They were done but not finished

Plus a bit more, and after that, they came back. We are really quite different now. I grew two feet and Alex has three feet now. It makes for such a hard time shoe shopping. I only call people by their middle name and wear leotards exclusively.

The last few weeks held so much as we worked to cram as much as we could between the fingers of days. Groping for something to neatly encompass the lessons learned usually proves unsuccessful. Perspective comes after you close your eyes and cease to search.

Now for some photos.

While out wandering, we came upon this right before a mountain climb at sundown.















We were waiting for the bus in Mendoza and saw the Argentine Kevin Pape animating a story complete with appropriate hand and shoulder movements.












Alex stretches before a flurry of rockhurling. It is his favorite thing to do from high points apart from challenge Brittany to jump from impossible places... which leads to one of many of...












BP's broosez. She can't say no.

















Afternoon sun peeks through Las Heras Pass between Mendoza, Argentina and Osorno, Chile.























I prize my olfactory senses . My hair brings me great olfactory pleasure. According to APB, I do this often. I never noticed it.














"His handiness was endearing, but it was his penchant for wire walking won them over..."















Fresh raspberry juice tempts the Brits waiting semi-patiently for lunch in the garage-living quarters on the farm.













Goat in a pan.















Thus begins The Moustache Tour '08...

















Part 1 of MT'08 (between El Bolson, Argentina and Bariloche). In the background there is the very common sight of a man drinking mate on the bus.














Bariloche breakfast. Haven of natural foods, pristine lakes and splendid mountain trails. Obvious stopping point on MT'08.














MT'08 Puerto Montt, Chile.
















Soccer game in Santiago between local favorites Colo-Colo and U. Catolica. Everyone we told we were going told us the fans would be nuts; unfortunately, reality was more lukewarm.










We made some cute.















And noticed some pretty.














Rock and Roll show. I had volunteering responsibilities and arrived late. As I inaudibly screamed to the doormen to locate my seat, I just "didn't hear" what they told me and miraculously found myself backstage.













































On the anniversary of my first worldly encounter, we jumped from an airplane. Alex goes up in the single-engine Cessna with a 16 year old pilot.












Getting all cinched up.





















Later that day I ran in a 10K. There are no good pictures of it.

After nearly three months of travel in S. America, I am proud to report there were no stolen or lost articles of importance. Our guts and our gums are still healthy and our minds are even sharper.

I've been doing some stuff.

Nuestra Casa formed to help people living in the street the resources they need to live a normal life. There are regular communally-prepared meals, laundry facilities, lockers, computers and classes taught thrice weekly.

There are regulars, they are friends, and they love showing off, teenage banter and pop radio. As one might imagine I have been enlightened on many subjects; including how the U.S. (the whole country) is the Antichrist, you can find evidence on the dollar bill. I have been lectured on everything from the serious artistic value of musical acts such as LinkinPark to the joys of Nazism. (For grandmas and others, this is sarcasm.)

I also volunteer twice a week bringing bread and coffee to De La Vega, an open air market by day that turns into a homeless safe haven by night. This work is headed by Chile Solidario, a governmental organization, for those who are not well enough to make it to the Nuestra Casa sites. Volunteers such as myself take the information of those living in the streets and report health complaints (which are numerous) to the city health department. Mostly, we provide food and listen to stories.

Mari bears a striking resemblance to a young Winnie Cooper from everyone's favorite ,The Wonder Years, is 11 years old and lives with her aunt. I do not ask how they live because that and other questions go unasked because one can barely speak, muffled by hugs and eruptions of her hoarse voice jabbing through whatever crosses her mind at a particular moment. She thinks I am crazy for wearing t-shirts at night, "Sister arent you freezing!?" she exclaims, rubbing my arms and holding the warmth of her 11th cup of coffee to my bare arms.

Cristian is a 27-year-old man with amazing story that can be interpreted as sad or up-lifting. Up-lifting is always more constructive. Born in the Atacama desert in Arica, the city where it is so dry they must make paper flowers for the dead. "But we have the most curious flowers in the whole world on the graves of our dead--blue ones, even green ones," he says as he cracks a smile.

He moved to Santiago as a 15-year-old who didn't belong. "It was hard for my parents and small town to accept a boy who was more a little girl than anything," he declared with a flourish.

He wanted to be at the center of the art and theater that Santiago is known for. He had little money and experience. In less than four months he was on hard times, drugs and dabbling with prostution to make rent. Two years later he was diagnosed with HIV. Times were very black.

In the end, it was his creativity that lifted him to be the stately, beautiful and caring man that he is now, ten years later. He still lives in the slums, but is proud. "We have fought to be here," he acknowledged the rest of the crowd with a twist of his sinewy neck. "I strive to enjoy my life. Most of us around here do too. I sew in the morning, I sing and paint in the day. At night I spend time with friends, going out. I really can't imagine a better life."

Cesar is charismatic. He writes and is a cartoonist. He has many big ideas about how the social system should function and draws very well-executed cartoons about the silly things he notices. He hates it that people around the center hang around all day and don't work. He has two jobs but all of his money goes to support his wife and child in Concepcion, to the South. His daughter is in first grade. He has a picture of her smiling in her school uniform. His manner of explaining is almost a theatrical performance as he leans against the wall and crosses his arms, stands as a statue with a foot on the floor and one on a chair. He enumerates his many points with his hands and articulates his emotions with his face.

People love telling their stories. It's one of the first volunteer experiences of this type in which the people involved are not ashamed. Cristian explained it well, "These nights are the best," he said with delighted eyes surveying the people in the De La Vega market. "Everyone who is here is not just here to get food, but to share. We are with each other. The volunteers could have spent their night in their own houses watching television, but they are here. That means something."

the Santiago Times

Wow, been a while since the last post. We left the farm and headed north, with intentions to find a spot in Santiago for a month before trekking way north to Peru, to Machu Picchu and beyond (Ecuador?). On the way we were delayed due to a shortage of seats on buses goind across the border into Chile, and we spent a night or two in Bariloche, where we had been before and a very nice afternoon waiting for a bus connection in Puerto Montt, Chile. Puerto Montt was quite nice...a real port town, with lots of hills and tourists. At the top of one of the hills facing the waterfront we found a beautiful crop of blackberries ready for the harvest, and with the raspberry withdrawal we'd been experiencing, we did just that. Well, in light of the delays on the way to Santiago, protests, and budget concerns, we decided to settle in Santiago for the remainder of the trip, and instead of heading much further north, we decided we'd take smaller trips each weekend.
Since arriving here in Santiago, we had a housing search fiasco or two, a beautiful homecooked, fresh-from-the-ocean salmon meal, played in bone-crushing waves (in Valaparaiso, beautiful coastal city), and more pefect, fresh produce than we even anticipated. The stresses have been few and the weather has been perfect (by my standards anyway-just Hot). At first upon arriving into the city I was worried my progress in learning Spanish might suffer, as on the farm speaking with Gabriel for instructions was pretty much mandatory, and in the city it's very easy to get by on my small vocab and some fixed phrases. However, last week we began volunteering at a place for Chileans who are down on their luck, homeless, etc. I figured that the opportunity might afford me some good Spanish practice, but given that what the people really need is to be understood, and given the fact that there was a pretty big fight today at the place about whether it would be shut down in the following couple of weeks or not, sort of makes me question whether it's the right volunteerign opportunity for me.
As of now, the plan is to make our original march 18 plane trip back to the US. Hopefully before then there'll be plenty more to write about. Brittany and I really enjoying our time here, but every once in a while we break into conversations about what we're really looking forward to doing when we get back, like swimming a lot, and shooting guns.

The hunter-gatherers

In wandering, we gather names; the mud and sticks of peculiar and specific interest. Throughout history man has walked this Earth in search of these all-holy materials. Those ancient migrations carry us in a sling to its breast to arrive at the world we now live in. Every now and again, we are unbound from our vehicles. We put our feet in the water and reflect on what we have named along the way.

In settling, we give structure to what we've seen. Though this grand edifice is always being assembled, it is in a constant state of demolition. That left over fodder makes good lean-tos.

As many times as I have moved, I might have learned some tricks that would make apartment hunting 'no big deal'. After every spine-knotting search ending in with the well-trodden, but not decrepit, front steps to the perfect place, one would assume that I would know what to do when the next search presented itself.

Santiago de Chile's presentation was not a breeze. We started as one expects; craigslist, newspaper classifieds, internet searches. Subsequent phone calls made in sweaty cabinas telefonicas to telephones answering either 'out of order' or old men up for a fun game with the foreign girl. After encountering the other party, there were countless visits to meet realtors that seldom showed, people that wanted us to enter longer contracts or wait and see if their son-in-law might not be moving in.

O give me a home...Or just a break.

The grand fortunes of the apartment search: 1) meeting the oldest hag alive 2) erring on the side of grit 3) finding a nice place.

1) Hag.
The apartment looked like a scene from Amelie. The quaint colors hung percariously above a bustling city. Perfect. We told Luis, who showed us the plot, we'd like it. He told us to call the 'madame dueña' and we could move in soon. From there we went straight to the phonehut, called and got no answer. Two hours later, the same empty rings.

I called again in the morning. She angrily slurred the apartment would not be possible. But she had a room in her house if we could come look at it. We did so, hiking across town in the mid-day sun to a reasonably nice neighborhood. Luis greeted us at the gate and showed us into the home.

Decorated with care to appear as a spread out of a 1947 edition of Good Housekeeping, it came complete with mint green walls and yellowing celluloid chandeliers. Dusty, ivory victorian-scrolled slipcovers abounded at every opportunity. As icing on the on this strangescape cake, all madame's animals owned since 1961 were stuffed and resting on velvet coushins were strewn purposefully over the furry white slipcovers. I stopped counting at 3 pekingese, 2 daschunds and one huge tabbycat.

Luis, her 'boy' as she called him, was not her relation at all; in fact, he was nearly as old as she, though kinder and more capable. He showed us the room we would be inhabiting. Powder blue with decorative throw pillows; ancient dolls lined the headboard. On the opposite wall of the bed, a glass vanity stood at attention trimmed in tarnished gold. Tally one more dead cat sleeping rigidly atop.

Luis then showed us the rest of the house. The kitchen we would use; we would have our own bathroom and we could even go the the garden in the back yard to read or take sun in the afternoons. En route back to the house, we saw first glimpse of the oldest hag alive.

Sitting pathetically, her veiny legs hung limp over the side of her pink satiny bed with a dainty yellowing nightgown draped across her pasty skeleton. She blinked feebly behind huge glasses that framed crystal blue eyes that might have once been attractive. They were currently lined with green linner smudged beyond the lashes to resemble a sloppy Cleopatra with liver spots. The hair on top of her head looked as though someone had gathered the cobwebs from an old cotton candy machine, straightened them a bit and saddled them at her scalp. It might have or might not have been real. Her nightgown was hiked up just enough (on her side, thank it all) that you could tell she wasn´t wearing underwear.

Putrid.

She then began enumerating the contidions of our stay. Since there were two of us, she was baffled. (though I had told her twice on the phone) The only thing she could do, she explained, was raise the price she stated with a wrinkle of her penciled eyebrows. We would not have rights to the kitchen, what hot food we ate would have to be warmed in the microwave on the back step.

Lame.

I asked her if she might not let us have the other apartment if we paid her more. This made her angry.
+
"You cant expect people to wait on you forever just because you feel like it. I rented it! You never called back!"

I reminded her we just saw the apartment the previous night and called twice with no answer.

"You must be lying," she said. "I never leave. The phone is right here," she said motioning to the gilted phone beside her bed.

"I´m not lying,"I said trying to buffer my rage with a façade of calm. "It´s strange you didn´t hear it, as it´s right beside your bed."

"It´ll be $100,000 pesos (equal to $200USD)," she grabbed for the papers with uncharacteristic deftness and started filling them out.

I stopped her pen by stating we would call if we were interested.

"I can´t wait until death," she croaked.

She yelled for 'chikitico' Luis to come show us out which he did shaking his head and apologising for her.

Through similar conventions we arrived at:

2) Grit.

As the numbers crept upward on Arturo Prat, the neighborhood grew odourous and run-down. Women in fishnets in the 4pm sun practiced unsucessfully the art of picking up. We stopped at a particularly foul-smelling address, tireshop below and living quarters above.

After we rang the bell, a woman with a wide face hovered over, "Who you looking for?"

"We´re looking at apartments."

"You´re in the right place!" she said cheerfully displaying two rows of rotting brown calcium stubs.

A few minutes later a man with a combover and tiny eyes behind thick glasses welcomed us to the stairwell and the delightful aromas of piss and rotting cabbage. At the top of the stairs, a set of locked iron bars spanned the entry. With a spring of his hand, he opend them saying, "We´ll get you a key so you can come and go as you like."

Kind.

Past the bars, two bent ovens stacked on one another nearly barricaded a long greasy hallway with several doorways, some paddlocked, others covered with frayed blankets. A small child with no pants on burst from beneath a hanging blanket to an apocalyptic toiletroom strewn with bits of paper. Six televisions blasted telenovela drama. Our room would cost $50USD/week.

Deal!

We were escorted to the 'office', or the room of a large hairless man with a bowl of polish sausage sitting on his convertible couchbed which had to be moved to allow us both through the door. He did not lower the volume on the talkshow on the black and white television for our transaction.

Only after our names had been signed did he mention that the luxury of hot water would be afforded by visiting him so he could turn on the heater and a small fee of $1000 pesos ($2USD). We agreed enthusiastically, but on the walk back to the metro our smiles began to fade. We cheered ourselves with the fact that at least we erred on the side of grit whereas most of the time the opposite is true.

We were later welcomed by a clan of six seven year olds and the previous pantsless toddler. Their exclamations of, "Wow, you think a different country!?"..."Blonde hair, light eyes, the both of them!"..."So pretty!" preceeded our introduction. They each stated their name with a handshake. Then went the questions.

Charming.

We bought cookies for them later. It was all quite nice until we learned they dont sleep until 3am and up until that minute, at which mothers yell abrasively, they play rousing games of soccer in the hall. Apparently no one else sleeps until 3am either.

3) Place.

We now live in a large room with a big window in a huge house in a decent yet crumbly neighborhood with kids from all over South America, Europe and N. America attending various educational institutions in the city. We share a kitchen, we have a bathroom and other living areas. We do laundry and read books, go on walks, make friends and other regularlife stuff that provides a resting place to wet our toes and build something worthwhile.

Farming and other things

I write to you from a farm in the Chubut province of Argentina, not far from the Chilean border. Since Rosario we stopped for a couple of nights in Mendoza, which is the jumping off point for a lot of outdoor activities like climbing, hiking, and camping. It reminded me of smallish, very outdoorsy towns I´ve been to in Colorado, as it was surrounded by mountains and filled with people who like to play on them. While we were there, in the big park in the center of town there was a little festival of sorts going on, with people selling handmade crafts, live music, and a puppet show for all of the cute Argentine kids. The second night we were in town we took a bus to a really neat campsite, nestled among some huge hills (the edge of the Andes). It´s tough to really rough it when you take a bus camping--there were showers, electricity, even a movie being shown each night and a place to get a bit of food. The surroundings were beautiful though, and we got a chance to climb up one of the big hills for a nice view of Mendoza and some prime rock hurling opportunities.
We also stopped in Santiago, Chile for a couple of nights. We both really enjoyed the place, so much so that we´re considering stopping there instead of in Buenos Aires for the last stretch of the journey. Among the many reasons why we liked it so much are the numerous delicious restaurants we found, and the friendly people. One day we stumbled upon the most delicious, plentiful and insanely inexpensive produce we´d ever seen...a pound of the freshest juiciest strawberries known to man for under a dollar, plus lots of other sweet fruit. And then we realized that it´s like that everywhere we went in the city. Also, we found the biggest seafood market I´ve ever seen--dozens of rows of vendors with tons of beautiful salmon and trout and other fish I couldn´t identify but that could be really tasty, I´m sure. During the night (I think it was a Thursday) we went out wandering after dinner as is common with us here, and it was impossible to go a block without running into a really nicely lit music space with live music going on. The layout of the city is also nice, there are lots of parks and museums to check out. There are a few drawbacks to the town however. The Chilean accent is very hard to understand, Brittany says so anyway. For me at this point it´s the difference between maybe understanding some stuff, and understanding nothing at all. Another thing is that it´s significantly more expensive in Santiago than in Buenos Aires or in any other place in Argentina.
Now we´ve been on a little organic farm in a town called Epuyen for a little over a week (I think). We´re in a deal where we trade our work for room and board on the farm. So many things about this place are great.. I guess technically we´re in the foothills of the Andes, but as far as I´m concerned we´re surrounded by small mountains. The location is beautiful, sunny and also really hot most of the day, which is why it´s necessary to take a 4 hour lunch/nap break in the middle of the day. I´ve never really dwelled in any land of the siesta before, but I think it will be pretty hard to go back. The work consists of lots of physical labor--digging holes, setting posts, lots of weeding and harvesting, as well as keeping all the plants irrigated with well water. They grow tomatoes, lettuces, beets, and potatoes, but my favorites are fresh peas and raspberries... there are always tons of both around. There are also sheep and chickens to take care of, and certainly the most interesting task I´ve been involved with since being here has been the slaughter and butchering of two sheep, from field to freezer (and to plate). Kind of gory work, but it was a very educational experience overall. I feel as though I feel a little more comfortable sitting down to eat meals of meat now that I know I sort of have what it takes to go through all steps of the process of getting it there myself.
We only have a few days left here, but we´re still not sure where we´re headed from here. We´ll write to let you know.

Hola from Rosario

Now we´re in an internet spot in the center of Rosario (about 4 hours north of B.A.), just relaxing until it´s time to catch the bus to Mendoza, which is 11 hours away, and closer to the western coast of Argentina. Since the last post, we continued to explore Buenos Aires for a few days, checking out some of the larger art museums and going to a theater performance. Going to the play was kind of a tricky thing to enjoy for me, since it was all in spanish of course, and I´m still learning very basic vocab and conjugation. It´s coming to me here and there, however. Brittany is my primary Spanish instructor, and she´s been a wonderful help, to be sure. I can now ask directions and for information from people, but when it comes to the response all I can do is hope to catch the name of a street, hope that the person I´ve asked is a particularly gifted pointer. Despite not being able to communicate a thought both interesting and complete to any of the local inhabitants, most everyone in Buenos Aires and here in Rosario seem really nice and friendly.


So far the time here has been just what I wanted. The weather is so, so good--my favorite.. 80s and 90s in the day, 70s and 80s in the night--perfect! The days are sweaty and sunny, and yesterday we got matching sunburns on the balcenario, the river beach here in Rosario. And last night I awoke suddenly to grenades in the hostel stairwell, but it was just the echo of thunder from a huge storm that rolled in after we went to sleep, bringing the warm rain and humidity. I turned over and slept soundly with that reminder of home.
With our days and nights we do lots and lots of walking around, for food (mostly delicious, cheap, delicious steak for me) and drink(Fanta!), for taking pictures, for sightseeing and for troubleseeking. We sit in parks, we read and she writes and draws. Our short term plans don´t usually extend into the future more than 24 hours, which I think is great. However at this time, we do have a destination. We´ve agreed to work on an organic farm for at least 2 weeks starting on Jan. 15. The farm´s located near the west coast of the country about halfway down its length. I think it will be in the mountains. With any luck we´ll get there on time, having gained some fun times and newly captured experiences.

Here are some more pictures. Hopefully I´ll be able to post more (that are more interesting) soon.

Robot stomp

We have moved on to Rosario, the "Chicago of Argentina" as someone tritely named it in a travel guide. It is tucked in near the mouth of the Rio Parana as is quite a beautiful place with an impressive plaza and parks fitting of a fallen empire. Except the empire was never built. It is more comfortable and arguably more Northern European than Buenos Aires. There are fewer plastic surgery offices and more friendly yet no less attractive people.

I am quite impressed with Alex in his progression with Spanish and diligence to learn. We go over Spanish Rolling Stone articles and conjugate in the streets. Ordering meals and asking strangers questions are now in his repetoire. I tell him stories in Spanish. He makes flash cards.

My listening skills have improved over last week but this week my speaking feels rudimentary. In a language that flows volumptious but light, in circles and organic shapes, my mouth has a preconditioned dispostition to want to spit blocks and grind oddly against words that I have full capacity of using. I remember this from my previous experiences.

Learned speakers of a language in a foreign land whre that language is spoken are robots of sorts. Programmed to know certain phrases, the notches of gears fit particular speaking and social conventions. Sometimes stress spews in smoke from ears and unsecured joints while all that is discernible on the monitor is: ERROR ERROR, FAILURE TO COMMUNICATE!

We watched a play at a theatre in Buenos Aires before we left in which there was a family who had created a robot to aid them in their outrageous and hilarious plots to brainwash people to participate with them in silly prefabricated adventures. Steve and I both agreed later that the robot was our favorite because his choppy formalized Spanish was easiest to understand.

Yesterday was an interesting day in which this English speaking robot was engaged many flowspeakers for both best and worst.

There was a roundy 8-ish year old girl at a bus stop in the blazing sun who had no qualms in asking us our business and declaring in the same breath that we had better put on some sunscreen because we were "real white" sure to burn. She noticed our large backpacks and asked if we were gypsies selling stuff. I told her no, but we did have magic things inside like stars, witch stuff, and dolphin tails. This did not seem to surprise her.

After some more chatting about where we were going and why we arent tan, she asked us where we were from. I playfully told her we were from Canada.
"Canada, is that some type of farm?" She asked.
I told her that indeed it was a farm very far North where right now it is winter.
"And they speak Spanish there?" she asked incredulously.
"No, I learned Spanish in school," I told her.
"What about him, this stone," she said motioning to Alex.
"Oh he didnt learn it in school. He speaks Russian."
"Is that another farm?" she aked with her eyed crossed while making animated gestures at Alex, speaking very slowly and loudly, "HO-LA, CO-MO ES-TAS!" she didnt wait for his reply. "What is Russian, a farm?" she inquired of me again.
"No, its a ranch. Do they teach you geography?"
"Sometimes," she said, then changed the subject to how she liked my shoes.

I met a lively woman named Luz that works for the electric company on the bus and also had an interesting exhange that ended with me punching someone for the first time in my life. You can ask me about that on your own if you are interested.

I learned that today is Thursday. The museum door said closed for repairs on Thursday and the doors were locked. You know your life distilled to the best things when you have to make bets about what day of the week it is. In a few hours we go to Mendoza, near the border with Chile. I am very sunburned from my time on the riverbeach yesterday. I am reading " Del Amor y Otros Demonios" (Of Love and Other Demons) by Marquez. Its good and quick. You should check it out, if you like that kind of surealistic pulchritude.

More photos.