give Christ eyes, which was a little creepy.

Me, with Ipanema below.

A better day at the beach. In the middle, two Brazilians in an embrace. They have different standards for public displays of affection here. Making out in public is not looked down on, it is embraced, whether you´re in a bar, bus station or on the street corner.

Young and old on Ipanema beach.

Eoan on the beach.

Caleb rawking out.

Brazilian men play futbol in their speedos – something I will never get used to.

Eoan and a local food vendor playing futbol. Brazilians love their futbol (more on that in a minute). You´d think big feet would be a good thing in futbol, but it doesn´t help me much.

And thus my 72 hours in Rio ended without me being robbed, raped or murdered. Either I’m just that good of a traveller, people are scared of the beard or, more likely, safety isn’t all that big of an issue as long as you plan ahead and use some common sense.

Back in Sao Paulo, it was off to “Cervezada” (beer-o-rama, roughly), a huge party thrown in front of the law school after everyone is done with finals. Then, after an exceptionally small amount of sleep, it was off to the beach, where Joe´s friend Leandro´s parents had an apartment.

Augusto and Leandro on the left, Joe and his girlfriend Bea on the right.

Augusto, Joe and Leandro.

Can you guess which one is the gringo?

Joe sitting next to puke (not his own) on the subway home.

Wheel of Fortune in Portuguese.

Back home in Sao Paulo, it was time to watch Sao Paulo (one of three futbol teams in the city) play for the league championship. I have videos that I will get uploaded soon, but this was akin to watching your home team play in the Super Bowl. And when Sao Paulo won, the celebration was as intense as you would expect. This is where my curse words came in handy.

You can´t tell, but Leandro is excited. To the point of tears.

After the game, fans drove up and down Paulista, waving flags, honking their horns and waving to other fans. Later, they shut down the road in celebration, with police in riot gear looking on. We had to search for a bar that showed the game, since owners of bars who supported the other Sao Paulo teams refused to show the game. Joe said that several years ago they changed the leagues rules to get rid of a playoff system and just have the team with the most points at the end of the season be declared winner because too many people died when fans of two opposing teams met to attend a final match. And we Americans think we like sports…

Closing down the streets.

Police lie in wait.

I resisted the urge to begin looting, but just barely. In all, Brazil has been amazing as always – a vibrant cultural mix of European and Latin American sensibilities. I love the people – there is a certain innate lust for life that you don´t find many other places. If I get time this week I may swing by an English school and see what the qualifications are to be a teacher and how much they pay. Nothing serious, but a man has to keep his options open. Videos will be uploaded here sometime this week, I promise.

Panama and Costa Rica, redux

***UPDATED WITH PICTURES***

My how time flies when you start having “responsibilities” and “a schedule” again. One of the parts of our trip that I’ve really come to appreciate is the flexibility we had in the beginning. Find a cool place to stay? Stay there for a few more days – why the hell not? That is how Utila, Honduras and San Juan del Sur, Nicaragua turned into week-plus events. There are few times I’ll be able to travel like this again, so I’ve tried my best to appreciate it. But once Jeff and I bought plane tickets for South America, there was a bit more urgency in our itinerary. So much to do and so little time left. When you’re travelling with commitments, your time tends to go by like a speeding train rather than a surreal dream. Such was Panama. Despite the fact that we spent much of our time sitting inside and watching the rain, the last week went by like a blur.

Despite the weather, I think Bocas del Toro, Panama may be one of my favorite of the Caribbean beach towns we’ve visited. There are plenty of tourists, but not so many that they choke out the local flavor. The town is on “island time” in a big way, but it’s a big enough area that there is plenty to do – you never feel isolated. But faced with a weather forecast that predicted a 90 percent chance of thunder showers for the next 10 days in a row, we decided we needed to get going to find sun. From there it was south over the mountains to the Pacific side, where we prayed the weather might cooperate. It did, to an extent – intermittent downpours instead of constant ones. We stayed at a very homey little hostel in between David, a mid-sized urban area near the Costa Rican border, and Boquette, a supposed mountain paradise perched below Volcan Baru, the largest peak in the country. While using the Frisbee golf course (first one we’ve seen down here) and perusing the 1950s-era jukebox that had been loaded with Dylan, Van Morrison and Neutral Milk Hotel, we got to know one of the owners – a 20-something dude from Fort Lauderdale who made opening up a hostel in Central America sound like a pretty damn good idea. He and a friend had opened up their “Waterfall Hostel” four months ago and were in the process of getting the word out to other travellers. Duder hangs out with travellers and goes surfing – that’s his life. There’s probably at least a little bit of financial stress behind the scenes, but I’m sure it doesn’t come close to the type of stress that you’d have if you were working a 9-5er for The Man in the States.

They don´t even beat around the bush with political slogans in Panama. The translation here is roughly: “Your best option.” At home they just leave it up to us to come to the realization that we are voting for the lesser of two evils.

Matt, who inexplicably shaved his head in Bocas, playing frisbee golf at the hostel on the way to Boquette, Panama.

Edward 40 hands translates as “Eduardo 40 manos.”

Frank the devil bunny.

After two and a half months in all-too-close quarters, it came time for Caleb, Matt and Jeff to split up. Matt wanted to wait for the weather to clear so he could do Boquette and the mountain; Jeff had to fly out of Panama City in a couple days and I was down to my last week before I had to depart for Sao Paulo, Brazil. I went with Jeff to Panama City, hoping to set up a few days on the deserted Caribbean islands of San Blas before I left. Mother nature had other ideas. Having your own island to yourself sounds like a truly transcendent experience, but I couldn’t picture doing it in the rain. So instead I went with Jeff to visit the Panama Canal. I’m glad I can say I’ve seen it, as it undoubtedly is an a testament to human ingenuity, etc. But the three three floors of exhibitions and movies relating every single detail about the canal’s construction was a bit overkill. Jeff, however, was a kid in a candy shop.

Big old tanker with the world´s largest “No smoking” sign moves through a big old canal.

Jeff is excited about big boats.

Jeff is excited about video games. Panama City was up there with Costa Rica as far as “American-ness” goes, as you could tell by the abnormally large mall.

The “tobacco and rum” store.

Knowing I had to get north into Costa Rica by Friday, I decided I should bite the bullet and do as much bus travel as humanly possible in one sitting. That way, I theorized, I could have a couple of days in along a Pacific coast beach before I flew out. My plan worked (even saw the sun again for the first time in a week), but the bus trip from Panama City to San Jose was absolute hell. I don’t sleep well on planes, much less on buses going over pot-holed roads. After leaving Panama City at 11 p.m. and finally dozing off at around 2 a.m., I woke up at sunrise to find us at La Frontera (the border). By far the most trouble we’ve had getting through a border was coming south into Costa Rica, and coming north was no different. I spent a total of four hours in three different lines and had to let “authorities” (they were dressed the same as the cab drivers) go through my bags not once but twice. It would have been better if they actually did search, but it was fairly obvious that none of the guards really cared what tourists had in their bags. Essentially I sat in line for hours only to reach the front, take my hiking boots out of the top of my bag and be waved forward to the next line.

A street dog licks his crotch in front of dozens of idle Panamanian border police. This sums up my feelings about the border crossing.

Another seven hours from there and I arrived in San Jose, feeling a bit like a lobotomy patient. Not wanting to deal with a cab driver (Lonely Planet specifically warns about crooked ones in San Jose), I began to walk towards my desired hostel. Lo and behold it began to rain again, so I hopped in a cab. And lo and behold he drove in circles, going south when I told him the hostel was north and then dropping me off several blocks away from where I needed to be. I finally arrived, got some dinner, and met a dude from UCLA who was studying birds in Monte Verde. Duder complained that he left the book he was reading on the bus to San Jose, so I gave him the copy of “Three Cups of Tea” that my Mom had given me a couple weeks ago. I’m not usually one to give away books, but I have a whole library in my backpack and it’s the type of book that lends itself to a “Pay it Forward” kind of thing. It’s the story of a climber who unsuccessfully tries to scale K2 in Pakistan, gets lost and is taken in by a tiny mountain village and then returns to the village and surrounding area to build schools for the children. I had already read about Islamic fundamentalism (The Looming Tower) and high-altitude climbing (Into Thin Air) on this trip, so reading this was a nice bit of synchronicity. I’d highly recommend it: It makes a good argument for a more humanitarian edge to the “War on Terror,” which seems much more likely to win over the vast amount of poor, directionless youth in those areas that have few other options. The book occasionally gets a bit warm and fuzzy and “Oprah Book Club-ish,” but is worth reading anyways. Then I somehow passed out at 8 p.m. in a dorm room full of eight people and woke up early to head to Montezuma, on the south end of the Nicoya Peninsula in northwestern Costa Rica.

Montezuma was probably my favorite of the towns I’ve been to in Costa Rica – still undeveloped (by Costa Rican standards), with a fair amount of young travellers and an absolutely beautiful white sand beach. I lucked out and found the Mochilla Inn – a great hostel that was up in the jungle a little ways from town. I think I saw more monkeys in two days of sitting on the deck of the hostel than in all of Guatemala. The trade off, of course, is that you’re woken up to their screaming at 5 a.m. every morning, but it’s a small price to pay. Chris, the German owner, and Roberto, the Costa Rican hippie artisan who worked there, were great company, as were the other travellers staying there – Canadians, a Swede and an Irish girl. Yesterday afternoon I went to the waterfall outside of town, which is a hike up a stream bed and along cliffs to a rock amphitheater and a 100+ foot cascadia. The monkeys were there too, including a mom with a baby on the back. Said it before and I’ll say it again – I friggin love monkeys. Last night Roberto took us out to the beach, made a giant bonfire, complete with a bongo drum. In Costa Rica they are fond of saying “Pura Vida” as a greeting or goodbye or pretty much any other occasion. “Pure Life” is the direct translation, but “This is the life” or “I’m doing great” is probably more like it. This was, indeed, “Pura Vida.” The huge amounts of tourists and the price gouging that follows them (us) has soured my impression of Costa Rica a bit, but sitting around the fire that night and practicing my Spanish with a bona fide Costa Rican is a nice last memory of the country.

Live with the monkeys.

Costa Rican beaches.

Montezuma waterfall.

Howler monkey.

If you look carefully, the one at the bottom of the picture is a mother with a baby on her back.

Caleb looks creepy during a bongo lesson with an Aussie, a Canadian, a Swede and a Costa Rican.

The outdoor shower looked right out to the trees. While taking a shower I was suprised to look 15 yards to my right and see an iguana the size of a black lab staring back.

Rita, Roberto´s dog, was being nursed back to health after being run over by a car.

This morning it was once again up at sunrise (it’s a bad habit I’ll have to break when I’m back home), to head back to San Jose so I can catch my flight tomorrow. Roberto suggested I stay in Alejuela, a suburb of San Jose that is closer to the airport. I’m here now and it is certainly less crowded, dirty and sketchy than San Jose. My Thanksgiving dinner consisted of Americanized Mexican food, which is surprisingly hard to find down here. It’s no turkey and mashed potatoes, but it’s the first time I’ve had cilantro in months, so I’m content. Hope the holiday went well for everyone.

Tomorrow I fly from San Jose to Panama City and then on to Sao Paulo. Apparently Sunday is the Brazilian futbol championship – the equivalent of the American Super Bowl, so I’m apparently coming right in time. Joe has mentioned heading to the beach for a few days as well as the countryside, which I’m excited to see. I also intend on doing Rio de Janeiro at some point.

Gotta head to bed. The old man who I assume owns this place is watching “Deal or No Deal” and yelling at the TV: “Take the deal! Just take it! It’s $260,000! Deal!”

When you´re lost in the rain in Juarez…

Turns out “Just Like Tom Thumb´s Blues” is a fitting soundtrack to the trip so far. Once again we´re on a Caribbean island during a four-day long rain storm. I´m not looking for sympathy – I know there are far worse places to be, but it´s a bit of a let down not to be able to take advantage of idyllic beaches because of the weather.

First some pictures from Costa Rica, where Matt, Jeff and I stayed with the lovely Roger and Kelly Heeringa and ate like Americans (well and often) once again.

Our first group photo in nearly two-and-a-half months. Predictably, I look creepy and Jeff´s ADD has caused him to stare at something in the sky.

Apparently mutant iguanas like pineapple.

Jeff walking on water again in Puerto Viejo, on the Caribbean coast near Panama.

Now here we sit in Bocas del Toro, Panama, reading books (including my first experience with David Sedaris) and watching it pour rain. The plan is to leave tomorrow for Panama City (reportedly the most “cosmopolitan” of Central American capitals, whatever that means). I am going to try my hardest to make it north from there to San Blas, a string of sparsely populated Caribbean islands that are supposed to be the creme of the crop. But we´re having to deal with a “schedule” for the first time on our trip – Jeff flies south on Monday and I follow suit next Friday. Time will tell.

Goodbye Nicaragua, hello America.

Apologies for the lack of updates – life is so busy here in the surreal dream world that is our trip. Mostly we’ve been religiously watching the pundits on CNN and BBC World News argue in circles about whether Obama is God himself or only half-Kenyan and half-deity. I fully expect that by the time I get back he will have raised the economy from the dead, solved global warming and found world peace just by sheer will-power. Seriously though, I’ll just settle for another economic stimulus package while I consider whether I look better in a Subway or Quiznos uniform.

The day after the election, which Matt and I watched crowded around the television with people from all over the world, we took off for the Nicaraguan highlands – Esteli, Matagalpa and Jinotega. We needed to kill a little time before my parents arrived in Costa Rica. The highlands were beautiful on the way down from Honduras and we figured we could find some good coffee near the plethora of coffee farms in the area. On the way up we figured out the reason it was so green – it rains a lot there. We ruled out hikes in the nature reserves and tours of coffee farms for that reason. We did get plenty of views on the bus rides to and from, however, and had some memorable times in hotel rooms along the way. Though we’d loved what we’d seen of Nicaragua (if I had to pick a country to live down here, Nica would be it without a doubt), it has one thing in common with the rest of the continent – a tourist track. Sometimes it’s a relief to see white people, but other times you hardly feel like you’re in a third-world country. It’s a delicate balance – a few days of one extreme occasionally needs to be tempered by the other extreme. Thankfully, we were just about the only white people for miles in the highlands. Locals gave us the sorts of looks we hadn’t seen since rural Guatemala – the looks that make you wonder if you have a tail and antenea. They don’t see many white folks in these parts.

BBQ ladies cook on the street sides in Leon. Don’t know what took us so long, but street food is the way to go. A giant pile of rice, beans and chicken tacos for $1.50? Yes, please. Once your digestive system goes through a few ugly, uncomfortable weeks of adjustment, you’re safe to eat just about anything down here. The key is to only buy from people you can actually see cooking the food.

Matt says hi to a turtle wandering around the hostel.

Matt plays cat billiards.

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Jeff shows off his freakish metabolism by overdosing on cookies in Esteli.

Jeff shows his feelings on Caballito, which sells for about $1.80 a fifth. For that price we couldn’t afford not to drink it, while watching The Rock (featuring the talents of Nicholas Cage) in Jinotega.

Caballito wreaks havoc on Jeff, causing him to break out in hives. It also caused him to remark, “Let’s go out and start a fight,” in rural Nicaragua. Matt and I babysat.

***PICTURE REMOVED AT REQUEST OF THE PHOTOGRAPHED***
The end of the Caballito night.

“The Rooster More Rooster,” which inexplicably sells kitchen appliances.

The highlands out a bus window.

Jeff proudly shows off the 2/3 of a liter of urine he created in the back of a school bus.

We stayed in Granada again after heading south, since it was a good halfway point to Costa Rica. We arrived at the Bearded Monkey at about 4 p.m. that day to learn that because of the upcoming municipal elections in town, we could not purchase alcohol past 6 p.m. Nicaraguans have a nasty habit of rioting during election season and alcohol doesn’t help. The ban lasts from the night before, all of election day and into the day after. We made use of the two hours we had that night. The next day much of the town was shut down, making getting a bus out of town even more difficult. Cassie, the manager at the Bearded Monkey, entertained us by showing off the amazing colonial house she was renting from a Brit named Tavin. The fact that she paid as much a month as we paid for a tar paper shack in Bellingham made me feel like I’d been wasting my life. The next day I decided that a locally made guitar was going to be my single souvenir from this trip, so Cassie and I went to Masaya, a town known for its local handicrafts. I found the most beautiful six string I had ever seen, but couldn’t bring myself to pay the $400 for it, even though it probably would have been three times that in the states. My next choice for a souvenir, a hammock, was also out of the question because the market was still closed because of the election. Looks like it’s only Che Guevara shirts for me.

I want banana trees in my house.

Cassie and Matt lounge in hammocks.

A young girl, friends with the girl (yes, she insisted she was female) to the right, takes a picture of Matt, Cassie and I while playing with my camera while we sat in Parque Central.

Her self-portrait.

“Testiculos” are just what you think they are.

A local television station covered the riots happening in Managua due to the election. That’s a truck you see burning. Several people ended up being shot. Good call on not travelling.

Jeff and Matt had already headed south to Montezuma, on the south end of the Nicoya peninsula in Costa Rica. So I said goodbye to Nicaragua (hands down my favorite of the countries we’ve seen so far) and headed south to Playa del Coco, near where I would meet my parents the next day. As luck would have it I happened to run in to Ode (of Ode and Tina from Utila fame) in a coffee shop downtown. Like me, Tina’s parents were also staying in the area and so Ode and Tina were taking advantage of a “vacation from vacation.” Their parents place had a pool and about 80 pounds of fresh caught Mahi Mahi and Red-fin tuna. We caught up with each other’s stories from the last few weeks (turned out that Ode and Tina had been to all the same places that Matt, Jeff and I had, but in a different order.)

Ode and Tina, goofy as always, get in a food fight.

Now Matt, Jeff and I are staying with my parents. It’s nice to live like an American again after some of the places we’ve been staying in, though we’ll probably be high-tailing it south to Panama as soon as we’re done here. The tourism here has brought lots of money and political and economic stability to Costa Rica, but it also means everything is twice as expensive as we’re used to. For now, Jeff, Matt and I will enjoy feeling like we’re living like kings. From there, Jeff and I have a week and a half before we fly to South America. I wish I had the words to describe this trip thus far, but they really fall short. This blog just scratches the surface of the beauty of the places we’ve seen, the character of the people we’ve met and the joys of the times we’ve had. It’s been two months out of my life thus far, but it’s felt like a lifetime in all the best ways.

Bob Dylan, Halloween and a cockfight

I figured I´d fill you in on my eventful last few days while I sit and refresh the New York Times homepage waiting for election results to come in.

After playing soccer barefoot on the beach Thursday (Note to self: Just because the locals can do it doesn´t mean gringos can. My feet are torn up, still.), Matt and Ariel from Israel followed everyone´s suggestions and went out to a bar where they have an open mic night. I sat down and made friends with an outgoing young Swede named Jimmy (pronounced Yimmy) and his girlfriend. Jimmy is temporarily living in San Juan Del Sur, as his level of intoxication could attest. Jimmy, who also happened to know the owner, asked if I played – to which I said yes. Before I knew it I was handed a guitar and told to go up and play. Quickly racking my brain for which songs: A) I knew the words to, and B) At least some of the tipsy, half-Latin crowd might know, I came up with Bob Dylan´s “Just Like Tom Thumb´s Blues” and “I Shall Be Released,” as well as Radiohead´s “Karma Police.” A Canadian dude whose guitar I had borrowed in Ometepe was also in the crowd and came up and backed me up on harmonica and vocals, as well as a house bassist and some dude from El Salvador playing bongos. I don´t think I´d played in front of a crowd in three or four years, but it was every bit as fun as I remembered. I´m most impressed that I was able to remember four out of the six verses of Tom Thumb after three beers.

Drunken singalong.

The next night was Halloween. Although no one in Latin America actually celebrates Halloween, we lucked out in that we were in the whitest place in Nicaragua. For as beautiful as San Juan Del Sur was, it was a little like the Nicaraguan version of Cancun – full of gringos with their minds set on partying. In a country that is otherwise authentic and proud of it´s Latin American identity, San Juan sticks out in not the best way in my mind. But maybe that´s because I´m not a surfer. But as they say, “When in Rome, do as the Romans do.” And we did. Darren, an animated and hilarious travel-loving Canadian who looks and acts a little like a bulked up Stifler from the “American Pie” movies, went as his own Facebook profile. Considering how difficult it is to find a costume store in a country that doesn´t celebrate Halloween, this was impressive. Jeff briefly made a mask out of a pie tin and went as a robot ant, but otherwise the rest of us just went as gringos. One of the numerous highlights from the evening was seeing the delight in the eyes of a 17-year-old kid from the Seattle area in a bar. Another was being told by a Nicaraguan chick that I was so white she could “see my kidneys and liver.” The next day it was six or seven hours of bus ride to Leon, hangover be damned.

Local kids chilling on the beach, enjoying a mind-blowing sunset. This is a daily occurrence in San Juan.

Darren shows off his costume.

Jeff is a robot ant.

17-year-old has only seen girls dance on bars on MTV. Come to think of it, that´s the only place I´ve seen them do that as well.

Leon is swimming with history that I´m slowly starting to pick up. Back in the days of the civil war, it was the base for the Sandinistas and has always been at the center of left-leaning politics – the counterweight to the more right-wing Granada to the south. You can´t walk for a block without getting a sense of this. Wall murals depict Nicaragua´s history, from the Mayan roots to the Spanish conquest to the bloody revolutions. While walking around sightseeing I was approached by a sweet little old lady who offered to walk me around town and explain the significance of the art. My Spanish was only good enough to pick up bits and pieces, but it was extremely interesting, particularly being an American.

Augusto Sandino, champion for the peasants and farmers in the 1920s and 30s and the basis for the name “Sandinista,” stands on top of Uncle Sam. Another mural depicts him doing the same to Samoza, a family of U.S.-backed right-wingers that ruled the country until the revolution in 1979.

One of many beautiful olf churches in town.

Looking up at said church. It´s been in the 80s or 90s nearly our entire time here, but cools down enough at night to be pleasant.

A mural depicts the killing of four students by government militia in downtown Leon. Four crosses are painted on the road where it happened – you´d think they were the markings for parking spots if you didn´t know better. Think of it as a Latin American Kent State.

The CIA as a snake. Those are said to be America´s hands on top.

On the activity board in our hostel there was a sign that said “Rooster fights.” I´d heard of this before but wasn´t quite sure I was ready to witness it. The journalist in me won out and I had to go. Our guides, a Dutch couple who pride themselves in doing tours that get gringos connected with the bonafide local community, brought us to the seedy part of town and into Don Pedro´s cockfighting ring. This really is a popular hobby for quite a few locals down here – people train their chickens by making them run against rubber bands and fighting with “gloves” on. Our guides assured us that Nicaraguan cock fighting was “more humane” than cockfighting in Asia, where chickens are armed with two-inch blades. Here they are only fitted with tiny sharp points – the equivalent of a pin prick. As we sat drinking local rum (horrid stuff that goes for two dollars a bottle) and beer to get the real “local feel,” people began filing in with roosters in hand. Most sat in their owner´s hands like a domesticated cat. Matches go for 15 minutes and the winner is declared if one chicken puts their beak in the ground (a universal sign for giving up), if the losing chicken outright runs away from the winner or if the losing chicken dies. There is a referee who oversees the whole match. Owners will sometimes stop the match to do the equivalent of CPR on their animal – blowing down their throats to clear them of blood so they don´t choke. The guides said that the animals rarely die and often an owner will nurse a good fighting chicken back to health to fight again. Like Rocky or something. If an owner or a rooster does particular well on the local circuit, they can go to the national one, where it costs the equivalent of $15 dollars to watch and bets upwards of $1000 dollars are placed. The guides did their best to convince us that it really wasn´t that barbaric and I did my best to convince myself that I eat chicken all the time, so it really shouldn´t offend me to see one killed. Matt, Jeff and I got into an argument about what really separates this from dog fighting, bull fighting or some sort of Roman death match. I´m not a big fan of chickens and their tiny, useless brains, but I´ve also never had any desire to see them fight to the death. At the end of the day (only two fights, thankfully), I was certainly ready to go home. I have to say I´m glad I did it, as it felt like the first time all trip that we interacted with the locals on their playing field and outside of a safe “tourist” destination. But I can´t say it´s something I have the desire to ever witness again. If I didn´t love the taste of meat so much it´d be enough to make me go vegetarian.

My biggest question (someone forward this to PETA) is what Pepsi is doing sponsoring a cockfighting ring in rural Nicaragua.

One of our guides demonstrates how to hold a rooster.

Matt pets a rooster before rooting for its death.

The long prongs are mounted along the boot on their claws, the tiny bump you see on the underside of the “U” is the little pin prick.

Exactly what you´d expect from a cockfight – two animals beating each other to within an inch of their life and drunk people cheering them on.

Matt sits in the ring with the man in the leather hat – a big wig in the local cockfighting scene.

It was up early the next morning (3:45 a.m. – No, that´s not a typo) to head out on a two-day trek with Quetzaltrekkers – a non-profit that leads guided hikes and puts all their proceeds to programs that help local street kids. A chain of large, active volcanoes runs north from Leon. We got to climb three of them in two days and camp on the last one overnight. While our last trek had upwards of 10 people, it was just us three and two guides for this hike – a hippie named Ryan from Berkeley and Franz from Austria. The way was hot, which made the climbing strenuous, but the volcanoes themselves were amazing sights – the kinds of things that would be crawling with people in the states. But the only people we saw the entire time were local cattle ranchers bring their herds up to the fertile forests that surround the peaks.

A sea of black, volcanic sand greets you on the way to Cerro Negro, the newest of the volcanoes.

Jeff, with guides in tow, heads up the volcanoe.

Large boulders, thrown from the crater, sit in the black sand desert. Looked like something out of Star Wars.

Sulfur makes you cough while in the crater.

The face of a monkey comes out of the wall of the crater.

The view north, to another steaming volcano.

Jeff heads down the wall of the volcano. It´s probably 800 feet of pure sand to the bottom. This is where we could have surfed if we had come with another guide service. A couple years ago a dude broke the world record for fastest speed on a bike while heading down this slope of the mountain but then had to be hospitalized after the bike broke in half.

Matt, Jeff and a guide head down.

The ranger station had a rattlesnake in a tiny cage and provided you a stick with which you could poke the snake.

Beautiful butterflies wouldn´t leave you alone, kinda like mosquitos. This is my knee.

Butterfly and a beard that desperately needs to be trimmed.

The last volcano was called “El Hoyo,” Spanish for “The Hole.” This is why.

Looking down in the hole, which is believed to have been caused when lava created a bubble underneath and then receded, leaving the roof to collapse.

That´s Matt up above the hole.

The top of El Hoyo is littered with tiny vents that smoke and give off heat. This is how we warmed our water for the morning coffee.

The volcano also had a giant bat cave, which we explored for a bit. We went in as it was getting dark and just as the bats were preparing to flock out of the cave for the evening. I got as far in as I could but had to turn around when they started buzzing by my face. Of course none of the pictures turned out, but this was a creepy, creepy place, even as caves go.

Matt and Franz watching the sunrise from the top. Perhaps the best sunrise I´ve ever seen. Point and shoot don´t do it justice.

Descending down. The lake in the back is the laguna where we stopped to swim and eat lunch.

A scorpion.

I can´t take this anymore.  This election need to be over.