Climbing to Cusco and the Cloud City

Making the trip to Cusco and Machu Picchu is Peru's gringo rite of passage. The postcard shot of the famous ruins backed by green, finger-like mountains is one of the most coveted photo opportunities in South America. An entire tourist industry has exploded into being to charge visitors a pretty penny to hike, train, raft, or bike their way to the mythic spot. And as much as my inner-Dutch self rebelled at the price tag of the journey, I had heard enough testimonies from past visitors (like Brianne) to know that I shouldn't miss the chance to see them for myself.

Luckily, Cusco's beauty has survived the crush of foreign tourists, and despite the prevalence of hawkers and five-dollar-a-photograph llamas, it's a charming and picturesque city. Brianne and I stayed in a quiet hostel on the hillside, which afforded us gorgeous views and literally breath-taking hikes up long stairs in the high-altitude thin air. We took a break from graduate applications to explore the city, try Peruvian Pisco, and become almost twice-a-day regulars at a tiny but delicious veggie cafe.

Veggie burger + falafel taco = dos gringas felices

But the real fun started when I got to planning my solo trip to Machu Picchu. I needed an entrance ticket, two train tickets, and two bus tickets to get there and back, and Cusco seemed to be conspiring with the tour companies to make an independent acquisition of those items as difficult as possible. After a half-day romp around the city looking for the suspiciously unmarked Instituto Nationale de Cultura so that I could buy my entrance ticket (literally you have to walk by the doorway three times looking confused and white before a security guard stops you and whispers "Machu Picchu?" like an underground code word), and a very frustrating evening trying to navigate PeruRail's website (which went something to the effect of: "We accept all credit cards. Except no, not yours. Here's your ticket, except that no the transaction didn't actually go through. Do you have a ticket? Maybe..."), I finally got all the pieces in place for my trip. I spent a semi-sleepless night waiting for my 6:30 AM taxi and then started the long, tiring, gorgeous, expensive, wonderful day at Machu Picchu.

The scene at the ruins is overwhelming in more ways than one. Sunburning tourists everywhere in khaki shorts, guides filling the air with historical tidbits in European languages, and a vista so unbelievable that no matter how many times you photograph it, you always seem to miss the essential element. It can be hard to share an experience that large-scale with so many other people. Even when I found a quiet spot to rest and take in the view, a French tour group would wander by, or a gang of eleven-year-old Peruvian schoolboys would want their photos taken with me (true story). Fortunately, being alone in a crowd has always held a certain appeal to me, and I enjoyed a day with my inner monologues and Ipod-compiled soundtracks. I did my best to carve out my own snapshots of a place both overexposed to tourists and stubbornly inaccessible to them. I like to think I walked away with a little something of my own.

Border crossings

Since I last found time to write, many of the foundations of our trip have shifted. October has turned to November, and counter-intuitively the weather has warmed from fleeces and wool socks to short sleeves and sandals. We've left Chile for Peru. And we have finally, at long last started handing in our graduate school applications. We might very well be on the verge of a whole new state of travel, but before it arrives I should back up and fill in the busy steps that led us here.

Our farewell to Chile was one of our trip's pleasant surprises. The Chilean chicas we met in Torres del Paine (Elaine, Pamela, and Manola) invited us to come visit them in Vina del Mar and Valparaiso. And we, being two people who will always follow up on a free bed in a beautiful city, accepted. Our friends, it turned out, were the daughters of some fairly important Chilean naval officers, and we spent four fabulous days being toured around, spoiled with free laundry, and stuffed with delicious food. Valparaiso's streets are kaleidoscopic and Vina's beaches are gorgeous, but the highlight of the stay was the chance to relax with friends, have a movie night, and eat so many chips and biscuits you might need a stomach pump.

Valparaiso

 

The beach at Quintay



Pamela, Me, Brianne, and Elaine

You may have noticed that our Chilean friends look every bit as gringa as we do. In fact, you may very well suspect us of bringing in German and Scottish ringers to make ourselves look more culturally engaged. But Valparaiso, like the United States, has a long history of European immigration, and many of the Chileans we met there could have passed for Swedes. As for our Chileans, they gave us a spectacular send-off by introducing us to Piscola and taking us dancing until 6:00 AM: the perfect preparation for a 30-hour bus ride leaving at 7:00 AM. We dozed easily in and out of the marathon ride from Santiago to Arica (in the north of Chile), waking only occasionally to take note of the expanse of desert outside and the terrible movie selection inside.

After a night of recovery in Arica, we took a packed taxi ride in a Ford Taurus across the border to Tacna, Peru. From there, yet another bus hauled our tired selves from Tacna to Arequipa, our first real stop in Peru. Finally we had a four-day stay to rest our fluid-swollen feet, power forward on our graduate school applications, and greet Peru by exploring a truly beautiful city.

Sunset from the roof of our hostel

And yes, Peru has brought us (finally) to the beginning of the end of graduate school applications. Unfortunately, hitting submit has so far brought less relief than a general sort of post-partem anxiety. Is this really all I have to show for months of agonized labor? Can I have it back for a second and try to sound smarter? What's more, applying to graduate school has evolved into something of an existential state for me. It's part of my identity. I live in hostels and apply to graduate school. What will I do with myself after it's done?

It's time to find out I suppose. We're in Peru, November spring flowers are blooming, and a whole new phase of the trip is beginning. Cross your fingers that next time you hear from me, I will be celebrating thirteen completed graduate school applications with a Pisco Sour and a Cusco sunset.

Aventuras Patagonicas

The word "Patagonia" has held a mystique for me since the day I first developed an unaffordable obsession with performance clothing. In fact, my vision of Patagonia the landscape matched my attachment to the windblock, moisture-wicking baselayers made by Patagonia the company: I wanted to experience something so gorgeous and outdoorsy that I would instantly become a more hard-core, rustically attractive version of myself. I pictured myself hopping briskly up rugged cliffs, my climbing gear in my weight-efficient day pack. And now here I was, ready to board my flight to Punta Arenas, my backpack stuffed with application paraphernalia, a sorely underused copy of Spanish for Dummies, and a box of oatmeal. Ready or not, here I come, Patagonia.

We started to get a taste for the scenery to come on the plane flight, which offered us some unexpectedly clear views of the mountains and glaciers below:


After spending a couple days in Puerto Natales repacking our bags, stocking up on trail food, and (yes) sending our GRE scores to graduate schools, we boarded the bus for the Torres del Paine National Park. We were layered for warmth and hungry for adventure.
 

Early morning in Puerto Natales

First view of Torres del Paine


The Torres reflected in a gratuitously gorgeous lake

From our first glimpse of the Torres and the Cuernos, I was like putty in Patagonia's craggy hands. The busdriver, seeing our ridiculous grins, jovially pointed out the picturesque views and commanded us to "take a picture of this," and "get a photo of that." Ah...las gringas felices. We arrived on the east side of the park, set up camp in the Torres campground, and headed out for our first hike. We were sans packs and feeling optimistic, but this first day ended up providing both our most scenic weather and our most challenging climb. We tackled a steep hike with jackets around our waists and sunburns blossoming on our faces, but were more than amply rewarded by the view from the Mirador de las Torres.

Our day two spirits were high from the spectacular scenery and warm weather we'd had for the Torres. We breathed a sigh of relief knowing that we had at least seen one section of the park at its best, and crossed our fingers that those photos wouldn't be the last beautiful ones we took. The day started cool and cloudy, but with patches of friendly sun and some wonderful lake views.

Toward the end of the hike, our faces started to feel the first gusts of the famously strong Torres del Paine winds. We would hear the low roar approaching from across the lake, feel the first wobbles of lost balance, and then have to find a rock or tree to cling to as the wind whipped us sideways and kicked up clouds of swirling mist over the lake.

Oh yes...it's all fun and games when you're trying not to fall on your back like a top-heavy turtle because the wind has turned your pack cover into a sail. But there were darker times to come. We arrived at Refugio los Cuernos, where we decided to set up camp so that we could have dinner indoors away from the increasingly threatening winds. Yours truly began to experience a familiar, helicopter-parent-type anxiety about my tent, and unfortunately the mischievous imp of unforeseen complications that has followed our steps so closely on this trip decided to make another appearance. The second time we went out to our site to check on the tent, just ten minutes after I had made my first paranoid inspection, the strong winds had snapped one of my tent poles and sent the broken shaft through the rain fly. Devastation. I felt like I had accidentally dropped something heavy on my puppy. We had to disentangle the tent, pack up our stuff, and hobble back to the refugio, where I instantly dissolved into tears and broken Spanish.

But in the end, karma gave us a very wonderful consolation prize. The managers of the refugio - no doubt alarmed by my crying, nose-blowing, and incorrect verb conjugations - gave us two beds inside for the price of one. What's more, they gave us an unused tent to borrow for the rest of the trip so that we could finish the hike as planned. I still spent the night mourning for my damaged tent, but we also passed an evening grateful for the incredible generosity of strangers.

The next day we set out into the extremely blustery conditions of the night before. After sweating through all our clothes on the first day, we were now hiking through blowing snow, and ended up having to pass over the French Valley section of the hike because of low visibility and even lower temperatures. But by the afternoon the skies had started to clear and we had wonderful views going into our next refugio.

That night we met up again with three Chilean chicas we'd seen at almost every step of the trail. We had found out the night before that they actually spoke excellent English and were glad to find them again at Refugio Paine Grande. We shared some chips and mini bottles of wine, made dinner together, and ended the night by singing the yodelling song from The Sound of Music. Truly, the start to a fabulous friendship.

We decided to camp the next night with them as well and in the morning packed up for Refugio Gray, which sits right by the park's biggest glacier. The hike is normally a relatively easy three and a half hours, but it ended up being a little bit more challenging with the unbelievably strong winds we met as soon as we crested the ridge and arrived at Lake Gray. We had to plant ourselves almost at 45-degree angles to make progess along the trail, and at one point almost lost my pack cover, Brianne's hat, and one of our water bottles trying to snap a photo from a windy viewpoint. But we did see some great views of the glacier and it's little hoarde of icebergs, and arrived at Refugio Gray very ready for the warmth, rest, and free hot beverages.

That night we made smores over the woodstove with our Chilean chicas, Elaine, Pamela, and Manola. We shared them with the staff at the refugio, who of course gave them the thumbs up. Who could dislike a smore? The guys then stayed and chatted for a while, sharing stories about the park and giving Brianne and I a chance to practice our "understanding, understanding, understanding, COMPLETELY LOST," Spanish comprehension game. We spent a good last night in the tent and then packed up for an early morning hike to the glacier and then back to the boat to head out of the park.

Our legs were exhausted. Our stomachs were begging for something non-rehydrated. But we were incredibly grateful for five days of no grad school, no trip planning or budget crunching, nothing to do but enjoy a place we've always dreamed of going. I may not be the outdoor warrior I thought I would be when I tackled Patagonia, but I definitely have an amateur's little-sibling love for being dirty, tired, and totally satisfied with just a few glimpses of life's beautiful places.

Happy, sleepy, and very ready for a shower

WWOOFing Chiloe, or Things Found While Weeding in the Jungle

When we first read the description of our farm in Chiloe, we felt like just the right people for the job. Homemade, communal vegetarian meals? Yes, please. Yoga and meditation? Sign me up. Growing gardens by the sea? I thought you'd never ask. We felt sure we had everything it took to reap the best of this experience.

We were mostly correct, I think, and did indeed find a lot of the beauty we expected. But we also discovered that we had undertaken our WWOOFing experience with some preconceived notions that would soon encounter challenges on the farm.

(1) We speak some Spanish.
(2) Pulling weeds is kind of fun.
(3) Humans cannot perform photosynthesis.

The first two assumptions quickly failed the tests of, respectively, (1) producing grammatically complete sentences in Spanish and  (2) extracting root structures the size of the New York subway system. The third - despite a very earnest anecdote from our far-out hosts about a man who has lived in Argentina for seventeen years without food or water simply by staring intensely at the sun for a couple of hours a day - we're still going to stick to. Brianne and I do not usually end up on the skeptical side of a conversation, but in the case of human photosynthesis we're going to remain repsectfully agnostic.

At the end of the day, however, we had the unbelievable patience of Nelson and Venecia to give us practice understanding 75% of an incredibly complex Spanish conversation and then answering with a three-word fragment or just "Si, claro." We had the friendship of Tatiana, a great traveler and incredible artist,  who taught us the etiquette of mate-drinking and helped us with this sun mosaic, our artistic project for the volunteer's cabin:

We also had the companionship of Celti and Gata, this adorable duo:

And even after tackling weeding jobs that made us feel like we were scalping the earth trying to pull out Jurassic-age plants (see evidence of our efforts above), we still got to call this place home:

We gave our new panchos a workout in the unseasonably cold Chiloe spring. We acquired yet more artisinal wool to worry Chilean customs officials at a market in Dalcahue. We got enough dirt under our finger nails to pot a geranium. And most importantly we had a week and a half to unpack our bags, our memories of the first month in South America, and our hopes for the rest of the trip. Though our backs may be aching, and our bank accounts might be making feeble protests, our spirits are feeling much better rested for all the adventure left ahead of us. Next step: the very obvious combination of backcountry Patagonia trekking and crafting graduate school writing samples. A match made in heaven.