Coke and Witches

Nestled within Lauca National Park, at over 4,500 meters (14,700+ feet) above sea level, Lago Chungara, known as the highest “lake” in the world, and serves as a beautiful backdrop to the Chilean/Bolivian border crossing. Twin volcanic turrets sit on either side of the frontier, the two conical towers stand opposite each other stirring in a silent standoff over the convergin altiplano. The smoky citadels safeguard their respective nations: the Chilean Volcan Parinacota in the west, and Bolivia's Volcan Pomerape (Pomarata) in the east.

First stopping to go through Chilean exit procedures I was permitted time to disembark the bus. Between Andrea and I we comprised the following altitude sickness symptomatic checklist:

Shortness of breath, check
Brain pounding against skull, check
Chocking back vomit, check
Veins popping in eyeballs, check
Nasal taste of blood, check
Variety of greenish skin tones that would make a chameleon jealous, check

By the time we reached the Bolivian entry the symptoms were in full effect. While attempting to bribe the Bolivian border authorities, my hand became my only steady anchor point firmly grasping the officers desk while avoiding a sweaty brain twisting blackout. Making it back onto the bus without having vomited or passed out was viewed as a success, in spite of my $135 donation to the people of Plurinational State of Bolivia.

When making the transition from Chile to Bolivia you KNOW your in a completely different country/ income bracket. Earthen homes dot the altiplano, the typical dress of the cholitas is the vestment of choice, half finished (or half decayed) buildings comprise the skyline of Ciudad El Alto (a suburb of La Paz), with urbanization comes the blare of car horns, traffic jams; and shouts from drivers, vendors, and beggars-which lacks in Chile.

The slogan “Viva La Revolucion” drips from the red graffiti at the boots of the metallic Che Guevara statue as the bus driver pays the toll to head into La Paz. Below the horizon it becomes visible the hole that is La Paz. I don't mean that negatively, the city literally occupies a giant hole in the ground know as Chuquiago Marka valley. Houses sprawl out from the city center, located in the deepest part of the valley, and crawl up the mountain sides yearning to reach the snow capped peaks of the massive Mount Illamani which casts its shadow over the metropolitan valley.

Arriving at the bus station just after dark we clutch our bags, pockets, and wallets and head off into the night. My grip loosens as I see children I their school uniforms skipping down the sidewalk in front of us, and joking on the road beside us. We finally settle into our Irish pub of a hostel and unwind for the night.

Awaking the following day I was still fighting a bout with an altitude headache...although, upon reflection it may have had something to do with one of the two-dollar, one liter, seven percent alcohol beers I had managed to inhale at the hostel bar the night before...hmm...Luckily, in the land of the cocalero a medicine is just around the corner. Remedy and cure-all for absolutely anything the “controversial” coca plant is a fact of life in Bolivia. To investigate more (and to attempt to cure my headache), Andrea and I head towards the Coca Museum.
Upon entering we find the curator and his friends huddled around the reception desk, wads of green coca bulging from their cheeks like a horrendous tumor, cigarettes hanging limp from their bottom lips as they chatted the morning away. Greeting Andrea with green tooth grins, she inquisitively asked if we could try some. They were more than willing to share and invited us to take a handful of leaves. We are instructed to wedge the coca in between our molars and inner cheek along with some ash (which intensifies the sweet flavor), and occasionally squeeze the mucousy juice to the back of our throats. With my entire mouth numb and green drool running off my chin, the pressure in my brain relaxes and my headache retreats.
The coca museum spells out the ABC's of coca facts: Traditional use in worship of the Pachamama (Mother Earth), mandatory chewing by the enslaved native mine workers (as a stimulant it “increases ability to work in harsh conditions, decreases appetite, and creates a sense of 'euphoria'”), the eventual outlaw by the 'evil imperial northern nations' (except in the manufacture and flavoring of their tasty beverages), the reinstatement by the president for the people- Evo Morales, and the fact that coca is NOT synonymous with cocaine. A few snacks at the coca cafe: tea and coca cookies, as well as a coca infused fluorescent green beer; and our coca experience has come full circle.

El Mercado de las Brujas: The Witches Market, a heavily travelled box to tick on every tourists checklist, here in South America's poorest nation I anticipated the impending assault by money clambering merchants. The uncrowded stone pedestrian street is lined with shops offering colorful artisan llama and alpaca knit textiles, stone trinkets, wooden Andean instruments, and “Inca” remedies to improve virulence, physical allure, and instill good luck. Dried llama and alpaca fetuses hang from shop ceilings, a bizarre novelty to be seized by customs for tourists, a generous offering of faith to the Pachamama for local practitioners. A relaxed marketplace is an understatement. If the shopkeepers weren't so friendly to us, I would have thought them annoyed by us for interrupting their peace and quiet. 'No' meant 'no', unlike our Moroccan experience where 'no' meant 'grab my arm and shove me into your store'. Bargaining was honest, and I was surprised by vendors telling us directly “This one is cheaper because its synthetic rather than organic” instead of just taking us for foolish gringos. I opted for a hammock. Now I have a home...

Pisco´d

After a topsy-turvy, roundy, curvy three hour scuttle through the Chilean pre-cordillera directly east of La Serena lies the tiny village of Pisco Elqui. The village lies at the far end of the aptly named Elqui Valley which has been the subject of work for South America´s first Nobel Prize winner, the second most prominent Chilean litereary figure (after Pablo Neruda), the feminist poet Gabriela Mistral, who was born in the Valley Elqui.
Pisco Elqui was renamed since the time of Mistral from the patriotic sounding “La Union” to its present day liquor soaked name-sake. The potent alcoholic drink that is “Pisco” is made from fermented Moscatel grapes (which hang from vineyards throughout the valley) which are then distilled, maximizing its inebriative powers.
A Pisco-shooter sense of intoxication enveloped my senses that day:
Shot 1: Head on a swivel, eyes popped, possibilities: endless. The bus ride into the valley leaves Andrea and I wide eyed with excitment. Steep barren mountain ridges drop deeply into the fertile green veins of the valley. Growing thirsty for adventrue...
Shot 2: When is this party getting started? Arivving around eight in the morning its difficult to distinguish if the secluded village has yet to be roused from its Pisco induced slumber, or if in fact the inhabitants are already  hidden deep in the vineyard laboring away and sweating out their hangovers.
Shot 3: Feelin Fine! A horse ride through the town up onto a depilated lookout over the valley exposes us to the extreme contrast at work. From where we are perched a parched desert wasteland leaves us suceptible to an attack by the Tusken Raiders at any moment. Meanwhile the lush valley below is home to nothing more dangerous than the mind-numbing grapes.
A short cut back to the ranch affords us the “opportunity” to maneuvre our stead down some intense declines. Visualize horses on a slip-and-slide...
Shot 4,5,6 and maybe 7 or 8...: No metaphors, figurative language, or creative writing here. These were indeed Pisco shots we received while touring the distillery.
A browny single distilled variety at 70% alcohol by volume.
A slightly beige  double at about 90%.
A clear triple distilled delight at a lethal near-purity.
And finally a national cocktail “Pisco Sour”, or two, or three, or...
Shot eeerrrmm...9 or so?: ANOTHER PARTY WOOOHOOO! With vision skewed and a wobble in our step we arrive to Montegrande where a festival is underway to honor Gabriela Mistral´s birthday. The town is preparing for quite the fiesta. School children and day laborers alike pile into the villages chapel for a pre-party mass, as non-parishoners arrange speakers and band instruments outside. Banners adorn the statue in honor of Mistral featuring the handiwork of the town´s school kids. Collapsable tables are unfolding for a banquet in the town square, and within a few hours the valley will be luch with Pisco-soaked revellers.
Shot ???: Ummm....err... oh boy. How did I describe that bus ride before? Curves, lots of turning, up, down, seemingly upside down. World spinning. I feel quite Pisco´d. I fight with every ounce of energy not to recreate a green, lush, Pisco valley on Andrea´s blouse.