Ride and River Tour: The Last Ride, Day 3

After Marcos's french toast and fantastic, homemade chocolate sauce, we headed out of our quaint abodes and piled back into the jeep for a final round of biking.  This day's ride was shorter than the previous, but no less impressive-- in its own way, of course.  Now, we were in "the belly of the jungle," according to another rider.

 

The bugs were out, but so were we.  I must say that it was difficult for me to get back on the bike for the soreness that had worked its way into the lower half of my body and my forearms and hands.  (Eventually, I'll learn to stand for longer periods of time while riding a bike.)  Though the tropical setting provided a wonderful instigation for my curiosity, the small streams and clusters of large rocks and ruts that broke up the trail were enough to keep my mind focused on the task at hand.  At this point of the ride, there were uphill and downhill sections and, from my estimates, I was consistently about two minutes behind the group for the majority of the day.

 

Then again, I don't normally like being very close to others, so I preferred being in the back.  Granted, there were occasional times that I would creep up and pass (even more rare) some riders.  In general, I preferred to be behind.  No one seemed to mind; they were pretty used to me by then and had accepted me pretty well.

The section of trail that we hit right before lunch I actually did hit.  It was as Marcos put it, "more aggressive".  This meant steeper, downhill shoots with sharper curves and large stones (one section looked like a stone wall had participated in a land-slide down the trail).  The large stones were what claimed me, in the end.  I grew in confidence on the bike, especially after having passed a few people, and went around a turn a bit faster than usual.  I was able to slow down just fine, but when I got to the mosaic of stones, I was crawling over them on my bike and my back tire grabbed on the wrong way and tipped me.  The slow-motion, hard-fall was a bit embarrassing and I was glad no one was around me at the moment.  I was able to get out from beneath my bike in time for others to show up and feigned walking my bike over the stones, which I did do for a bit afterward.  No one seemed to know the difference and I hid the scrapes of my bleeding forearm pretty convincingly-- still the ever-proud newbie.

We stopped in a village for lunch and unfortunately for me (and fortunately for the dirt that had nestled beneath the abrasions on my forearm), Michael noticed my slight looks of pain, asked me what was wrong, and I exposed my pride in response.  Thankfully, the scrapes were very shallow, so there was no need for concern.  After lunch, he walked up to me with cleaning supplies and wrestled my protests with professionalism before scrubbing the area to loosen all of the debris.

Truthfully, at this point I was considering hopping on the jeep because the muscles my forearms were totally shot by this point, sending pain signals (like smoke signals) to communicate with my brain every time I breaked.  But, one of the Frenchmen in our group convinced me otherwise.  (It didn't take much convincing --just someone who had faith enough in me to offer encouragement.)  Thus, I began the impending uphill with the group.

A short-lived team-building exercise to help the jeep gain some traction... after helping one another get bikes across the rainwater river.

As you may have noticed, the jeep did not need assistance from mere mortals.

Mudslides and flowing rainwater made various segments of this uphill particularly challenging.  It wasn't long before the whole of our company was entirely muddy.  I was a bit farther behind the group than I would have liked to be, but I still rode steadily.  Slow and steady.

The support vehicle was never far behind.

Mauricio's jeep was a constant accompaniment for me on this steady, steepening incline.  In fact, about halfway up the hill, I was so sore and tired that I was in agreement with Marcos when he, gently, put me in the jeep.  After acknowledging my curiosity of how far we actually had ridden up the hill, I was 100% sure that I wanted to finish the hill in the jeep.  No shame.  Not to mention, Mauricio, the driver, was just as kind as he was skilled.  He encouraged me to practice my Spanish with him during the remainder of the day.  That is, we practiced intermittently between dialogue with another rider who had taken today to ride in the van due to sickness.

When particular hill crested, a river was flowing.  It gave us all a chance to cool down from the day and rinse the mud from our... well, everything.

The ride didn't end here, though.  After about a half hour in the jeep, Marcos and the guys jumped out of the jeep to complete a final push to the town we would stay in that night: Mapiri, a trading center for the various mining towns we passed.  It is the busiest area we've seen in a couple of days.  As it happened, the owner of our lodgings for the night (a motel that looked to be still under construction) was also the owner of a restaurant down the street.  He would also be our riverboat captain for the next three days; thus, Marcos fittingly introduced him as "the Donald Trump of Mapiri".

Ride and River Tour: The Ride, Day 2

A much longer biking day, we woke up early to a hot meal and the freshness of early morning air.  Then, we hopped back in the jeep to begin the ascent to eventually descend over 150kms (93.2 mi) on a dirt road that is supposed to be wide enough for two vehicles to pass, but looks more like a backwoods, wide path that could be found in the hills of West Virginia.  As I mentioned in the last post, it was a foggy morning, but that didn't make the views any less spectacular--especially when the fog cleared at an overlook that we stopped at to take photos.

At the top of the hill in Sorata, my stomach stayed in the support vehicle as I geared up in the light flurrying that occurred around us.  (I have found that it normally takes me about 20 minutes or so on a bicycle before I begin to feel comfortable on it.)  We took a final group photo before going down (to me) a giant of a hill.  Not gonna lie, I walked the first little bit until I felt comfortable enough to ride the rest of the way.  Also, on that hill I found out that biking goggles do not suit me--I fiddle with them too much!  After having completed the trip, I definitely think I could tackle that hill in full, though!  Now I think I have a better idea of what I'm doing on a two-tired contraption that I'm supposed to break on gently in a panic.  --Hey!  At least I absorbed the tips given in each pre-ride safety brief.  The guides who lead us on these rides really were some of the best.

Throughout the day, Mike had a chance to practice his patience with me, granted, that's not too much of a stretch for this guy-- he's had the privilege of seeing me in all of my mental biking stages and working with me in spite of myself.  It's possible that the only person who has more patience for me on a bike is the person who taught me.  Lucky doesn't even begin to cover it-- I'll begin with thankfulness.

Mike as my shadow on a section of the ride.

During this ride, there were some "pedal sections", loose rocks, dry dust, gold mining towns, stunning landscapes, and fantastic attitudes.  (Though I was certainly the tortoise of the group, no one teased or degraded me and I was certainly inspired by the kindness shown, in spite of the all-too-obvious, varying levels of experience.)

I was determined to make it up as many "uphills" as possible,
so I definitely rocked the zig-zag on some sections.

The lead guide introduced this day as "a slow strip-tease" of the Bolivian mountain ranges and valleys because, bit by bit, the route revealed more of its beauty and lushness, enticing us further and further down until we were surrounded by our thoughts and the unspoken folklore and legends that hung in the air, utterly exposed, around us.

On the left is a dessert (cacti and all) and on the right of the ledge is a tropical valley.

We ate lunch in a square of one of the towns we passed through.  Marcos (the Lead Guide), Mike (the Guide in Training), Mauricio (the most adept driver (of the support vehicle)), and Steven (a new guide) made sandwiches and sides.  We were incredibly well-fed and had a chance to rest and appreciate the large hogs and other farm animals that walked around the plaza before beginning the final descent for the day.

Though our sleeping accommodations that night would not have showers, Marcos had pre-planned a stop for us so we could rinse off and cool down from the long day of riding.  The water was crisp and cool, the option to use soap was available, and there was plenty of water to go around.  Some members of our group did not participate in this section of the tour, but really, how often does a girl (or guy) get a chance to shower in a waterfall?

That evening we arrived in the modest village of Constata to rest.  Marcos slaved in the kitchen to craft a palatable pasta dish with an involved vegetarian sauce.  It was one of the best meals I've had in quite some time.  The meal was followed by a few rounds of cards and then sleep before the final descent (and some impressive ascents) and our finale of the bike-riding half of the tour.

Ride and River Tour: The Ride, Day 1

A three-hour jeep-ride got our group of 11 tourists, lead guide, and both guides-in-training from my quiet neighbourhood in La Paz to the mountain that picked us up for this journey and dropped us off at a lovely resort-style lodging in Sorata.  But first, the single track.

I'm the small person in the white helmet, if you weren't 100% sure.

This is the single track.

I should state right out that I was incredibly nervous for this trip after I initially signed up and payed my deposit.  I have never spent all that much time on a bicycle in my life and I actually would have never learned how to ride a bicycle if it wasn't for my brother, who had either taken pity on me because I was missing out on this glorious form of transportation or who just wanted someone with whom to ride around the neighbourhood...  Regardless, he took up the responsibility of patiently teaching me to ride a bicycle--mentally and physically.  Granted, these aren't things you tell the company when you sign up for a trip like this, but you can bet that I was thinking about Max when we exited the jeep (the tour's back-up vehicle) and were given the option to begin the trip with a flowy single-track or head down to the paved road and meet up with the rest of the group.

Mike was second guide for this trip and Marcos, the lead guide, is our apartment-mate, so both give this "option" expecting that I will understand which choice they prefer I make-- for my safety, of course.  (They had also padded my gear bag with a full-faced helmet and knee-pads, which, sadly, I don't have any pictures donning (as I didn't wear these pieces of gear), but I did appreciate that they cared.)  Unfortunately for this plan, every other person on the tour decided they wanted to try the single track route and I, curious as ever, agreed to try it as well.  I'd never seen a single track before, but I had heard Mike and Max talk about them.  I really hadn't a clue what they were about.

Perhaps it's needless to say, but I walked much of this trail and I fell twice.  The first fall happened at the beginning when I rode too close to a rider and squeezed my brakes too hard when they went to slow down... no one was hurt, though.  The second time, I was learning to go down my first large hill and my front tire got caught in a rut (or something) turned, and my handlebar forked me out of my seat and in front of the bike... there was a nice little bruise on my upper stomach from that one...  I got back on the bike, nonetheless, and made it down that hill.  I certainly wouldn't recommend the trail for someone with almost zero experience on a bike, but I am absolutely glad I did it.  I wanted to know what it was like and now I do.  Plus, it made the rest of the ride that day seem much easier.

A sandwich and power aid followed the single track and then we were on a paved section for the vast majority of the rest of this ride.  I cruised at the back of the group during this portion, while Mike, obliged by second-guide duties to follow the last of the group, gave me pointers on riding techniques.  He seemed awfully nervous, but I felt like I was doing okay.  The group had accepted me for my skills and was pretty kind about it all, too.  By the end of the day, I had also had the chance to react to a barking dog, too-- one of my main fears, anyway, on or off a bike.  I would learn more as the trip continued, but as Day 1 was a shorter day in the trip, I was glad when the route ended and we headed toward the beautiful lodgings that had been reserved for us in Sorata.

That night we slept cabins that dotted the land of the tranquil resort.  We were among so may fruit trees, friendly animals, a river, and every amount of nature that you can imagine-- I even found four or so four-leafed clovers!  Oh yeah, and this guy decided he liked our room, too:

All in all, after a good meal, a warm shower, and a rest, we all felt ready to appreciate a hot, homemade breakfast and the new day that would take our bikes from Sorata to Consata, dropping, I was told, over 150kms (93.2 mi) on a dirt road that is supposed to be wide enough for two vehicles to pass.  To top it all off, it was a foggy morning.  But that will be elaborated on in "The Ride, Day 2".

By the way, we went to Puno.

So, we went to Puno, a friend and I.  For one day.  To make sure a friend could leave and re-enter the country safely.

We were successful.


Here's how it went:

On a September Saturday morning, we met up to catch a bus from La Paz, Bolivia to Puno, Peru.  She needed accompaniment just because no one should have to travel alone over that kind of distance--so, I went with her!  We made it an adventure.

We experienced televised entertainment while waiting in the bus terminal--everything from animated animals singing "In the Jungle" to N*Sync. 

After finally boarding the bus, we took some selfies, talked, and I took a nap (which she, also, unfortunately documented).  The thing about this bus ride is that you have to cross over part of Lake Titicaca in order to continue. Passengers exit the bus and take a small boat while the bus takes a ferry, of sorts, over.  There's some wait-time here, too.

Eventually, we crossed the Bolivian boarder to Peru (though, it was actually late at night and these pictures were taken on the return trip):

  

After another hour or two or three of bus-riding, we made it to Puno, had a (late) nice, candlelit dinner (of alpaca and trout, respectively) and went to a local bar for some drinks (Pisco Sours, of course) before heading to the hostel for the night.

  

The next morning, we decided to take a tour of the floating islands, since that's the touristy attraction of Puno.  Though, being a Sunday, nothing was open for breakfast, making our food-run interesting, to say the least.  We got to walk around many parts of the city!  The floating, reed, islands are quite amazing and lovely, though!  Certainly worth the tour.  Here are some pictures:

Yes, people live, work, and thrive on these reed-islands.  They were incredibly accommodating, showing us around the inside of their homes, telling stories, and singing to us.  Not to mention, bearing our presence and the nosey photographs taken by us and passing boats.  Tourism is part of the economy on the islands, so it seemed that, for the most part, they were more than used to us.

At around one in the afternoon, the tour was over and we left to catch our long, but pretty comfortable bus back to La Paz, Bolivia.  We listened to Podcasts and chatted.  Both glad for the retreat.

Once we had crossed the boarder, we decided we needed a picture with the Bolivian border sign, which is lovingly posted below.

The primary mission of the trip as a whole was a success and the islands were a wonderful added bonus.  It was a nice way to spend a couple of days for sure--and with great company!

My Small Town is Showing

On and off, I have moments that can only be described as, "my small town is showing".  To give you an idea of what this means, I have some scenarios listed below:

• Walking past the homeless, my heart pangs and I used to give them change and food, if I had it, but this month, I don't think I'll be able to do so.  
• Hearing the fishy-kissy noises, hoots, whistles, etc. from men as they, or I, walk past make me irate because, for one, I can't understand their goal--do they really think someone will turn to that kind of degrading attention?  I find it disgusting and it's very difficult for me to not react.  An American from New York sees it as unfortunately normal, but being from small-town West Virginia, it's just really not okay for me.  I haven't grown up with that kind of treatment before, so I now try to find ways to want to walk around outside in spite of knowing that I'll get unwanted attention.  Granted, I stand out a good bit, even if I am the same height as most of the people here.  
• Surprisingly enough, walking past cars and through heavy traffic with relative ease isn't too much of an adjustment--I suppose I got practice with walking though crowds in high school and college! (This is definitely comparable here.) 

All-in-all, I still find life in La Paz to be an adjustment.  Though, I can't decide if life here is getting (based on perspective, alone, because, in essence, nothing has changed) worse because I've currently made another "small town" acquaintance.  Hopefully, this acquaintance will dissipate before it becomes too friendly, but I'm not sure if I should hold my breath on that just yet:  I need to find something I look forward to doing here.

I do enjoy teaching, but the hours at my school are strange and make for long days and of late, I've been asked to stay longer in the actual building to do work, which is fine, but I will definitely need an outlet.

Last night, Mike asked what I enjoyed doing/ would do in an ideal world/ looked forward to every day, week, or month... the amount of answers I had for him was rather pitiful.  The only one I could be sure of went something like, "Well, the only thing I can really think of that makes me excited is the end of each month."  Shoot.  That's not good.

So I'm trying to become more involved, but I'm still not really sure where to start/ how to go about doing it.  Here are some of the considerations so far:

• A friend has gotten me in touch with a book club in part of the city that's about a half hour away (by mini-bus), but they seemed to be concerned with how late I work on Fridays (they meet once a month-ish on Fridays).  I only work until about 6pm at the moment, which is actually pretty good, considering the school is still open until 9pm (every other day of the week, I work until 9pm, with gaps in my day).
• I also want to try to swim some, but pools here are either expensive, closed, or only open when I work.  I've been trying to exercise  regularly, but when I got into a really good routine, my body decided I was getting enough energy to stop sleeping at night... needless to say, that one wasn't quite working, but I have been searching for other ways to work out and still sleep at night...
• During these inquiries, I've been applying to different types of writing jobs.  I'd like to practice writing for different audiences, so maybe that's a venue.  
• For the past couple of weeks, I have taken some Spanish classes, but that's during the work week, for me, and the cost of them is slightly daunting when held to my salary... I'll need to cut back on them a little.
• Everyone I know here likes to drink and go out and all of that, but that's never been appealing to me... though, if and when I do go out with friends and coworkers, it's not uncommon for me to return home on my own, and that's a bit of a deterrent, too; though, the city is pretty safe.
• I've tried baking, but I would like something to get myself out of the house more often.  Today, I plan to explore some and find the botanical garden before dinner with a friend.
• Of course, I read and write almost constantly.
• I will soon, hopefully, be volunteering at a soup kitchen (the first I've heard of since being here) on Mondays, beginning the Monday after next!
• The churches are incredibly intimidating for me, since my Spanish speaking and understanding abilities leave much to be desired.  Though, perhaps I'll go back to one of the ones I visited during the first two months here and try to get involved... the problem comes with my work schedule and getting back home after dark on my own.

All in all, I'm not sure what I should try to look into or try to find.  I don't really know what I could afford that would be something to look forward to, even once a week.  I don't know what there is for free, either (generally, nothing is free here, but everything is cheap-- a notion taken from Mike).  Looking for a place to start.  (It just seems like a daunting task, doesn't it?  La Paz is huge!)  Or, maybe something that I've begun to look into will pan out.  Perhaps these are just growing pains of a new city.  Optimistically, I'll find something soon!

Climbing a Mountain: Huayana Potosi

Among the alluring treks and climbs along the Andes mountain range lies Huayna Potosi (with a summit that is 6,088 meters--19,973.75 feet--above sea level), the "easiest climb for beginners" I have been told (though, I haven't a clue as to whom is quoted with that*).  Regardless, it's still a heck of a climb.  Mental toughness and water consumption, more than anything else, I think, is needed to summit the mountain more than physical fitness.  Granted, don't live off of doughnuts and Netflix for a few months and act like you're in any shape to climb this thing, but that's besides the point.

I remember FaceTiming with Mom to tell her about the trip, once it was over.  The fist thing she asked when I told her I had climbed a mountain, was, "Was it a goal of yours to climb a mountain?"  My immediate response, "Oh, no.  And it still isn't."  My ambition for climbing the mountain wasn't really derived from personal whims, but because Michael and a friend of mine (whom I met at I.E.)  here wanted to climb it and it sounded like something neat to do on a weekend.  Why not?

There were eight of us in our group: three Americans, three Australians, and two French-people (trying to get away from the masculinized, "Frenchmen", but we'll see how that goes). Our group was hilarious and incredibly easy-going, which was wonderful.  The bus ride up was filled with our gear, lovely scenery, and conversation.  When we got to the base camp, at 4,700 meters (15,419.95 feet) above sea level, we ate lunch and geared up for practice with walking in grampons (crampons in English), using ice picks, and ice climbing.

 

Day two, we marched up to high camp, walking along the same trail as before, but further this time.  High camp is set at 5,200 meters (17,060.37 feet) above sea level.  A day of cards, cocoa tea, and rest, we would be waking up at midnight the next morning/that night to begin our ascent at 1am.  This is super important because the avalanche risk increases significantly when the sun is out, which is (obviously) no good.  After the large meals our company had been feeding us and around two bathroom trips to the outhouse each night, my body queasily rebelled against waking up at midnight, eating a piece of bread and jam and drinking some tea, but I did my best to get it down anyway.  We were all groggy and excited.  One of our group members jokingly asked our guides, "Vamos a la playa?" when we were all ready to start the ascent.

Each guide was attached to two people by a rope, in our group.  No guide, in any group, was ever attached to more than two people.  Michael and I were paired with our guide and, after all adjustments were made, we began to breathe the crisp, thin mountain air, gaze lovingly at the clear, star-filled night, and climb the mountain.  Having no mountaineering experience myself, it was a little struggle to figure out at what pace I should be walking to have a steady rhythm--I normally went too quickly, but I was trying to step with the guide's footfalls and icepick-falls, so I could figure out his routine.

It was slow going and before I knew it, I was day dreaming about what my friends in the states were up to.  Abruptly, I realized that it was around 2 or 3 in the morning on August 3rd--warm, muggy August--and I was dressed in FULL ice and snow gear wondering when my water bottle would begin to freeze in my bag!  It was definitely a bizarre realization for me.  Eventually, I stopped thinking about the breach and brought myself back to the catch-phrase with which we began our ascent: Vamos a la playa?  We'd soon see a new "beach" of our own.

However, that "beach", for me, was not the summit.  My guide seemed worried about me (because I hadn't drank enough water before the ascent and would waver to the side every now and then, not to mention I needed to rest a little more often because I couldn't quite figure out my gait).  He took my pulse and, (according to Mike) sensing that we may not make it to the summit by sunrise, decided to take us along a slightly different route that involved scaling an icy chute.  To climb the chute, there were some accommodations: it had some holes that could be used as footholds, three vertical, one-foot-long pieces of rope with two knots tied in each one on your right, and your ice pick for your left hand.  It. Was. Terrifying.  I cried before climbing it.  Not because I didn't think I could do it physically, but because I didn't think I could do it mentally--I kept imagining pulling the guide down and on top of Mike, who was climbing this thing with a broken hand... I did it, though, and it was wonderful; I'm glad I did, but it was scary!

There are more side-stories to the trip--ascent and all--but to make a long blog short, I did not make it to the summit.  Of 6,088 meters (19973.75 feet), I climbed around 5,850 meters (19192.91 feet) before admitting that I needed the rest of my strength to get back down the mountain.  Fortunately, though, we still got to see the sunrise on the mountain and WOW was it amazing!  Plus, we didn't have to share pictures at the summit with 30 other people.  It was stunning.  Ultimately, that was good enough for me because I had no real ambitions of mountaineering, but I did feel incredibly bad for holding Mike back through it all.  Of course, he says it was all worth it for him because it was something we could do together, but (while I greatly appreciate the encouragement) I know he was dead-set on summiting and would have if it weren't for me. BUT, I'm sure he'll do it again--he's said so himself.  It was an absolutely amazing experience--AND we saw at least 10 shooting starts throughout the hike!

Here's the company we went through, if you'd like to check out the itinerary to see exactly what we did.  The climb down was just as hard as the climb up, plus, you had to go the entire way down, back to base camp so you could be transported home that day.  It's a long day, but certainly worth every bit of it.

Climbing South America Company Website: http://www.climbingsouthamerica.com/country/bolivia/activity/climbing-and-mountaineering/pakage-tour/climbing-huayna-potosi-6088m-2-days 


*According to Wikipedia:

"Perhaps, the main reason Huayna Potosí has been called the easiest6000m climb is that the elevation gain from trailhead to summit is less than 1400 m; with easy access from La Paz. Since La Paz is at 3640 m, climbers have an easier time acclimatizing."

Website: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Huayna_Potos%C3%AD 

Alicia (Pronounced /Ail-ee-see-a/)

Last week I was walking to the apartment to grab some lunch before my last few classes at I.E. when, as I walked, I saw many things and people and ate some chocolate I'd purchased from a lady selling them along the street (there are kiosk-y tiendas EVERYWHERE along all sidewalks).  On the second-to-last block, though, there was an older woman with, a cane and a small satchel, who unsuccessfully stopped the young man (he looked to be about mid-to-late teens, but no judgement; it was lunchtime, after all) walking in front of me and then made eye-contact with me.  I slipped a piece of chocolate in my mouth and wondered what in the world she was saying in such exasperated Spanish, but her gestures were clear that she needed help to go somewhere.

So, what was I to do, but let her slip her tiny arm through mine and adjust her weight to the nearest, then the second nearest pharmacy.  She talked the whole time and didn't seem to mind my limited knowledge of Spanish as she handed me the bag she was carrying.  Along the way, she mentioned how the first store wouldn't have what she needed because she checked there yesterday, but the second would [she hoped] carry the medication.

On the way back to her apartment (yes, we went the whole way--it turned out that she only lived roughly two blocks away from me), she told me of her time as a dance instructor--she LOVES meringue--and about how she lost her husband and son to cancer.  I'm not sure if she lived alone or with someone, but she was very much walking alone that day.  The only specific people she mentioned in her stories were her husband and son and she disregarded my question about living alone at the beginning of our journey.

In the end, Alicia reached into her pocket and I immediately protested any form of payment.  Hesitating ever so slightly, she proceeded to pull out a ragged piece of wrapped chocolate.  It was opened on one side from being in her pocket for some time, but it was something she'd intended for herself.  I couldn't refuse her as she extended it to me.  All-in-all, I'm glad I met Alicia that day.  She really made me refocus my day and I was glad to have been able to help accompany her on that errand.