Carnaval at Oruro, or, the Drunken Water Fight

 

Greetings all!

Well, I finally got my new bank card, and I was able to do some budgeting. My fears were unfounded, and my financial situation is most reasonable. Reasonable enough, in fact, that I was able to go out and buy me a brand new, non-black-market camera. Compared to my last unit, this camera is a beauty — for one, it has a zoom! It is loaded with cool features which I’ll probably never use, but it still has ‘em! Anyways, I now know how to be damn careful with this baby, and damn careful I shall be.

All this means that I have pictures of the carnaval — and two videos too!

So, the carnaval (I’m spelling the word spanish style. Get over it, grammar freaks).

So we (myself, the Quebecker girl and the German fella) decided we only needed one day to truly appreciate the three-day carnaval, but this was one hell of a day. We were picked up at our hostel at 2:45 am, to leave La Paz at 3 (of course, this means that we actually left at about 3:45 — welcome to Latin America). We were home at about 12:30 am the next day — a solid 22 hour day.

We stopped at about 6:30 for a traditional Bolivian breakfast — steak and eggs. At about 9 am we were settled in our bleacher seats for the parade. I’ll just say right now that the parade lasts ALL DAY. Twelve hours of parade, which was truly amazing.

The parade was great. Essentially, it was group after group of people, each with their own costume and dance. Every third or so group there was an enormous brass band belting out the tunes. Some of these bands had over 100 players — 40 trumpets, 20 tubas, 20 sousaphones, 10 snare drums, 10 bass drums, and a smattering of random instruments. The sound was deafening, but they all played excellently. Before one band was out of earshot, the next was already there.

This is where I’ll put the links for the two videos, which give a tiny taste of what it was like. Here is the first video, showing some of the more tamely dressed dancers. And here is the second video, showing most importantly my drunken visage.

We sat way up high in the bleachers, and down along the edges of the parade the venders walked back and forth, selling everything from noisemakers to silly hats to ice cream (or regular) sandwiches to plastic ponchos (very important — you’ll see why in a moment) to (most importantly) beer. To get their attention one screams at the top of their lungs “CERVEZA CERVEZA CERVEZA,” and if the brass band is not right there they will hear you. The beer (or whatever) then gets passed hand to hand up the crowd to you, and you pass the money back down to them. Then up comes the change, hand to hand once again. It was impossible to actually go down to the vendors themselves, as the crowd was so dense, and plus down there you become a prime target for water balloons.

If you needed to go to the bathroom or something, there was fortunately a rickety ladder leading down the back of the bleachers. As the day went on and more and more cervezas were consumed, it became more and more interesting to negotiate. The Bolivians sitting right next to it thought it most amusing (check out the photo in my set entitled, der, Oruro Carnaval).

So there we sat, slamming the beers, sipping the rum from my flask, watching the nutbar parade, and listening to an endless sequence of deafening brass bands. Fun, you say? It only gets better.

Carnaval is actually a huge, drunken waterfight, with a parade to watch when the battle wans a little. Water balloons are thrown by the thousands, and everybody gets soaked, even if you are wearing one of the plastic ponchos (everyone was — doesn’t help much). To add to this, cans of this spray foam are everywhere (we determined after a couple hours that it was actually soap of some sort), and everybody sprays it in each other’s faces. In no time everybody is completely covered in this thick white foam, which burns the eyes and taints the beer (not enough that you can’t drink it, though!). Fortunately, one blast from a water gun or balloon to the face and you can see again. It was hilarious.

The best though, was that there were bleachers across the parade from us (the seating, on both sides, went on for four kilometers, and it was all packed). In gaps between the bands and dancers, water balloons flew many and thickly across the way, hitting unsuspecting spectators. Hilarious. Many people had umbrellas to defend themselves, but more often then not a direct hit from a balloon would break the umbrella, leaving them vulnerable to soakage (in the end, nobody was dry). I myself had many good head shots (given and recieved, of course), and was soaked through to my ginch by the end of the day. Sadly, there are no pictures of the water/foam fights because the camera was safely stowed for these moments. But trust me, at points I’m sure I looked like Frosty the Snowman.

Anyways, I’ll wrap it up quickly. At the end of the day I was soaked, hammered and exhausted. We stumbled onto the bus for the three-hour ride home, which turned out to be four (it took the bus driver an hour to find his way out of Oruro, asking people at every block).

I stumbled back into the hostel, took a hot shower, and passed out for 12 hours. Now today is Sunday and I’m doing NOTHING (except party tonight — it’s Super Bowl Sunday! Woot!). Tomorrow night I head off for Uyuni, where I shall check out the world’s largest salt flats!

Nobody has emailed me yet (except you, Yvonne. Thanks so much!)!!!! DO IT NOW!

‘K Bye.

Biking down the World’s Most Dangerous Road

Howdy Folks!

Still in La Paz, waiting for my new bank card to arrive . . . today is the fifth business day, so it should be here today or tomorrow . . . however, in accordance to how things usually work, I reckon it’ll be here on Monday or Tuesday. Such is life, I suppose.

La Paz is still full of surprises. The other day, while walking around the main market area (about ten blocks square), I heard a crazy commotion. Turns out I had unwittedly stumbled upon a huge parade, complete with dancers, fireworks and an amazing brass band. But wait . . . was that a second commotion I heard? As it happened, I was standing on the convergence point of two identical parades, each with their own brass band trying to out-play the other. Naturally, I sat down and watched. Very quickly a stage was set up and a folkloric band (it’s the only way I can think of to describe it. Bolivian music is called by the people musica folklorica) began to play. Traditional Bolivian music has guitars, the little Bolivian mini-guitars that resemble and sound like mandolins but are made of armadillo shells, and pan pipes. What a thing to stumble upon . . . and plus I was the only gringo there.

But the last is just the prelude to my real adventure, which, if you haven’t guessed already, was alluded to in the title of this post.

The old road from La Paz to Coroico was officially dubbed by the UN a few years ago as the World’s Most Dangerous Road. As I learned from my guide, there were at least 200 deaths a year on this road from traffic accidents. There is now a safer, paved road linking to two cities, so this road has become a biker’s paradise. Indeed, the municipal government of Coroico now charges 24 Bs. a biker to use it, and has renamed it as the Bicyclist Park.

Anyways, the ride is 63 km long, starting at about 4400m altitude and dropping to about 1100m. Essentially, it is four hours of downhill sweetness. It was truly amazing . . . you start on a paved section for about 15 – 20 kms, going through an incredible valley ringed by jagged peaks. In the valley are old stone fences and herds of llamas, but these I only really observed at the stops, because despite the fat tires on the bike we were getting up to 60 km/hr. Very exhilerating.

Then on to the death road, as it’s affectionately called by gringos and tour companies alike. It is essentially a narrow logging road with a sheer drop-off to the left. I really can’t describe it well — look at my photos on Flickr, on the set entitled, well, you can guess I’m sure.

We had many stops for picture opportunities (fortunately the guides took photos and we got them on a CD — hence me having pictures despite having no camera), and at each the guide had a chilling story. An Israeli biker lost control and went over the edge here, a German over there. At another place he pointed to where a bus of 25 people went over. One glance at the pictures and it will be needless for me to tell you that there are no survivors. Ever.

The most chilling was the story of a poor French girl. She had stopped with her tour group for photos, but noticed a truck coming up the road (crazily enough, the road is still occasionally used during the dry season, or about May to October). While still straddling her bike, she walked backwards a few steps to give the truck more room on the corner, but backed up a bit too much . . .

I was quite concerned about oncoming traffic, until the guide said the road ahead was totally washed out by a massive landslide. Perfect. Traversing that, carrying the bikes, with the drop-off below us, was more than a little nervewracking, but hey, it’s an adventure!

Honestly, it was so cool. I haven’t had so much fun since, well, snowboarding at Mt. Washington I suppose. I mean, 63 km of downhill!!!! Actually, the last couple kms were hellish, as it was flat and we had to peddle. Plus, it was in the rainforest, with tropical heat and humidity to add to the pleasure. Then, within sight of the end, there was a massive flooded river of orange mud, and I got totally covered in this viscous, neon mud. The locals nearby thought it was hilarious . . . an orange gringo (still with a big shit-eating grin, of course).

Then we piled into the van and headed to a jungle mini-resort, where we had hot showers, a dip in the swimming pool, a three course lunch, and of course (and most importantly) ice-cold cerveza. Then back to La Paz for a very early night.

The whole day, with everything included (even snacks and the ugliest t-shirt ever) cost $35. Viva Bolivia.

Due to the horribleness of my t-shirt, I bought a new one. It features a picture of a coca leaf with the inscription “La hoja de coca no es droga.” If you can’t figure out what that means there are numerous tranlators on the net. Anyways, I love it, and I will sport it with pride back in Canada. My death road t-shirt, however, will meet its demise on some god-forsaken cutblock in northern BC.

Anyways, I’ve just signed up for another tour on Saturday, with a German fella and a girl from Quebec. At 3am Saturday morning we’re off to Oruro for the famous Carnival. We get transportation there and back, prime seats for the parade, food (no beer, damnit), and actually that’s about it. We expect to get very drunk with the locals and engage in an epic water balloon war. Supposedly that’s what you do.

Anyways, somebody send me an email!

‘K Bye.

The Delicate Art of Coca Chewing

Howdy folks,

So after a couple days of depression due to my stupidity-induced theft (that is, I was stupid. But now I am smart), I’m on the rebound. Last night was a crazy party (I got back to the hostel at 6:00 am), and tonight, being Australia Day, will be even crazier, as about 90% of this hostel is Australian. But in the same way that I don’t write about the pizza I eat (the best I’ve EVER had), I won’t write about the parties.

Instead, I’ll write about chewing coca.

Essentially, you cram your cheek full of the leaves, which have a strong bitter flavor. You then gently masticate the leaves and work them with your tongue until it forms a nice, moist bolus. Next is the critical part. You add to the bolus a bit of this gummy ash, which is sweet-tasting, which acts as an alkaline. This releases the drug in the leaves (which when concentrated is cocaine) into your mouth, and you get a nice stimulating buzz and your mouth goes all numb.

So today I went off to look for the ash, as I had leaves but no alkaline, and what’s the fun if you can’t get a buzz? So in the market area of town (essentially the whole town is a market area but in the main market zone) I asked an indigenous guy where I could get it.

A note: the indigenous people here dress traditionally — ponchos and toques for the men; big skirts and bowler hats for the women: the whole works. The best part, though, is it’s not an act for the tourists — this is just how they dress. I love it.

Anyways, I asked this guy where I could find it. He waved his hand vaguely up the hill, but then beckoned me to sit down. Out came his bag of coca, and we sat and had a chew together. It really was great. We were sitting, watching the tourists (who couldn’t stop staring at me, this gringo, sitting with a native), dipping into the bag of coca, and conversing (very rudimentary, of course) in Spanish. He showed me the finer aspects of the chew, like removing the stems and exactly how to maneuver the ash into your cheek. It was great. Many old native women (yes, in bowler hats) walked by with big smiles and little shakes of the head as they watched me add to my ever growing bolus (by the end your cheek should be bulging). I felt most accepted by the local people.

Then my new friend (Martin, with a Spanish accent), told me he’d go get me some alkaline. So I gave him 5 Bs, and with a warning to watch his wares very carefully (alpaca table clothes and bags he made himself, all beautiful), off he went. So there I sat, and who should come by but this Norwegian girl I met on the plane. I think she got quite a kick out of me sitting there, “working,” and chewing coca. “You look like you really like La Paz,” she said.

I do.

So tomorrow afternoon Martin asked me to come by again for a chew (and bring friends to buy my things, he added), and I think I just might have to. This time I can share my own leaves with him.

Anyways, that’s all for now. There’s more, I think, but I forget.

‘K Bye!

The Best Day Ever (Well, Sorta)

Howdy!

Today is a huge festival here in La Paz, celebrating the native deity of Ekeko, god of household items and prosperity. So of course, me and my Scottish buddy went to check it out.

The streets, normally full of vendors of all sorts, were literally crammed today with people selling everything imaginable, but in miniature. Mini houses, mini cars, even (and this was the most common) mini stacks of American dollar bills — all fake of course. You could even buy mini passports and mini college degrees. For some time I was quite confused as to the reason why, but it soon became clear.

My Spanish teacher told me to go to any church for noon, so off we went to the largest cathedral in town (of course). Here, it was crazy packed with people and vendors, and the air was smoky with this potent incense burning everywhere. It was here I saw the reason for the mini stuff. On the steps of the church were five priests (catholic, of course), sporting some very nice priest-clothing. They had what looked like miniature palm trees in their hands, and they were using them to sprinkle water on the crowd below. People took their miniature items, and had them blessed with the water. So naturally, I had to do it, so I bought a stack of American 100s and pushed through the throng and got sprinkled. It must have been quite a sight — there were hardly any gringos there and I’m about two feet taller than everybody. The Scottish guy couldn’t stop laughing.  But still, I was blessed for prosperity. Cool!

Here’s where it gets ironic.

The crowd became very thick, and when I cleared it, I noticed my cool handbag was mighty light . . .

Even though I had sewed a zipper onto it, it was not enough to prevent it from being slashed. Bye bye, camera, so long, wallet.

I canceled my bank card and credit card, and I only had 50 bolivianos in there (about $10). The camera, fortunately, was a P.O.S., and I had just taken out the memory card, so I still have all my pictures. But now, I must hang out in La Paz for another week while TD sends me a new bank card. Don’t worry, I can still get money, as I have my traveler’s cheques and my Scotia card.

Live and learn, I suppose. My losses were minimal, and I still love La Paz. But damn it, I’d been blessed not even five minutes before. That settles all questions of divine existence for me at least.

Anyways, I must be off.

‘K Bye.

An Interesting Morning

Howdy all,

This morning I woke up to gunfire . . . or so I thought. At first I thought that perhaps it was weapons training day at the police station across the road, but the shots had a disturbing lack of regularity.

I stepped out of our hostel into the street, and was shocked to see the streets literally packed with thousands of people. Ah . . . not gunfire, but firecrackers, evidently a vital part of any Bolivian street protest.

I left for the market area with two Australian girls, and as we walked, we talked about the fact that our guidebooks issued very stern warnings about political protests here in Bolivia. Unfortunately, the streets were jam-packed with thousands of protesters, so we had no choice.

The atmosphere was reminiscent of the soccer match. Lots of people, high energy, more than a little apprehensive of trouble. No pictures of this event will be forthcoming, I’m afraid — people are actually quite anti-picture down here (unless you pay).

This was all at about 11:00 this morn. Several hours later, walking home from my Spanish lessons (a word to the wise: Spanish is from Spain. People in Latin America speak Castellano), the march was still going strong. In fact, just writing this sentence several more firecrackers have been discharged. These aren’t the little guys you get in Canada, they honestly sound like a shotgun going off. Bolivians love them — during the soccer match they were set off every goal, but with a minimum of safety precautions: one went off only about 7 or 8 feet from a player’s head, and he went stumbling off clutching his head, obviously stunned and half deafened.

About my Castellano classes: they’re great, and my teacher is even better. Not only does she improve my Castellano, but she is like a cultural interpreter as well. We’ve had a few discussions about Evo, and she informed me about the marches today (Bolivian Labour Union wants more — who doesn’t?).

However, she has given me an awesome opportunity. Her family (mother, father, and three grown sons) live about 45 minutes from the eastern city of Santa Cruz, in a very poor (but very safe, she was quick to assure me) section of town. Her family loves visitors, and when I get around to Santa Cruz all I have to do is phone her and she will arrange for me to stay with her family!!! How cool is that? This is an amazing opportunity for me to go actually live with a Bolivian family for a while, and escape the gringo trail. I can’t wait.

As for now, however, I plan on staying in La Paz until Sunday, as there is a festival on Thursday and the weekend nightlife here is great. Then it’s off to Oruro, where during the beginning of February there is a huge carnival. My guidebook describes it as “an excellent opportunity to get extremely drunk with the locals on the street,” and supposedly everyone is armed to the teeth with water balloons, so total saturation is inevitable. Of course, I myself will be well-armed as well.

Anyways, I’m tired of writing. I’ve been under the weather for the last few days, and sleeping a surprising amount. Maybe it’s the street food. Honestly, I’ve eaten more fried chicken in the last week than I have in my entire life.

Hope everyone is doing okay in your various endeavors!!!

‘K Bye.

A Real South American Experience

Howdy folks, it’s me again!

Let me tell you a little bit about my incredible experience I had yesterday. I, along with a Dutchman, a German, a Swiss and a Scot, attended a real live soccer match here in La Paz.

I’m sure most of you know how seriously the rest of the world takes their soccer, and Bolivia is no exeption. This was a huge game, as it was what’s known as a ¨derby,¨ or two teams from the same city playing against each other. In this case it was Bolivar vs. The Strongest.

So the game was to begin at 3:30, but we were told to get to the stadium by 11:00 to get our tickets. So we obediently walked over in the morning, but to our great surprise we saw that at least 1000 people were already lined up. I kid you not, there was a huge amount of people there already. So we had a little chit-chat with a money changer there, and he said it would be no problem to get black market tickets (from a scalper) right before the game. We decided to return about 45 minutes before the match.

When we got back, the streets and plaza around the stadium were packed with literally thousands and thousands of people. We were hoping our gringo-ness would bring the scalpers to us, as they could charge us exorbitant rates (for Bolivia), but we soon saw the few scalpers out there were surrounded by impenetrable mobs of people. It was discouraging, and we moped around the plaza (with its 10,000 people and riot police everywhere). Eventually, though, by an incredible stroke of luck (I still don’t believe it), the German found a guy with five tickets all together. They were the highest priced tickets for the stadium, and he charged us double the face value, which worked out to 80 bolivianos a ticket. In Canadian dollars that’s about $11.

Well, we now had our tickets, but we had to figure out how to negotiate the mobs of people and get into the stadium. After trying to bribe our way into the press entrance, we pushed through the crowds towards our door. I didn’t bring my camera, so I can’t show you (more on the annoyingness of pictures later) the masses, but I cannot stress enough how many people were there. For the first time in my life I have been at the mercy of the movements of a crowd: often I tried to walk forward, only to be pushed back by the surging of the crowd. After what seemed an eternity of being compressed into masses of humanity (thank god I´m tall and Bolivians are short), we made it past the gate, and ran up the stairs towards our seats. The feeling of successfully getting in was quite heady — we all whooped and shouted as we sprinted towards our seats.

We came out into the stadium, and grabbed some places. By another incredible stroke of luck, we had literally the best seats in the stadium, right at the center line, up on the balcony. We were just four rows behind the TV cameras. Our view of both the field and the crowd was incredible. The stadium, we were told, holds 45,000 people, but that is just the official number. All around, people were packed in like sardines, and even the exits and stairways were packed with people — very illegal in Canada! There had to have been at least 55,000 people there.

The mood in the stadium was insane — the air felt like it was crackling with excitement. It became even more crazy when we realized the the President of Bolivia, Evo Morales himself, was coming for the national anthem (for more about Evo, wikipedia him or check out my post entitled The Shit Approaches the Fan). So yes, I have seen Evo Morales, and let me tell you, when he came out into the field, surrounded by a knot of riot police, the cheering was deafening. The German had his camera (the Dutchman had his pickpocketed in the crowd in front of the stadium), and he got some incredible photos of Evo waving, etc. I hope to get them from him, along with photos of the crowd and game, some time soon.

Then the game started. The mood in the stadium was incredible — everyone was fanatical for one or the other team, and had no hesitation in expressing their loco-ness. Absolutely incredible. The soccer game itself was a great match, too. There were five injuries, passionate arguments, and incredible goals. For the two goals (the game was tied 1-1), the entire crowd leapt up and screamed and screamed and threw whatever came to hand into the field. Indeed, after half time, as the players ran out onto the field, riot police were lined up with their plexiglass shields up to deflect the incoming debris, of which there was lots. Especially popular to throw were the glass Coke bottles, one of which hit a player in the head and put him out of commission for a few minutes.

I really cannot communicate how amazing this game was — a true cultural experience.

Enough about that, though. The day before we went to the provocative Coca museum, and I learned all about the incredible history of the coca plant here in Bolivia, and I even learned how to make cocaine from the leaves! Cool! After, I chewed some of the leaves, and it was actually somewhat pleasurable. I haven’t found them on the streets yet, but when I do, I’m buying a big bag.

Let’s see . . . I tried uploading my pictures for the THIRD time but these shit-ass computers can´t handle it. It is getting seriously aggravating. But please appease yourself with Yvonne’s photos from Guayabidos and Guadalajara. Hopefully soon (that’s a South American ¨soon,¨ which means probably in a week or so) I get up my pictures and the German’s too.

In any case, the adventure must go on!

‘K Bye!

Good Lord, Another Update

Howdy all!

Guess what — I made it! Right now I’m sitting in the Loki Hostel of La Paz, Bolivia, while my photos upload at an agonizingly slow speed.

Let me bring you all up to date.

The flight was harrowing, to say the least. It went from Mexico City to San Jose (Costa Rica) to Caracas to Lima to La Paz. Seventeen hours in total. I enjoyed four delicious ham and cheese sandwiches courtesy of the airlines, and sprinted like a maniac to make my connections — we were late leaving Costa Rica and I only had 20 minutes to get to my connecting flight in Caracas.

Flying to Lima was really scary, I’m not ashamed to admit. It was night, totally cloudy, and super turbulent. I was so insanely relieved to get on the ground, and my nerves were so frayed that I didn’t even blink when my gee and tee in the airport bar came to seven dollars. Steep, but never have I needed a drink so bad.

One word of advice: pack lightly. It was stressful enough making the connections, but if I had to worry about where my bag was I would have been a total wreck. Plus, I watched the guys in Caracas load the luggage on the plane, and they seemed to delight in tossing it as far and as non-gently as possible.

Anyways, I got to La Paz.

This place is totally unreal. It’s in a deep valley with all these crazy houses rising up the sides, and everywhere in town is hills. It’s mighty difficult to walk around, as the air is so thin, but at least I didn’t get altitude sickness.

The traffic here is crazy. Everywhere are these minivans, which are the buses, and instead of being numbered or labeled, they have kids standing in the open doors shouting the destinations. Thus the street is a cacophony of people shouting from the vans, which are carrying all sorts of people, from suited businessmen to the traditionally dressed native women. The latter are everywhere, and its so cool. They have the voluminous, brightly coloured skirt and the little bowler hats. This place is so cool.

There are boot-blacks everywhere here, too, and they all wear ski masks — so their friends don’t recognize them doing this shameful work, I’m to understand (I told you so, mom!).

I have much more to tell, but I must make my way to my Spanish lessons across town (walking through the streets is crazy — close calls with traffic are the norm, and I’m not even scared anymore!). Plus, people are waiting for the internet here.

I’m afraid that my pictures didn’t finish uploading (due to the ridiculously slow speeds — we’re talking about 10 kb/sec), so I’ll have to find a high-speed place in town somewhere. I feel like I hardly conveyed what this place is like in this post, and a picture is worth ten cubed words, I hear.

‘K Bye

Mexico City

Howdy!

Mom will be happy to know I´ve made it to Mexico City (or as it´s known locally, D.F. — District Federale). The approach is truly revolting: monstrous chemical factories belch out a soupy haze which settles into the valley. In comparison, a pulp mill smells homey and pleasureable. I can´t stress the pollution enough: here, there are no blue skies, just white.

I´m afraid the pictures are still forthcoming, as these computers are way too crappy to actually upload my pictures. Will the situation become better in Bolivia? Ha!

Now let´s see here . . .

Mexico City has some truly amazing architechture. Even the plain old apartment buildings are incredibly ornate in the Spanish colonial style. Just wait till you see the pics. However, like massive cities everywhere, the vibe of the place is not exactly pleasant. No smiles, no pleasantries, just glares at this long-haired gringo. I was walking around downtown today (looking for this awesome chicken place — a quarter chicken, fried onions, potatos and tortillas all for 19 pesos, or $1.90), and I realized I had stumbled into a not-so-nice section of town. As it´s my laundry day I was (still am) wearing my flowery beach shorts and flip-flops, and I started feeling very uncomfortable (in Mexico nobody wears shorts, only the gringo tourists). Fortunately, there is quite the police presence here (there’s a shotgun-armed cop every 20 or 30 feet), so I decided to ask one for help. Yes, he knew where the Hotel Canada was (the major landmark next to my hole-in-the-wall chicken place), and yes he knew how to get there. But did he tell me? No, he fell mysteriously silent, and I realized he probably wanted to be reinbursed for his assitance. After 10 or 15 seconds of very awkward silence (I couldn’t stop looking at his 12-guage), he waved me on. Prick.

My advice: stay in Guadalajara. Plus there´s way more babes there.

Oh yes, I´ve decided to write descriptions for selected photos on Flickr, instead of putting it in here. So now you have to look at them ALL! Hahahah.

Anyways, tomorrow morning at 6:50 am I leave on my 17-hour journey to La Paz, Bolivia. Honestly, I´m more than a little concerned about getting to the airport by 4am, but such is life, I reckon.

Oh yes, one other noteworthy item I´d like to share, and also receive some feedback on. It seems that everybody here in the hostel is travelling with a cell phone. Does that seem strange to anybody? Are they expecting calls while they’re travelling? I honestly thought that to travel was to disconnect from that which know, but it seems to be normal to sit on one’s laptop and chat on MSN while in the hostel. I mean, this place even has a Playstation 2 and a wide selection of English language DVDs — why would you come all the way here to watch movies??? It’s crazy, I think, but maybe I’m the crazy one. Pfft, as if.

Anyways, the next entry will be from Bolivia, so I shall end my Mexican Prelude with an empatic ¡VIVA MEXICO!

Guadalajara

Howdy all,

First off, apologies to Conman for my irresponsibility.

Second, no new photos this time around. Why? I´m too lazy, and I forgot my camera a few times. I´m giving Yvonne and my sister access to my Flickr account so they can upload some sweet pics.

I love Mexico. There is always music, you can drink beer anywhere you want, and people are so damn friendly. We took the equivalent of a Greyhound from Ricon de Guayabidos to Guadalajara, and let me tell you, Greyhound needs a few pointers from the Mexican bus system. Air conditioning, spacious seats, violent movies (in Spanish) and tacos at every stop just plain kick ass.

Guadalajara is the second largest city in Mexico, weighing in at about 2 million people. We stayed in the incredible Hotel Frances (still haven´t figured out the accent over the ¨e¨), which was built in 1610. It is incredibly grand (wait until you see the pictures), and the best part is that hora feliz (happy hour — two for one drinks) is actually ocho horas feliz, from 1 – 9!!! Sadly, even in this super-posh bar, the only gin they have is the repulsive Oso Negro, so there´s no good geeandtees until Canada, it looks like. Fortunately, I´m developing quite a taste for tequila.

Honestly, I´ve been mentally filing away so many interesting and insightful things to write about here: I´m not interested in doing a blow-by-blow account of my travels, but more of impressions and feelings I have. Sadly, now, in the moment of truth, I forget them. Mom, you remember me talking about it, why don´t you put some in the comments box? Good thing I just bought me a bolsa (shoulder bag), and I´ll start packin my notebook around.

Oh yes, the family has left and now I´m on my lonesome. Tomorrow I head´er to Mexico City, and on the 15th off to Bolivia I go! I´m out of internet time, though, so more on my impressions of the place soon (once I remember them) . . .

Hasta lluego!

Good Times (mostly) in Mexico

Howdy pards!

Flying is only really exciting during take-off and landing, but fortunately it´s a mere six hours from Vancouver to Puerto Vallarta. One of the biggest eye-openers for me was the sheer immensity of Los Angeles. This place is seriously HUGE, and plus it´s the home to one of my favorite bands, Sublime (not to mention legends like Dr. Dre and Paris Hilton!). I also find the airport code funny . . . at LAX it´s all smooth movements.

Soon enough, though, we were in Mexico. I stepped out of the plane wearing my new Stanfield´s shirt (La Paz is very cold — check out the Weather Report at the bottom of my blog), and instantly started to sweat. Fortunately it was only a quick taxi ride to the resort (unfortunately we (my mom) got ripped off majorly — we polite, inexperienced Canadians didn´t know to bargain), where I donned my swim trunks and hit up the bar.

The resort was excellently fun, but I´m glad we were only there for three days. After a while being around all these gringos gets boring . . . I wanted the real Mexico. But in any case I made the most of it and drank to my heart´s content. A word about the drinks: sure, they´re margaritas, but it´s just not the same served in a dinky plastic cup. And I myself brew much better wine than the swill they served us. I quickly learned my lesson and stuck with tequila and cerveza Indio from then on.

The resort had a disco, but it was actually pretty lame. I am a mere 22 years old, but I was the oldest person in there by about 8 years. Very weird.

Eventually we headed off to Ricon de Guayabidos, or just Guayabidos for short. It´s a nice little town with numerous taco stands and mostly Mexican tourists, so the place feels very authentic (hell, it is authentic). Sadly, I´ve yet to have many adventures here, as I made the mistake of ordering tacos con chorizo (just writing that word makes me want to spew). All day yesterday I suffered from traveller´s diarrhea (the Mexicans aptly call it tourista), which means regular hurling (11 times for me) and extra-juicy stools. Today I feel vaguely better but still I´m just hanging in there thanks to Immodium and Pepto-Bismol. How I´ll eat another taco is beyond me.

Anyways, check out my new photos (click on any of the pictures in the ¨Photographic Documentation¨ section in the sidebar and choose a set), write me a comment, or send me an email to turvyc at gmail dot com! Soon we´re off to Guadalajara, where there is the Tequila Train — 16 distilleries, three free shots at each . . . you do the math! Woot!

´K Bye