Having alluded to a forthcoming “all the foods I ate” post for close to a year now, I figure it’s about time to ante up.  And so I present this picture-heavy display of various cuisines I was cognizant enough to take pictures of while abroad.  It’s far from complete and woefully lacking in description and character, but, as always, is better than nothing.

Peru

My time in Peru was divided between kooky “jungle medicine” tours in January and my Machu Picchu adventures in June.   Since food from the earlier trip was covered in this post, I’ll only cover the latter delectables here.

Alpaca.  Like its cousin, the llama, these South American beasts of burden are used as pack animals, tourist attractions (Peruvians love to dress them up in brightly colored clothes and then ask for money after you take a picture of one) and, of course, food.  They’re surprisingly good, too, and not nearly as tough as I would’ve guessed.

Chile

I didn’t grab many shots of Chilean food.  Santiago had many seafood restaurants, though I couldn’t find sea bass anywhere.  Also, I really don’t much care for fish, so these restaurants did nothing for me.  Combined with the fact that Chile was the most expensive country I visited in South America, I didn’t eat out very much.

Ecuador

Food from Ecuador was also mostly covered here, but I’ve got a few additions.

Brazil

As popular and enjoyable as Brazilian barbecue restaurants are in the states, I wasn’t overly impressed with Brazilian food.  Maybe we went to the wrong places.  My friend Jaimee joined me for much of these spots and we had similar lackluster reactions to the country’s offerings.  We visited one steakhouse that, like its US counterpart, involved serving men roaming about with a wide variety of all-you-can-eat meat to slice for their patrons, all with several buffet style tables of fresh food in the background.  It was good, but bore little difference from what one would expect at similar restaurants in the states.

A popular local delicacy that I never quite figured out was manioc, a powdered form of cassava root that, throughout Brazil, is served with slivers of beef jerky.  This side can be found served with almost any meal in Rio.  Despite its ubiquity, we found it fairly bland and pointless, like eating bits from the bottom of a jerky bag that had been dropped into sawdust.  Meh.

Top of the list in Brazil was the açaí (pronounced “ah-sah-EEE”) smoothie.  Mixed with bananas, ice and sugar (apparently the fruit is, by itself, quite bland), this densely blue drink is both energizing and uniquely flavorful.  I made a point of having at least one of these daily.

Uruguay

I only visited Uruguay for about three days, and the food wasn’t terribly different from what we found across the river in Argentina.  One treat that we were told was Uruguayan in nature was Clerico. Much like its red sangria cousin, clerico is a white-wine based fruit punch served with an ample supply of fruit.  My mother’s not much of a drinker, but she was so taken with it that we ordered two pitchers.  From a recipe online:

And the winner is…

Argentina

The cuisine of Argentina is, much like its urban architecture, more heavily influenced by Spanish, Italian and French culture than anywhere else on the continent.  For instance, no breakfast is complete without medialunas (literally: half moons), the Argentinian name for croissants.  Breakfast is meant to be simple and light, to the point where those seeking fare more substantial than the standard coffee, orange juice and medialunas are generally out of luck.  Ham and cheese sandwiches are also fairly popular for breakfast, though for some reason no one believes in making these with more than a single slice each of ham and cheese, regardless of the thickness of the bread.

Brazil, the -guays, Chile and Argentina all have variations of the empanada (Note: there is no tilde over the ‘n’ and thus these are pronounced em-puh-nah-duh, and not “em-pan-yah-duh” as I mistakenly said for the first week or two that I lived here), for which I am thankful.  The doughy half-circles are sold with a wide variety of different stuffings in the middle.  Ground beef is typically my favorite when selecting one of the quick, warm mid-day snacks, though another variety includes a densely starchy corn pudding that’s also quite good.  Most vendors sell chicken varieties as well, but empanada de pollo always ends up tasting a bit dry.  There seems to be an unspoken rule that the dough that wraps each different filling be folded in a specific way to make the varieties more recognizable.

Rounding out the fast food selections is a wide sampling of standard sandwich fare.  Like anywhere else on this continent, hamburguesas are widely popular, as are “hot dogs” (that’s how they’re called here as well).  However, why one would go for a simple hot dog when choripan are available, I’m not sure.  From “chorizo“, the insanely good Argentinian beef sausage and “pan” for bread, this sandwich slices a massive chorizo down the center, coats it chimmichurri (a spice rack’s worth of different seasonings all in an oil and vinegar base) and serves it on a fresh French roll.  There’s a reason why there are so few American fast food restaurants here — they’re unnecessary.  Of all the countries, I think Argentina had my favorite street food.

All of these are merely lead-ins, of course, to Argentina’s most famous of coronary-inducing main courses.  No, not red wine, though there’s plenty of that to be found here on the cheap as well.  I’m talking, of course, about steak.  Massive, bloody, succulent, affordable steak.  How affordable, you ask?  Well, this massive cut of tenderloin that I used to make about seven large cuts cost me the equivalent of four US dollars:

Yeah.  I miss that.  Parillas are Argentinian barbecue restaurants, and typically you can find several on the block of any busy street.  Restaurants like these specialize in meats, typically served with a side of meats and your choice of two additional meats.  Sometimes, these meals come with a small side salad, though it should be noted that the salad is made entirely of meat as well.  In short, Argentinians like their meat, and tend to order a large platter brought out to the table on a hot plate (often with a compartment for hot coal kept underneath to keep the food warm throughout dinner) with about 4-8 different meat varieties.  Purees of either regular or sweet potato are available, though that’s generally it as far as non-meats go.

The only downside to this is a general lack of options for dinner (which, I’ll remind you, is eaten between 10 pm and midnight throughout most of Argentina).  Most restaurants (and parillas for that matter) also serve a handful of pasta and noquis (gnocci) dishes, though the pasta options are almost identical throughout every restaurant in the entire country.  As much as I miss the steaks, I think the lack of options in Argentina would’ve gotten to me over time.

And for dessert?  Helados, and lots of it.  Meaning iced cream, the typical Argentinian helado is closer to Italian gelato than anywhere else I found in South America.  The frosty treat is popular across the continent, though harder and more similar to US iced cream elsewhere.  The Argentinian style is rich, creamy and ubiquitous.  There are almost more helado shops than parillas, with each one trying to out-gourmet the next.  Equally widespread are alfajores (al-fah-WHORE-eys), which some friends and family were lucky to get upon my return home last May.  These treats are made from two cake-like cookies pressed together with dulce de leche (caramel) in the center, and then usually coated in a thin layer of chocolate.  I found them “OK” at best, but the locals love ‘em.

Oh yeah.  Mate. Argentinians love their tea, and specifically, yerba mate.  Mate is a holly plant used to make tea throughout most of southern South America, though most popularly in Argentina.  As boiling the leaves tends to make them unpleasantly bitter, mate is instead steeped in hot water.  Due to high amounts of caffeine, the drink is a stimulant and is considered a social beverage in Argentina where it is passed around in small cups made from gourds called guampas.

Mate in Argentina, from Iguazu Falls in the north to Ushuaia in the far south, is inescapable.  Argentinians carry their guampas with them everywhere, typically with a small bag of tea, a bombilla (metal or wood straw used for drinking the tea while filtering out the leaves) and a thermos of hot water.  The leaves typically pack enough punch to be used for 7-10 servings of hot water; when they fail to provide any flavor, the mate is discarded and the gourd promptly refilled.  On buses, Argentinians pass their gourd around like a joint in a college dorm room.  At parties, it’s as likely that they show up with a thermos of hot water and a bag of mate as it is that they’d bring beer or wine.

Personally, I like the flavor but never quite got used to properly handling the bombilla.  The majority of these straws are made from metal, which doesn’t have much of a problem conducting heat.  Combine this with the near-boiling temperature of the hot water and it’s searing pain on the lips.  Though the response from all Argentinians is the same: “Oh, you get used to it…”

“That’s it?” I say, looking outside.

“Yeah.. I love her, but she’s not that big.”

The guy next to me on the six hour plane ride is pure California, an older surfer — one of those guys you see in airports with the massive surfboard suitcase — but not necessarily an older hippie despite the similarity in accents.  We’ve talked a bit over the course of these past six hours we’ve spent racing the sun across time zones.  Despite being one of Cali’s native sons, he apparently has enough family and friends out this way to keep him coming back annually.

The diminutive oval of land is clearly visible from end to end through my window, a lonely speck of green and yellow earthtones lost in the vastness of the Pacific.  Up here, the ocean is an endless, flat plane of dark blue, encroaching on such a small morsel of land with no mercy.  Easter Island is the most remote inhabited island on Earth — the nearest other piece of land supporting any kind of life is 1,289 miles away — and seeing it below me now hammers in just how daunting the Polynesian colonization of the island by canoes was 1700 years ago.

The island received its current English name upon being “discovered” on Easter Sunday, 1722 by the Dutch, and its Spanish name “Isla de Pascua” is simply a translation of the English.  Rapa Nui is its Polynesian name, though that title’s only been in use since the late 1800s.  Prior to that, a substantial portion of the island’s inhabitants was wiped out, taking most of Easter Island’s history (and even its original name) along with it.

What is known is that the island was originally colonized by Polynesians in the first few centuries of the first millennium, and that the seemingly impossible voyage of close to 3000 miles was taken in large, double canoes.  Chickens, dogs and several types of plants not originally native to Rapa Nui were brought along on the journey as well.  While the island culture grew and evolved on its own, a Polynesian speaker on Captain Cook’s eighteenth century visit was able to communicate with the locals, showing that the language at least hadn’t altered terribly in the one and a half millennia they’d been separated.

Moai, the giant stone heads that Easter Island is most known for, were clearly part of island-wide religious worship, though no documentation on their use or meaning remains.  By the mid-1700s, the religion associated with the heads was no longer in favor, and a massive civil war on the island led to their toppling.  By the middle of the next century, only two remained standing.  The past twenty years have seen a major effort between the local government, Chile and other countries like Japan in re-raising the statues to their previous prominence, though it’ll take time before all are restored.

Welcome to Easter Island

The Polynesian influence shows itself in the form of locals greeting the recently arrived tourists with leis and smiles.  I get neither, as both are reserved for visitors to whatever hotels are sponsoring the warm, island greetings.  No signs bear my name, and thus, I step out of the airport un-leid.  Unlike most international airports, no urban sprawl surrounds this one; once through its gates, I find myself on a gravel road with only the occasional houses or pousadas lined up to either side.  Two horses stand in the middle of the street — a mother and its calf, apparently — though they move away apprehensively when I approach within touching distance.

No massive, multi-story hotel complexes or resorts are allowed on the island, though smaller boutique hotels are available if you’ve got the disposable income.  I don’t, and opt for one of the few hostels listed online — still highway robbery at almost twenty dollars a night, but this far from the rest of the world, everything’s at a premium.  There’s no hot water, sand’s in the bed and I’m sharing the small room with three other people, but it beats the pricier options.

Two scooters sit by the entrance to the dining room — the best means of an individual making his way about the island, I’ve been told — but renting them proves harder than anticipated.  Oh, they’re available, but no one can seem to find the keys to either.  Just three “blocks” from the airport, the hostel’s far enough on the outskirts of Hanga Roa (the only official town on the island) that it’s a good ten minute walk to the nearest overpriced mercado.  Five minutes more to one of the few Internet cafes on the island for a quick email check.  Near as I can tell, there are three of such cafes on the island, but only one stays open with any reliability, and there’s always a line.  People are very laid back here.  On a possibly related note, there’s a ubiquitous scent of marijuana throughout town.

For an island, beaches are in short supply here, with most of the shore being comprised of unforgiving rocks and strong currents.  The two beaches that best fit the idyllic definition of the word are both in the northeast, well out of convenient walking distance.  Of those two, one is technically closed for undescribed reasons.  Here in Hanga Roa, a small patch of black rock gives way to sand gracefully enough to allow cautious swimming (too many rocks to dive about freely), and I take off my shirt and sandals and make my way out to waist depth, stopping to rest my hand on what I first take to be a smooth rock.

The turtle doesn’t care for being used as support, but it is still one of the slower marine animals out there and even a speedy departure leaves me with enough time to gawk at its size as it flippers away.  Easily three feet long, the unexpected reptile dwarfs nearly every other sea turtle I’ve come across, and nearly matches the size of the land-based tortoises I’d come across in the Galapagos.  I swim with it, my left hand resting softly — hopefully without perturbing it too much — over its shell, until it enters a patch of prohibitively uncomfortable rocks.

An elderly woman sitting on the rocks by the shore has been watching my entire interaction with a bemused look on her face.

“Tortuga!” she says!

“Si” I smile.

Further out, gringo surfers lay on their boards waiting for waves.  Northward up the beach, I catch a glimpse of my first moai, the large, granite heads for which the island is most famous.  Just past it, something even more interesting catches my eye.

Mike Rapu Diving Center

Prior to leaving for South America, I got my PADI certification with the intention of scouring the oceanic depths of the continent with as much excitement as I traversed the parts above sea level.

This has not happened.  I did not SCUBA the Galapagos.  I completely failed to explore the watery depths off the coast of Rio.  I avoided entirely an option to cold-water dive in the icy waters near Antarctica.  (To be fair, the last one was never really in the running).  PADI demands regular application of its SCUBA skill every six months before a refresher course is recommended, so the stars are aligned to get me in the water today.

Sixty dollars gets a one-hour trip, with close to thirty minutes of that time spent in the water.  The wetsuit is tight, and feels balmy against my skin, but that’s one of the hazards of renting anything skin-tight.  With the addition of my BCD (Buoyancy Control Device) vest, tank and weights, I make heavy-footed robot steps towards the boat for a quick refresher on all the things I can do to avoid a slow, unpleasant underseas death.

My guide speaks more than passable English as he goes over my gear: Weights - for countering the natural buoyancy of my body and wetsuit.  Tank - it has oxygen in it.  Kind of necessary for living.  Gauges - to keep track of time, depth and, most importantly, oxygen.  When that little black arrow closes in on a section of gauge in red, it’s time to run (metaphorically of course — a rapid ascent from the depths is actually one of the worst things you can do to yourself while diving).  BCD - Buoyancy Control Device.  This vest ties the whole operation together.  Tank goes on the back/Person on the front.  Equally important, however, is a direct attachment from the tank to a small bladder of air contained within the vest.  This allows the diver to control buoyancy (how “floaty” he is).  By meticulous filling and emptying of air within the BCD, divers can attain neutral buoyancy, allowing a zero-gravity-like sensation of simply hovering in any one spot.  Without this, SCUBA would be far less enjoyable and far more exhausting.

Dodging surfers, our boat cuts out from the dock to a position just a quarter mile from shore.  I’m told we’re doing a standard rear entry, and my guide demonstrates by sitting on the edge of the boat and simply falling, tank first, into the water, making a point of keeping his legs firmly upright so as to not catch his flippers on the boat.  His hands keep his mask and the tube providing oxygen firmly attached to his face.  I do my best to mimic his well-practiced drop, and other than a moment’s awkwardness re-orienting myself in the water, I ease into it with surprising grace.

After I wordlessly reassure him by not flailing about uncontrollably, the guide signals and we empty the air from our BCD to begin descent.  With no air in the BCD to provide buoyancy, the weights do the work for us as we slowly drop.  My attention, then, is spent fully upon careful, regular breathing and dealing with any compression-related sinus pains.  As we drop, the pockets of air within us become more dense, often leading to occasional pains around the eyes and ears from these pockets compressing.  This is alleviated by closing the nostrils with the fingers on one hand and “blowing” hard to “pop” the ears.

Ten meters down and we’ve reached a plateau of sorts.  Easter Island isn’t particularly known for its coral, though the alien landscape is still more than interesting enough for a half hour of swimming around.  More importantly, a lack of any rivers or waste dumping into the ocean combined with a shortage of plankton makes for extremely good visibility.  I watch the guide at all times, following his lead.  The few times I look away long enough to miss something important he’s trying to impart to me, I hear a loud metallic thunk — the sound of his hitting the back of his tank hard with something metal.  Sound travels fairly well down here, all things considered.

Fish swim by, unconcerned with our presence as we loop through a maze of coral, stopping here and there to check out things like a large, well-rusted anchor or other assorted boat parts that’ve made their way down here.  One fish with what could only be described as big, long “lips” (interestingly enough, his official name is “Thicklipped Jack”) is down here in abundance, as are several kinds of Butterfly Fish.  My best encounter is with a Moray Eel, hidden away in the coral, but coming out to stare at me face to face with its large, Muppet-like eyes.

The trip ends at a well-placed grand finale: Slumped over, at a forty-five degree angle, is a single moai, covered in a variety of undersea growth.  It’s only the second one I’ve come across, and the twelve foot monolith is immediate awe-inspiring, as it stares forward at me soullessly.  Despite their being created hundreds of years ago, and likely being underwater for who knows how long, the face is surprisingly sturdy and angular with little show of wear.  Why did they build it?  What does it mean?  And how did it get so far out here?

After a few moments of staring, I get the signal that it’s time to rise and we make our way — slowly — to the surface.

“How was it?” he asks, as we de-gear in the boat.

“The moai was incredible.  Do they know how it got out here??”

“Hunh?  Oh, they just built that and dumped it down there a coupla years ago.”

“Oh…”

The First of Many Celebrations of the Sun

Tourism in Easter Island — at least as far as I can tell from talking to others at the hostel — isn’t about being at a place, so much as being at a combination of “place” and “sun location.”  You’ve seen Anakena?  Big deal.  Have you seen it at sunrise?  Duh, obviously.  That was a trick question — everyone knows Anakena is the place to go for sunset!”

Anakena isn’t particularly impressive at sunset, actually.  The point is that everyone seemed to have a different “the place to be” for both daily significant stages of the sun.  One person assured me Tongariki was his favorite sunset spot, despite the fact that the sun sets on the opposite side of the island, making Tongariki singularly unimpressive for anyone hoping to actually see the sun during sunset.

My first sunset, though, is at Tahai, a cluster of five moai (with another standing alone in the distance) just at the north end of town.  Less than a year ago, I’d never seen the sun rise on the Pacific.  It’s old hat by now, but no less  impressive.  And this does mark my first opportunity to see the sun both rise and set on the Pacific in the same 24 hour span.

It’s the little milestones…

Three of my hostels other denizens had rented a car for the day and we pile in together with our massive DSLR tourist cameras to Tahai.  In addition to the moai there, several other rocks have apparent sacred and archaeological relevance, though most of these would be missed were it not for signs alerting us that we aren’t to touch them.  The sun’s a steadily dimming, lumpy yellow ball over a field of pink wispy clouds, far enough from the ocean’s horizon to muffle the collective excitement of the sunset seekers.

It’s ok.  No one here’s in much of a rush.

I Get Around

Back at the hostel, a particularly fit Englishman’s extolling the virtues of biking (bicycle, that is) across the island.  And the place is small enough that this is viable, but I lack both the desire for exercise and a well-exercised enough body to take on the challenge.  Six hours can do an entire circuit of the island without stopping.  However, I want to stop.  Often.

Traveling alone and with a deep appreciation for the wind beating against me as I get from points A to B, the scooter is then the way to go.

I’m actually denied.  Twice.  My official International Driver’s License is well and good, but says nothing about my ability to handle a motorcycle, and apparently the horsepower required to get these scooters up and down the gravelly hills of Easter Island push them up a vehicle class to full-on motorcycle.  Look long enough, and someone is always willing to overlook little technicalities like that.  Fifteen bucks finally gets me twenty-four hours of the open road, and I intend to use them.

Unlike my scooter experience in Iquitos, helmets are not only given but required here.  I relay the policies of Iquitos to the owner of the rental place, a gringo that appears to be Jewish in general and from New York in particular (”Yeah, Brooklyn.  Originally…,” he says when I inquire) and he nods knowingly.

“Yeah, used to be like that here too.  We just had two deaths — a couple, actually — on one of these back in January, and since then, things have gotten much stricter, you know?”

“Yeah.”

“Be careful!”

I step outside, get on my shiny yellow scooter, start the ignition and feel the first drops of rain hit my forearm.

The Scooter

A quick stop at one of the many overpriced mercados gets me salami, crackers and cheese — no apples!  Unexpectedly, the rental place had no disposable maps, leaving me with only the laminated one up on the wall to study while planning my route.  Luckily, as the map above shows, there aren’t too many options on Easter Island with regard to roads.  A paved road cuts through the center of the island, eventually meeting up with the gravel road that runs parallel to it along the southern coast.  A dirt road follows much of the northern coast, but I’m warned it’s barely suitable for anything other than walking.

Despite it’s “dainty” yellow appearance, the scooter’s got some kick to it, and an automatic transmission makes for a somewhat easier drive.  But the wind and rain do little to help me get acquainted with the subtle nuances of offroad (so I lost control on the gravel a few times) scootering.  Peeling around the southwest corner of the island, screaming the lyrics to “Country Road, Take Me Home” in an attempt to turn my attention away from the cold wetness permeating me, second thoughts begin to enter my mind over the awesomeness of circling the island on an open-air vehicle.

As the multitude of brown dots on the map above demonstrate, the entire coastline is covered in ruins and archaeological sites.  Many of these are toppled moais (plans are in the works to get all upright again within the next ten years, but again, progress is slow here on the island).  Other sites look like nothing more than piles of rocks arranged in a nice, photogenic proximity to the edge of the shore, perpetually covered in the mist of breaking waves.  The first few sites garner a brief walkaround from me; eventually I realize it’d be impossible to hit up every point of interest on the island in my allotted time and push on towards some of the more noteworthy stops.

After a time, gravel gives way to marginally paved roads; pot holes bordering on trenches dot the path relentlessly, requiring constant vigilance.  Also after a while, the sun comes out, turning what might’ve potentially been a bad idea into an incredible one.

The Quarry

Moais had to actually be planned, carved and created somewhere with a great deal of granite — the coasts are fairly devoid of the raw material for it.  The prime location was Rano Raraku, one of the three major volcanoes (now collapsed into a crater-like pond) that spewed forth what was to be the body of Easter Island.  From the rocky surface of the ground here, the moai were painstakingly chipped into existence, then somehow carried across the entire island.  It might not seem like a large island from the vantage point of of a speeding motorcycle, but it was surely far more vast when slowly trodden across with several tons of granite in tow.

While impressive, the coastal moai strike me as partially… false.  All were knocked down, their faces left earthward in the mud, for close to two hundred years.  Only recently have they been reestablished in what was likely their initial formation.  The statues found here in the quarry, all in various stages of creation, sit exactly as they have for the past several centuries.  Carved into the rock jutting forth from the earth, they’re arranged haphazardly, at odd angles to the ground around them.  Somehow more strange and mysterious for it, I found these by far the most captivating.

The above shots were all taken along the outside of the Rano Raraku crater, but I’d already been told by many that far more statues were in progress within the volcano itself.  A single path leads inwards, but visitors may only enter with hired guides (for a fee, of course).  The next morning, I would shoot across the island again to witness sunrise at Tongariki, but afterwards it would still be early enough to get in before the quarry was to open.  A prime opportunity to check things out on the cheap…

Tongariki

One-time capital of the eastern settlement of Hotu Iti, the fifteen moai here were no less spared than any of the others during the civil wars of the nineteenth century.  In addition to being toppled, a massive tidal wave in the early twentieth century actually hit with enough impact to carry many of the monoliths deeper inland.  The largest of the fifteen weighs in at 86 tons and is the heaviest moai on the island.

Until the 1990’s, all of these statues remained toppled.  A joint team of Chileans and Japanese painstakingly worked to reestablish the original locations of each moai, and reset them into those positions.

Northward, to Anakena

Poike, the eastern section of the island and easternmost of its major volcanos, is closed off to travelers, and the main road runs northward alongside it.  Ostensibly, my destinations are the twin beaches around Anakena, but a sign points to something called “Papa Vaka” and I take a detour.  ”Papa” apparently means flat, volcanic outcropping, and as the early settlers here had a fancy for carving rock, nearly all the rocks here have had some meaning chiseled into them.  One details a large tuna, surrounded by U-shaped hooks — a popular icon here on the island.  Another shows what appears to be an octopus.  None, however, came out well in pictures…

My first go-around, I miss the road leading to the smaller of the two northern beaches, but Anakena is unmissable.  Besides the abundance of signs and one of the few parking lots on the island, there are giant granite statues looming over an off-white sand beach.  That it’s a gorgeous beach is undeniable.  That it’s one of the only beaches on the island, however, means there are literally buses parked out in the lot and the beach is to capacity, even in this off season.

For an hour or so, I swim about the cove, ever vigilant of the white shirt on the beach hiding the keys to my motorcycle.  I haven’t been told there’s much crime here, but in reality, crimes of opportunity are everywhere and it’s impossible to be too safe.

A few pictures later and I’m back on the road to let the now-warm wind handle drying me off.

Random Caves.  Plus:  Beating a Dead Horse

I’m sure there’s a name for these caves, and a story as well.  I just couldn’t find it on the island or afterwards on the Internet.  Heading back westward from Anakena, through the center of Rapa Nui, the road branches off to the north, and the sun is still high enough in the sky to give me time to investigate.  Not even gravel, the road is dirt, though mostly dry at this point from the morning’s rain.  A sign points off to “Ahu Akivi,” at one point but I ignore it and head further north.

A lump of black sits to the right side of the road up ahead, and eventually it forms into the shape of a sleeping horse.  No.  Not sleeping.  Closer now, I can see it covered in a swarm of flies, it’s eyes open and glazed over.  Poor thing.

There are horses all over this island, so it only makes sense that some of them kick the bucket from time to time.  I start to press on, then stop with a perverse idea taking shape in my mind.  Surreptitiously, I get off the bike, slowly making my way toward the recently deceased animal, my head held back in revulsion.  Quickly, I give it a soft kick on a fly-barren section of its ass before running back to my scooter and taking off.  Not so hard a kick as to disrespect the deceased, but solid enough to live the idiom.

A non-descript, dirt parking lot further in grabs my attention and I park the scooter to investigate.  No moai.  No interesting rocks or signs or reasons for this location to host upwards of twenty vehicles.  I walk over to a patch of brush and nearly fall before seeing the steps downward.  Below, an elaborate system of caves stretch off in multiple directions, each cave filled with stone piles, carvings and other evidence of past significance.

The caves are dark, but high enough for me to walk upright, and perfectly placed holes in the ceiling allow enough light into the darkness to guide my way.  At times, curiosity drives me past points where all natural light has vanished, forcing me to turn to the flash on my camera to take bright, split-second shots with my retinas in order to venture further in.  For something not even on the map, it was definitely a highlight for me.

Sunrise on Rapa Nui

I’m not a morning person, so this better be good.

Worse, I might miss it — whatever IT is — altogether.  Sunrise occurs around 7:20, meaning cautious travelers are advised to be up and mobile by half past six.  I groggily came into consciousness at 6:50, tossed on my hoodie and helmet (unsure of which went on first) and tore out of the gravel driveway with only the dim scooter headlamp guiding my way across the island.  It’s chilly, but surprisingly not as bad as riding through the cool rain yesterday.

It’s already light as I approach the pothole-ridden east end of the island — a good thing.  The few close calls I’ve had on this bike have come about because of these monstrous gashes in the pavement, and the idea of tackling them in darkness had me scared.  Three cars sit in Tongariki’s parking lot; not much, but at this hour it’s enough to reiterate that this is indeed one of the go-to spots  for a Rapa Nui sunrise.  It certainly is the furthest option from the main settlement.

Sunrise comes slowly, in part because the actual sunrise on the water is blocked by the inaccessible Poike volcano to the east.  Apparently the volcano blocks direct sun-over-the-ocean sunrise from nearly everywhere on the island.

“Why be anywhere for sunrise, then?” I asked.

“The colors, man,” I’m told.

Rapa Nui’s Unofficial Nude Beach

Anakena is supposed to house the two actual beaches on the island (not counting the rocky area just outside Hanga Roa), though so far I’d only been able to find the larger of the two.  The other, past a large rocky outcropping to the east, I’d only been told about by other travelers.  Far more secluded, it’d be an ideal spot for a morning swim, if only it weren’t so off-the-map that I couldn’t find it.

Four trips down promising (yet ultimately fruitless) dirt roads, and I have a success of sorts.  It’s definitely the beach I’m looking for and it’s definitely gorgeous and secluded.  It also has a big sign informing me that the beach is currently closed off to the general public.

Sure.  To those other people, maybe…

Only when I stand out on the open beach, taking it all in as a gift for me and me alone do I realize that I have a golden opportunity here.

Orongo and the Cult of the Birdman

By the mid-19th century, moais were no longer the hip, go-to religious icons they once had been (most of them now finding themselves face down in the dirt) and the Birdman cult had taken over as the newer, hipper, less stone-worshipping spiritual craze of Rapa Nui.  Its religious center: Rano Kau, the volcano comprising the western tip of the island.  And more specifically, Orongo, a small patch of land with the wall of Rano Kau’s crater on one side, and a 750 cliff wall dropping down to the sea on the other.

Despite ditching the massive monolithic faces, the people of Rapa Nui weren’t as quick to ditch stone altogether, and the Orongo site is comprised of 53 rounded stone buildings making full use of the limited real estate.  They’re very proud of their UNESCO World Heritage Site status, but that could just be because it gets them five bucks a head for what’s actually a fairly small attraction.  It does allow some great views of Motu Nui, however.

What is Motu Nui, and who is this Birdman character?

Just south of the sheer cliff face of Orongo lie three small islands, the largest of which is Motu Nui.  The tangata-manu (”bird-man”) was an annually appointed title, based upon an extremely dangerous Fear Factor-esque challenge.  Each year, prophets would use their magical clairvoyance to select several contestants to vie for the role of Birdman — it’s assumed from the histories that this was a great honor, though based upon the challenge, I would’ve been fairly irate at the prophets for having been chosen.

The birdman’s goal is to swim out to the farthest island (Motu Nui), collect the first Sooty Tern egg of the season (who knows what kept the terns there year after year, if collecting their eggs were such a sport?), swim back through the shark-infested waters to the 750 foot cliff face and climb — with the egg — to the top, to deliver it at Orongo.  If it sounds less than easy, it’s because it wasn’t.  Most participants died each year to drowning, falling or shark attack.

There is a bright side, of course.  The winner basically achieved celebrity status for the remainder of the year.  Women loved him, men wanted to be him, etc, etc.  Not only was he given the austere title of Tangata-Manu (again, “Bird-Man”), but his clan now had sole rights to collect that season’s entire harvest of wild bird eggs and fledglings from Motu Nui.  That’s right — the island you have to swim through jagged rocks and sharks to get to.  In all fairness, they probably used boats for subsequent voyages.

Birdmen also likely got laid more than Texas high school quarterbacks during football season, though none of my sources state this precisely.

All in all, it was a fun little yearly tradition that only lasted through the mid-1800’s, when Christian missionaries and Peruvian slave raiders came in, bringing diseases and exporting the locals such that 95 percent of the population of Rapa Nui would be wiped out less than ten years later.

Way to end a blog entry on an up note…

I took Spanish for three years in high school. Based upon this trip, I might go as far as to say “three wasted years.” I received some of my highest regular marks in Spanish class and still barely possess enough acumen to get basic directions and/or order a cerveza. I think this is due to the fact that these classes make you master conjugations and vocabularly, but almost never require communication of any sort. I almost never find myself in emergency situations down here that require my filling in any blanks.

However, these classes require the taking on of “Spanish” names, different from your own. Some went with obvious choices like Jesus, while others chose “Albondigas.” I always liked the sound of “Santiago,” and went with that, never thinking I might some day visit the city.

Turns out, I wasn’t that into it. It reminded me of how I felt in Guayaquil (without the crime) or Sao Paulo (without the Portugueuse) — a pleasant enough city in every regard, but there wasn’t much I felt compelled to do there. While Buenos Aires had only just recently scooped me up and left me thoroughly entertained daily, both with and without my mother’s company, Santiago just sort of existed.

At one point, I asked the hostel for advice on daily activities in the city, only to discover I’d done every one that was listed off.

“Hm,” the girl said, perplexed. “I guess you’ve done everything.”

This was not true. I never made it to the seaside town of Valparaiso, which I’ve since been told was a mistake. I didn’t really explore the nightlife much, staying at a much calmer and more reserved hostel this time around. My time in Santiago was broken in half, staying first with my mother before an emotionally charged send-off of my mother to the airport (that the cab died seconds after pulling away from me — “don’t worry!” the driver says as he gets out and pushes — leaving my last image of my mother as one of her with wide, frightened, deer-in-the-headlights eyes, only added to the impact of the moment).

From there, I’d go on to Easter Island for a few, before one last weekend in Santiago. The original plan was to head north from there, eventually working my way into Bolivia and up through Peru. Buenos Aires changed all of this. I hadn’t gotten enough of the city. I hadn’t lived anywhere in so long. An hour-long stop at LAN airlines, and somehow I manage to change my entire schedule around for only fifty dollars.

I would return to Buenos Aires by plane just days after Easter Island, live there for a month or more, and then fly on to Lima, Peru. A chance conversation involving a concert ticket keys me in to the fact that I can make it round trip from Lima to New York City for $350. It sounds crazy, and almost insulting to the vast majority of the world that, like, works every day. But I desperately need a vacation at this point, and I jump on the discount tickets. A friend’s wedding happens to fall during the ten days I’ll be in home, and suddenly adds an air of legitimacy to my unplanned, short return.

As far as Santiago goes, both my pre- and post-Easter Island visits were pleasant enough, but not overwhelmingly enough for me to ever wish to return. During my second visit, I ran into a trio of awesome Brazilian girls, and we spent a day or more traveling around the town exploring together. All the Latin American standards are here — kitschy touristy markets, cheap food alternatives in the form of empanadas (good, but I liked the ones I had in Argentina more), and a hill overlooking the city with a prominently displayed statue of Jesus or the Virgin Mary, or perhaps a large cross. On top of that, it’s got one of the greatest subway systems I’ve ever ridden on (missing a train once, the next one picked us up in under a minute), and some of the most modern and interesting architecture in Latin America.

In fairness to the markets, they’re a step up from many of the ones I’ve seen elsewhere in South America, with some unique items that don’t seem like they’re carbon copied and sold en masse to every tourist that passes by. It’s here that my mother picks up the majority of her last minute souvenirs, and here that I spot a handmade brass container with an intricate bird on top made from brass and lapis lazuli (the two most popular artesenal materials down here in Santiago). It’s not my style, but it’s uniquely captivating and I keep returning until I buy it. One day, I’ll give this to someone important.

One last thing about Chileans, that I’d been warned about: Their Spanish is probably the hardest to understand in South America. There are three reasons for this.

1. They talk very fast.
2. They have a lot of localized slang.
3. Near as I can tell, their dialect is the “Baltimore accent” of South American Spanish. In addition to talking fast, they have a habit of dropping entire syllables out of words, making understanding anything said by a Chilean like this nearly impossible to comprehend.

Return of the Magical Gringo

I can’t even see why the huge crowd assembled in the midst of hte plaza are gathered there. By the time I do, it’s too late. Two men stand in the center, sans props, entertaining the crowd solely through a live improv performance done entirely in speedy Chilean Spanish. As my tall head comes within their field of vision, the performance stops and the more talkative one of the group (the Penn, as opposed to the Teller) locks in on me.

“Ohhoo, Gringo!!” He motions for me to cut through the crowd and come into the circle.

“Where are you from?” he says in perfect English. Most of his act from here on involves asking me questions in English, then responding in Spanish, earning raucous applause from the crowd.

I answer and the crowd doesn’t seem to like my answer.

“No no, Obama, si? We’re good again.”

“Sure, sure,” he nods, then follows something in Spanish that I basically translate as “same old shit.” The crowd agrees and laughs once again. From there, he uses me for a solid five minutes, testing my Spanish skill, teaching me the “official” Chilean handshake and, I think, making a lewd reference to my mother, who stands in the background taking pictures. I was the foil to his comedy, and stepped forward understanding I’d be the butt of every joke. What can you do but laugh along?

San Cristobal Hill

Same as every other big city in South America.  Big hill.  Religious statue.  Tourist ride up to gorgeous vistas from the top.  It´s nothing new, but always reliable for some good shots.

Bathed, rested and safely back in Puerto Natales, Chile after five days roughing it in Torres del Paine National Park and our accidental hiking club has gotten together at the parilla in town that came most recommended by ostel owners and locals some of us had inquired to.  If asado is a South American style of slow-grilling meats over a grate in a large brick barbecue, the parilla the grill and/or restaurant that handles the mass quantities of meat and gets them cooked to perfection.  Standard parilla style typically involves a grab-bag of meats — steaks, lamb, chicken, pork, chorizo, morcilla — served on a large metal hot plate and placed in central locations on the table.

“Have you tried the morcilla yet?” someone asks as I reach for one of the dark red sausages.

I hadn’t, but I’m about to.  I know that morcilla is “blood sausage,” and I know this turns a lot of people off, but I’m not sure entirely what it is comprised of.  It’s softer than regular sausage, like a warm, chewy paste, but the flavor is pleasant and meaty, with strong spices applied for extra kick.

“Not bad,” I say as they watch me chew.  “What exactly is blood sausage, then?”

“It’s just blood.  Blood, flour and spices!”

“Well, I like my steaks bloody as hell anyway, so I am not bothered by this,” taking another bite.  The soft texture takes some getting used to, but I don’t find myself disgusted by the meat (or lack of meat) in any way.

Over dessert, the topic of hitch-hiking in South America comes up and Renata, the Italian woman, is a pro it seems.  Viajar a dedo (”traveling by finger”) is far more common and accepted in South America than it is in Europe (and certainly moreso than in the United States).  She’s already had several successful trips — generally with a partner, but at times flying solo as well.

Having not purchased my bus ticket to El Calafate yet from Puerto Natales, this seems like an intriguing new idea and something else to cross of the ever-growing to-do list.  Her destination is El Chelten, but as it’s two hours past El Calafate, we’d at least be able to make the bulk of the unguided trip through border crossings and the infamously desolate National Route 40 together.

The Long Way Out of Town

At 7:30, we meet outside the large landmark of a church in the center of town.

At 8, we’re safely at the edge of town, in the shadow of the Milodon.

At 9, we’re still staring at a Milodon.

Renata has never waited more than twenty minutes on a ride before, and I’m beginning to feel like bad luck.  It would be so much better if we could just hate the occasional townsfolk (this isn’t a high traffic town) that pass by, but they’re so polite in their rejections of free transportation.  As we thumb the universal signal displaying our need, every driver shrugs sadly at us, waving their finger in a quick, short circle.  The same signal, sideways in the direction of the head universally means “crazy.”  Aimed upwards, however, it loosely translates to “I’m just driving short distances around town so, really, what’s the point, eh?”

The hitchhiking scene in the States is so overrun with boogeymen and homeless, it’s interesting to see so many people make eye contact with me.  At home, most drivers practice a focused forward gaze upon realizing a hitchhiker is looming on the shoulder, effectively ignoring them out of existence until having safely passed.  Each of these Chileans look almost — regretful? — that they can’t pick us up.

Eventually a truck stops and apologetically explains that he’ll only be going about two miles down the road.  I’m reminded of a scene from Steve Martin’s The Jerk where, upon waiting to be picked up all day, Martin’s character accepts a ride from a driver only going “to the end of this fence.”  After a long enough wait, even the smallest distances are worth the haul, just to break the monotony of standing around.  We get in.

Walking to Argentina

It’s been half an hour since the trucker dropped us off on the shoulder of a fairly barren road that disappears straight into the horizon, giving us a clear view of the cars and trucks that come by with a frequency of about one every five minutes.  In a patch of dirt across the way, the trucker is still assisting a friend, which is ostensibly what brought him out here in the first place.  He’s already apologetically told us that both vehicles will be returning to town when done.

With 156 kilometers to cover (Note: The Torres circuit was 76 kilometers in total, but it was spread out over five days), walking isn’t a viable option, but it does help pass the time.  A pyramid of disposable plastic bottles awaits us as we crest a hill, with no notes or  explanation for why they’ve been arranged as such in the middle of nowhere.  (see side picture: these are shrines to Difunta Correa, an unofficial saint that died on the road with her newborn child.  the “miracle” was that her newborn survived ten days alone as she continued to produce breast milk.  Yup.) As we investigate, a small blue hatchback pulls over and we grab our gear excitedly and stow it in the back.

Like before, Renata does most of the talking.  She’s fluent in Spanish, and without her, this entire trip would’ve been infinitely more awkward, as the primary reason most truckers seem to pick people up is the desire for conversation and a break to the monotony of the open road.  In the car, she talks to the man driving the car while his wife sits in the front seat silently and his small child in the back never lowers his fixed gaze from me for the entire ten-minute trip.

A road branches off from the main highway serving only those travelers headed towards Argentina, which we are but our ride is not.  A small, open shelter has been erected in the middle of the intersection whose purpose isn’t known, but given dense clouds that might be hinting at rain, I’m extremely appreciative of it.  Waiting another half an hour, we talk, eat, throw rocks, do nothing.  Another small car eventually comes — it’s the first one to head down this road since we started this iteration of the waiting game, and a rush of joyful adrenaline fills me as it stops.

An older woman — a mother, or mother-in-law — sits in the backseat and doesn’t seem overjoyed at our cramped addition to the vehicle.  It turns out that a small village is formed directly next to the Chilean border post, and while this family, freshly returned  from grocery shopping in Puerto Natales, won’t be crossing, they can get us directly to the border.  A trunk full of groceries means we sit with our unyieldy backpacks in our laps, filling their ride to almost clown-car proportions.

Leaving Chile is easier and filled with far less drama than coming in.  The guard seemed minorly confused by our lack of transportation in the arid, emptiness of the sub-Andean environment.  With no transportation in sight, we begin the slow, uphill walk into the no-man’s-land between Chile and Argentina — 7 slow, uphill kilometers with full packs, wearing us down.  A single 7o’s Trans-am with tinted windows passes as we slowly walk our way into Argentina.  He’s still at the border twenty minutes later and we subtly glare in his direction.

Argentina lets us in with little fanfare.  I easily could’ve brought apples along this time.  An American man in his 50’s waiting to be let out of Argentina chats us up for a while, expressing his jealousy for our free-form, low-budget travel.  As I watch him head back onto his climate-controlled bus, the jealousy runs both ways.  We’re eventually picked up by a Chilean couple heading into the first town past the Argentinian border, as they claim shopping is far cheaper there.  A significant intersection lies about five kilometers out of town, and for the ease of our trip, they offer to take us that far out of their way with no prompting from us.

At the intersection, a lone truck stop serves us lunch and we resume our post along the shoulder of the road.  It’s colder now, and I use the respite to put on long underwear while we wait.  An older trucker takes us in, giving us our longest ride of the day, over sections of desert highway that are at times unpaved, slowing our movement to a crawl.  He talks with Renata about a son that is also a trucker, and how they often pick routes allowing brief meets for lunch or dinner (or Christmas, he adds).  My eyes get heavy as they talk, and when I wake it’s hard to say how far we’ve traveled.  He pulls in to a gas station to let us out before kindly accepting our gracious thanks and heading off in a different direction.

Two German backpackers are already at the shoulder waiting for a ride when we arrive; they’ve been waiting here for close to two hours.  Renata and I wait several hundred feet down the road from them, granting them first access to whatever comes along, but a truck passes them by in favor of us and he’s only got room for two.  Our initial excitement gives way to guilt as the Germans come over to find there is only room in this truck for two.  Our backpacks are already loaded, but Renata and I stare at each other for a moment and then decide we can’t conscionably screw over the Germans like this and retrieve our things, clearing the way for them.

“That was the right thing to do,” Renata says.

“I know!” I say through gritted teeth, looking at the ground.  “We are Good People.”

Karma works in our favor, though.  Within five minutes we’re on a truck delivering bags of cement to El Calafate, and within ten, we pass the Germans, waving possibly more giddily than is necessary as we notice them vanishing behind us.  Our new driver speaks a bit of Italian, meaning that he and Renata now have twice as many ways to say things that I cannot comprehend.  I smile and node my head a lot and laugh when they laugh.  He’s going all the way to El Calafate, and that’s the only thing that matters to me.

Eventually, conversation trails off and we spend the next hour passing few other vehicles on the barren highway until fifteen kilometers outside of town when we stop to let Renata off.  She seems if nothing, more excited about the prospect of moving on alone.  I tell her to email me when she gets in (it’ll take her another six hours to do the two-hour trip, but she eventually arrives safely) and wave her off, happy to see that a truck has already stopped for her before she’s even out of sight.  Maybe I was bad luck.

The young driver gives up early on trying to make small talk with me, but doesn’t seem bothered by my poor Spanish.  In town, he points down the road and I’m able to interpret that the primary hotel/hostel district is up ahead.  I know how to properly utilize the word “gracias” and do so relentlessly.

In the end, I traded ten hours of my time for what would’ve been a four hour bus ride and thirty-five bucks.  It was neither too difficult nor too dangerous for me to consider doing again, but it was definitely far too boring at times.  And while my Spanish is passable these days, it’s not quite good enough for entertaining the random truck drivers that might be willing to trade a ride for a little bit of conversation.

But it is fun to say I walked from Chile to Argentina.

Paine, rather.

And in this case, the word refers to neither “suffering and anguish” (despite backpackers regularly going for the easy joke at the end of each exhausting day) nor some 19th century Euro-explorer (the popular assumption).  Rather, it stems from the Tehuelche indian word meaning “blue,” and is applied for obvious reasons.  After a long weekend at the Freestyle Hostel in Ushuaia, I had successfully picked the brains of all travelers stopping in after extended treks throughout Patagonia, and “The W” at Torres del Paine — a 5-day trek “best of” tour of the national park — had filtered its way to the top of the list.

The ‘W’

The ‘W,’ then, is the sloppily colored path painted in above.  After arriving by shuttle on the first day, passengers are dropped off either far to the right of the W-shaped circuit by the east end of Lago Sarmiento, or they can stay on the bus and be dropped off at Lago Pehoe in time for the 1:30 ferry ride, starting the circuit  along Lago Grey.  The first refugio, “Pehoe,” awaits travelers upon exiting the ferry, and it’s possible to stow gear there and hike unburdened to Glacier Grey and back, or carry everything along and stay the night in Refugio Grey.

Day two involves backtracking down the Lago Grey trail and making it as far as the Italian camp at the base of the French Valley.  Hiking into the valley and back takes up a good half of the next day, leaving enough time to make it to Refugio Los Cuernos by late in the day.  The fourth day is the longest and most arduous, with about ninety minutes of strenuous ascent, as trekkers make their way to Campamente (”Campsite” — no refuge there, but a properly maintained campground complete with bathroom) Torres.  Ambitious/stupid campers like myself will then somehow wake at five the next morning, making one of the steepest climbs of the circuit in the dark to watch the sun rise from Mirador (”lookout point”) Torres, after which point they proceed to shuffle back down, collect their gear and make the final walk down to Guarderia (”ranger station”) Laguna Amarga.

Daily shuttles bring trekkers into the popular park twice a day (simultaneously making pickups of weary, filthy, stinking hikers ready to get the hell out — that is one pungent busride back to Puerto Natales…), stopping briefly at the park’s entrance for us to pay our gringo entry fees.  Chileans pay a single lifetime fee of 5000 Chilean pesos, while extraneros (foreigners) pay 15,000 with every visit.  Chile is the first country I’ve visited where the exchange rate involves this degree of irritating math with any transaction:

• 1 US dollar = 562 pesos
• 1000 pesos = 1.78 dollars
• 15,000 pesos = $26.75

Not exactly cheap for a national park.

On the plus side, the park is immaculately maintained, and refugios are well staffed and spread evenly around the trails so that help/lodging/supplies are always readily available.  There’s zero carbon footprint as well, as modern wind turbines are erected in several key, wind-heavy locations to provide energy to the refugios.  It should be noted that the refugios also provide full meals and indoor lodging with beds for those only interested in roughing it by day.  Though at 20,000 pesos for a bed, it’s not exactly budget-oriented (9000 for dinner).

I will admit to feeling jealousy at times upon having smiling hikers briskly pass me by while wearing nothing more than a small day pack.  On the positive side, water — typically a heavy necessity — isn’t a problem here.  Hikers are nearly always within an hour of walking alongside a cold mountain spring, and all the flowing water here is safely drinkable.  Fresh, clear and freezing, every sip ranks among the best water I’ve ever drank.

By the first day, I’ve already got a group of camping partners, which makes the evenings far more enjoyable.  We spend the days hiking at varying paces, smiling and sharing a few words when passing, but by night we share soup, wine, cheese, rum and stories.  Nearly all of us are overdressed; we were promised cold air and relentless rain and received neither.  At one point, late in the trip, we stop for lunch at the base of a serene mountain lake and the French girl, Emilie, decides to go for a swim.

“Eet can’t bee colder zhan thee wahter where i am from in Britanee.”

Her voice is high and lilting, and her accent is almost so perfectly what I’d expect a French accent to be that it sounds like a cute caricature.  She strips down to her underwear and walks slowly into the water, giving away nothing of its coldness on her face as she makes her way out to deeper waters, eventually submerging entirely.  The Italian girl in our group follows suit and then, eventually, so do I.  It’s as frigid as one would expect a lake in the shadow of ice-covered mountains to be, but imminently refreshing and after days without bathing it was probably the most polite things I could’ve done for my traveling companions.

Eating soup (it’s the lightest food to carry along, though began to get old by day 3) on a rock in my boxer shorts directly after my swim, it occurred to me that the waterproof, insulated pants I’d been wearing and relentlessly sweating into were completely unnecessary in the warm, sunny weather we’d been having.  My boxer shorts on the other hand were incredibly breezy and comfortable.  And so I hiked the remainder of my trip quite casually in my underwear.

I like hiking alone.  Lugging a backpack full of gear and food is exhausting enough, and engaging in any conversation would only exacerbate things.  Instead, I’ve begun using a thirty-hour “Learn Spanish” class on my iPod that apparently should have cost me four hundred dollars.  It did not.  But it is well structured and the only drawback that I discovered was that at times I would get so into following along out loud that I wouldn’t notice people walking by and staring at me quizzically as I complimented Senora Rodriguez on her hair, or asked for the doctor’s telephone number.  At one point, another hiker actually stopped when I requested a glass of milk.

He didn’t have any.

Patagonia in Pictures

Before getting into what to do in Patagonia, there’s probably a better question to start things off:

What is Patagonia?

Besides being a hip, outdoor clothing company, Patagonia refers to the region of land comprising the southernmost portion of South America.  Ignoring physical borders, Patagonia includes both Argentina and Chile and rises as far north as the southern section of Argentina’s Buenos Aires district (not the city).  For decades, the geological diversity, boundless natural beauty and sparse population have made the region a tremendous draw for trekkers, campers, sport fishers, climbers and aficionados of nearly every other popular outdoor adventure.  The region gets its name from the European myth of the Patagons (etymology uncertain), mythical giants said to inhabit the far reaches of South America.  The 5′11″ average height of the Tehuelche Indians (eight inches past the European average of the time) helps explain this slightly, though not why Patagonians were still believed to be 12-15 feet tall over 250 years after their discovery.

For my purposes, Patagonia would be limited to its southernmost third or, more specifically, places I could get to by bus in under 24 hours.  This knocks out such popular mid-Patagonia favorites as Bariloche (founded by Swiss settlers, it’s often considered to be the chocolate capital of South America) and Puerto Montt (fjords, Jaimee!).  It was already early March and I would need to be back in Ushuaia by the 18th for my cruise — trips to Antarctica are neither cheap nor refundable at this point the game, and massive cruise ships wait for no man.  To be safe and fully prepared, I set March 16th as my ultimate cut-off date, which left me with the following popular options, with the winners in bold:

• Punta Arenas: “Sandy Point.”  The largest city in southern Patagonia, major attractions include boats and ferries to surrounding islands and a three-day cruise through the fjords to Puerto Montt.  As I was about to embark on a cruise to Antarctica, this seemed like an unnecessary use of my time.
• Puerto Natales: North of Punta Arenas, this smaller port town is the jumping-off point for trekkers headed to Torres del Paine.  While scenic, the waterside Chilean city offers few activities of its own, but a glut of options for outdoor gear rental and organized expeditions.  As I had already decided on Torres del Paine, this stop was a necessity.
• Torres del Paine National Park: Named for two naturally formed granite torres (”towers”) the park is one of Patagonia’s most famous, offering spectacular scenic beauty comprised of lakes, rivers, mountains, forests and glaciers, all with meticulously kept trails and an ample supply of refugios — “refuges” along the way for sleeping, bathing and supply restocking (including relatively inexpensive boxed wines).
• El Chalten: Tehuelche for “smoking mountain” (Mt. Fitzroy is not a volcano, but as it is always enshrouded by clouds, the indians believed it to be), the Argentinian city was built specifically for tourist purposes in 1985 as an access point for the popular Mt. FitzRoy and its surrounding national park.  Unlike Torres del Paine National Park, there is no entry fee and the city provides free camping to tourists.
• 

  Mt. FitzRoy (note: stock photo)

  Mt. FitzRoy: Named by Argentinian explorer Francisco Moreno (who himself would get a famous glacier named after him), this stark mountain peak straddling the Argentinian and Chilean borders has brought in famous mountain climbers from around the world for over a century due to its height and complexity.  The park that surrounds it has no admission charge and there are many diverse and interesting trails looping around the mountain.  I didn’t get to go, but several excursions out of El Calafate put me within visual range of the peak.

• El Calafate: A small bush with yellow flowers and dark blue berries called the “calafate” gives this city its name.  Getting its start early in the last century as a trading post for wool merchants, El Calafate has — like the other Patagonian cities above — shifted its focus to tourism instead.  The city now is filled with hotels, hostels, fine restaurants, an airport and even a casino (the biggest indicator apparently of a town’s tourist draw).
• Perito Moreno Glacier: 19 miles of solid ice, this glacier is the world’s third largest reserve of fresh water and one of Argentina’s biggest natural tourist draws.  It was spectacular, though given that I was less than a week away from visiting Antarctica and all the ice therein, this visit was possibly unnecessary.
• Monumento Natural Bosques Petrificados: Argentina’s very own Badlands (much like those in South Dakota), complete with petrified forest.  It’s not one of the area’s bigger draws, but as I’ve wanted to see a petrified forest since I envisioned massive stone trees as a child (the reality isn’t quite as epic), this was a definite.

The Plan

And so with two weeks at my disposal, I planned out my epic Patagonian adventure as follows:

• Day 1: 18 hours by bus from Ushuaia to Puerto Natales, Chile, with mandatory bus stop-over and bus switch in Punto Arenas.
• Day 2: Scope out gear and transportation for Torres del Paine National Park in Puerto Natales.
• Day 3-7: The “W” circuit at Torres del Paine.  I wouldn’t learn what this means until Puerto Natales, but all advice seemed to center around this famous 5-day trek.
• Day 8: Recharge in Puerto Natales.  Bathe.
• Day 9: Figure out means of getting to El Calafate, Argentina.
• Day 10: Scope out tour companies and transportation in El Calafate.  Look into something called the “Big Ice Trek” which involves several hours of ice-climbing on Perito Moreno Glacier.
• Day 11: Perito Moreno Glacier
• Day 12: Badlands Petrified Forest
• Day 13-14: Somehow figure out a way back to Ushuaia in time to not lose 3900 dollar Antarctica cruise fee by missing boat.

Don’t Bring Apples into Chile

Just getting the bus ticket up to Puerto Natales was probably the most difficult aspect of the trip.  Three companies operate out of Ushuaia, though a stop at the Ushuaia tourist information center was needed for a list of their addresses and prices.  Forty-five minutes at one ticket counter were wasted upon realizing they needed my actual passport and not simply its number (which I’ve long since memorized and is generally enough for any situation).  I was forewarned by many that the buses — which don’t leave daily — are nearly always sold out, and it’s impossible to buy tickets the day of the departure.

Argentina stamps us out of their country with little fanfare, inspecting passports only long enough to find a page empty enough for an exit stamp.  Getting into Chile proved far more problematic, for me and me alone.

I feel the need to preface this by explaining that I don’t even particularly like apples.  Told that I would be on a bus for eightteen hours with few stops to resupply on food, I cleverly hit up the grocery store the night before our departure to stock up on travel snacks: crackers, cookies and yes, apples.  I don’t know what compelled me to purchase them, since I never have any particular craving for apples, but upon passing the produce aisles and looking down at my basket of highly processed junk food, it seemed like the healthy, adult choice to pick up two apples and add some fresh fruit to the mix.

Chile does not appreciate fresh Argentinian fruit.

Had I been more observant of the landscape, I might’ve seen the many billboards erected close the Chile’s border of a large red circle and cross superimposed over the image of a green apple much like any of the three I had with me, but sadly I did not notice any of these until future border crossings where they always caused a hint of sour amusement.

As bags are checked, we shuffle through like clockwork, removing our unsuspicious belongings from the x-ray machine and heading back to the bus to repack them below.  My iPod plays and I mindlessly shuffle through the procession ready to retrieve my backpack and move on.  A woman in uniform grabs my arm and shifts into focus in front of me; she’d been calling to me but the music had blocked her from my attention until now.  She’s saying something in Spanish as I remove my headphones, but even had I caught the beginning of her sentence I likely would not have understood.  I shake my head in confusion.  She removes the two apples from my bag.

“Manzanas! [apples!]”

“Si.  Manzanas. [Yes.  Apples.]”

She says something else that goes over my head.  “Apples are bad, m’kay?” or something similar.  She pulls out my immigration form and points at the question “Are you importing any produce or livestock” followed by a clearly checked “NO.”  Something-something-problem.  Something-something-fine.

“I mean, ‘importing,’ well sure, I saw that.  It just sounds like, you know, like mass quantities — uhh, mucho.”

She motions for me to stand aside, grasping little of what I had just said and/or caring less.  I watch as everyone else passes through as before, unmolested.  At one point, after being ignored for five minutes or so, I start to surmise that I misunderstood what she barked at me and had been standing there foolishly for no reason at all.

“Well,” I say, reaching towards my passport, “sorry about the appl–”

She turns quickly and slams her hand down on the ID, barking something out.  It’s true what I’ve been warned — Chileans talk incredibly fast.  I’m getting nothing here.

The last of the passengers on my bus filter out and two other customs agents are now conversing incomprehensibly with the woman that has detained me.  She barks at our driver unceremoniously as he comes in to check in on me, causing him to back away while staring at me with thinly veiled irritation.  A new woman takes a hold of the apples and guides me into a back room.

“You know,” I say, “You can keep the apples or..  It’s funny.  I don’t even like apples.  No me gusta, no me gusta! [I don't like, I don't like!]. Si?”

“No,” she says, and mentions something about papers, while shuffling through a pile on her desk, finally honing in on a specific sheet that she begins to fill out.  Upon being given the form, I see that it loosely translates to: Declaration That I Brought Illegal Contraband into Chile.

“Really?  Verdad? [Really?]”

She nods while sifting through more papers as I add my personal information to the form.  Upon finishing, she presents me with a new form:

Declaration that Chile is Confiscating My Illegal Contraband From Me

Whatever.  Then, a third:

Declaration that Chile Will be Destroying My Shady Contraband in a Fiery Inferno

The fiery inferno part is made up, but the bureaucratic acceptance via form of the complete destruction of my apples is 100% true.  Since the initial mention of a fine, I’ve heard no more of it, and I’m starting to feel optimistic.  Outside of the office, she presents me back to the first official who is currently standing next to my bus driver, his arms crossed in frustration.  She examines my copies of the three forms I had only just filled out and turns one over to begin scrawling something on the back.

“This,” she says now in choppy English, pointing at what she’d just written on my form, “is my boss email.  You have to write to him.  You have to say you sorry.”

“I AM sorry.”

“You tell to my boss.”

I leave without my apples and walk back to the bus alongside the driver, neither of us looking at one another.  I never really do get around to writing the customs official’s boss…

Puerto Natales

The giant Milodon imposingly greets all visitors to Puerto Natales with its fierce, herbivorous stance, as though ready to slowly tear through the insignificant stature of any human blocking its path to fresh, ummm, leaves.  Yes, as far as frightening, extinct creatures go, the giant Milodon sloth is relatively low on the list, though having roughly the body of a bear (and, it is said, “the tail of a kangaroo!”) and being over twice as tall as the average human, the creature ain’t, much like the Wu-Tang Clan, nuthin to fuck wit.

Luckily it is long extinct, with only the giant statue honoring the creature erected as a bizarre welcome from Puerto Natales to all visitors.  Over 10,000 years ago, these creatures roamed Chilean Patagonia, standing on their hind legs to pull down trees and branches for their choicest leaves.  A well-preserved specimen was found in a cave 15 miles outside of the city in the early 20th century, leading biologists to speculate that some living Milodons might still exist.  The cave is now a national landmark, though not one I found to be worth visiting as the primary statue brought me more than enough Milodon joy.

It’s ten o’clock at night and the second bus I’ve ridden today has pulled in along a dark, non-descript street in Puerto Natales that clearly serves as its bus station.  I’m alone and have yet to get my bearings, but having been in some state of transit since 5:30 this morning, I’m mostly just happy to be here.  The trip from Ushuaia was luckily punctuated by enough breaks — border stops in both Chile and Argentina, a ferry ride across the Strait of Magellan as well as a bus switch in Punta Arenas — as to keep it interesting and always provide for some sorely needed leg stretching.

It’s a small city, with only a few buildings taller than two stories through the central section of town.  One can’t judge a city’s safety based on never having been mugged there, but I always felt safe at night in nearly every Patagonian town.  These Patagonian towns that survive and thrive based on being catering to tourists really seem to frown on any of their inhabitants chasing said tourists away via petty crime.  Nearly all the hostels offer free gear storage for backpackers while they disappear for 5-15 days into Torres del Paine, in addition to arranging shuttle pick-up and drop-off to the national park.

Erratic Rock Hostel doesn’t appear from the reviews to be known for being the best or cheapest lodging in town, but they receive a profound respect from the trekking community for their 3 PM daily, well-publicized “Torres del Paine” class.  For fifteen minutes, someone well-versed in the Torres do’s and dont’s goes over everything any of the park’s visitors might need to be aware of before heading off on their journey.  The lecturer — whom I would randomly meet again in Buenos Aires and cause me to get more intoxicated than at any other point in my trip — basically intended to get across that the park can, at times, be extremely cold, windy and wet.

“Plan for it now,” she says, in her strong Australian accent.  “It rains almost daily.  I advise having a single outfit for walking in that you intend to just get wrecked in every possible way –  wet, ripped, dirty, smelly — and then another cozy, dry outfit for sleeping in.  You’ll be miserable in the mornings when you put that nasty, dank gear back on, but at least this way your nights are that bad.”

My enthusiasm for this trip wanes.

Camping gear rental is everywhere and nowhere — Stores on nearly every street advertise, but none are open.  It’s four in the afternoon now and much like in Ushuaia, this city stands by its siesta policy.  Except in special cases, everything closes down between one and five, daily.  Luck is on my side as I find the single shop willing to ignore the cultural siesta policy and I lay a claim on their last light-weight single person tent.  Gear runs me around thirty dollars, but includes a tent, sleeping bag, sleep mat, waterproof pants, camp stove and cookwear set.  Ten dollars more gets me a hat and alpaca scarf to keep.  At the grocery store I stock up on powdered soups, bread, salami, cheese, granola bars and chocolate.

No apples.