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.

Serenity

Many apologies to those who have been waiting to hear about my wanders in South America. My first entries were written and ready for posting when unfortunately my baby (aka my laptop) unexpectedly died a quick but painful death. I had begun with my arrival in Santiago, as I will return there for an extended period in a couple of months, I have decided to move on and if my computer can be fixed and what I have written is there- I will post it......HERE WE GO!!!!

¨Serenity¨
A sleepy busride north of Santiago reveals beachside retreats and coastal fishing villages that roll out of the tide and onto the shore. Our bus glides to a halt at the La Serena bus terminal, grabbing our bags we slip the driver $2,000 pesos for letting us stay onboard past our purchased stop ( La Serena´s industrial sister city, Coquimbo, had been our original port of call. Expecting a beach town, we were asked to disembark the bus on a smoggy, traffic filled main street of the gritty port city). No map. No place to stay. This is wandering. For about 10 minutes.
We arrive at the birghtly colored door of a hostel that Andrea has heard about, Maria´s Casa. And that´s exactly what it is! Entering her front door you walk through Maria´s living room, kitchen, and to the back of her homewhere there are guest rooms for weary backpackers. Maria´s friends come and go while her sons smoke cigarettes and do handywork in the backyard and around the house.
After "enjoying" an "authentic" Chilean meal, as suggested by our host, we head off to bed. The meal, you ask? Of course I'll tell you! Mauricio, one of Maria's sons, tells usthat we absolutley MUST try a Chilean "Completo". He explains, however pride and fear keep me from having him elaborate and I pray that something was lost in translation. Smiling and nodding Andrea and I head to the restaurant of his choice. Andrea orders two completos.
Do I want any mayo?
Heck yes I do.
I have no idea what this mayo will be put on, but as a general rule in life: If ever in doubt, nod yes for mayonnaise.
Our completos arrive. Placed delicately on an ergonomic, form fitting, red plastic stand (proudly sponsored by Coca-Cola); glistening in all its glory as if a personal bestowal from the heavens themselves lies in wait a hot dog. Want a truly authentic cultural experience? Buy a pack of Oscar Meyer weiners. MICROWAVE them. Slap some guacamole, ketchup, and mayo on a bun- you will have created the gastronomic tradition that is the Chilean Completo!

Awaking to the tast of hot dog on my breath, we head towards the Archaeological Museum across town. Ancient artifacts are great. But after a while you realize that archaeologists seem to always dig up your grandparents pre-historic basement. The earthen pottery, arrow heads, textiles, and hand carved idols of ancient times will be replaced by tupperware, a broken air rifle my uncle got when he was 12, a pink afghan, and Pong in 2000 years time.
Highlights however includded a cool timeline and description of the indigenous poples of Chile, where they lived, how, and when. Most interesting is the account of the Mapuche people who drove the Spanish out of the south of Chile and kept them out for some 300 years. A tremendous feat (unfortunately treaties were signed by chiefs at the end of knife blades and guns pressed into their backs. Forced migration, disease, and incarceration in reservations effectively ended their persistent autonomy).
Through the colonial grid of plazas and churches we walk 2km out of the city center along a plamtree lined esplanade towards the beach. A lighthouse marks our arrival to the seemingly deserted beach. Hotels, resorts, and cabanas rest quietly along the boardwalk during La Serena´s low tourist season. Although the winds and water are cool (it is the beginning of winter) the sky opens and the sun blazes. Ice cream on the beach with Andrea leaves me with and unrelenting Chilean grin.

Ausmas

They keep telling me that its Christmas time. I laugh. Were it physically possible for spherical members of my anatomy to actually sweat off, those suckers would be long gone by now! Never have I ever experienced the lead up to the holiday season as long days of sunshine, boiling temperatures, and sunburn. But then again, this is Australia and Santa delivers presents on a surfboard. Typically in the US when I see people leave the privacy of their own homes and expose themselves to the public in Santa hats, I shake my head in pity. But when people walk down the street dressed in tank-tops, shorts, and flip flops, topped off with sweat-saturated woolen Santa hats, I rack my brain for reason. Can you imagine forcing your child to sit on Santa’s lap after he’s been sitting in the stuffy air of a shopping center all day stuffed with pillows to pronounce his belly, muzzled with a fake beard, and draped in a snow suit! No wonder kids constantly cry at the poor old man. I can appreciate the festive feeling brought about by a finely decorated Christmas Tree. But Queensland isn’t exactly known for the grandeur of its towering evergreen forests. Where are all these pines and firs coming from? Why are their needles so shiny? Why don’t they need any water? And why do they conveniently collapse into a cardboard box? WHY!? Ok, fair enough, who doesn’t have a fake tree, but I just feel like Australians should decorate palm trees. Even if they are fake (the palm trees I mean, I know that Australians are real). Here is your homework: Pull out your Christmas music (I know you still have in on hand and haven’t quite tucked it away yet) listen to the lyrics of each song. Now transport the “winter wonderland“, “white Christmas“, and “Jack Frost nipping” to the tropical environment of Brisbane. Nothing like nearly crashing into the car in front of you because sweat keeps dropping into your eyes while stuck in a traffic jam with a broken air conditioner singing along to the radio “let it snow, let it snow, let it snow”. Christmas has more of a Fourth of July feel to it. Instead of gathering around the fire place, the barbecue is where the action is. Snow ball fights and snowmen are replaced by the beach, building sand castles and playing volleyball. But the Christmas Eve church service must be a universal truth. A jam-packed church, squashed and uncomfortable, standing room only. No matter what climate your in its hot from all the body heat. Slightly more boisterous than your typical Sunday morning, your anxious and eager for the service to finish up to finally stretch your legs and open a present or two. But then it happens. The lights slowly dim, the band and choir begin their solemn and comforting chorus of Silent Night. As candle after candle becomes aglow and the church flickers in song; echoes of Christmas past rush through your memory. Young boys will always try to light their programs on fire and the person seated behind you will lift up his voice, singing with a non-human tone. But as you light his candle from your own and exchange gentle smiles it doesn’t matter. Christmas has come upon the congregation and whether in Two Rivers, Wisconsin; Brisbane, Australia; or Timbuctoo this sole tradition defines Christmas for me; those few moments in which your world is at peace (maybe not the outside world, maybe not even everyone in the church, but you yourself). As the candles are extinguished and the aroma of melted wax and wick fill the sanctuary, you are slowly stirred from your serenity as “Merry Christmas” and “Happy holidays” are exchanged.

Hangi Panky

Anybody wanna eat a hangy!?” shouted one of my supervisors during an early morning meeting at work. I giggled and offered a Kleenex instead. I later found out that a ‘hangi’ is a traditional Maori feast prepared in a pit oven. Curiously excited I immediately recanted my previous typical Schlosser-esque response and offered to help. My supervisor, Ana, rose an eyebrow as if to say “Are you sure?“ and relayed to me that preparation took an entire day and included hard physical labor, including the slaughter of a pig. A few of my Kiwi co-workers advised me to enjoy my last final moments with my arm hair, and not to wear a white shirt (or for that matter anything of value). What have I gotten myself into? Any other day-off I could be enjoying myself on the slopes attempting gnarly jumps, discovering new trails, and not having any concern whatsoever over the state of my arm hairs. But I really wanted to go and learn more, and with the prospect of an elbow deep gutting of Babe’s dead and swollen body cavity during the pig’s sacrifice to my stomach god; how could I refuse?!
I arrived in Piriaka (which by the way has the best tasting water on planet Earth) in true American style, or so I was told. Misunderstanding the driving directions I arrived late (I get confused when I’m on the left side of the road and I generally resort to driving on the right with my hazards ablaze and my palm pumping the horn). Apparently I had missed the ‘hard physical labor’ that I was promised. Shucks. Ana’s father and cousin had already dug the hole, which measured about one square yard (is that even a measurement?) in dimension and was equally as deep. As well as butchered our friend Babe. The other task was to collect the heart and soul of the hangi itself. Abundant to volcanic regions, metamorphosed rocks are ideal conductors and retainers of heat for earth cooking. Abundance is not the equivalent to ease, as the rocks still need to be dug up from under the ground and many are needed. In large metal burning drums (which, as I was told, was not the way of the ancient Maori) a fire is lit and the volcanic rocks are placed inside. The fire is fed and stoked for several hours until the stones glow red hot, at which point the food shall have been completely prepared. As the men stain their shirts red and brown with blood and dirt and lose their arm hair to the heat of the fire, the women are inside equally determined. With every shovel stroke outside, a pumpkin is sliced inside. With each rock placed into the fire, a chicken is stuffed in the kitchen. The men: tired, sore, and sweating outside. The women: equal pain in both jaw and ear as they endure a multi-hour marathon of gossip. All of the food: one pig, a side of mutton, seven stuffed chickens, a bag of potatoes, five pumpkins, a peppering of Kumara (sweet potatoes), steamed pudding, and countless amounts of stuffing are placed into wire baskets, covered in wet blankets and lowered into the ground atop the red hot rocks and subsequently covered in dirt. And now the waiting game. The best part of the game! Which in essence is the same part, the best part in every game: tailgating.
During the preparation of the feast one works up quite a thirst and beer must be consumed in vast quantities so as to replenish the body of its lost nutrients (I am told this is in accordance to a strict ceremonial tradition, much like Thanksgiving!). The food must remain baking underground, just long enough to “liquidly facilitate an advanced state of hunger“, for about 3-4 hours, or whenever the beer runs out.
With the sun already set and everyone in a jolly mood we stumble over towards the hangi pit with flashlights and beverages in hand. As we slowly scoop the dirt off of the blankets the stomach-grumbling onlookers are in awe as steam rises from beneath the blankets and finally our feast is revealed.
Cooked to prefect tenderness the spread must be hauled via four-wheeler to the kitchen table and along with desserts encompasses two full buffets. In accordance to tradition, those who helped put the hangi down are allowed to nibble the best cuts of meat as they serve the guests however the hosts are not allowed to take a plate for themselves until everyone has had their fill. Seeing as how I helped but was not a host, not only did I get the best cuts of meat, but ate unimpeded to my heart’s content!
Seasoned only with a tiny bit of salt, the meats when infused with an earthy aroma, and only needed about four bites to ‘tear’ through even the toughest bit of mutton.
Although I remained the proud owner of my arm hair, and I wasn’t able to spill the blood of an innocent pig, the hangi proved to be the single most delicious and fulfilling meal of my life.

Parental Advisory: Coarse Language

Whakapapa, pronounced “Fuk-a-papa”, is the name of the ski resort where I have been working for about a month and a half, and my ability (and over eager willingness) to say Whakapapa (Fuk-a-papa) in everyday conversation without getting into a fist fight or slapped remains amusing. Using it as a verb (ex. “I was thoroughly Whakapapad“, “I’m Whakapapaing“, and occasionally “Lets Whakapapa”) as well as shouting it at random times, especially when misusing hand tools, continues to be a personal daily pleasure; while innocent bystanders can do nothing more but crack a smile and shake their heads. Working as a certified ski technician (thank you Salomon Ski’s rep. for leaving the answer booklet on my table during the certification test) who has never skied a day in his life, a fact of any TRUE snowboarder, I must constantly and deliberately direct conversation away from skis. If faced with a specific question about skis, my paternal genetic code (thanks Lar) forces me to instinctually provide sound, informed, and accurate advice directly from my backside, or is it a bulls behind, maybe both. When I snap out of my blacked-out rant of misinformation to customers, I am afforded the opportunity of a good chat. New Zealand truly is a melting pot. I’ll be it Whakapapa is a tourist attraction…(WOW, if read aloud and with correct pronunciation, the last statement sounds like something I heard about in Tijuana!)(To mom, grandma, and most importantly to myself: I deeply apologize for this post!)…but people from all over the globe head up to the beast (Mt. Ruapehu, the mountain that Whakapapa is on) and most of them are locals, in the sense that their permanent home is here in New Zealand. I can now say “Good morning” as well as “Have a nice day” in over a dozen languages, and often have it flipped back on me, “Your American, what are you doing overseas!”

Weekends and holidays are our busy times. Reason #76 to become an ex-pat: Everyone vacations and has more time off from work than we do, how attractive! Every other week is some kind of holiday that people have time off. Screaming infants and lines out the doors mark the seemingly endless days. While during the slow times hitting the slopes on ski breaks might make an impact on the ‘ol income as my wallet shrinks, but I’m definitely becoming a better snowboarder. Gosh, my parents never told me life decisions would be so tough!

Snow?

I apologize for the delay in posts, but picking up from where I left off…

As Auckland faded behind our bus, the New Zealand countryside surrounded us. Considering the previously mentioned volcanalogic (yes, that is a real word) nature of the country, I expected a shark toothed landscape of spike-peaked mountaintops, tall sheer ridges, and vast horizons of sharp mountain ranges. But, heading south, our surroundings were quite the opposite. Sprawling flatlands and prairies were all that I could see from my bus window for the first hour of our journey. Slowly rolling into gentle foothills in the hours to come, the landscape was anything but comparable to a carnivores vicious chompers. Upon entering the foothill region we began to follow a river that wove and wound through a a shallow canyon. My head slowly bobbing up and down, not from the bouncy terrain but from my complete inability to stay awake in vehicles, my eyes would pop open just to fall back asleep despite desperately trying to drink in the sights. Flat. Asleep. Green grasslands. Asleep. Sheep, I tried to count them but I fell. Asleep. Pinetrees. Asleep. Am I “up nort” (northern Wisconsin), very similar. Asleep. Wow, we haven’t been through any populated areas in like 2 hours. Asleep. Sheep. Asleep. The bus driver announces that we will be stopping just about a half hour shy of our destination in order to change drivers. He says that National Park Village lies just beyond a slightly taller range of hills. I am a bit confused as I get off the bus. We are less than an hour away from where we intend to live and work on a ski resort and all I am wearing is a sweatshirt and a pair of shorts. Although there is plenty of wind; ice, cold, and snow there is not. Call me crazy, but I thought those where necessary ingredients for a ski resort?! The bus takes off and we make our way up the hill. Five minutes pass, T-minus 25 until its supposed to be a winter wonderland, nothing. Ten minutes pass, only 20 minutes until snow and I still cant see my breath out the window. Working our way up the range a slightly larger hill obscures my view out the left window. As we continue its obstruction shrinks. Head begin to pop out in the aisle of the bus. Chitter chatter and excited whispers replace the dull hum of the tires on the road. Passengers rise out of there seats and tweak their necks for a better view. And then I see it. Just beyond the hill to my left there they were: the shimmering white snow capped peaks of Mt. Ngauruhoe (aka Mt. Doom, Lord of the Rings geeks) and Mt. Ruapehu. The drastic and sudden transition of scenery leaves me stunned, these two massive snow drenched volcanoes bursting into the sky from such a relatively docile landscape is incredible. A smile cracks across both mine and Andrea’s (along with everyone else on the bus’ faces). Eyes wide and fixed on the peaks and heart pounding with eager anticipation of my adventure to come, trying to stay awake was no longer a problem.