Volcan Villarrica

Pucon: Entry to the Mountain Ranges

I am writing from our third and final destination in Chile, Pucon. Pucon is a city in the lake district where the land is shaped by glaciers. Jagged mountains rise over smooth lakes, both formed by the movement of ancient glaciers. Pucon is nestled at the edge of a lake and the foot of the Vulcan Villarrica, Volcano Villarrica, one of the most active volcanoes in the world. The sight of the mountain is stunning; its summit is the tallest thing in sight and covered in snow. The opening of the volcano emits white hot steam when the clouds part from its top. In the evening, when the sun sets, the glowing light of the day's last sun is caught by the smooth while slopes of the mountain's sides and reflects back a warm honey orange color. It's breath taking.

The town of Pucon is a mountain town; one main street full of shops and bars and restaurants. The surrounding streets hold accommodations from hostels to 5-star hotels. The streets are calmer here, the dogs less abundant, the international tourists, plentiful. You could be in Montana or Colorado if it weren't for all the Chileans in town. There is a plethora of outdoor activities here; mountain biking, white water rafting, hiking trails and climbing the volcano. The volcano is one of the main reasons people travel to Pucon. There are a handful of outfitters that organize group hikes to the summit of the volcano. They supply transportation to base camp, the gear you need to get to the top and a guide to lead you.

When we arrived in Pucon, we weren't quite sure which of the dozens of outdoor activities we were going to choose from; there was mountain biking, white water rafting, horseback riding, thermal pools, hiking and mountain climbing. We spoke with some of the kids at the hostel we were staying at and all of them had done the volcano hike. Hearing their stories and listening to the excitement in their voices, I knew I had to climb that volcano.

Everyone in the hostel used the Sierra Nevada Outfitters to do the climb, so we headed there. The day before the climb, we were fitted for our gear: stiff climbing boots, water-proof pants and jackets, and helmets. The tour doesn't provide food, so we had to hit the supermercado for some sandwich fixins, granola bars and water. We bulked up on carbs that night for dinner and tried to get some sleep.

The next morning was early, 7 a.m. at the outfitters. We dressed ourselves in the the pants, jackets and boots we tried on the day before. There was also a backpack full of more gear we would need; a covering for our boots to keep out snow, gloves, hats, helmets and crampons. Crampons are the spikes that you attach to hiking boots so that you can trek your way up snow. Also inside was our "sled." We were going to spend about 4 hours climbing up the mountain. The quickest way back down is by either skiing, snowboarding, or sledding. Our tour used sledding. But, it wasn't a sled as you would imagine it to be, it was more like a giant diaper that you strapped to you butt and slid down the mountain on.

There were seven of us in our group, Mike and myself, three Brazilians, our main tour guide, Miguel, and an assistant tour guide, Frances. We all pilled into a van and took the 30 minute bus ride to base camp. We left Pucon and ascended the mountain passing lodges and cabins usually full in the winter high season. The paved road turned into a dirt road, and the dirt road turned into a one lane passage way taking us further and further up. Every so often, we would get a glimpse of the mountain through the trees; we were going to climb that today!

Base camp was just a parking lot at the foot of a chair lift that would the first portion of our ascent. We hopped out of the van and were hit with the cold. It was much colder at base camp than back down in Pucon. I quickly struggled to put on my gloves and get my hat, my hoodie's hat and my jacket's hat on before I froze. Although I was wearing a t-shirt, my hoodie, my North Face jacket, jeans and socks, all topped with the wind/snow resistant pants and jacket, I was still shocked by the intense cold. I haven't been in weather that cold in many years and my body wasn't used to it! Once bundled up, the guides distributed packs and snow axes to all of us. Yes, snow axes. This was going to be serious! I also took my camera with me, fitting it perfectly into the belly pocket my my jacket.

For an extra 5,000 pesos, you can take two chair lifts up the mountain. They cut off about two hours of hiking, so we definately chose the lifts. The ride to the top was rather peaceful. It was early morning, the light was barely coming through the clouds that hung over the mountain and there was no sound, just the low steady sound of the chairlift pulling us up the mountain. There wasn't much wind during the first lift ride, but the temperature of the air was still cold enough to freeze my toes through my boots. By the time we hit land again, I had lost all feeling in my toes. The second lift ride wasn't so peaceful, the wind started to pick up. By the time the lift dropped us off, the wind was fierce, and cold! Any exposed skin was subject to intense cold. My hands hurt from the wind while we strapped on our crampons. My feet froze inside my boots. Wind even found a way to blow up the back of my jacket and freeze my back. I was wondering how I was going to deal with the cold for the rest of the day. (If you know me, you know I hate being cold.) I started dancing around just to get my blood flowing and try to get warm.

The top of the second lift was the starting point of the hike. There were about a dozen groups all huddled around putting on the last of their equiptment, arranging scarves and hats to block the wind, applying sunscreen and chapstick and eating quick snacks. After our group helped each other with the equiptment, we gathered around Miguel, our guide, for a brief "how-to hike a mountain covered in snow" speach. Our snow axes were very important. We used them as a walking stick most of the time making sure we always held it in our hand that was closest to the high side of the path. They would also be used as a "brake" if we were to fall. Other than that, we were told to walk carefully! Then we were off, and up.

The first part of the walk proved to be more difficult than expected. The path we took zigzagged up the incline, but the ascent was still steep, and Miguel had the energy of an ox. He guided us up, a a very steady pace. In no time, my legs were starting to feel the burn. I also was having some trouble with the altitude. I would guess we were at about 8,000 feet, and the thinner air was making it difficult for me to get the oxegen that I needed. I sucked it up and pressed on, higher and higher up the side of the mountain. We kept the same pace for about an hour with only one or two very short breaks. There were a few times where I thought I might not be able to do this, my legs were really feeling the incline and I was having trouble breathing. But, then I would look down and see how far I'd come, then I would look up and see where I was going. I had to do this.

We were relented with a break for lunch at about the halfway point. We dropped our packs, heaved in air and rested our aching muscles. Eating was the last thing I wanted to do, but gnoshing on the ice cold sandwiches and half frozed granola bars was a much needed energy boost. We ate, drank and rested for about 20 minutes. I snapped a few pictures but using the camera in the cold proved to be incredibley challenging. I had to take off my gloves to change the settings on my camera, and the exposed skin promptly froze. So, I just set it to "AUTO" and did my best to snap pics through my gloves.

After our rest, we reassembled and mentally prepared ourselves for the second half of the climb. It was a little difficult considering we were staring up at an almost verticle ascent. But, I fixed my sights on the summit and started off. We started to climb and I got myself into a routine: One step, two step, ax. Baby steps and long slow breaths. One step, two step, ax. Baby steps and long slow breaths. It worked. The pain I was feeling in my legs and lungs had all but disappeared; I had found my second wind. I had somehow gotten myself into "The Zone" and I wasn't having any difficulty with the climb. We continued our ascent, stopping every half hour or so for very shorts rest/water breaks. The wind was still blowing and the air was still cold, but within the layers of protection, I was sweating my @$$ off!

The higher and higher we climbed, the more steep and dangerous our trek became. The wind began to increase and clouds began to shade the sun. There were a few points were my vertigo kicked in, but I quickly stopped shooting glances at the track we had taken, now far beow us. We were taking more rests now, Miguel was making sure the group was able to continue. We all would assured him that we were ok, and then we would continue. I was sitll in my "zone" and feeling good despite the wind and lack of visibility. We came to a stopping point and Miguel pointed up. There, only a few dozen feet up was the summit. We were almost there. We rested on last time and pushed off. My second wind started to fade at this point as the ascent was now more like steep stairs. It was getting harder and harder to lift my legs. My knees were becoming more and more unreliable and the wind was threatening to blow us away. But it was right there, the summit was withing reach, only a few short yards to go. I pushed the pain to the back of my mind and made my legs work. I had to get to the top. there was no way I wasn't going to do this. I had come this far, I can't stop now.

My self encouragement, along with some encouraging words from one of the Brazilian guys behind me, I dragged myself up the last 20 feet of "steps." I made it! I was at the top! I was standing at the summit of a volcano! All the pain I felt on the way up dissapated and all I felt was pure accomplishment. I could not believe I had jsut climbed up the side of a mountain, through snow, wind and weather. I did it! I cannot express what it felt like in words. It was simply one of the most rewarding experiences of my life.

The summit of the volcano was like another world. The wind was dangerously fast, the gases being emmited from the volcano gave the surrounding snow a brown color and filled the air with a noxious smell. The cloud coverage permitted no visibility while up there and we didn't stay long, just time enough to snap a few photos and a few celebratory hugs throughout the group, which at that point was only the two Brazilian guys and myself. We had lost our guide to the group members that couldn't make the last few hundred feet. Instead, we continued on with another group and thier guide.

We quickly escaped the dangerous conditions of the summit and made our way down via another path. Once we were away from the summit, the noxious gases ceased to tourture our lungs and throat and the wind died down, the visibility was still terrible. But, we sill had to get down the mountain. Our new-found tour guide explaind to us how we were going to do it. We were to strap on our "sled," sit with our legs together in front of us, knees bent slightly, and our ax angled down to our side. Our heels were to be used as brakes and the ax was used to control our speed. We sat like you would in a kayak. There were paths already carvedout in the snow for us to slide down on and one by one, we took the plunge. At first, the challenge sledding on your @$$ coupled with the zero visibility ahead of you instilled some fear in me. But, after I got the hang of controlling my descent, it actually became fun! We would slide for a few hundred yards, pick up and walk a few feet, then slide some more.

We met up with Miguel and the other in the group that didn't make the summit. Then, we continued to slide! Our descent last for about an hour, sliding, walking, sliding, walking. About half way down, we passed below the cloud line and we could see again. Below us was Villarrica Lake and Pucon, a world away at that point. In the distance were other snow capped mountains topped with clouds. At this point, the sledding was pure fun! Being able to see where you were going made it much easier to let go of your speed and we hauled @$$ down the path. I laughed and screamed the entire way down. All the pain I felt earlier that morning had disappeared, this was too much fun!

Not all of our descent was via sled. We had about 45 mintues of walking through slushy snow at the foot of the slope. It was at this point that I began to feel the wear and tear on my body. I could feel pain on the back of my heels from the boots, my knees could barely keep me up, and my nose was raw from wipping snot all afternoon. But I did it, I climbed a volcano. It was worth the pain I am currently enduring.

Back where we started at base camp, we dropped our gear, gave some more hugs of congratulations and pilled back into the van. Exhausted, we arrived back in Pucon about nine hours after we left. It had been a long day. We returned our clothes and boots and packs full of equiptment. We said goodbye to our fellow climbers and said thank you to our guides. We made it back to the hostel wet, wounded and cold, but proud. I was unbelievably proud of myself for climbing that volcano. Like I said earlier, if you can jump off a bridge with only a cord strapped to your ankles to save your life, you can do anything. I think I just proved that.

Los Cerros de Magia

Valparaiso - "Paradise Valley"

The second city on out whirlwind Chilean tour was Valparaiso, a port city about 90 minutes west of Santiago. We hopped a bus for this one, a Chilean version of Greyhound, Tur Bus. To our surprise, it was a rather decent experience! The bus was new and clean, and the amount of stopping was tolerable. And the price was right, 4,ooo pesos a piece, that's roughly $8 a person.

The bus ride took us through Chilean county side, a much needed change of scenery after our few days in Santiago. Dry rolling hills spotted with low shrubby trees gave way to lush valleys planted with fruit trees or grape vines. We had hit wine country, the inner gem of Chile. The stretches of vineyards lasted for miles. The rows if vines were interrupted sporadically by farmhouses or wine estate homes. The scene was slightly reminiscent of Franschoek, South Africa's wine region, but there was a certain lack of European influence here in this South American region. This was still Chile, still Latin America, still slightly behind our western standards.

We began our decent down steep hills, through tight valleys; we were getting closer to the shore. Small houses and tall apartments began to dot the hillsides. The hills led us down around a sharp corner and in an instant, we were in the thick of Valparaiso. We were on a main street that had the hustle and bustle of any busy street in Santiago, but here was different, there was character.

Valparaiso's few main streets ran parallel to the shore line which was one large port. No beach here, just vessels docked, containers being loaded and unloaded and a small grouping of fishermen unloading the day's catch. The buildings lining the streets were another mix of old and new, colonial met modern with a splash of color and character. The main streets were full of tiny stores that sold anything from clothing to car parts, each store unique to its specific product. Hundreds of people swarmed the streets going about their daily business, street vendors and vegetable stalls were selling fresh food and just like the rest of Latin America, the streets were full of wandering street dogs.

Taxis and buses competed for space with the old electric cable buses that still attached themselves to the criss-cross of cables that hung over the streets. The flocks of pedestrians filled the sidewalks and darted out into traffic at their leisure, making traffic halt for them. The atmosphere was chaotic yet somehow charismatic.

A few blocks in from the water, off the main streets, the craziness stops and the noise ceases; this is the foot of the cerros, the hills, of Valparaiso. The world of the cerros is shockingly different from the crazed streets below. Unthinkably steep stairwells lead you into a world of vibrant color and incredible architecture. The zigzag of streets and pasajes (walkways) take you through neighborhoods of brightly painted homes and tiendas (stores) that climb the hills and sit at impossible angles on the land. The colors are vivid hues of reds, blues, yellows and purples and all parts of the building are painted differently; the doors, the doorframes, the shutters.

The wild colors of the buildings rival those of the stencil graffiti and murals, a tasteful addition to the vibrant streets. The favored method of graffiti in Chile seems to be the stencil. The subjects of choice are cartoon characters, political messages and random symbols or faces. They are everywhere, on sides of buildings, in stairwells, even on the ground. The murals are just as numerous but are much larger. Some cover entire sides of buildings boasting random scenes or messages as well. Most are actually beautiful works of art on display for all to see.

From doorways and windows, the friendly locals wave "Hola!" and smile as you walk by. Neighborhood dogs and cats freely roam the streets and guard doorways. Old seemingly abandoned cars sit on street curbs collecting dirt. Maze-like walkways lead you astray and leave you guessing about their destination only to spit you out on a terrace that offers a magnificent view of the busy city below or the neighboring hills on either side.

Throughout the cerros there are asendores, or funiculars, or for us Americans, incline rail cars. They are an easy way to skip over the sometimes exhausting stair climbs, as some can be many many feet high. The cars are small old wooden boxes which rattle themselves close to death as they ascend or descend the nearly vertical hills. The ride was joltingly enjoyable, like an old wooden rollercoaster, although slightly terrifying; you were hoping those old cables were still capable of pulling the rickety car up the incline.

Needless to say, most of my time was spent in the cerros, walking through the streets, taking photos, enjoying the quiet. But, there were things to see down in the city as well. The markets were the most fascinating; dilapidated old buildings whose ground floor held dozens of fruit and vegetable stands and upper levels housed a few "restaurants" that all share a central common seating area. These "restaurants" were basically small family run kitchens who all served similar local dishes.

When you walk into the seating area, the servers from the various restaurants jump at you, beckoning you in Spanish with what I'm sure are glorious descriptions of what their restaurant serves. When you decided which restaurant to eat at, or get annoyed with the persistent Spanish babbling of the servers, you take a seat at one of the small tables covered in a delicate lace table cloth that has seen years of use. The server brings an equally worn placemat and lays down mismatched silverware and paper napkins. A basket full of small loaves of white bread accompanied by a tomato and cilantro "salsa," or sauce, and lemon slices come next. The purpose of the lemon slices is unknown, but the salsa and bread combo were a tasty appetizer. Coke or an orange flavored soda are the beverages of choice, served to you from a glass bottle with an accompanying kiddie sized glass. Menus are all in Spanish, mostly with unrecognizable food item names. But, the two times we chose to eat in the market restaurants, we knew what we were there for.

First it was real empanadas. We had some filled with a delicious white queso, queso and shrimp, and one with mariscos (seafood.) The queso empanadas were fabulous, light fluffy dough shaped like a "D" or like a pirogie, filled with the rich queso, then fried so that the dough crisps slightly and the cheese melts. Paired with the "salsa" that is brought with bread at the beginning of the meal, the queso empanadas make an incredibly delicious snack. I also tried a third empanada stuffed with mariscos, which means "seafood." I was expecting shrimp and fish pieces, maybe. Instead, it was filled with the only seafood item I don't particularly care for, mussels. It was chock full of them, and only them. I picked out the "good parts" and left the rest.

The second market restaurant experience was to try Chiveche, fish cooked with citrus juice. This location was similar to the first, above a market, surrounded by other "restaurants" that all served the same seafood dishes. Our server was the most persistent when it came to the glorious Spanish descriptions of what was on his restaurant's menu, so we chose his restaurant. Same routine, worn place mat, miss-matched silverware, bread with "salsa" and lemon slices. Coke bottle was next, also served with a kiddie sized glass. We ordered our chiveche and waited for it to be prepared. I watched the cook behind the counter cut lettuce and tomato, squeeze lemon juice, do something with a white fish and finally dish up our meal. It arrived to us with a stunning presentation considering our surroundings; a bed of shredded lettuce garnished with tomato wedges and shredded carrots and topped with what looked like tuna salad, the chiveche. The final garnish was unknown to me, but I deemed it a "bivalve of inedible ugliness" and pushed it to the side. The entire presentation floated on the layer of lemon juice that was used to "cook" the fish. It looked lovely but I made the comment that this was our make-or-break meal. Either it was going to be made perfectly and blow us away with its deliciousness, or it wasn't prepared correctly and we would feel the uncooked fish, later.

I thought about that guy on the Travel Channel that travels the world and eats "strange" food. I'm sure he'd seen something stranger than this and I figured this was a cake walk. One bite and my thinking was confirmed, delicious. The flavorful mix of fish that was not too fishy, citrus and seasoning was great and seemed to be prepared correctly, no "fishy" sensations after we finished.

Our food at the market restaurants was much more enjoyable than our first culinary experience in Valparaiso. It was our first night and we chose a bar/restaurant on one of the main streets to eat dinner. There were recognizable food items on the outside menu, so we went in. The bar boasted a "happy hour" and I decided to try the national drink of Chile, pisco. Pisco is liquor made from grapes and really packs a punch. It’s mainly served as a Pisco Sour, pisco, lemon juice and sugar. As imagined, it’s delish.

I was lame and ordered Chilean fajitas, but my counterpart order a local dish called Chorrillana. I'm not sure what this translates into, but it’s a dish that could rival any plate of T-Bonz Tommy Fries, and win. A single order consists of a mound of french fries about 6 inches deep topped with grilled onions, fried egg and various meats. It was Chilean drunken bar food if I'd ever seen it.

The remainder of our time in Valparaiso was spent wandering the city. There were many delightful surprises hidden within the hills, too many to describe here. But the city of hills left me feeling slightly enchanted, I found magic in the hills, my mind was allowed to dream there.

Santiago, take 2...

I will have to admit, my first impression of Santiago wasn't a good one. My experience in the airport wasn't as expected. Deboarding in a new country was all the same, customs form, line to get your stamp, entry tax...entry tax? Certain citizens (U.S., Canadian, Australian, and Mexican) have to pay and entry tax to get into Chile. Us Americans owe the Chilean government a hefty $100 a pop to come play in their country. Why? Frankly, I'm not sure. But, I paid without question and finally got another stamp in my passport.

On the other side of the pearly gates, I met up with my friend Mike, the first familiar face I've seen in 3 weeks. It was a moment of mixed emotions. I was excited to see someone I knew, especially upon entering the extremely unfamiliar continent of South America, but at the same time, I was sad. I was enjoying my solo travels more than I ever thought I would. I was able to free my mind and think in ways I have never been able to before. I felt enlightened in my own mind and disconnected from the world, in just the right way. "My chi was aligned," so they say.

There is something that happens to you when you are alone. You are forced to do things that normally you might rely on another to do for you. The initiation of conversation is a big one, for me. Most times, I'm not one to do it, but while trekking through a foreign land, solo, generating a talk about the annoyance of the hostel internet connection might be the most interactive thing you do all day. And trust me, there are some days where that *is* the most interactive thing you do all day. I don't think I had a day where I didn't talk to anyone, but it came close a few times. That was my biggest worry about traveling alone, who would I talk to? I came to find out that there are plenty of people to meet during your travels, and if it weren't for hostels, I probably wouldn't have met most of them. Hostel-hopping may be reminiscent of college dorm days (which I never experienced,) but they also generate spontaneous interaction with people you might not otherwise come in contact with.

And now, here in Chile, all that time to myself ended, abruptly. I was teamed up with another travel buddy, but not ready for it. It wasn't a bad thing, I just needed some readjusting. It wasn't until Day 3 that finally got used to traveling with someone again. The hardest part is decisions, deciding what to go see, or where to eat or what city we want to go next. When you are alone, it’s easy; there is only one person to entertain. Add in one more mind, and there is a chance of conflicting interests. That hasn’t happened yet on this trip, but there is still time…

Day 1 & 2 were spent mostly wandering around, getting our bearings, seeing the “big” things that we could tell from our map and our guide book; monuments, mountains and markets. Day 3 was when I finally got a feel for the city.

Old versus new in Santiago

Santiago is a big city, but the important areas are spread out, split up. The CBD is in the middle, and a few blocks out is the main plaza. A few more blocks and you’ve got the Mercado Central. Walk about a half mile down the river and you’re in Bellavista, the “artsy” neighborhood. From there, cross back over the river and you’ve come to yet another neighborhood that encompasses a castle and a museum.

Santiago is all over the place. Nothing is stagnant, you can’t predict what neighborhood is coming around the corner. Every new street is a new surprise. The best comparison I can make is this:

Santiago is to Chile as Upper King Street is to Charleston.

Santiago is a charming and beautiful city hidden under a layer grimy neglect. Every single street is lined with amazing displays of architecture from colonial all the way to modern, yet some of them are in ruins from decades of neglect. Years of grime have encrusted the once bright paint that distinguished one address from the next. Dirt coats every sidewalk and litter gathers in most gutters. Trash cans overflow, if they are even used, and the river is flooded with refuse. It’s difficult to tell the difference between a bad neighborhood and a good one, they are all dirty.

But, after a few hours of exploring, you will stumble upon one of the few beautiful sections of the city; streets lined with trees bearing spring flowers that fill the esplanade with the sweet scent of spring, brightly painted buildings that house eclectic restaurants or pubs or galleries, or a park that beckons you to steal a moment of solitude on one of its benches.

Santiago’s charm is hidden underneath its unfortunate layer of soot. It’s difficult to look through the filth and see the beauty, but it is there, begging to be discovered, and once you are able to see past decay, Santiago shines.

It may be something small at first that catches your eye: the shine of an address plate hanging on a wall, the ornate carving of a doorframe, the intricate ironwork above an entryway, something small draws you in and opens your mind. From that point forward, you can see past all the dirt and see the real Santiago, a beautiful old world city trying to make a name for itself in this modern era, a people who take pride in the image of their city although it may not pass our western standards. A city guarded by snow-capped Andes that look down on skyscrapers and cathedrals alike. A city who tries hard to be its best.

And it’s with that opinion that I leave this city. Our next destination is Valparaiso, a port city known for is winding streets, multitudes of staircases and bohemian atmosphere. Its here that I hope to get a deeper feel for Chilean culture; fishermen, artists and architecture are what I’m hoping to see, and photograph, here.

This country has proven to be a challenge thus far, but now that the hard part, the introduction, is over, I hope to smile with this country, its culture and its beauty.

So, I've made it to the 5th continent of my travel career, South America. I flew into Santiago, Chile yesterday and after a lenghty stop at customs, I met up with my friend Mike from back home. Apparently, all American passport holders are required to pay a tax in order to enter Chile, a US$100 tax. What? Apparently I didn't do my research. Once I delt with the unexpected charge everything went smoothly. Even at the airport I had to dust off my Spanish skills and talk with the guy at the transportation counter, well, it was actually more like staggered words and lots of pointing, but we got our point across.

A shuttle bus ride later and we were at our hostel, Hostel de Sammy. Its owned by an American guy, not named Sammy, who has a dog, named Sammy. The guy was super nice and gave us some advice of places to see in and out of Chile. Our room is on the third floor of an old row building with heavy wooden floors and stairwells that perpetually creak. The upstairs hallways are dimly lit and seem a little foreboding, but the bustle of backpackers in the outside courtyard liven up the place.

We settled in and headed out to find some food. We asked for a good place to eat near the hostel from one of its more permanent guests and got directions to a small Chilean restaurant up the street. Ask we sat down and looked at the menus, all in Spanish, I tried to pick out the words I knew and assume the rest. I assumed well. I got pollo (chicken) with champinoes (mushrooms) and pepinos (pepers.) Cerveza (beer) was easy. It was a bit of a challenge speaking with the waitress, but I remembered most things I needed to say and she got the rest.

After food, we went off for a walk in the city. With a crappy map and a good sense of direction, we navigated our way to the city center which is few dozen blocks swarming with Chileans going about their daily business. There is 2 main pedestrian streets lined with stores specializing in anything from hats, to underwear, to farmacia. There are restaurants and department stores, street vendors selling magazines and candies every 15 feet, street performers playing authentic Chilean music or giving their rendition of American Pop Musica circa 1985 (think Tom Jones, Rod Stewart, Michael Jackson.)

After only about 2 hours of walking, the jet lag seriously kicked in and we high tailed it back to the hostel to combated it with a late siesta that just turned into an early bedtime. Day 1 was over.

Day 2 proved to be a little more productive. We made our way back to the city center in search of desayauno (breakfast) and una cosa que cambia electricidad de Los E.E.U.U. a Chile (power converter.) After a fruitless search, we found that apparently they don't serve breakfast in Chile, nor do they sell power converters, but somehow out of that jumble of Spanglish, they understood what I was asking for. We opted for lunch instead. In the CBD, this left us with three choices: empanadas top the list (tasty little fried dough pockets filled with some kind of meat,) hotdogs a close second (topped with very "un-hotdog-like" items, like avocado, mayo, and white cheese,) and strange pizzas are third, loaded with meat or seafood until you can't see the crust. I took my chances at one of the dozens vendors and got an Italiano Gigante (Huge Italian) hotdog, covered with said items above. Paired with a cold Coca-cola from a glass bottle, I enjoyed the surprisingly delicious dog while standing at the counter of the tiny restaurant. The deal of the day cost me 1,000 pesos (about $2) and after dropping the guy a 100 peso tip (about 10 cents,) we moved on.

Next up was the Mercado Central (Central Market) which was full of more food stands, fruit vendors, fresh fish and other seafood as well as random stuff such as yarn, lace, jewelry and toys. Leaving the Mercado, we crossed of El Rio Mapocho, the babbling brook of bausra (trash.) I forgot to mention, Santiago is a rather dirty city, not Mexico-City-dirty, but more like ghetto-upper-Charleston-peninsula-dirty. The streets are dirty, there is litter along the sidewalks and in the gutter, some of the parks are too dirty to enjoy and stray dogs out number the beggars, which there are a few. There are areas where its much cleaner, but not many, as we have found.

We followed to river into one of these "cleaner" neighborhoods, Bellavista. This neighborhood was filled with brightly painted buildings that housed restaurants and art galleries along with homes. Commissioned graffiti covered some of the walls along the street, advertising for the eatery or art showcase inside. A few blocks into this eclectic locale and we were at the bottom of Cerro San Cristobal (San Cristobal Hill,) the tallest of Santiago's many surrounding hills. Purched high atop the summit is the statue of La Virgen de la Inmaculada Concepción (The Virgin Mary) who looks over the city of Santiago. You can walk up to get a view of the city, but for 700 pesos ($1.40) you could ride the funiculiar, or incline rail car, to the top.

Once up there we found, surprise, more food vendors. (Its not hard to eat here in Chile.) Aside from the normal snacks and ice cream, there was a strange drink everyone seemed to be enjoying. In Spanish it was called Rico Mote con Huesillos which meant (although not directly translated to) Tea with Wheat and Dried Peaches. It was sweet tea, a soft dried peach and cooked wheat layered in a cup. I was curious so I tried one and although it wasn't terrible, I couldn't imagine why anyone would put wheat in tea.

Back at the bottom the the hill, we took a tour through La Chascona (a term of endearment meaning "Bad Hair Day,") one of Pablo Neruda's houses. Neruda was a famous Chilean poet that achieved rockstar-status throughout Chile back in his day. His quirky collections of everything from spoons to watermellon paintings litter the house that he built. It was a fun way to get a taste for a part of Chilean culture.

After the fun house, we grabbed a beer and some empanadas at a little cafe. Empanadas are small fried dough pockets filled with lots of different things, but mostly a spicy meat blend. They kind of remind me of pierogies, but with a little more of a kick.

We ended our evening with a climb up to the top of Santa Lucia, a castle-like building on a small hill near the river. From its vantage point (as well as from San Cristobal,) we were able to see the layout of Santiago with the Andes bordering one side and the endless stretch of city skyline fading off into the distance.

This city is very different from what I've experienced thus far on the trip. The culture is a big change from Australia and even Africa. It takes some getting used to, especially the machismo of the Latin men here. For those who don't know, it is part of Latino culture for men to make comments or remarks towards a woman in public, whistles, hoots, hollas, you get the point. We experience it at home as well with the Mexican population and its just as annoying.

I'm still getting a feel or this city, I'm not sure what to think yet. Monday we are heading out to Valparaiso, a small eclectic beach town we've been told is beautiful. There is another one of Neruda's houses there we hope to visit. From there its south to wine country and hopefully, eventually the Lake Region, where we will hike an active volcano. All is to be determined. We ship out on the evening of the 12th, giving us just 8.5 days to achieve all this.

Sorry about the lack of visual stimulants in this blog. Since I couldn't find a converter, I couldn't power up the laptop. Its on the list of things to do. And I will do my best to keep the blogs coming. We'll see how Chile treats me.

Much latina love,
Linds

A Sandy Paradise

An island made of sand, the largest in the world, where ancient trees of staggering height tower over smaller palms and luscious jungle ferns whose roots somehow grasp onto the soft sand floor and thrive off of the rich nutrients which are returned to the sand from their fellow plants. Crystal clear fresh water streams flow from equally pristine lakes located in the center of the island whose basins were filled by thousands of years of rainfall. Miles of uninhabited beaches are bordered by the soft turquoise blue water of the southern Pacific Ocean and guarded by hundreds of sharks and jellyfish waiting just off shore. The beauty that exists on this island seems to magically float on a bed of sand. This place seems impossible.




Accessible only by ferry and 4x4 vehicles, Fraser Island is a world of its own. The public is allowed access to this wonder, but the best way to get around this world of sand is with a well-trained guide. Mine was Johnny. Johnny was a crazy little bottle rocket of a man, dressed in board shorts and a jackaroo hat, full of wild energy and freckles. It was obvious that he was the product of a lifetime of the outdoors with his knowledge of the island, ability to drive a 4x4 like a grand prix driver and, not to mention, tanned skin and naturally muscular body.




Johnny's vehicle of choice was Gabby, a Toyota Land Cruiser born and breed for 4x4-ing: brush guard, above engine air intake, roof rack, ladder and bench seating for the seven group members, naively at the will of Johnny. I wouldn't say that Johnny was a bad driver (I've never been driven around on a sand island in a 4x4 vehicle before,) but I firmly believe that all Aussie tour guides believe that they are race car drivers and therefore subject all their passengers to a test of their bodies' limits. The backseat of a Land Cruiser traveling at 110 km/hour down a sand highway is not exactly shock proof and traversing through the interior "road ways" is more like sinkhole dodging than driving. But it was an adventure.




Five minutes after Gabby hopped the ferry, we were on an island that was vaguely reminiscent of one of our barrier islands on the east coast of The States. It was low tide and small waves were crashing on long wide beaches whose border was head high sand dunes guarding a forest, the interior. The fluffy white clouds that dotted the morning sky, the warm humid air and the strong smell of salt and fish only heightened my sense of deja vu.



As we were flying down 75 Mile Beach, the main “highway” of Fraser Island, we passed 4x4 vehicles by the dozens; Land Cruisers similar to Gabby were in the masses but also present were trucks with beds full of fishing gear, the monstrous tour bus sized 4x4's that looked like military salamander vehicles and also the occasional moped.



Since Fraser Island is accessible to the public, any idiot with a rented 4x4, a slew of camping gear, a cooler full of beer and $20 to get on the island can come join in on the fun. And rental companies in Australia will rent a 4x4 vehicle to any idiot, whether they have knowledge on how to drive one or not. Just to point out this fact, our group had to help push out three others bogged in the sand on one "road."

Half way to our first stop, Johnny threw on the brakes and reversed 100 yards down the beach. He hopped out and began digging in the sand. He came back with a handful of small clams, or Pippys. He ensured us that they were safe to eat right off the beach and cracked open their shells on Gabby’s bumper. The soft shellfish inside resembled a clam but its taste was sweeter and combined with a hint of saltwater still on the shell, they made a delicious snack.



Our first stop on Day 1 was Wabby Creek, one of the fresh water creeks that snaked through the island. The water flowing towards us on the beach was clear and cool and the creek’s shallow depth allowed us to see through to the rippled white sand on the bottom. Along its borders were tropical plants whose branches hung over the flowing water and roots grew down into the banks. Although this place was gorgeous, the reason we stopped at this creek was to float down the natural lazy-river. With the coaxing of a doggie-paddle, there was a current that gently swept you along the 300 yard stretch. The sensation of flowing with the clear and cool water surrounding you was indescribable. I allowed myself a few floats downstream, although it was necessary to steer around the fellows floaters walking up stream past me.



Lunch for the day was dished up by Johnny, picnic style, out the back of Gabby; sandwiches, fruit, cookies, all served on metal camping plates. Standing with a half eaten sandwich in one hand while still dripping with fresh water from the creek brought me back to my summer days at the pool as a kid. I couldn’t help but smile.



After lunch, we jumped back in Gabby and drove a few more miles up the beach, destination: a 2.5k walk through the rainforest towards a fresh water lake. One of the thrills of hanging out on a sand island is the freedom to run around barefoot, which I did on our walk to the lake. Our barefoot trek through the forest took us through palms, ferns and the occasional giant Satin Wood Gum Tree. These trees easily stand 100 feet high and have a girth of at least 10 feet. They stand impressively straight and tall despite their root in the soft sand below.



At the other end of the path, expecting that lake, we came to a hill of sand about 300 yards long. Ever so slowly, we climbed the rolling hills of the sand wall and looked down the other side. The wall of sand we were standing on was a natural dam that created the lake on the other side. Thousands of years of wind blown sand had piled up and blocked a creek, forming this beautiful blue green lake. After Johnny assured me that the color of the lake was from plant matter and there were nothing but a few catfish and turtles floating in the tinted lake, I went for a swim to the other side. The water felt amazing. The idea of pure fresh water surrounding you while you float is so refreshing and relaxing.



Our first day ended with dinner and drinks at the Eulong Resort, our accommodation for the night. It was more dorm style rooms, unfortunately, but the short stay made up for the arrangement. After dinner, we were entertained by warnings of the dingos that roamed the island. The dogs on Fraser are the most pure bred of the species and are very smart and aware of humans and were known to walk about the resort at night. Not surprisingly enough, we didn’t see any while we sat on the benches outside talking loudly over a few evening beers. After a heated discussion of where the phrase, “A dingo ate my baby!” originated from (a newspaper headline from the 1980’s about a missing baby in Australia and a woman who blamed it on a dingo,) we called it a night and got what sleep we could before our early morning wake up call.



The next morning, we packed our things, had a small breakfast and jumped back into Gabby. We headed into the interior of the island on our second day via sand roads that truly tested the capabilities of any 4x4 driver. We went up and down sand hills, around sand pot holes and through sand traps. This island was treacherous and Johnny didn’t seem to blink and eye. We just bounded down the path, us fateful followers of the dynamic duo of Johnny and his Valiant Gabby, grasping to anything we could to brace ourselves in the back seat. As we went up and down through sand, we were thrown into the ceiling and tossed into each others’ laps, but we were grinning the entire time.



We finally ended up at Central Station, the hub of the logging community while it was still occurring on the island. The wood of those enormous satin wood figs was used to build the Suez Canal and logging was prevalent on the island until the 1980’s when Fraser Island was declared a World Heritage Site. From Central Station, Johnny sent us on another 2k walk that followed a small stream through the forest. Walking in amongst the trees and plants, hearing the exotic sounds and breathing the strange smells of the forest was fantastic. There is a constant melody of birds and insects, wind gently moving the leaves of the canopy high above your head and the occasional rustle of brush off to your side. The stream that runs to your right makes no sound at all; there are no rocks to create the bubbling noise you are used to hearing, just perfectly clear water gently flowing through groves of trees and ferns. Your bare feet walk along a cool sand path without fear of stepping on anything rough. You feel free and in total awe of this amazing place.



Our last stop on Fraser was at Lake Birrabeen, a crystal clear lake filled by ancient rainfall. Brilliant white sand was lightly lapped by the cool clear water. The white sand quickly turned into hues of blue and the water deepened. The dark mud that covered the bottom of the lake reflected back deep blue. The dark color tricked us into thinking that the lake was much deeper than its 2.5 meters. Swimming out over the color divide only proved this. The clear shallow water allowed us to see through to the bottom, mud.



According to Johnny, The All Knowing, the mud was considered therapeutic and he dove to the bottom to retrieve a handful of the fluffy stuff. Demonstrating its capabilities, he spread the mud over his skin and its dark color “painted” him brown. I was unable to turn down the chance to paint myself any color and smoothed the soft mud all over myself. After a few minutes of laughing from picture taking fun, the mud quickly dried into a difficult stain on my skin, I guess The All Knowing forgot to inform me of that, and I had to scrub off the coloring it left behind. It was not without benefit though; the mud left my skin incredibly soft! I was surprised!



We were left to sunbathe (bake) on the white sand before we enjoyed our last picnic lunch on the island. After more sandwiches and the best cantaloupe I’ve ever tasted, Gabby was making her way back out of the island’s interior. It was the bumpiest ride yet and we were held up by amateurs who repeatedly got bogged in the sand, but Gabby and her relentless driver managed to get us back to 75 Mile Beach, the highway that would take us back to reality. Another ferry hop and a sad look back and we were gone.
My time on Fraser Island wasn't nearly long enough. This place is a natural wonder, a mystery as to how the environment thrives, and I could explore it for weeks. But, my short two day venture would have to suffice. I think I'll just have to come back one day...

Crossing the Gates of Hell, I mean... Brisbane

Ever get that feeling when you meet someone new that the relationship just isn't going to go any where? Like you don't see the world in the same way, so why bother? And from that point forward, everything they did annoyed you immensely?

Welcome to Brisbane, Australia.

We got off on the wrong foot and have been club-footing it down the street ever since.

When I got to Brisbane, I had my first run-in with the unfortunate repercussions of being a solo female traveler. I won't go into it, just remember that I am a smart, ex-bartender, female with confidence and "balls" and I was in no danger.

The hostel I chose is a large one, resembling the size of a normal college dorm. In the world of hostels, what does that mean? No personality. It’s very hard to find your place in an accommodation this large. It’s never the same faces and everyone seems to have their own agenda. There are 30 people in the kitchen at any given time, as opposed to 3. The crowd is young, for the most part, there isn't as much eclectic ness and people aren’t as friendly.

I just wasn't feeling this place.

Next day, I did what I normally do when I get to a new destination, walk. I walked for only a short while, this is the littlest biggest city I've ever been in. Brisbane is situated on the banks of the Brisbane River. Stuffed suffocatingly on it's banks are a small botanical gardens, lots of bike and walking paths, some tall buildings that house mostly shopping and offices and, that's about it.

There is nothing "special" about this city. There is no character to it. You don't walk out on to the streets of Brisbane and feel the city. It’s just blah...not interesting. Sorry to all those I'm about to insult but, here is another SAT question:

Q: Sydney is to Charleston as Brisbane is to __________ ?

A: Columbia.

Brisbane, the armpit of Australia.

I think I've demonstrated my discontent with this city. The only reason I even came to Brisbane was for a rendezvous point for a tour of Fraser Island which turned out to be the root of my contempt of this place.

Since I decided to airport hop my way up the east coast as opposed to bus stop hop, I had to pick and choose my stops around the cheapest, therefore largest, airports. Fraser Island, one of the reasons I'm on this continent, is closest to Brisbane airport. You can tour it on 1, 2, 3, etc. day trips that leave the city of Brisbane and return. I booked myself on one of the 2 day, one night tours, got myself to Brisbane via bus from Byron Bay, planned to go on the tour, spend one night on Fraser, come back and spend one more day in B-Vegas, then fly from here to Cairns.

Sounds simple, well thought out, fool proof even. Right... It's day 13 on my solo trip and I hadn't had one hiccup yet. (The brief 2 minutes where I thought I lost my passport in the Jo'Burg airport doesn't count...) I was due for one.

The tour was leaving at 7:30 am from the bus station about 8 blocks away. I had made that walk already (see the first aforementioned paragraph above about why I hate this city) and knew it would take me about 30 minutes. So, I was awake early (habit of hostel sleeping,) ate breakfast, checked out of the hostel and was headed to the bus station ahead of schedule. Good. Great. No problems. I get to the station, go to where I need to wait and do so for about 30 minutes (remember, I was early.) I'm sitting, waiting, looking at the clock and realizing that its now 8 o'clock. These guys are 30 minutes late! I look at my notes I have written down to see if I got something wrong.

"Meeting time, 7:30 am... place, Roma Street bus station... date,
Wednesday, October 24th... Wednesday the 24th. Is today Wednesday?
(So, I look at the calendar on my cel phone...) Hmm... today is Tuesday the
23rd? Really? I could have sworn it was Wednesday today! Silly
me, I must be traveling too hard, getting my days mixed up! I'll just act
like nothing happened and go back to the hostel and figure out what to do today
here in Brisbane. I can't believe I got up so early today for
nothing!!! That's ok, tomorrow it’s Fraser Island!!!"

So, I do just that. I go back to the hostel to talk with check-in and explain to them why I was checking back in. While walking those 8 blocks, 30 minutes, back to the hostel, I am thinking over the past few days in my head.

"See, I left Sydney on a Saturday, got to Byron that evening... stayed at
Byron on Sunday, but left Monday instead of Tuesday because there was
nothing to do in Byron... mailed my package on Monday from Byron, that was
the 22nd... so if Monday was the 22nd, then Tuesday was the 23rd,
then... HOLY SHIT!!! TODAY IS WEDNESDAY the 24th!!! Oh my
god, Lindsey you idiot!!!"

Yes. Somehow I managed to *%@! up my days and missed the rendezvous!!! I couldn't believe myself, I was so upset. Not only did I miss one tour I was looking forward to the most on this trip, but now I had to spend one extra day in this damned city of Brisbane!

That's not the worst, though.

I get back to the hostel, explain why I'm there again only 2 hours after I checked out and got a room for the night. Then, I figured I should explain myself to the tour operators and plead for a refund. I call the number I had for the company and when I say my name and why I'm calling, the man tells me that they've been looking for me all morning! Apparently, I didn't leave a phone number on my order form, so they couldn't call me. The tour was, at this point, too far away to come back to get me and he also regretted to inform me that he would be unable to give me a refund. While I'm fighting back tears of self-frustration and anger, I apologized to this man for my inconvience to his tour and said thanks anyways. I hung up the phone and lost it. I guess the stress of the morning, my (at this point) sheer hatred for the city of Brisbane and everything associated with it, and a few other things on my mind had gotten to me and I just cried. I told myself that at least it wasn't a plane ride to another country and that things could be worse, somehow.

I calmed myself down after a while and went inside to the "Things to Do" desk and spoke to the very nice woman behind the counter about what happened this morning and how I was looking for something to do in this god forsaken city of hers (with more or less words.) I suggested bike riding along the river (to release some of my stress,) she suggested the zoo. As I kept returning to the fact that I had missed a tour of Fraser Island, the only reason I'm in this city, she mentioned that they book Fraser Island tours too. I told her I wasn't here long enough for another tour, I leave Friday.

"Friday? wait...that's two days away, and my flight doesn't leave
Brisbane until 9:30 at night, the tour will be back before then! I can
still go!!!"

So, I bit the bullet, accepted my f*@! up and bought another tour to Fraser Island, after a very detailed inspection of my schedule next to a real calendar. Now that I was all set up for tomorrow, I still had to plan my day today. The city of Brisbane doesn't offer much of "lets just walk around and see what we can see today" kind of possibilities. I did all of those yesterday. So, the only other thing that Brisbane has to offer is the Lone Pine Koala Sanctuary. It's sort of a petting zoo of Aussie animals for all ages. And their claim to fame? You guessed it! You can hold koalas! And get your picture taken with them, no less! So, if I didn't feel like a tourist signing myself up for this event, then I didn't know what a tourist was.

The hostel runs a shuttle to the park once a day and I signed myself up for it. I figured, if I was in a crappy mood, then holding a koala while smiling like a goon for the camera would only cheer me up. The only other people going from the hostel were a French kid who spoke almost no English and his mom who spoke very broken English. She was a chatty lady and I ended up walking around with them and talking about koalas, kangaroos and travel around the world while laughing with her and correcting her broken English. Turns out she's been to most places I've only dreamed of going and mentioned places I've never even considered.

So, I was able to hold a koala, get quasi-attacked by an emu, feed a kangaroo and get over my bad mood all in an afternoon spent in a big kid petting zoo in the company of a French lady and her son. Not what I expected when I woke up. I had a great time.



"A dingo ate my baby!!!" (This is a dingo, everyone.)

Now, you may be thinking that I softened up a bit to the city after my koala encounter. Not true. Still at annoyed as ever with the place. I got back to the hostel and was trying to find a tapas bar/restaurant where I could eat a little food, drink a glass of wine or two and put Brisbane behind me. I found one in a part of the city I hadn't been to yet, The Valley (short for Fortitude Valley,) that just so happened to be a few blocks behind the hostel. Directly behind the hostel is Brisbane's version of Chinatown (about one block worth of Asian cuisine) and hadn't appealed to me since my initial exploration of it, so I never ventured past it. The Valley is Brisbane's "artsy" district. There are loads of trendy restaurants and bars, small boutiques with up-and-coming fashion and furniture designers, art galleries and (a personal fav of mine) graffiti that could be deemed as art.

That is what finally softened me up to Brisbane. I finally found something in this city that I could relate to and I felt a little more comfortable in this place. I had tried to give Brisbane the benefit of the doubt earlier, but with all the things going wrong, I wasn't able to muster the strength. Even though I decided against the tapas bar, I was happy I decided to walk out of the box and into the Valley.

Tomorrow I leave for Fraser Island (for real this time) and eventually on Friday, I'm off to Cairns. I think I got the f*@! up out of my system, so I'll be ok the rest of the time in Oz. (Cross those fingers...) I get to start over again in South America, new set of rules. By the way, 10 days until I touch the 5th continent of my travel career. I'm stoked! Soloman better be knocking on my door when I get back to the states!!!

So, now that I have spent some time with Brisbane, got the conversation started and found a few things in common, I've come to the conclusion that even though Brisbane and I's relationship is not going to go anywhere, it isn't all that annoying and I could probably put up with it for a while, just a little while.

Linds

Ps – My beloved Silversun Pickups have also visited the Koala Sanctuary.

PS- There is a picture of me holding a koala floating around out there on the internet. When I find it, I'll post it.