Blame Abraham, pt. II

After Bethlehem, I went to Hebron so I could check out the Cave of the Patriarchs. Legend has it that a lot of your favorite biblical characters are buried there, including Abraham. Abraham, being about as ancient a character as you can find in the Bible, is so old that he's a big deal in all the Middle Eastern religions. He's the father of Judaism, and his kids are responsible for Islam and Christianity. In a nutshell, anyway. If I get into who begat whom, I'll be here for a while. There's a whole series of books on the matter, you've probably heard of a few of them.

Anyway, an Arab kid, who couldn't have been more than fifteen, and was dressed like just about every poor teenager anywhere in the world these days, saw me and decided he would escort me (For a tip, of course.) to the "cave". (A temple covers it now. Well, for about the last 1500 years or so.) I was actually kind of grateful to have his company, as I was getting some looks from the locals that made me slightly uncomfortable. With my bodyguard leading the way, you can imagine my surprise when we came around the corner of a narrow street and I found myself face-to-face with two machine gun nests pointed in my direction. He didn't even flinch.

The guards only looked slightly surprised to see us, but after they gave me the once-over and checked my passport they let me through. The kid, however, was told he would not be joining me. (I gave him a tip, anyway.) Once inside, I was surprised to find that Abraham's coffin (Cenotaph - I guess that's what you call a coffin that everyone knows has always been empty.) is not entirely visible. Turns out that the building has been divided, between the Muslims and Jews, like so much else in the country, and just a portion of it can be seen through a barred window on the Jewish side.

Outside the temple as I waited for a mini bus, a group of Hasidic-looking individuals spontaneously started dancing. (I say Hasidic-looking because as I was later to find out, there are about as many different types of Jews as there are Christians (That's probably a gross exaggeration.) and apparently, if you're knowledgeable enough, you can even pick them out just using clues like hat and hair style.) I don't know why they were dancing, or if they even had a reason, but they seemed happy enough and didn't seem to mind me taking a video, so I did.

Obviously, there’s plenty of old buildings that are hugely important and significant in the area, but one of the most important, and contentious, resides at the Temple Mount. You've all seen the famous Dome of the Rock - it's the elaborately blue and white tiled mosque-like building with the gold domed roof in the middle of Jerusalem. Inside is the most sacred site in Judaism (They say Earth and Adam were created here on/of the rock that the dome covers.) and ranks up there along with Mecca for the Muslims.  A lot of things supposedly happened on this particular rock, but the one thing that stands out, at least for me, is the “binding of Isacc”. This is the story of how God/Allah/Jehova told Abraham to sacrifice his son, Isacc, and Abraham, being devout, decided to do it. In the end, Isacc wasn’t killed and each religion has their own take on why. (I tend to think of it as one of the very first “Han shot first” arguments, but it's possible that I am  somewhat sacrilegious.)

The Muslims claim Muhammad leapt to heaven from here as well, which left a footprint that is still, more or less, visible. Truly, you would be hard pressed to find any other spot where more has supposedly happened on less square footage. So, naturally, I wanted to go inside and have a look.

That didn’t happen. I didn’t even get to peek in the door. If I could have proven that I was a Muslim, sure, but that would have been a hard sell. I asked the guard out front if non-Muslims would ever be allowed back in (they were forbidden starting in 2000) and was told by the guard “Never! They will never be allowed in.” Shoot.

Speaking of shooting, I did meet a fair skinned girl who managed to sneak in. She was grilled for a good long while since they were suspicious of her motives (rightly so) but, because she was from Turkey and, apparently, since most Turkish passports have “Muslim” listed as the person’s religion by default, and because she was at least passingly familiar enough with the religion to answer the faith-based questions they presented her with, she was grudgingly allowed in. With a chaperone. She told me that inside there is a display case of spent bullet casings from the last big shootout with Jews in 1967. It seems like an odd thing to have in a holy place, but I could almost see it catching on in Wyoming. (Church attendance might soar if a person could check out the arrow that killed Custer or the gun that shot Sitting Bull while learning about the ten commandments.)

It was about this time that I had my first bomb scare. I was shopping in what was essentially a mall and suddenly the metal garage doors started coming down. Looking at the other shoppers, I felt like I was the only one who was paying much attention to this so asked what was happening. “Oh, someone thinks they found a bomb. We’ll open the doors soon - the bomb squad will be here in a minute and get rid of it.”  Sensing that I was less than reassured, this was followed with “Don’t worry, this happens all the time.” Discretion being the better part of valor, I chose not to peek under the door like the other young men who were working there. Eventually, the doors opened, and life returned to normal, or some semblance of it anyway. 

I think it was about this time I decided that I was ready to get out of Jerusalem and see somewhere a little less... interesting. Luckily, I was afforded that opportunity and so headed north towards the Golan Heights.

Blame Abraham pt. I

As many of you know, I took a little jaunt through the middle east back in 2011. I've written a bit about that, but the country I spent the most time in, partly because I was waiting on my visa to India, was Israel. (It seemed like a clever notion at the time - a lot of Israeli's visit there when they finish their mandatory military service, so I figured there would already be a stack of them waiting to be used. I was wrong.) 

So, why haven't I written anything about it before now?  I guess it's partly because I've had a hard time thinking of ways to make it a fun(ny) thing to read about. (Well, there was me loosing my pants at the Dead Sea - more on that in a bit.) Not only that, the two most interesting things about Israel are it's politics, and religious history, and I'm sure you'll remember the old adage about the two things never to talk about?  Still, it was an interesting (dare I say profound?) experience, and I'll try to tell it as objectively as I can... 

After visiting (fleeing?) Egypt, our small group of multinational backpackers headed to Petra, Jordan. You'll have to excuse me for being briefly off topic here, but in a word - wow. This truly is one of the "modern" seven wonders of the world, and was even more impressive than I had imagined. A lot of people know Petra because the Treasury was used in the climax of Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, and the Jordanians have gotten a lot of mileage out of that connection, believe me. (There's even an Indiana Jones gift shop at the entrance that sells hats and an Indeana Johnes snack shop nearby. It's hard to know if the spelling is intentional.)  But there's so much more than just the Treasury - there's miles (Or kilometers, if you prefer.) of the most spectacularly multi-colored, banded, sandstone canyons, most all of which are sculpted with hundreds of different buildings, temples, etc. As for the rest of Jordan.... it's not as exotic anymore as you might imagine. It's really quite developed and almost bizarrely western. I saw more American chain restaurants, hotels, etc. there that I did in Israel. Look up the king and his family on google - they almost look like they could have a reality show on TLC. (This may have something to do with the fact that his father met his mother while she was assisting with the filming of Lawrence of Arabia.) I can't help but wonder what TE Lawrence would think about the fact that a movie based on his life would help to mold the region he was trying to protect from western influence into a western leaning country. It's almost too weird to contemplate.

It's not all Chili's and Applebee's (I'm not even kidding.) though. Plenty of traditions remain, such as the Turkish bath, or Hamam. (Though, technically, this is an artifact of the Ottoman era, but whatever.) Here's how it works - you pay too much, then take a shower. Then you sit in a very hot steam bath and they bring you a very nice frozen hibiscus drink. Then you shower again. Hop into to Jacuzzi for a bit, and afterwards, shower. A large guy then scrubs you down with a soapy wool loofah, and you rinse that off in the shower. You go back, and a different guy rubs you down with some sort of oil, (I think that's what he was doing - he may have actually been beating me up and the oil was just a ruse.) and gives you a face mask, which you leave on while you lay on a big warm stone table. Of course, you shower afterwards. And then again, after sitting in a dry hot steam bath. The whole process took about an hour and, I figure, about 100,000 gallons of water. Seems kind of like that might a bad idea in a desert environment, but when in Rome... Besides, I can't say too much considering I am from the country that boasts the Bellagio fountain show in Vegas and has approximately 10 bazillion over-cut lawns and golf courses.

Anyway, back to Israel. After saying goodbye to most of our friends in Jordan, me and a young Croatian woman named Jasna headed to Jerusalem. I have to admit, I was a little worried about this as I knew that an Israeli stamp in my passport would black-list me from a number of countries that have yet to recognize Israel as a country, such as Syria. (It's still "occupied Palestine" for much of the Middle East.) But, since I wanted that Indian visa, off I went.

First impressions... well, we stood in line at the boarder for a long time, while a strapping, red-headed young man wearing a polo shirt, sunglasses, and blue jeans paced around, tapping his fingers on his machine gun in a ˝You wanna piece of this?˝ fashion. I struck up a conversation with a young journalist from the States who had been covering the Egyptian revolution along with his friend from Brazil. One by one we all passed through, and Jasna was even able to get her entry stamp on a separate piece of paper. I tried that too, but for reasons I still don't understand, was unsuccessful. (It may have been an honest mistake, but it cost me the opportunity to visit Syria before all the trouble started there. I still regret that.) Once we were on the other side we waited for the Brazilian. And waited, and waited.... eventually we had to leave the journalist behind.  Later that day we saw him again and he told us that he also finally had to leave - and no one would tell him what had happened with his friend or why. (I actually ran into the Brazilian later - he told me he was held for about three hours before he was allowed to leave. He never found out why, either.)

Jerusalem itself is both wonderfully interesting, and a complete and utter mess. Whenever you enter, or leave, you have to go through security. Imagine having to do the whole airport security thing as part of your daily commute, twice a day. Its easier, of course, if you possess a certain color security card. The blue one is for Israelis, and the green is for Palestinians. Only a select few Palestinians are allowed even these, however. No one I talked to seemed to know what the basis was for issuing them, but part of it may be that most Palestinians are not citizens of Israel. It's not that they couldn't, they simply choose not to be. 

The old part of the city is great - lots of winding, cobblestone streets that all your favorite figures from antiquity have walked. (Well, sort-of. Much of it newer, newer being relative when you are talking hundreds of years.) One favorite thing for the "pilgrims" to do is to grab a wooden cross and carry it the same route that Jesus did. (Again, as I was saying...) Once enough crosses end up at the church built where the crucifixion  probably took place, one skinny kid carries about three or four back down to the start. I'm not sure what the cross owners charge to carry one, but I know it's not free.

Of course, it's really neat to see the diversity of religions represented by walking through the different quarters of the old town, but there are, of course, tensions.  One Jewish family has moved into a section of the city without permission and now lives behind razor wire and constant security. Most average people find relief from the stress of work by going home at the end of the day- I suspect for them it's a little different.

The first night, Jasna and I visited Ramallah. Being in the West Bank (I always feel this needs an explanation, since it really doesn't make much sense - it isn't really west of anything, at least not anymore. Now it's simply pockets of Palestinian communities. Historically, well... it's complicated.)  I wasn't sure what to expect. Would I get blown up? Kidnapped? Not in the least -it wasn't as developed, but the people were very nice and had a remarkably good sense of humor. We ate at the Stars&Bucks (which had a vaguely familiar green logo) where we met a Muslim woman from California. She explained something I would hear repeated by a number of Palestinians. They don't hate Jews. They have, after all, coexisted in some form or fashion for over 3000 years. With the Christians, too. What they do hate is having their land taken from them without compensation, and that other countries with clout (especially the US) tend to look the other way.

Later that night, I did get beat up. By whom? Mr. Bunk Bed whose religious affiliation is unknown. I was lying on his top bunk, and didn't think that kneeling at his foot would cause offense, but he collapsed and smashed my face with his frame. At least that was my perspective on the situation. And I've come to realize that one's perspective makes all the difference in the world, especially in that part of it.

The next day we went to the Dead Sea. It's common knowledge, apparently, that it is so salty that you can easily float on top - perhaps you've seen the photos? Easily may not be the right word, though. You have to be careful not to slice yourself up on the sharp salt crystals forming near the shore and once you're out in the water you also can't be bothered by the salt stinging your eyes like mad, or all the floating human detritus, like band-aids. (Still good fun, though.)

 Getting dressed on the shore afterwards, I noticed something was missing - my pants were gone. I couldn't figure out how they could have been stolen right in front of me, until I remembered that before I had even made it to the beach I had sat down and waiting for a cold, rainy squall to blow over after changing into my swim trunks. I must have set them down, and walked away from them, distracted by the young Brazilian women who were displaying considerably more skin that I had seen in the veil-covered Middle East for the last month. I went immediately to the nearby food Kiosk, and the guy, seeing me standing there in my underwear, immediately said. "You! You're the guy with no pants!" (I wonder what his first clue was?) He explained they had been found, but were now on a tour bus of foreigners headed to another destination as it was believed they might have belonged to someone in their group. (Likely story.) He made a call, and since they hadn't gotten far they returned, delivering my pants while I stood on the side of the highway. If they were upset at having to return they didn't show it. In fact, based on the expressions I saw of the people peering through the bus windows I think they may have even enjoyed seeing me standing there in my boxer briefs. (Somewhere, on Namibian facebook or something similar, is probably a photo of me with the caption "Stupid tourist in Israel".) Unfortunately, and entirely inexplicably, everything, including a few shekels, my Swiss army knife, and even my dummy "mugger-wallet", was there, except for the two thumb/drives containing a bunch of writing and photos. I was very bummed.

I went to Bethlehem after that. Oh little town of... well, it's not so little anymore. Don't expect any mangers - just an ornate hole in the floor of the church where, once upon a time, Jesus was supposed to have been born. A dark, small, hole. Architecturally speaking, it's not what I would have chosen. It's actually kind of creepy - why a hole? Babies don't belong in holes. It just kept making me think "Lassie, go get help! Baby Jesus fell in the well!" Maybe some people find comfort in that, but I didn't. I was more moved by the graffiti on the large concrete security barrier (wall) built outside of town. It's worth a google.

If this is New Town, I don't think I want to visit the old one.

So I'm sitting in a hotel in the creatively named New Town, ND waiting to hear if and when I will be working today. No matter, I've been stuck in a lot of out-of-the-way towns, so I google "things to do in New Town, ND". A grand total of 6 things pop up on tripadvisor:

1: Crow Flies High Butte, 2 reviews...
     "A powerful place for reflection" (Written by a New Yorker who is apparently reflecting on "what civilization has done to the MHA Nation". (I also had to google MHA. It is an acronym for the three tribes of the area, Mandan, Hidasta, and Arikara.) Apparently whites were/are civilized and Indians were/are not? I guess I could reflect on this, but I'd rather not.)

    "Was very peaceful some of signs had been vandalized but could read most very beautiful area got lots of great pictures" (What it lacks in grammar it makes up for in brevity.)

2: Three Affiliated Tribes Museum, 3 reviews, with the following titles...
   "Excellent and Extremely Rich!", "This place is a dump. Don't waste your time." and "Small Museum with a Friendly Staff" (Two out of three ain't bad, right? Still, I've been in tribal museums before, and I can't help but walk away with a tinge of sadness each time. I'm in North Dakota during a slow period of an oil boom, it's already hard enough to think happy thoughts.)

3: Fort Berthhold Indian Reservation, 5 reviews, with one title that jumped out...
     "Exceptionally Rude People" (This review was written by someone from ND who was apparently feeling some reverse racism. They apparently now know what it feels like to be "a 1950's african american." Huh. It's a little hard to take this review seriously. The other four reviews are generally favorable, but with caveats about construction, warnings about  Indians without auto insurance, and a less-than-stellar review calling the reservation "average". Admittedly, it's hard to get too excited about a visit.)

4: Scenic 23 North Dakota, 2 reviews, one of which is from the same person who wrote two of the previous reviews and warns people that...
    "if you are uncomfortable with working class people you may be uncomfortable. Most of people working in this area are from around the country".(By the way, this review is for a restaurant. Three attractions in, and already we're running out of things to say about the area, apparently. The second review states "I have to say that this is the worst experience that I have ever had at a restaurant in my life." Wow. That may be hyperbole, but I think I'll be eating in the hotel.)

5: Four Bears Casino, with a whopping 12 reviews, with the following two preview titles...
     "Crap" and..
     "Total Dump, Rude Employees, Crappy Machines." (I'm starting to see a trend here with crap as the common denominator. The other 11 reviews are not much better and include titles like "Greasy", "Years of Disappointments" and "Worst in America". (I was hoping this was written by the same guy who found the restaurant to be the "worst experience... in my life." but alas, no.) Even the best review was only titled "Improved", which is doubly scary considering that it was written before the other two worst reviews. Jesus, what was the place like before it was "improved"?)

6: Earl Bunyan, no reviews.
     (I have to admit, this one intrigues me. A different site describes it as a tall concrete statue from 1958 that is supposed to be the ranching "brother" of Paul Bunyan. The son of the sculptor has his remains buried underneath it along with his parents. It looks like I have a winner in the attractions department, so I check the batteries in my camera and get ready to take a short trip down the highway.)

Then I get a call. Go out and walk with the pipeline where they hope to start digging. I jump in a pickup with an archaeologist from a competing company and even though we've never met, we swap gossip about mutual coworkers as though we've known each other for years. It's a small, small world chock full of various types of dysfunction.

When we finally get out to the project area I learn that the two guys we have followed out are putting up temporary fencing around all the "environmental" areas so that the heavy equipment avoids them. Unfortunately, it seems my role this week as a paleontologist has again been misunderstood since the areas I need to monitor for fossils are not only farther south, they don't require fencing. Then we get a call saying we don't yet have permission to fence the archaeological areas anyway, so now half of our four person team doesn't really have anything to do. (I'm missing Earl Bunyan for this?) Out of boredom and a need to feel somewhat productive I decide to read the Paleontological report to find out what I might expect if they do uncover something. In 2013 other researchers found three "moderately well preserved" small fossil shells and a piece of petrified wood. This, apparently, is typical. The very best I can hope for is that a back hoe clips an ancient crocodile relative and doesn't obliterate it in the process. I can also hope to find Butch Cassidy's gold buried in my back yard.(Actually, my chances with the gold might be better.)

On the way back into town I discover that not only did I drive past Earl Bunyan, twice, the window in the hotel actually had a view of it. Earl, as it turns out, is not quite as big as I imagined. Either 20ft isn't as tall as I imagined (It's not.) or Earl isn't 20 ft. tall. (Maybe if you include the base. Maybe.) Plus, it's bad. Not horrifically, grotesquely bad, just kind of a spindly and unkempt sort of bad. It doesn't appear to have been painted in years, and there is something about the tiny pupils in Earl's huge turquoise eyes combined with the cracked nostrils and peeling paint that make him look a little less like a determined rancher and more like a zombie cowboy. An image search later shows the evolution of Earl. At different points in the past he sported a red shirt, a yellow hat and was holding a rope. Now he appears to be wearing a blue polyester jump suit. (The loss of the belt didn't help.) The string of caution tape around the edges doesn't exactly add to the ambience, either. Here I was really looking forward to posting the first review but I just don't think I have the heart to advertise that the final resting place of three individuals, including a WWII war veteran, is just, well... goofy.

I suppose I shouldn't have gotten my hopes up. Now, I'm hearing that construction may not start until Monday, maybe, and I've already checked off the one attraction I was most interested in.

It could be a really long week.

24 Hours in the Amazon

OK, this this isn't going to cover the enitre 24 hours ( I did sleep, after all.) but this entry in my journal  talks about everything that happened between about 6:00AM and 11:00PM. (Most everything in parenthesizes I am adding now for clarity.)

April 2, 2014

Was awoken by my French neighbor being reminded to get up, so I joined in - there wasn't a sunrise, nor many birds. (I was staying for three nights in a ridiculously quaint jungle lodge. It was made of raw lumber, thatch and bamboo and was lit at night largely with kerosene lanterns. During the day there were activities that the guests, never more than five of us, could participate in. I was lucky to have my own guide.)

I set out the piranha jaw to test the cat theory - it was still there this morning. (I was really bummed that the jaw from the one I had caught and ate the previous day was gone. I had set it out to let the ants strip it clean. I thought maybe someone - probably that one guy - had taken it, but I was told it may have been a cat. Maybe, but that one guy...)

We went after breakfast (in a dug-out canoe) to see the "prehistoric bird" (opisthocomus hoazin) - It is very odd looking - like a cross between a pheasant, a peacock and a turkey. Along the way I caught glimpses of bats, blue-morpho butterflies, a red-headed iguana and a window rat, one of which lives right outside the lodge in a tree-hole. At the end of all the canoeing were three-foot diameter lily pads with with lots of wicked thorns underneath. We stopped on the way back to fish and, using small red seeds (that kept falling from the trees), were able to catch six small fish and one catfish-looking thing.

On the return we caught a glimpse of a "dragon bird", but only very briefly. (No idea what that was - a google search doesn't help.)

Half the piranha jaw was gone when I came back. Hmmm.... (Maybe it was a cat.)

Watched a couple pairs of small monkeys from the water tower - one made a flying leap of 15 ft. between the trees!

Said goodbye to Remi (Finally learned the name of my guide.) and Isaac, who found a new jaw for me. (Here I skip the return journey which involved a canoe ride to where we could get to a village with a "speed boat" (speed being relative to the canoe) and go back up the Amazon river.)

I stayed in Iquitos just long enough to grab some clean clothes from my bag and headed for the "bus terminal". (In this part of the world that usually just means a place where the buses congregate. It could be a street, a vacant lot, anywhere.) Along the way I learned that there was another massive strike - the streets were filled with garbage, some of it on fire. Many intersections were blocked with lumber, bricks, and even volleyball nets. (Might as well recreate if you're not working, right?) Finally found a micro (mini-van), but had to wait for it to fill. Then it took another 45 min. just to get around all the blockades out of town, though the driver stopping to make a pay-phone call (girlfriend?) didn't help.

It started to rain along the way; saw one of the biggest thunderheads I've ever seen - it looked like a hurricane. The driver was going way too fast; I knew I should have said something because at one point he lost control while hydroplaning. People screamed, all went white, and then... (This really doesn't do what happened justice. It was pitch black, and we were zipping down a slick two-lane highway (the only one in or out of Iquitos - it doesn't actually connect to anywhere but Nauta - you have to fly there or take a boat) with nothing but jungle on either side of us when suddenly we hit a HUGE puddle. A wall of water, turned white with the headlights, engulfed the front of the vehicle so that no-one could see anything, including the driver. Screams, and then...)

Nothing but lots of yelling at the driver. I called him a Pendejo and reminded him there were children. (From the urban dictionary: "In Mexico´s slang it is used as an insult like idiot or fool, but in Peru´s slang it used to describe a smart guy with few or no scruples." Huh. Had I known that at the time I would have said something worse.)

I wandered around Nauta for a bit - seems to be a genuine port town. I found a hospedaje and the first room I was shown was just being vacated by a fat guy in nothing but a towel and a woman who looked like a prostitute. I opted for a room twice as expensive - $10.

Showered, then went out to eat. Everywhere that looked like a restaurant served chicken. I found some sort of catfish grilling next to a caiman head on the street near the river. Almost got the small 'gator, but a pretty young lady bought it right before I did.

I wound up buying some bread and water since I didn't trust the lukewarm yucca that came with it, which even the mangy street dogs wouldn't eat.

I asked around about Grau. (Miguel Grau , where I was headed the next day because it's the first village after the confluence of the Marañón and Ucayali rivers join to form the Amazon river.) Met a guy who said he would take me for 80 soles - seems like a lot, but he claims it will get me there in half the time, save me money on the mirador (lookout tower) and I'll actually get to see the confluence since the river is high. Couldn't find a firm answer, so I asked where the other gringo tourists stayed in town. A moto-taxi (tuk-tuk) then took me on a wild ride over wooden bridges, down sidewalks, and through the jungle. After a period of being lost, we finally found the place and it looked completely dark. I hiked up the hill until I found one woman siting alone under a gazebo with a single bare bulb for light. Turns out she is from Washington state  and has been living here for 20 years. There are four young Europeans staying there, building boats. One girl is planning on taking hers all the way to Brazil.

Back along the same crazy path, I was dropped back at the plaza - I was able to find an internet place and update people where I was. There apparently was a bad earthquake in Chile and people are worried about me. (If only they knew.)

What a day. 

A Brief, and Somewhat Depressing, Geography Lesson

Potosi Bolivia is where everyone goes to wander around deep in the bowels of the nearby mines. Everyone, that is, except me. Why didn't I go? Let me explain...

I had been reading about Potosi and the mines even before I got there. There are a lot of interesting stories surrounding the place. One claim is that the number of people who have died working in the mines is around 8 million. (Mostly indigenous and African slaves.) It was at one point the largest, wealthiest city in the Americas, if not the world. The dollar sign ($) we use today is taken from the Potosi silver stamp, which is a P on top of an S on top of an I. The wealth taken from the mines is what caused Europe to flourish and even ushered in the industrial revolution.

At least, those are some of the claims. To me, though, the relevant fact is that today the mines are still being worked in much the same way as they were 500 years ago. Basically, it's just guys pounding away at rocks with picks, shovels, and the occasional dynamite blast. Safety regulations? Ha! Labor laws? Double Ha! (It is not uncommon for boys as young as ten to work there to help support their family.)

If you want to see a very well done documentary movie about the subject, check out "The Devil's Miner", which follows the life of a 14 year old and his younger brother. Something interesting to note is that in this highly Catholic country, the miners actually do everything they can to please "Tio"/the Devil, since he is the one who controls the fate of the miners underground. Every mine has a little statue of the Tio and they give it gifts of coca leaves and liquor. Kind of weird, eh?

The Anthropologist in me finds all this really interesting. The humanitarian in me says it's also kind of messed up. So I thought about going, and may have even had a chance at a free tour. But in the end, despite the fact that many of the miners actually look forward to the tours (people are expected to bring down drinks, coca, etc.) I decided I would pass. A part of me regrets that, but it's not a large part.

Besides, I had other things on my mind like the fact that I was essentially broke. My stupid ATM card wasn't working and the better part of one morning was spent trying to find some semi-transparent scotch tape to place over the magnetic strip in a last-ditch effort to get the thing to read. You might be surprised at how hard it is to find such tape in Bolivia. I eventually did, but the card still didn't work. (Turns out, it was a Bolivian ATM thing. I didn't learn this until I got back to Peru, unfortunately.)

Thank goodness for Western Union. On the upside, I got to experience what it was like to walk into a bank, and nervously walk out with a large heap of money. I'm not the first guy to come from Wyoming and do that, but in the end I had better luck than the one I'm thinking of. 

The Problem with Superlatives

I, like most people, am interested in things that are the highest, longest, deepest, fastest, etc. Guinness, of beer fame, even has a book of such things. Luckily, on this trip I have gotten to see quite a few. In no particular order they are... 

Uyuni salt flats - the largest in the world.

Aticama desert - driest in the world. 

Potosi, Bolivia - highest city of over 100,000 in the world.

La Pas, Bolivia - highest capital city in the world. (Caveat here being that Sucre shares the capital. Still, they average out higher than any other.)

Machu Picchu - best preserved Incan ruins.

Bus to Machu Picchu - most expensive, per kilometer, in the world. (Probably)

Amazon - largest river. (Not the longest, but by volume... whoa.)

Condor - the largest flying bird in the Western Hemisphere.

Lake Titicaca - highest navigable lake in the world.

Cusquena Negro - worst beer in the world. (OK, that is just my opinion but, it is like a porter with corn syrup mixed in -ick.)

Colca Canyon - deepest canyon in the world.

Whoa, OK... record scratch here. What? Really? When I heard that, and that I was just a few hours drive away, I decided I had to see it. My guide book actually informed me that nearby Cotahuasi was even deeper. I guess I sort-of assumed the Grand Canyon had that title. There was only one problem - the wildcat miners in Peru were upset about the prospect of having to register, comply with environmental regulations, and pay taxes, so they blocked the Pan American highway, thereby preventing me from making the 10 hour journey to see Cotahuasi. So, I decided that the estimated extra 300 meters between it and Colca wasn't that important to me and I would visit Colca instead. Especially when I saw photos. Yes, Cotahuasi is, apparently, very deep. BUT, it is also very wide - there's a small city at the bottom of it for crying-out-loud. In my mind, that makes it less of a canyon, and more of a valley, but after a little reading I learned that this whole buisiness of "deepest" really seems to be a case of "It depends on what your definition of IS, is." In fact,  the infallible wikipedia hardly mentions either one.

In any event, the miners made sure I wasn't going anywhere, so I had time to check out Colca, anyhow.

It's a four hour drive over a pass of 16,000 feet to Cobanaconde, which is a dusty little village that people only visit because it is the hopping off point for a hike down into the canyon. You stop along the way to see the Cruz de Condor, which is where the birds congregate in the mornings. One flew directly overhead and I have to say... wow. I mean... Christ, they are HUGE. The one I saw had to have at least a wingspan of 8 feet or more. That alone almost made the $25 entry fee into the area worth it.

Once in the village itself, I made inquiries as to how to see both the hot springs and the Sangalle Oasis, at the bottom of the canyon. I had four different maps, and each was more worthless than the other. Asking around didn't help... I got estimates of everywhere from four hours to eight for the hike I was thinking about. (This may be the most frustrating part of traveling in this part of the world, and I was reminded of my experience in Central America. If you ask a question, you will  almost certainly get an answer. And it will almost certainly be wrong. You must ask the same question at least a half-dozen times to get a good sample, then come up with an average. Only then can you start to hope that you have the right answer. And you will still probably be wrong.) Thunder clouds were building on the horizon, and that decided my route for me - directly down to the Oasis.

I have to say, that it is impressive to see. But the worlds deepest... I just don't know. It took me about two hours to get down to the bottom on a steep, heavily switchbacked trail. The Grand Canyon, by comparison, takes about 4-5 hrs. 

The little tiki-hut lodges at the bottom are perfectly lovley. Swimming pools, bars, food - nothing fancy, but more than adequate. (My thatch-roofed room cost about $5 that night.) The hike out the next day was hot, but it still only took me 3 hrs. (I stopped a lot along the way, too.)

Now, I don't want to spread conspiracy theories, but has anyone checked the IP address of the sites proclaiming these canyons to be the deepest? Because I would not be surprised to learn that they are originating in Peru. You see, Peru figured out long ago with Machu Picchu that there is money in tourism. In fact, the estimate for 2013 was $3.8 billion. Not Neuvo Soles, either - dollars. In all the cities even remotely close to something of interest you will find about 10,000 offices hawking guided treks, paragliding, tours, dune buggy rides, horseback rides, boat tours, or almost any combination thereof. (And they will almost never include the park/ site feet. Be warned.) So, in the end, having a lot of things in your country that you can claim are the something-est is certainly in your own self interest, even if there may be a caveat or two attached to them. 

I dont mean to sound bitter. I get it, and I guess I dont blame the Peruvians for doing it. Just today, though, I have been told how pefect in nutrition Cuy (guinea pig) meat is. I bought overly spendy Sachi Inchi nuts, which are supposed to do everything from help digestion to improve memory. (Also,they are the blandest nut imaginable.) 

Anyway... come to Peru. Enjoy all of the incredible natural and man-made wonders that it has to offer, because they are many. But take them with a grain of salt.  (There are plenty in Bolivia - remember the salt flats are the largest in the world.)

Who ARE those guys?

Judging by the looks that we got, I´m pretty sure that´s what the residents of San Vicente were thinking when they saw us wandering around their remote mining town in southern Bolivia... but I get ahead of myself.

Like so many places, my first introduction to a place called Bolivia was through the movie Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. For those of you who don´t know it, the movie has a strong Wyoming connection as most of the bandit´s most famous robberies took place there. Butch went to prison in Laramie and their nickname "The Hole-in-the-Wall-Gang" comes from a hideout about 1 1/2 hrs. south of where I live in Sheridan. Even Sundance's nickname comes from a town in the northeast part of the state.

Long story short, things did not end well for them. They fled the US, tried ranching in Argentina, then started robbing banks and payrolls in Chile and Bolivia. After their last payroll heist, they decided to stay the night in San Vicente, where they were given an adobe outbuilding to stay in (no hotels), a dinner of sardines and beer, and then were ratted out to the lawman posse who had arrived just before them.  Different theories exist as to how they actually met their end, including suicide. The version shown in the movie actually follows (on a smaller scale) an account given, secondhand, by Hiram Bingham. Remember him? (He´s the guy who found Machu Picchu a few years later, but was in Bolivia at the time and may have even met them.) In any event, they are buried there, and the cemetery still exists.

Which is why, of course, I had to go check it out.

I started out in San Pedro, Chile, which is where the duo may have been heading for before bunking down in San Vicente. San Pedro is kind of what I imagine Santa Fe looked like, oh, 150 years ago. (Plus the modern trinket shops, and banners for guided tours hanging out of every shop, no matter what they normally sell.)  It was there I bought a ticket to see the Uyuni salt flats. You may know this place if you´ve ever seen photos of people walking around on what looks like a mirror image of the sky. The illusion comes from the largest salt flat in the world, which in places is covered with a couple inches of water - hence the reflection. On the way there we  passed many beautiful things including high altitude lakes in hues of red, and green, and white. There were flamingos, weird rock formations, geysers and hot springs. It took three days of travel in an old Toyota Four-Runner on rough gravel roads. 

On this same excursion was Dave - a tall, handsome, bright-eyed guy from England who, as it turns out, was a fan of the movie and also wanted to try and visit San Vicente.  I say try to, because it´s not as easy to get to as one might think. In the town of Uyuni (Where I discovered that I couldn´t withdraw any money from the ATMs and was essentially broke - it was starting to look like I might have to start a life of crime myself.) every other shop offers tours of the salt flats just like in San Pedro, but no one knew much about San Vicente. And no one seemed willing to take us for less than about $200. We heard that it was possible that tours ran from Tupiza in the south, but they were twice as expensive.

So, what to do? Well - start hitchhiking, of course. We got up the following day from our hostel, that I swear was a former prison (you´ll believe me when you see the photos) and walked to the edge of town. It didn´t take long before we were picked up by a young couple on their way to Atocha, near the junction of a road that goes to San Vicente. There they dropped us, and we waited in the shade of an old, abandoned, adobe hut. And we waited, and waited. A half dozen tourist-filled Four-Runners passed us on their way to Tupiza. An old guy walked from a village about a mile away to check some llamas. Another guy came by on a bike. There were a couple motorcyclists. No one, it seemed, was going to San Vicente. About four hours in I was starting to get nervous. We still had about three hours of daylight, but San Vicente was still well over an hour away, or more, depending on who you talked to.

Finally, a white Four-Runner stopped with an older, traditionally dressed lady and her son in the back seat.  The 30-something old driver said he was going to San Vicente, but there was no place to stay. I told him my guide book said there was. With a shrug, he let us hop in with them. We were on our way.

The landscape would have been familiar to Butch - it looks a lot like Wyoming. (Later, on our way back down into Tupiza, I was amazed at how much it looked like his home state of Utah - Bolivia even has a version of Bryce Canyon called La Sillar.)

We climbed higher, and higher, on the gravel road passing only two very isolated adobe and thatch homesteads. The skies started to get dark with an impending storm. After almost two hours of driving, during which we learned from the driver that San Vicente was not, a my old guidebook said, a village of 100 people, but a bustling silver mine with more than 600 full time employees and their families, we saw the place. It sits in a small valley at 14, 764 ft. with the old village segregated away from the new town with only a rec. center in between. (Which has a very nice, green AstroTurf soccer field, I might add.)

We passed through a security gate to get into town. Everyone in or out is noted, and apparently not everyone gets through. Tourists are given an exception, apparently.

The new town itself is really more of a man camp. There is only one small convenience store, and that's about it.  A young guy checked on company housing for us (I think) but came back empty handed - apparently our driver was right. Things were looking a little grim.  I bought a lighter in case we needed to find our own adobe hut and make a fire to stay warm. After, I decided to check on the place listed in my guide book (El Rancho) anyway. Today, it´s nothing more than a kitchen that feeds  some of the hungry miners each night. Luckily the owner, Nancy, who is a somewhat rotund lady with a big smile and years far beyond her actual age of 40 (she´s a grandmother), said she would let us sleep in the back room of her kitchen. (Sounding familiar?)

We left our stuff and went to the museum, for which we needed to acquire the key from the convenience store. The young guy who unlocked the place for us took the dusty blankets off the half-dozen displays and took some photos with his cell phone. The displays consisted of a bunch of old mining paraphernalia, some old guns, movie posters, and a guest register which hadn´t been signed since 2012, and then only by a few people.)

After that, we walked to the cemetery, which was locked, so we moved onto the old village. I assumed that Butch had died here, somewhere, but apparently the original spot the shootout took place in has been demolished and replaced with a company building. Unbelievable. There is NOTHING but space for at least 100 miles in every direction, and yet... uhg.

But that is the way of it in San Vicente these days. There used to be a sign welcoming visitors with a "The Gangsters Butch Cassidy Sundance Kid here Died" [sic] but we didn´t see anything of the sort. Slightly disheartened, we wandered back to the main town in the near-dark. I had the foresight to buy sardines, but no beer, so we stopped in at a couple of the living-room stores that local women have set up as competition with the C-store, where I found some Tri-Malta. (Later I realized it was not only non-alchoholic but disgustingly sweet.) Luckily, we were saved from this meal by Nancy, who welcomed us with potato stew, llama steak, and rice, which was not only good but only cost us about $2. We spent the evening playing with balloons with her grand-kids and watching Discovery Channel-type shows which are exactly the same as the US, but in Spanish. (Not dubbed, just re-done. There are all there - mechanics, naturalists, rednecks with beards. It´s weird.) At the end of the evening, she gave us blankets and wished us a good night.

The next morning, we got up and went back to the cemetery. Rather than try to find who had the key to the front gate, we hopped over the adobe wall surrounding it. (We weren´t the first. There was even a step provided for the purpose.) From there, it was more like that scene in The Good the Bad and the Ugly, where Tucco is trying to find the right grave. It´s a small cemetery, but completely unorganized and hard to navigate. It wasn´t looking promising (Maybe the marker was now gone, too?!) but finally, there it was - the grave marker for Butch Cassidy. We spent an appropriate amount of time in silence, and taking photos, then hopped back over the wall.

We said goodbye to Nancy, gave her some money for her trouble, and crammed into a old rusty red Four-Runner - four of us in the far back; four more, plus a kid, in the middle; and two nursing women with the driver up front. It was a tortuous four hours down the mountain into Tupiza, but I comforted myself with the notion that, unlike Butch, I would be returning to Wyoming and would set eyes on Hole-in-the-Wall again.

Till next time...