El Bolsòn Through and Thoreau

Well, it´s been almost exactly a month since last I enthralled you with my wit and tales of adventure.
Cory and I entered Argentina and stayed two nights in Bariloche before heading down to a little hippie town known as El Bolson. In our typical and frugal form, we spent three nights sleeping in a dusty campground and shivering throughout the night due to our lack of sleeping bags. Enough was enough and we made it to a nice little hostel known as La Casa del Viajero. Tucked away in the woods about 2 kms from town, the hostel is like an unintentional Zen retreat, complete with eco-frienly housing, compost piles, a myriad of fruit trees, shaded hammocks, free roaming chickens, a trout pond, and an owner (Augustine) who is seen every evening running a rake through his japanese sand garden. It didn´t take long before I was volunteering to help out in the the garden and with the neighborhood street clean-up project done by Augustine and a number of his neighbors, and it wasn´t very much longer after that that Augustine offered me a place to stay in return for a little work. The picture to the left is a shot from the trout pond at sunset.

While Oswald, a neighbor of Augustine, was out of town, Cory and I spent our time living at his place, watering the gardens, feeding to the dogs, and enjoying the simplicity of living in a home without such modern conveniences as a refridgerator, microwave, or flushing toilet. This is a picture of the outside of the house. The vines growing up the front of the house are hops, and the lattice that it grows on is made of woven willow branches by Oswaldo himself. After a few days of being there though, Cory realized that he was left with less than 3 months before his return to the US of A. We made the decision that he would begin heading to Mendoza, and I would continue working in the community for a few weeks before joining him. Splitting was a strange feeling, but we both knew our individual adventures were just beginning.
Once Oswaldo returned home, I moved out of his dwelling and into a shack by the river constructed completely out of recycled and reusable materials. Who knew things could get more basic? No running water, no heat except a wood burning stove, windows of sheet plastic, holes in the walls, and an outhouse about 100 meters from the house. From the front it looks rather quaint, but the photo below shows the true nature of my little shack. Bear in mind, it´s a work in process, slow, . Of course after staying there for a short while, I was once again moved to a place of more comfort on the hostel property. Still a bit of a shack, but all four walls were in place, some of the windows were made of materials other than sheet plastic, and it was close enough to the other buildings that Augustine recommended that I use the hostel kitchens and bathrooms.


The work I´ve been doing - To answer it quickly, I spent the majority of my time working on the eco-friendly houses, insulating with hay, bottles, newspaper and cardboard, or mixing and applying adobe to the outsides. The picture is of Fernando, who I just referred to as, ¨Maestro.¨ He´s standing in our mixing pit, working the mixture over with his feet, as is typically done. It really puts a new standard to the term ¨Dirty hippie feet.¨ We mixed about a dozen loads of adobe that way, using the clay that I dug out of the mountainside myself. The other work I did varied greatly. I watered the orchard and gardens, worked with the compost piles, split firewood, organized the recycling piles, and kept a watchful eye over the hostel while Augustine and his wife, Laura, were away.

And lastly, the joys of living the simple life...the real one that is. Not the one involving two incapable and inane blondes traveling the country in desperate attempt to succeed at the most simple of tasks. There is a beauty in El Bolsòn that is difficult to explain. To the East a craggy mountain looms over the town like a watchful gaurdian, and to the South a valley extends for miles before erupting into jagged peaks. Life there was intentional and beautiful. Time was dictated by the sun rather than the clock, life was controlled by need, not desire, and it didn´t take long before one begins to let the stillness in. As Thoreau said, ¨Every morning was a cheerful invitation to make my life of equal simplicity, and I may say innocence, with Nature herself.¨ Walking to town took on the feeling of an evening stroll, and I began to find myself sitting by the river for a bit of time just to enjoy the scenery. Beyond that, the community that has developed there is something to be marvelled at. Everybody helps each other with cutting firewood, constructing new houses, and digging irrigation trenches. When Oswaldo pressed fresh apple juice from his own trees, he brought it over to share, and when Augustine finished grinding fresh wheat, he brought it over for the ¨staff¨ to make bread with. And so, with much excitement and remorse, I´ve left to rejoin Cory in Mendoza. New adventures ahead.


¨Most of the luxuries, and many of the so called comforts of life, are not only not indispensable, but positive hinderances to the elevations of mankind. With respect to luxuries and comforts, the wisest have ever lived a more simple and meagre life than the poor.¨
-Henry David Thoreau

Vagabond, James Vagabond

It´s been a few weeks since I last blogged, and though I´m tempted to only write about the most recent events, the past few weeks have been interesting enough that I feel it pertinent to give a quick rundown of happenings.

Helen, an Englishwoman, doctorate of Psychology who we met in Santiago, came to join up with us in Puerto Montt so that we could travel together to Chiloe, an island off the coast of Chile. When she arrived, we took a bus to the coast, caught a ferry to the island, and hitched from the coast of the island to the most remote area we could make it to in a day. We walked a lot, hitched a lot, and eventually were dropped off at the crossroads of two dirt roads in the middle of cow fields. Another half kilometer, and we were on the beach of a place called Mar Brava, where we set up camp, collected as much firewood as we could, and discovered that dried kelp on a fire is hours of entertainment.

After our beautiful night of camping, the three of us decided to make our way to the capitol of the island, Castro. We were caught in a rainstorm while hitching, and met 4 other hitchers from Santiago as we all huddled under a bus stop for cover. Soon enough a cargo truck came along and picked all seven of us up (not to mention the two that were already in the back). As we talked to our newly found friends, the told us we should join them for a cultural festival happening in a town called Anchau on a nearby island. And so we were off.
The four we met were Tano (The Juggler), Javier, Cristofer, and Coca (Teaching Helen to make paper flowers). We spent two nights in Anchau, and all was well until Cory´s backpack was stolen with all of his clothes. I also had my jacket and wallet stolen, but that those pale in comparison with Cory´s loss.













Once we left the cultural festival, we headed back to Puerto Montt to buy Cory a new everything and then continued on our adventure to parque nacional Alerce Andino, where we discovered that if we wanted to camp we´d have to do so at a paid spot, and spend our night without a fire. Lame. Needless to say, our determination to play with fire was greater than our desire to stay put, and so without too much trouble we found a nearby farm, where we could do both. Hector, our host, spent quite a bit of time with us, telling us about the area and giving us a tour of some of the highlights of his 80 hectacre slice of heaven. After two days, we began our rather unique journey back to Puerto Montt. While waiting for the only bus back to town, Cory and I struck up some games with the local boys. Three of them + three juggling balls = chaos. In the dirt streets in the middle of town, Cory and I continually threw the balls as high as we could while the three of them scrambled to catch them. Meanwhile, Helen sat on the bus stop bench painting the nails of one of the local girls. The people of the town were friendly, and seemed endeared to us for relieving them of the responsibility of three hyperactive youths.

We said a sad goodbye to Helen, and Cory and I began our journey to Bariloche. Unfortunately, the highway we were taking is in the middle of the national parks and there is literally nothing from Entre Lagos to the border of Argentina. No worries, we thought, we´re experienced travelers, and no matter what comes our way, we can cross those bridges when we get to them. Well, to make a long story short, we made it within 25 kms of the border, got stuck in a rainstorm, couldn´t get a ride, and turned to our only option - sleeping under a bridge, in a tent, ¨down by the River.¨ Well, I guess that´s all water under the bridge.


"Success is counted sweetest by those who ne'er succeed."

-Emily Dickinson

A Balanced Diet

I´ve often found that the beautiful vistas and world renowned museums found while traveling don´t hold a candle to the random encounters of the road. Our backyard barbeque, hosted and prepared by Mauricio, the owner of the Hospedaje, is an example of that. With a makeshift grill - 6 bricks and an old, and possibly rusted, screen - what seemed like 15 or 20 lbs of meat, a few cold beers, and a good blend people, we had ourselves a nice little shindig. Cory and I didn´t know which part of the event we
appreciated most; the wonderful (and free) meal, the amusement of the grill, or that the whole party didn´t begin until 11:30 at night.
Well, that´s all.




¨The way you cut your meat reflects the way you live.¨
~Confucius

Stumbling Into Bliss

I thought I´d show you a few photos the piece of art that has been my favorite until this point in the journey. The piece is called, Presencia de America Latina, and is by the artist Jorge Gonzalez Camarena, an artist from Mexico. Neither photo shows the entire mural, but the photo on top is my favorite part of it and the one other one is Cory standing in front of it to show how large it is. I was excited when I learned that there was a Jorge Gonzalez piece in Concepcion, as I was familiar with his work from Mexico City. Anyway...Boring.
In more interesting news, Cory and I caught a ride in a Mercedes Benz from Temuco to Valdivia the other day with the intent of continuing on until we hit Chiloe. Of course, the Benz wasn´t the type with leather seats and a state of the art navigation system, but rather the type that was hauling a few tons of timber down the coast. We hadn´t intended to visit Valdivia, or stop in Valdivia, or spend three days (and counting) in Valdivia, but alas, this place has put a grip on us tighter than Susan Summers and her Thighmaster. Our minds were settled when we read about the German-style brewery, but when we read about the sea lions that play in the river and found that our room at the Hospedaje has a private bath, how could we resist? Plus, as we walked through town, we saw posters advertising the Kuntzmann brewery´s annual ´Bierfest´.
Thus far, our experiences have been superb, and it seems as the Chilean people are on a mission to ensure we are treated well in their country. Yesterday, an older couple refused to let us leave the Hospedaje until they had given us a beer and fed us a huge lunch consisting of fried Hake accompanied by a corn and rice with a cream drizzled on top. Also, Cory had the idea of stopping into a local bar called, "La Bomba," for a drink last night. His nose for a good time is proving to be a valuable asset on this journey. We were the youngest two in the bar by about 25 years, and felt slightly out of place since we had forgotten to wear short sleeve acron button downs or cardigan sweaters, but we were quickly welcomed by a group of the local drunks. Our quiet little table against the wall quickly became the source of the party when a teacher and an engineer asked to join us for a few rounds. Though we had a number of guests at our tab le throughout the evening, the drunke teacher who´s name we never learned became the one constant. If there´s one thing that is more difficult than understanding Chilean Spanish, it´s trying to understand drunken Chilean Spanish. Luckily, a few of the other Chileans there weren´t as drunk, and did their best to translate for us. We walked home laughing about our night of sitting with a group of people that didn´t speak any English, but having a translator turn drunken Chilean into formal Spanish.

Truckin´

"Man's experience is indeed a seamless garment, no part of which can be separated from the rest." -Cleanth Brooks

Well, a bit of time has passed since last I blogged, so I´m going to try touch on a couple of the big things without writing a novella.
We were in La Serena on the 19th of January and knew that we´d need to be in Santiago on the 21st to meet my friend Fred. The yellow line on the map shows the nearly 470 kms of our journey.

And below is how we accomplished a touch over 400 of them.


The Hitchhike - After a few short rides, Cory and I found ourselves near a beachtown 50 kms outside of La Serena, thumbs out, spirits high, and skin getting ever more pink in the afternoon sun. Soon enough, Carlos, a friendly trucker from the North was pulling up beside us and offering a ride all the way to Santiago. NICE!!! Sure, he had a stereotypical ¨Mobil¨trucker cap hanging in his cab, and was adorned with the faded jeans, and a plaid shirt, but Carlos´true calling was most assuredly as a tour guide. For hours we drove along as he pointed out things of interest, and answered our questions about the culture. After asking him about the women on the side of the highway, dressed in white, and carrying baskets while attempting to flag down motorists, he not only informed us that they were selling sweet pastries, but soon enough, pulled over and bought a bag for the three of us to share.
The Hitch - Unfortunately for us, Carlos was only heading to an industrial park 25 kms North of what most would consider Santiago. Thus, Cory and I found ourselves standing on the side of the highway at 11:30 at night in a place that takes on a striking resemblence to Commerce City. To make a long story short, we walked a few miles, realized that we were in a part of the city that falls into the category of ¨God´s blind spot,¨ and found some friendly security gaurds at the local beer distribution center that called us a cab. After about 13 hours of travel, we made it.

Once in Santiago, we met up with a friend of mine, Fred, and his Bolivian romance, Amalia. For those of you who remember an incident involving me and three broken bones, you may also remember Fred. Partly due to the unbearable heat in Santiago, and partly due to our overall laziness, the four of us didn´t do much beyond hitting up a few of the museums and a lot of the local restaurants. But nonetheless, the time we spent was...well...fantástico. As always, it was good to catch up with Fred, and as for Amalia, she quickly became a friend, and someone Cory and I both look forward to meeting up with again when we make our way back to Bolivia.

Fred and Amalia, thanks for the great time!!!

Eye Candy

Sunrise at Laguna Blanca The Adonis twins

Could you resist? Train graveyard outside of Uyuni, Bolivia

Mountain of Seven Colors - View from 15,600 ft.

High in Bolivia!!!

¨He that leaves few things to chance will do few things ill, but will do very few things.¨
-George Helifax

Well, welcome to the Birkenstock Diaries. Who thought I´d ever get around to putting anything on a blog(Thanks to my sister for helping me set it up). Quite frankly, I wouldn´t have, but the past three days have been such an experience that I wanted to share it with all of you back home. We traveled through the high planes of Bolivia by four wheel drive (an ´85 Toyota Land Cruiser to be exact. Oh...love.), venturing across the largest salt flats in the world, viewing flamingo filled lagunas at over 13,000 ft., watching geysers spew steam at sunrise, and crossing a mountain pass that topped out at over 15,600 ft., the highest I´ve ever been. We´ve watched native women spreading quinoa over blankets to dry in the sun, walked through small towns where colorfully decorated llamas roam freely, and seen expanses of desolation that make Kansas look like City Park. In fact, yesterday morning, we drove over bumpy dirt roads all day without seeing a single sign of civilization until we reached our hostel at the shore of Laguna Colorada, and when we set off again this morning, our next view of human creation was a small shack at the Bolivia/Chile border.
I´ve added some pictures here, because words don´t do justice to what we´ve seen. But to put some statistics into the mix, the salt flats are 12,000 square kilometers and the salt finds its end at a depth of 5-6 meters. Someone want to do the math and tell me how many cubic meters of salt that is? Anyway, that´s all very boring if you´re not there.
Well that´s that for now. A small overview, but hopefully, in time, Í´ll learn to blog like all those uber-savvy facebookers. Until Soon.

-Drew.