As I was saying earlier...
The point of bringing up the pub in the first place was to eventually get to all the wonderful details of my 2 weeks of vacation. If you are wondering what I am talking about, it is becuase this blog lists entries in order of chronological publication. Thus, to hear about all the stuff leading up traveling in Perú, go back one entry. To see what is behind the creaking door, turn to page 7. Otherwise, just keep reading.
Following all the craziness of town anniversaries and marching in parades and the opening of
Corwatt's Corner on the back of our house, I last left you at the bus stop at 3:30 in the morning, Monday the 14th of July. The original travel plan from this point was to arrive in Antofagasta by 8am, buy my ticket North to Arica (northern Chilean border), take care of some financial stuff when the banks opened, and head towards Perú. Unfortunately for me, a whole lot more South Americans use the bus system than North Americans, so the bus from Antofagasta to Arica routinely gets full well in advance. I couldn't find a bus company around in which the trip wasn't
agotado (that is, booked straight up). Not catching the bus meant that I would be a day late in my travel plans, and miss meeting up with the crew of volunteer friends in Arica (i.e. traveling alone through foreign parts in Chile and Perú). A great way to start vacation, right?
As frustrating as it was, things actually turned out alright. After taking care of my bank stuff, I got a hold of Mike Krax--another volunteer living in Antofagasta--and was able to hang out with him for most of the day. We took a walk up one of the hills that backs Antofagasta and got to look out over the city and the sea. Not the most impressive thing to look at, as people don't bother so much beatifying the outsides of their homes in Antofa., but it was a welcome pleasure to kick around talking philosophy with Mike. Later we went back to his house and shared a meal with his family. It was so pleasant to get a glimpse into the life he has there in the big city, and especially nice to spend some time with such a great Chilean family. When all was said and done, Mike's host-dad took me to the hostel we routinely use in Antofagasta and I settled in for the night. The next day I was up bright and early (ticket in hand this time) to catch the 6am bus to Arica.
Arica is one of the northernmost cities of Chile, and sits right across the border from the Peruvian entry-point of Tacna. The plan, at this point, was to stay in Arica that night with a teacher from the school where I work who was taking his vacation there with his family, and then leave the next morning to cross the border into Perú. This plan started off working splendidly. I got into Arica around 4pm, had time to be given a tour and see
el Morro (giant rock outcropping/old fortress overlooking the city. I was routinely informed that if your boyfriend/girlfriend left you, this was were you came to end your misery), and also to enjoy a beautiful meal at
el Pollón (which I think means "the chicken-lover"). You see, the Chilean food I had been eating at my house for the past 6 weeks was wonderfully nutritious, and I was always more than full--but I had rarely been satisfied by it: Just different taste buds I guess. When I got to el Pollón though, where instead of Double Whoppers or 1/4 pounders you order 1/2 or 1/4
Chickens to eat, I suspected things might be different.
Yeah, they were.
My quarter-chicken (breast and wing) came out on a bed of french fries, and accompanied by an avacado salad--topped off with an Inca Cola and condiment assortment. Super-delicious.
So then it was to home and bed and the next morning to cross the border. I had a 12:30 bus to catch and my fellow teacher sort of chuckled at me because I insisted on getting a
collectivo (kind of a group taxi that runs a specific route) to cross
3 hours before my departure time, for a trip that he said would take--at the very worst--2 hours from start to finish (see how responsible I was being Mom). Little did we anticipate that on the feast day of Chile's patroness, Maria del Carmen, three-fourths of the country's northern population would decide to try to cross the border into Tacna and celebrate their day off. Suffice it to say that my border crossing took slightly more than 2 hours. In spite of our drivers best efforts to hurry things along every step of the way, I got into the bus depot in Tacna about 40 minutes too late, thus missing another bus. Though slightly frustrating, this pattern of delays became something of a serious adventure, making my journey to Cuzco--if not completely enjoyable--at least really exciting and educational. I learned all kinds of things about navigating South American bus and hostel systems (like how to carry yourself in a manner that makes the three million or so independent, questionable taxi, collectivo, or bus agents that fill the stations not interested in trying to sell you a fare). In all the long days, strangeness and confusion, I feel I also grew a bit interiorly.
At last I made it on board a bus from Arequipa to Cuzco, where I arrived after 4 days of travel, 2 missed/booked buses, 2 unplanned hostel stays, and a ride or two with the Flores bus line (Flores: 1970's hippie-daisy decor., and really heinous on-board 80's music videos for no extra charge). The unpleasantless of the trip was alliviated by chatting things up on the 10 hour ride with a really sweet Peruvian girl named Anghela who was passing through Cuzco on her way home for her own school break. I am coming to believe more and more, also through my time by the sea and some beautiful literature, in the power of beauty to help life make sense.
In Cuzco I stayed with my buddie Max and his buddy Connor who is renting an apartment there. Connor was more than gracious, and refused to accept any cash for his pains--said having people come through kept things from getting boring. After a couple of days in Cuzco, I booked my trek to Machu Picchu: 5 days in the Peruvian mountains, food, equipment, entrance fees and all that goodness to the tune of $170. Pretty sweet deal. The trek itself was, due to sickness that hit me on the last day, actually more enjoyable than the final destination. There happened to be 5 kids from Santiago there, and since I was the only one from the U.S. I was able to split my time pretty pleasantly between the Chilean college kids and the English-speaking folks from Ireland, Australia and Sweden. The Chilean kids were a pleasant and refreshing surprise as I haven't often run into people raised in such a similar environment as myself. That is, these kids had gone to a Christian school (Catholic, in their case), all came from really strong Catholic families, and prayed the rosary together on the trail everyday. Seriously, I felt like I was hiking with a group of kids from Alleluia. So that was nice, and it was easy to feel comfortable with them.
As far as the trek, just being out hiking after such a long absence from the woods was nice enough. The end of the first day found us camped in a rugged little valley, carpeted with oliv-green grass, staring up at two gigantic glaciers in the distance. Sometime after nightfall, when the temperature was starting drastically to drop, and we all emerged from the dining tent, we were dumbfounded by a view of the two glaciers turned a glowing, irridescent blue by the rising moon, which hung over the shoulder of one of the ice-giants. The next day was the most challenging, having some of the toughest ascents (and therefore, in some ways, the most enjoyable). There is something to fighting oneself all the way up the long switchbacks and straight climbs of a mountainside that gives its own reward regardless of whether any spectacular view is achieved at the end of it. Luckily enough, this particular fight also bestowed its visual benedictions--we passed through two small and really enchanting little meadow-valleys, run through with streams, and eventually arrived at the knees of Salcantay: one of the two giants that looked down on our campsite of the previous night.
At times, at least for me, it seems we arrive at something we expect to be powerfully beautiful or moving, without the feelings or responses we expected to have. I think this can be scary, or at least bothersome. We're like: this is the flipping Grand Canyon, aren't I supposed to feel some unimaginable sensation right now? It seems the best thing is to enjoy the thing as you can and rest assured that you will probably have some really profound experience of beauty in the near future--like maybe when you are walking down a dull street not looking for it at all. At least this seems to happen to me. Salcantay and the mountains were amazing though. I can't say that I often felt majestically connected to the divine presence, but I was still pretty blown away--for instance--by how the glacier overwhelmed my field of vision. You could just sit there admiring a whole view, and then turn your head 30 degrees and have another whole powerful vista. Looking back at the pictures now I a even more amazed. It was also pretty neat to see some snow capped peaks with clouds drifting across them further down our path.
So as I said, the trek was pretty great. I also remember a really beautiful spot where two rivers made a noisy collision and ran together as one larger flow. It was nice just to marvel at the force and shape of so much water shoved together over lumbering rocks in some spots. We also we able to see some very pretty waterfalls--often falling right next to the trail. One day, in fact, our descent from a ridge kept offering glimpses of this beautiful waterfall, till the path wound down right past it and I was able to take off my shirt and be one with the water for a few minutes. That same day we later hiked into Aguas Calientes along a set of railroad tracks, singing in Spanish and English and forcing ourselves through the last hours of a very long day.
Just to tie things up now. After four days of hiking we had arrived in Aguas Calientes, the tourist depot at the base of Machu Picchu. In conjunction, I believe, with my decision to stay out till 2am dancing and imbibing one night and waking up at 5am the next day for an 8+ hr. hike (which apparently didn't phase my Chilean buddies, who were among the first up Machu Picchu a day later and in great spirits), in conjunction with that example of rather poor judgment, the old body got rather sick and feverish the night before going up to the Inca ruins. I was more than thankful to purge myself before the porcelin goddess at about 2am, and get another 2 hours of marvelous sleep before pulling out the flashlight and heading up the ancient steps at 4:30 in the morning. Suffice it to say that 2 hours climbing 700 yr. old steps at a serious incline didn't do a lot for my recovery: I spent my first two hours on Machu Picchu camped out half-asleep on one of the terraces that the Incans used, eons ago, for farming...willing myself not to feel like absolute crap. I did have one of the best views of the ruined city though. After waking myself up, snapping some photos, and having a soda with a friend from the trek, I decided I wasn't quite up to going back inside for the guided tour, or even just to walk around. Even if I hadn't had quite the experience I had hoped for in Machu Picchu, I had at least been able to move my body into the ruins, carry it up some stairs, force myself to have a good look, and gladly fork over $7 to take the bus back down to the bottom.
So the rest is pretty much uneventful. Well, at least relatively speaking. I was able to have a really beautiful last day in Cuzco. I got back Thursday night (the trek included a train and bus back down), had 8 hours of sleep, and woke up 300% better. Friday was super chill as I was able to snap some photos, visit a couple of really pretty museums and re-visit the enchanting sections of the city before catching my 8:30pm bus back towards home. The journey back to Taltal was the direct of opposite of the previous adventure. All tickets pre-purchased, no delays, no missed buses or surprise hostel stays, and I arrived safe and sound Sunday about noon with a full 1 and 1/2 days to recover before classes started again on Tuesday.
That was all ages ago by now. We've been back in class for a full three weeks since then. I still love the teaching and am beginning to really love my kids--looking at ways to make the little time that I have with thems more effective, linguistically and as a mentor.
This past week we hunkered down for some serious English debate training as next week begins our regional competition. The kids from Liceo Juan Cortes surprised themselves last year by coming in third place in the region, so we have quite a legacy to live up to and not as much time to prepare. Meanwhile Alfredo is here telling the kids that third was nice, but we want Gold this year. Interestingly enough, I was informed early in the week that we would have debate practice all afternoon, every afternoon this past week. Which is to say, in my school they don't think twice about kids missing a whole week of afternoon classes to focus on one particular extra-curricular. Things just run differently down here. It was really good for the team though, as there was (and is) plenty of preparation to do. So maybe the next blog will cover our English debate exploits, which will include at least two trips to the regional capital (usually quite an enjoyable trip for me) and surely many more mini-adventures. By the way--the regional debates: they take place on two consecutive Tuesdays, meaning another 3 out of 5 days missed two weeks in a row starting Monday. Gosh, they do things differently down here.
Well, until I write again, I wish all the best to all you guys.
Peace,
Billy
P.s. Still no pictures!! What's your problem Phillips?? Okay, so pictures are such a pain for me. I am going to try to make the next entry just a bunch of photos with captions dealing with the Pub opening, the Vacation, and some other adventures. For those who have asked, sorry it takes me so long to get these things up. Much love, Billy
P.p.s. A little section I cut out that I include here for those who still actually care:
....So, when I arrived in Arica (at the beginning of my trip), I was eventually met by my fellow teacher, whom everyone back in Taltal calls Cipe. Cipe, I learned, is actually his last name, which it was no use calling him since I would be spending the next 18 hours with a whole house full of Cipe's (they too, are Catholic, and believers in the wonders of procreation). In fact, more than one of his brother's is named Sergio, so sometimes first names weren't safe either. Luckily he is the only Ivan....
