I head over to the cliffs overlooking the beaches and ocean. There is a group of teenagers horsing around and suddenly I'm thinking back to Pichilemu and the midnight BBQ with the Black Sheep. And then I think more about Chile - Pete's birthday, putting the car in the river, the historical Torres del Paine hike, the volcano bar debacle, even the turd in Valdivia - and it feels like years ago that this adventure started.

I look around for things that might trigger memories of Argentina. They are everywhere. The buses remind me of the epic ride up Ruta 40. The kids playing soccer remind me of Boca Stadium and the country's passion for the sport. The beer ads remind me of lazy sunny afternoons in Mendoza eating fried egg steaks, drinking cervezas, and talking about nothing. The grafitti on the bench reminds me of Damien, the Doctor, and the wildest Xmas Eve ever. And the ocean in its grandeur reminds me of passing out and then waking up on an isolated beach on New Year's Day. 2007 has been entrancing since Day 1.

A motoscooter zooms by and the sun is starting to set behind the smog that engulfs the city. All that's missing is Hugo's family and a chovito and I'd swear I was living it up in Uruguay again. Although we were only in that country for a few days, I now know a few days is more than you need to make it happen.

Enter Bolivia. Can anything really mimic Bolivia? I scan the area but there are no llama fetuses or sex potions for sale. And if I were to escape the city, I doubt I'd find beautiful plains of salt to roam around or Death Roads to fly down. At the same time, I'm relieved that no horses gallop by and that my mouth currently has a full set of teeth. I quickly check to make sure it hasn't fallen out again. You never know. You never know what might happen next in South America.

My series of flashbacks finally arrives at Peru. Part 1 of this country brings me back to chasing shamans through the Sacred Valley, discovering secrets about Macchu Picchu, rock climbing in the canyons of Arequipa, and parading with the characters of Carnaval. I remember the colours and the music but also the sadness of parting with friends and learning to continue alone. I take a glance at the date on my watch. It's Friday the 13th and I laugh reminiscing about the legendary bus ride that ended the traveller portion of this journey.

I leave the oceanside and head back towards the centre of Miraflores where cafes and bars are beginning to set up for the night. During my couple of days here, I am overwhelmed by how much I'm already missing Huancayo. The posh outdoor malls, hordes of gringos, and tourist oriented establishments make me long for the noisy, smelly, carcass-infected market authenticity of the place I had called home for the last month. Where am I now? This can't be Peru. Not the one I know. An old lady walks by wearing a long skirt, a tattered sweater, a UFO style hat, and is carrying a baby in a colourful blanket wrapped around her back. She stands out even more than me in this sea of modernity and it is in this moment that I truly feel lucky to have spent a good chunk of my trip living and volunteering in Huancayo.

Evening has come and I know it's soon time to head off for good. I therefore make my way towards the hostel to pick up my bags that are packed to the brim with so much crap. All I need are my photos and writings. Why did I purchase all these irrelevant souvenirs? I ask such questions but there is no one around to answer... even though at each corner, I hold out hope that one of the many friends I've met or re-met during this trip will suddenly pop out. One of the saddest aspects of travelling, I find, is how quickly you get attached to people...only to have to say goodbye instead of see you later.

As the taxi zooms off towards the airport, the acceptance of leaving suddenly hits me hard. I panic that I didn't spend enough quality time with certain people and regret not having done certain things or gone to certain places. I should have gone deeper into the jungle, taken my flight to Colombia, bought a motorcycle, watched a football match, tried Ayahuasca, and lived amongst a tribe of headshrinkers in the Amazon. Man, I always do this to myself, wanting to do everything. Even with all the unique zany quirks of my trip that defy most tourists'/travellers' itineraries, I have the audacity to be unsatisfied. I literally slap myself to snap out of it. After all, one of my original goals was "to come home in a few months and be able to say "damn, if just for that one time when _____, the entire trip was worth it."" I think I can safely think of a couple such moments.

The taxi has broken down and I'm helping the driver push the car to the side of the road. He apologizes for the inconvenience but I'm thinking this is such a fitting end to this trip. Eventually I just strap on the backpack and walk the last mile to the airport under the faded glow of the moon. Down the line, I wonder what I'll miss and remember most about South America. At age 26 now, I also worry how many trips like this I have left. I'll be on the road again for sure, but maybe not as the photohappy, reckless, accident prone, peril seeking vagabond that I had endeared myself to this time around. That would be a shame. Those qualities have made this journey unlike any other before.

I think many people expect too much from their travels. They believe, or at least hope, it will change them in profound ways or provide a magical escape that will solve all upon return. That's a lot of pressure to put on what is essentially just a prolonged vacation and I feel a lot of travellers are jaded in this respect. Character change takes a lot more than 5+ months in South America. Escapes are only temporary. Years ago, I too had these lofty expectations but now I realize that these journeys are more about the adventure itself and less about you. We chase wealth, fame, and power, but I think all we really need is to chase adventure. Maybe we all just need to get out a little bit more.

Lights fading on South America remains copyright of the author bchu, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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I've mentioned how ugly Huancayo is. After a month here, that opinion hasn't changed but the underlying beauty I associate with it has expanded even more. There's something to be said about being familiar with a place. Something about walking down the street and having friendly faces say hello to you. Something about knowing exactly which buses to catch and where to actually get off. Something about understanding how much things should cost, like a taxi or kilo of fruit, and not worrying about being ripped off. Something about not having to say you're staying at a hostel and only passing by for a couple of days.

But even the ends of these lines eventually come. And as always on my last days anywhere, I'm in a mad rush to do a hundred different things at once. I find myself strolling down the usual streets one last time, partying in my favourite haunts, snapping photos of the everyday common, and getting a last whiff of the beautiful mercado.

For some strange reason, I also feel the need to say thanks and so long to the local internet guy, the girls at the corner shop who always sold me water, the dude who tailored a suit for me, and other similar daily characters. You really get attached to the little stuff once you've been anywhere for a while.

But all those previous goodbyes are minor compared to parting with all the people you've grown so fond of lately. "Don't ever tell anyone anything. If you do, you start missing everyone." On my second last night, we're having another bonfire on the roof and I'm looking at everyone realizing we'll never quite hang out in this context again. It's the same difficult truth that I've come to deal with with my buddies from Hangzhou. Gone forever are the late nights at the Plaza, the manic dancing, the warm buzz off calientes, the rounds of assassins and sardines, the cake binges, the weekend trips, the pachamancas, and such. Yea, we might meet up in the future but only for a few days at a time and unlikely all together. But at least I'll probably see them. I don't know if I can say the same for my spanish teachers, local friends, host families, colleagues at the medical centre, or the boys at Inabif. That's an even sadder reality.

Now with my backpack strapped on for the first time in forever, I find myself waving adios to the few that remain and to Huancayo maybe forever. I've been asked many times if I enjoyed the travelling portion or the living/volunteering portion of my journey better. It's a fruitless question. But when I first lost my tooth and thought I'd have to go home for surgery, I know it was this segment that I was most upset I might have to miss out on. I guess my intuition was right. It's been a phenomenal month here.

Tribadigine love in the city of Villagetown always. Getting pisced from the day we were born from the vagina of a cave.

Last call remains copyright of the author bchu, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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So I get up and make the 20 minute walk through the pouring rain to the orphanage. When I enter the large white metal doors, I'm greeted by a couple of the boys, not via the mobbing and arm pulling like in Ayacucho, but with firm handshakes and pleasant hellos. I make my way to the classroom and find most of them in their usual spots. Alex has started a new drawing, another of his masterpieces for sure. Jorge is flying through his homework, eager to finish it so he can get to the ping pong table and exact his revenge on me. Mirko is reading silently to himself in the corner. Hector is struggling with his math and is waving me over to help him. And I smile because I'm already feeling infinitely better.

For the next 2-3 hours, I help out the 10-15 adolescent boys with their homework, play games with them, and just try to be an overall positive influence. It's what I've been doing here each afternoon for the last 3 weeks, complementing my mornings at the medical centre. At first, I just wanted to see what some of the other volunteers were doing. But after just one afternoon at Inabif, I was so excited to come back the next day. I was blown away by the maturity of them all. I was humbled by the way they look after each other. I was enamored with their politeness and generosity. I was addicted to their jokes and sense of humour. And I was commited to helping out in anyway possible because I was appalled that their parents actually left them and/or abused them.

At 5pm, I walk away from the ping pong table still with the title of champion. The boys are already vowing to take me down tomorrow. I tell them to concentrate on their homework first and as always, they listen. They listen. I can never get kids back home to listen. Just one of the many reasons I love this place. Before I leave, I make a visit to the younger ones who are usually doing amazing acrobatics on the monkey bars and swings. They rush over to say hello and I often wish I had more time to spend with them as well. On my way out, I take a quick peek behind me and see a throng of kids waving in the distance. My aches and pains have temporarily subsided and I stroll home with a quotidian grin. My only discomfort is with myself. I can go in and out of Inabif as I please, to and from Huancayo whenever, and back and forth across borders with relative ease. Those boys don't even leave the orphanage's perimeters very often and yet they live like they're on top of the world.

---------------------------------------------------

In case you didn't know, I'll be home next weekend. Like with any long trip, I'm really excited yet a bit disappointed as well.

Thanks to everyone who sent me a birthday message the past weekend. I didn't really need to be reminded of my old age, but it was much appreciated. Went camping a few hours from Huancayo, got pisced, and slept beside the campfire sometime near 7am. I'm also told at one point in the night, I pulled my pants down and sang Koombaya. Seems to fit in with my theory that the older I get, the less mature I'm becoming.

Who's helping who? remains copyright of the author bchu, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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But as always, curiosity crept in. I still craved a little taste of the jungle. Even if it was just the Mickey Mouse version for a weekend. So I grabbed some fellow volunteer friends, my spanish teacher and her husband, and hired a bus driver to take us 2500m down to the fringe of the Amazon basin.

In those few days we never floated down the river or got too down and dirty but my version of the jungle was still a memorable place...

...where you were exposed to new levels of greenness and where everything around you felt as if it were alive and moving.

...where we spelunked our way around a cave whose entrance resembles a vagina. Local women who are unable to give birth come here to drink the water in hopes it will turn their fortunes around.

...where we made bonfires with the assistance of gasoline and plastic bottles. Why? Because the owner of the land we were on had a large machete and a stubborn attitude.

...where the rain was absolutely surreal. Never had I bore witness to such an intense and prolonged downpour. I just stood silently under a tree and watched in awe at the water crashing off the top of the bus. So simple yet such a marvelous natural spectacle.

...where some of the insects were strangely charming like this guy that was snatched out of midair.

...where jewelry will hunt you down no matter how remote you think you are.

...where if you look hard enough and hike far enough, you will be rewarded with a swim underneath the most serene waterfall ever.

...where you might stumble into native communities and listen to the beats of the jungle.

...where you can satisfy your appetite by eating rodents similar to this guy.

...where you have to push your bus out of the mud or push your friends out of the bus.

...where a morning walk in the hills might lead you to find an abandoned jaguar/bobcat cub...and bring it home, like the family we stayed with did.

...where the flora is composed of unique shapes and vibrant colours.

...where you have to cross rivers by swinging along cables and cover gaps by taking giant leaps.

...and where beneath its beautiful overcoat, I caught glimpses of its dark depths and realized that I prolly wouldn't make it out if I went much further or stayed much longer. Different people have their different habitats and while I'd like to think I can hack it anywhere, I am quite convinced the jungle would eat me alive. Kinda makes me want to go back now. After all...

"A man who has trod softly on the jungle floor has the blinkers pulled from his eyes. His lungs breathe purity and his mind is honed to right and wrong." - Richard Fowler, Trail of Feathers

Welcome to the jungle remains copyright of the author bchu, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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"Yea, I heard this was the happening place. So what exactly is the deal?"

"Well basically, the festival doesn't end until the last tree falls."

More on that later. Two coworkers from the medical clinic (Cesar and Mabel) had brought me to Ahuac with the promise that it'd be one of the more unique experiences I'd have around here. Thinking we were heading to the town square, I was a bit surprised when we got out of the taxi at an abandoned fork in the road. We walked for a little while when I began to hear the saxophones. A few minutes more and we encountered the following:

"Hope you're ready to drink," laughed Cesar. I wasn't. I was coming off a late intoxicated night and only 3 hours of sleep. My head had been pounding all morning and my stomach was barely holding down lunch. But when the first bottle was passed around to me, I was too timid to refuse. My rationale was that if I was drinking, at least I wouldn't have to dance. Wrong again. These people have perfected the art of simultaneously multi-tasking the two.

Things were made worse by Cesar and the band egging on the girls to dance with me. As I've mentioned countless times in this blog, I dance with the grace of a wobbly barstool. Sadly, the town of Ahuac was going to have to see it live and in-person. Wailus is the name of the traditional dance in the Mantaro Valley. The girls lift their skirts slightly and, with their arms close to the body, sway rhythmically from side to side. In contrast, the boys flutter their arms like wings and tap the ground rapidly with their feet. The combination is supposed to mimic two chickens flirting...seriously. My version looked more like a wounded chicken begging to be put out of its misery. The townfolk even made me don a traditional vest and hat to add to the embarassment. Two thoughts crossed my mind. 1) I really wish there was someone here who knew how to use a camera and take better pictures for me, and 2) I am so glad I'm drinking right now.

The Wailus is kinda like a Peruvian bhangra. And that guy kinda looks like Jas!

From the random spot on the road, the band and supporting troupe paraded its way towards the village with the music and dancing continuing throughout. All the while, this playful old woman kept harassing everyone with ortega...reminiscent of a stinging needle plant. She even rubbed me under my shirt! I felt so violated and again, relieved I was near drunk.

The centre of festivities for the evening turned out to be a patch of dirt surrounded by farmland, a couple houses, and a convenience shop. Crates of beer littered the ground, families gathered to party, and old folk chewed coca leaves by the side. When the band wasn't playing, they kept reminding me that 7 is a good number of girls to have at once. And when I wasn't listening to relationship advice from the band, I (un)fortunately was coerced into dancing and drinking some more. Within an hour I must have been introduced to the whole village.

Noticeable upon arrival were the 5 or 6 holes in the ground, each about a couple feet wide. Cesar and Mabel mentioned something about raising and chopping trees and I remembered hearing something about this in Cusco. It sounded crazy then and it was even crazier experiencing it live. The procession is called Cortamonte. It starts with decorating the trees with balloons and of all things, plastic wash bins. They are then propped into the holes and secured into place.

Next, a clay pot full of candy is hung between two of the trees. Little kids march around in a circle and take turns hitting the pot with a wooden stick, much like a piñata. Eventually it breaks and the kids rush in to grab as many treats as possible. I believe this also signals the official beginning of the main event.

Night is quickly settling in. The band has been playing for over 5 hours now with minimal breaks. I can count about 20 empty beer crates on the ground. People are just rounding into form when the axe makes its first appearance.

The music starts up and it feels like the hundredth time I've heard this tune. Meanwhile everyone grabs a partner or two and starts dancing in a circle around tree no. 1. The first axe wielder steps up and hacks like a madman at the trunk. When he's had enough, he passes the axe on to either a volunteer or a person of his choosing. Grandmas who can barely lift the thing get a go. So do the macho guys trying to show off to the girls. Heck, even I took a few chops to the cheers of the crowd. Only one thing was consistent...you had a bunch of drunk people swinging a severely dangerous weapon in the dark in the close proximity of other drunk people and little children. That being said, I think it's an outstanding tradition. And for a second it felt like I was at Ferg's Farm again with Sascha Yui.

Eventually the tree comes tumbling down. Kids swarm to the crash site and maul each other to grab the balloons, wash tubs, and other ornaments. I wasn't so much worried about the tree falling on me than the kids trampling all over me. While everyone is getting prepared to tackle the next tree, there is one official secretary recording names and contact details into his large notebook. I have never seen anyone take their job so seriously. You see, the person who knocks the tree down has to first chug a beer and is now responsible for helping organize the party next year. Cesar even told me that if I had dealt the final blow, I would have had to send money from overseas and designate a representative to go for me. I thought he was joking but my host family confirmed it had happened to one of their friends who was studying in the US a few years ago. Needless to say, I stayed clear of the axe for the rest of the night.

The treecutting routine repeated itself numerous times for the next couple hours. Even though there were originally only six trees, they kept raising the fallen ones again to keep the fiesta rolling. During the course of the night there were more than a few times when I just stopped dancing, looked around me, and thought this is the South America I've been searching for. It was memorable to say the least...not so much because of the costumes, music, or dancing...but for the realization that sometimes the long road actually takes you to the right place.

The last tree went down around 9:30pm. And although the logic of the girl I had met earlier was right, her prediction was way off. The party kept rocking for many hours more.

Drunk lumberjacks remains copyright of the author bchu, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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And then I had to get a little overzealous with the smores. Bite, crunch, snap. There went the tooth again. Instead of sympathy, I only got ridiculed to no end. Even by myself. At least I started to blend in with the local folk for a while.

In contrast to Bolivia where I was searching frantically for a dentist, I happened to know one here immediately. Enter Dr. Ivan. Of all places, I met this guy at the discotecque last weekend. He had randomly asked me to be his wingman as he tried to pick up some girl who was half asleep. Let's say that based on his charm and tactics at the club, I was a bit hesitant to have him fix my tooth. I didn't have many options however. And after he proclaimed my real tooth could no longer be put back in, he crafted me a new one with the precision of the polished artists in the valley. It looks great...high marks all around for Dr. Ivan. I then suggested he should try his luck with the many toothless chicks in Huancayo.

Convenient coincidence remains copyright of the author bchu, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Don't get me wrong though, that's just the exterior. The people are as friendly as anywhere. You can find everything you need within a few blocks. The food is authentic and the nightlife is pumping. Huancayo is a great place to live but prolly not to bask. Nothing to feel ashamed of but nothing to boast either. It's a typical city and I guess that's my only problem with it. I miss the dudes holding massive lizards, the old ladies taking their llamas out for walks, and the six year olds smoking cigarettes on the corner. But maybe I'm just too used to all the little quirks by now...save some imaginative hotels and interesting special import shops.

Fortunately, the blandness of Huancayo is contrasted with the brilliance of the surrounding Mantaro Valley. Green hills, festival after festival, and every town professing its own claim to fame. With each location only about a half hour bus ride away, I try to explore as many as possible during my free afternoons. Here's some reviews on places I've already visited.

Chupaca
Besides having a superb name, I also work in Chupaca everyday so I am partially biased to this town. However, I didn't think I'd be coming on a Saturday morning until my host family told me they were having a huge animal sale there. Sounded interesting and I was on the next bus over.

You couldn't really tell who was a buyer and who was a seller. And actually, if it weren't for the numerous bulls, cows, sheep, donkeys, and such wandering around, you'd think you were just at some outdoor keg party. Everyone was pretty much standing in circles passing around a bottle of beer and making fun of their wives.

And then I walk past causing the farmers to do double takes. After a bit of arm-twisting, I'm suddenly part of the drinking circle. Soon I have them convinced Bruce Lee is my uncle. But crap, I cannot keep up with these guys and by 11am, I'm hammered. At that point, I honestly tried to buy one of their bulls but it was just too damn expensive (about $750). The picture below depicts my desperate offer to teach them all kung-fu in exchange for the animal. Close, but I went home empty-handed with the exception of some severe beer farts. Rating: A

Cochas

One of the unique arts in the Mantaro Valley is the mate burilado - carved gourds that illustrate traditional stories and Peruvian themes. Sounds retarted but it's actually pretty cool...and very damn impressive. At 9am, grandpa, grandma, and the whole family were etching, engraving, and burning away. Nothing's painted, the colours come from heat. And every fifth house in the small village is doing the exact same thing...hundreds of original pieces...which only made me wonder who buys them all and how the hell can they all afford to make a living through this.

The artists get really attached to their work too. One of the old dudes we met spent an eternity talking about his gourd depicting the story of the Prodigal Son. Holy shit he wouldn't shut up. I think he even tired himself out because he couldn't keep his eyes open during this photo. Rating: B+

Cajas

Awesome views atop Cajas. Once a year, there is a festival which involves a troupe running up the hill, yanking out the cross, affixing it to one guy's back, descending triumphantly into town, marching around the plaza, and then going back up to return the cross to its original spot. All the while an entourage band eggs on the carrier and the rest of the troupe dances and whips him. Sounds pretty cool. Then again, part of me thinks Julio (pictured) totally made all of this up. Rating: B

San Jeronimo

A town renowned for its gold and silver jewelery. This nice old lady taught me how it was done even though I had no interest at all. I just wanted to get some gifts and get the hell out of there. Rating: D-

Hualhuas

Poor alpacas and llamas never stood a chance with the weaving madness that goes on in this town. I blew through here like a hurricane and probably sheared a full alpaca with the amount of hats, scarfs, and tapestries I bought. I had no choice...the wool is as soft as my butt. Rating: B

Laguna Long Name I Can Never Remember

You can take a small rowboat named Titanic across this lake. Just letting you know. Rating: C+

Conception/Ingenio

Ate a lot of fresh trout and pachamanca (bbq and veggies cooked underground). Was too busy eating to take photos or notice what else was going on in town. Therefore...Rating: A

Torre Torre

Sandstone towers just a touch outside the city. Almost slipped off one of the edges. What's new? Rating: B

Just a few weeks left and whereas some days I'm excited to return, others I still feel there's a million things left for me to do here. I spend a lot of time wandering about. My mind seems to wander even more.

Huancayo and the Mantaro Valley remains copyright of the author bchu, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Um, they did get the memo I'm not a doctor, right? So just in case I'm scheduled to do some complex surgery, I frantically explain to the nurse that I'm just a volunteer here. She laughs and tells me to go to the office at the far end of the hall.

There I meet Dr. Belu, a young soft-spoken woman who is only too eager to get me started. For the first few patients, I just sit to the side and observe intently, trying my best to pick up as many Spanish medical terms as possible. And then she asks me to check some kid's throat. Pretending I know what I'm doing, I take the tongue depressor, open up the mouth, and just pray I don't choke this boy to death. I tell Dr. Belu that everything looks pretty normal. She takes a peek and says that it's badly inflammed. Nice first impression Brian.

The rest of the day (and week) goes by routinely. Some little girl needing stitches. A bunch of eye and ear irritations. Countless babies with fevers and coughs. Too many throat and stomach pains...what are they eating 'round here (oh yea, guinea pig and street meat). Dislocated elbow. Breastfeeding problems. Urinary infections. Vaginal bleeding. Typhoid. The usual.

As days pass, I try to make myself more useful. When I'm not frantically looking up words in my dictionary, I have become quite adept at calling patients from the waiting room and closing the door behind them. No seriously, I've already gotten to do more than I'm qualified for. I've done a couple consultations on my own (with Dr. Belu supervising and ultimately diagnosing), checked blood pressure, assessed respiration, and I haven't choked anyone with the tongue depressor yet. Yes, my volunteer work has felt more like an apprenticeship. And although it wasn't at all what I was expecting, so far so good. I should be called in to lead that surgery by week 3 or 4.

----------------------------------------------------

I'll write more about Huancayo and what life is like here in a future entry. Quite frankly, I haven't explored too much yet. It's a big city and I'm just trying to figure out where to buy fruit and shoes.

I will say that I'm living in the home of the mother of the organizers of my volunteer work. It's just me, her, her father (91 years old!), and another lady who helps out around the house. Unless you count the 3 dogs, 3 cats, 5 kittens, 10 guinea pigs, 1 duck, and 4 chickens. Yes, the same damn chickens/roosters that wake me up at 5am every morning!

That'd be my only real complaint other than the low doorway to my room that I've smacked my head against 15 times. Everything's good - hot showers, no longer living out of a backpack, and the homecooking is amazing. I never knew there were so many ways to mix corn, beans, and mystery meat. No really, some of these typical Peruvian dishes are delicious. I think we're even going to eat some of the guinea pigs soon. Although everyday I pray we're having chicken for dinner.

The Apprentice remains copyright of the author bchu, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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And then the dirt road disappears. Huh? All I see is a ton of people standing on the bank of a raging river. Takes a second but then it clicks in...the river IS the road...or at least has washed over/washed away the road for a good 20-25 metre stretch. There are some guys standing on rocks in the water trying to lay down more rocks to bridge the gap. Helps a bit but would take hours to complete a semblance of a thorough path. Two buses sit idle on the other side, its passengers standing around impatiently.

Our bus driver has had enough. He surveys the scene one last time before marching confidently back to the bus and whistling for everyone to follow. Crap, I thought my river crossing days had ended in Chile. As I board, I ask him if it's possible. He looks me square in the eye...and just chuckles as if to say ¨Dude, even if this river carries us of that cliff, it'll be a fucking good time.¨ Earlier in the day, no lie, he remarked to some girl that the coke he was drinking was mixed with whiskey. As the wheels hit the water, I'm left wondering if he was joking or not.

Halfway across. So far so good. People are literally praying on the bus. I'm taking photos out the window and having a whale of a time. Three quarters through. Motor stops. Shit, we're stuck...but only for a couple of seconds. Engine revs and we're moving once more, closer and closer to the other side. When the bus is fully on land again, everyone is whooping it up and lauding our heroic driver. Meanwhile, a collection is passed around to help the locals from the nearby community, for they will spend days putting the road back together.
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And then, no more than 20 minutes later, on a tight muddy corner...

HOLY SHIT! What can I say? Well, to calm my mother down, I should say that I wasn't on the bus at the time. I was outside helping gather rocks to improve the traction. I guess the bus driver was a bit impatient once again. Hubris.

The bus seemed to topple over in slow motion. Screaming ensued both from within and outside the vehicle. I admit I was frozen for a bit. From my vantage point, I couldn´t see the cliff behind and just expected it to go all the way over. As I made my way around, I could see how close it was...maybe a couple metres to the left and it´d be in the river below... along with about 25 dead bodies.

People started crawling from underneath the bus and climbing out from the windows, which were now at the top. Only a few elder folks had to be dragged out. After an exasperating 15 minutes, everyone had escaped the vehicle and miraculously, no one was severely hurt. Just some scrapes, bruises, and a lot of shock.

Because not many people were really keen to do it, I climbed nervously back aboard and helped excavate the bus of all personal belongings. It was kinda cool, felt like pilfering a sunken treasure ship. And then I remembered the bus could still be teetering on the edge, vulnerable to sudden movement, and I got my ass out of there as quickly as possible.

Here´s a couple more photos from different angles. It's hard to describe but our toppled bus basically blocked the entire corner so nothing could get through (i have no idea how they are going to remove it). So we had to wait for a bus going to Ayacucho in order to take it back towards Huancayo. And the people on that bus had to get off and wait for a bus going to Huancayo so it could turn around and go back to Ayacucho. Sorry if that makes no sense. All I know is the 5 hr wait was torture.

I wish I could say that was the end. An hour later, an 18 wheeler was stuck on the road (engine problem) and blocked our way. We waited another hour and a bit trying to help fix the thing. It didn't work. So our driver (a new one at this point) attempted to go around it, cliff on one side and no more than half a foot´s extra width of open space to drive through. No fucking way!! I have NEVER been so freaked out watching something as I was this (we were obviously not on the bus...but all my belongings were!!). I really didn't think it would make it around. You should have seen how tilted it was. On practically two wheels, I could have pushed it over with my pinky. Everyone was holding their breath or crossing their fingers or praying. Oh yea, it was dark and raining by this time. And there was still 5 hours to go.

The rest of the ride, people were flipping eveytime we took a tight corner...and rightfully so. Two or three more times we had to get off the bus because our collective weight would have sent it over (I forgot to mention that the bus was packed...people were crowded in the aisles). And everytime I watched the bus manuever these bends(sometimes with 5 point turns in mud across a stream), I always thought it was going tumbling into the abyss. Quite simply, it was like being on Death Road again, but on a bus instead of a minivan or bike. On many occasions I thought about the buses that had fallen off that mountain and the gravestones that lay beside the road. Tense only begins to describe my status during certain moments.

Somehow in the homestretch I fell asleep. I woke up to paved road, never being so happy to see cement. Those bus drivers are incredible(except the one who flipped the bus). We got in at 3am (12 hours late) and I stayed in a hospital across the road from the terminal that doubled as a hotel (??). How fitting.

Don't worry folks...I will make it home in one piece!!

Bus ride for the ages remains copyright of the author bchu, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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My topic of interest was Sendero Luminoso (Shining Path), a rebel Maoist terrorist organization that was based in Ayacucho and brutalized the region in the 80s and early 90s. How did people function during this era? What was life like? Did it lead to all the crappy Chinese restaurants that exist nowadays here? Can you still sense the past? The answer to the last question was made clear after my first couple days in town. Simply put, you wouldn´t suspect such previous horror given the approachability of the people and the upbeat vibe of the city. It´s like a renaissance of sorts. ¨Mucho tranquilo,¨ many locals would tell me as we sat at a cramped foodstall and they intently watched me eat some nasty fish stew called ¨Leche de Tigre¨ (tiger´s milk). ¨Es muy seguro,¨ they´d add...(ironically as I was writing this paragraph, a fight broke out on the street with two topless guys kicking the crap out of each other...I curse myself for leaving the camera in the hostal).

I was originally very nervous to ask about Sendero Luminoso...it´s like asking about an ex-girlfriend/boyfriend or how someone´s vasectomy went. So I decided to butter up each conversation with something more light-hearted...a simple survey on the preference of Brian with beard or Brian without beard (note: I went for a beard trim in the last town I was in...I clearly told the barber 3 times that I only wanted it shorter and not completely removed...he nodded in total agreement and then promptly shaved it all off in a matter of seconds. IDIOT!!) So yes, the bird´s nest is now gone.

I surveyed 16 people in total and tried to make a representative sample. 8 women and 8 men. Young as 6, old as probably 65. From all walks of life - e.g. shoeshiner, internet lady, hotel receptionist, photocopy dude, pharmacist, waitress, girl selling biscuits on the street, mototaxi driver, nun. And the results were as follows...8 voted I look better without the beard, 4 for the beard, 2 said I´m drop dead sexy either way, and 2 just gave me a ´what the hell, go away you freak´ reaction. Most of the girls preferred no beard, especially the younger ones. The nun liked the facial hair. And the old pedaephilic man said both ways were good. What do you think?

Anyways, back to Sendero Luminoso. A jewelery selling hippie told me how his parents were executed when he was 5. Another just kept remembering how they couldn´t go out at night. ¨If you were out past 6pm, you weren´t coming back.¨ And the owners of the Tiger´s Milk stand remarked on how they couldn´t work because there was no industry. And how they had to send their kids to other towns or countries for safety and to make a living. There was probably more detail in these stories that my spanish just wasn´t good enough to translate. I think in hindsight, that could be a good thing.

Some effects do exist unfortunately. By chance I came across a children´s shelter in a suburb of Ayacucho that was run by a Belgian, his wife, and a host of French volunteers. There were nearly 30 kids here, between 1 and 13 years old - some handicapped, some abandoned, and all from poor, alcoholic, and/or abusive families (as a result of Sendero Luminoso´s reign). I ended up spending the day volunteering at the shelter - playing with the kids, helping prepare the feast, and setting up decorations. It just happened to be the 5 year anniversary of the place and there was a massive fiesta, complete with costumes, dances, a military band, and performances put on by the children. When I didn´t have 3 kids hanging off my legs, shoulders, and neck (they were pretty damn affectionate), I talked extensively with Gil the founder (first pic) to get a deeper understanding of the project. Without going into detail, my instincts tell me the place is rather genuine - the kids were quite healthy, happy, and well-behaved - and the local community was beginning to support it too. It´s called Casa Hogar - Los Gorriones and there´s a donation link on the website if you´re at all interested.

This was the feast being dug up...chicken, beef, sweet potatoes, beans, corn, and other stuff was buried into the ground under hot rocks, dirt, and full sized herbs. It´s a Peruvian thing called Pachamanca...and it was pretty damn good.

Starting my own volunteer work this weekend and I think I´ll be back in mid-April now. Thanks to everyone who has given me an opinion on school in September...keep the comments coming (Boston U and New York U are now options too - don´t ever apply for more than 5 schools, I am retarded!).

Some random photos because I´m 5,000 photos behind on my Flickr site.

Ayacucho...me gusta mucho remains copyright of the author bchu, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Therefore, I could really use your help. I know you don´t know anything about my program but I´m sure some of you have opinions about doing advanced degrees, living/working in the States, and where you could see me enjoying my studies. Please email me or comment here any and all thoughts about which school you think I should attend (totally serious...consider costs, location, postgrad opportunities, etc.). Just curious to what you might have to say. The decision is obviously mine to make. Deadlines are end of the month. Shit.

Cal-Berkeley (Berkeley, CA - just across the bay from San Fran)
Yale (New Haven, CT - need to preorder my pink cardigan in advance)
Michigan (Ann Arbor, MI)
Emory (Atlanta, GA)
Oregon St. (Corvallis, OR)
Minnesota (Minneapolis, MN)
George Washington (Washington, DC)
Simon Fraser (Vancouver, BC)

I haven´t actually got into SFU yet but it´d be funny if I got rejected. Here´s hoping not because I´m very adamant about it. Would love to stay in Canada but would I be an idiot for doing so?

Thanks everyone.

Been spending some rainy days alone just wandering the streets. Makes for some good photo opps and thinking time.

Opinions needed remains copyright of the author bchu, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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A half hour after chugging two glasses of the green crap, the urge not to puke is strong. Kitty and I have practically passed out and Andrew has climbed some massive rock to take the following picture. Have we in reality taken part in some suicide ritual? It certainly crossed my mind given our current conditions.

Soon Kush begins his march through the valley. Crap, we have to move. I can barely feel my legs. Never been this fatigued before. We start losing sight of him and are practically wandering on our own. Um, is it really a good idea to feed us magic cactus potions and leave us unattended to play around on cliff faces and sharp rocks while we´re tripping out and half-sick? Just thought I´d ask.

We catch up to the shaman who is walking in a wooded area along a stream. At least I think it´s him. But all I see is a horse. WTF?

Oh ok, he´s sitting down twiddling a yellow flower and softly laughing demonically to himself. Relieving. I sit down beside him and kinda drift off to sleep, now more exhausted than sick. Eyes closed, I see a ton of white rabbits emerging from a flat background into three dimensional forms. Hrm, this would prolly be a good time to ponder some of my questions. (Note: we were supposed to think of a few goals/questions about ourselves beforehand that we´d like to tackle with the San Pedro). I think hard about my particular ones and await some answers. All I see is a moose. Super. What a rip-off. And the flowers aren´t even talking to me. The shaman starts moving again. I almost spew before getting up to follow him.

Now the chase really begins. He is flying through the valley, perhaps floating. At the top of every mound we catch a brief glimpse of Kush on the edge of some new cliff face. And as quickly as we see him, he disappears around the corner. It´s like the naked Indian in Wayne´s World. We just can´t reach him and start to wonder if he´s actually there or if we´re hallucinating.

We soon figure out we are just moving very very slow. And laughing very very uncontrollably. Andrew discovers a broken magic frying pan. We should ride it to catch up with Kush. Or at least use it to descend the steep hill (see picture - we were convinced this gradient of maybe 5 degrees was the most treacherous cliff ever). We mistake rocks for waterfalls. We take photos of my green booger. We find a horse´s ass sticking out of the bush and label it my inner soul. And we inexplicably find immense humour in the following story: ¨There were these 2 dogs...barking...loudly.¨ Will we ever catch this shaman?

Eventually we draw even at the entrance of a large cave/tunnel where we have to wade through the passing stream in bare feet. The water both numbs and refreshes me. When putting my beautiful yellow socks back on, I am convinced my feet have grown 10 sizes. As I stare in awe at my own flesh, the others laugh their asses off. Bastards.

During the two hour walk back to the city, we once again trail Kush by miles, mostly due to our awe with the surrounding landscape. I´ve never enjoyed a short trek so much. Amongst other marvels, we stroll past a small village and some ancient ruins. All the while, the city´s brown roofs gleam from below and a mountain in the distance proclaims "Viva El Peru, Gloriosa." Many donkeys but few cars pass by.

Cusco is just moments away but we savour the moment a bit longer from above...away from all the tourist haggling that poisons the incredible city and which we have no desire to reimmerse ourselves into just yet. Kush has long given up on us and is probably asleep in his bed by now. We can´t see it but the sun is setting. And we reflect on an unreal day. I can´t say my questions were really answered but there was at least some clarity and tranquility reached by the end. I think the true San Pedro effects might take a few tries to get it right and maybe you need to be away from the hilarity of your friends. Or perhaps I´m just not the kind of guy who needs to talk to flowers right now.

------------------------------------------------------------

A few days, a bout of diarrhea, and a visit to Machu Picchu later, I now find myself venturing solo. The Aussies have continued their goals via Argentina and Brazil and I am about to embark on volunteer work in the Central Highlands of Peru. Bittersweet times for sure. Best of luck guys...keep an eye out for loud barking dogs and stay clear of horses.

Random dinner shot...is that roasted guinea pig I accidentally ordered? Tasty!

Chasing shamans through the Sacred Valley remains copyright of the author bchu, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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3345 metres of vertical descent. Over 60 km and 4 hrs of riding. Starting from a misty mountainous peak and guided by gravity down to a surreal tropical jungle. More than a few hairpin turns that could leave you in a 1000m freefall if your tires slid out.

The weather? Ice cold and raining hard at the top. Hot and humid at the bottom.

The riding surface? Slick wet asphalt for the first bit and then rocks for the majority of the rest.

The views? Unbelievable. Even if we were subject to look at the remnants of buses that had driven off the cliffs or gravestones at the side of the road for bikers who weren´t as lucky.

The thrill level? Never clenched onto handlebars and brakes so tightly. Never had a better time on two wheels. It´s official, bikes are only about a gazillion times better than stupid horses.

Oh, and the accident? Wouldn´t be normal without one, right? 15 minutes to go. Tearing down the final stretch. British girl in the group gets a flat so we pull to the side to break. I sit by a 10m waterfall and motion Jodie to come next to me. ¨That rock is sturdy, yea?¨ she asks. ¨Of course,¨ I reply as she takes a seat. 3 seconds later she is tumbling down the rocks and I hear the familiar scream. I desperately lunge for her, trying to make a heroic grab, only to find myself now freefalling as well. Crash, boom, bang. Somehow we land relatively vertically. Somehow, like the horse incident, sore butts and minor scrapes are all we incur. I don´t know how we got so lucky again...if you can call it luck. Seriously, I don´t know how the two of us always get into such predicaments in the first place. Definitely climbing that liability depth chart. At least it wasn´t the 1000m drop.

-------------------------------------------------------

Well I´m in Peru now...unexpectedly. My Bolivian visa had another month on it but the volunteer work didn´t pan out and there was enough Carnaval excitement here to lure me away. And cool canyons to climb.

I still don´t really know the whole story behind Carnaval. But I dug the numerous parades, dancers, bands, and costumes...the latter ranging from overstuffed animals to Eyes Wide Shut type. And yea it wasn´t Rio but I was quite pleased that Puno´s version didn´t involve any gay floats. I hate those things. Amidst the spectacle, however, are little brats who like to spray tourists with ¨artificial snow¨ from aerosol cans, which is more akin to shaving cream. The amount of times I want to smack these little shits is countless. Trust me, you would too. On one rainy night, I was alone on a street corner when 3 teenage girls walked by. I was cold, hungry, wet, and generally not in a great mood. Then one of them pulls out the can and covers my whole front in foam. Bitch. I fake lunged at her like I was going to attack her. She jumps back, trips, and falls ass-backwards into a giant puddle. Her friends go to help her. I laugh and basically step over her. That´s right, go back to whore island.

Bikes, rocks, and Carnaval remains copyright of the author bchu, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Have you ever had to jump off a horse while it´s galloping at full speed? I have now. Twice.

He seemed calm. Too calm at first that I was literally kicking him repeatedly in the ass to move faster. That he did. Oh did he ever.

He saw the opening in the rocky valley. And made off like Secretariat. Cool, I thought, never having moved this fast on an animal before. Shit, I thought moments later, realizing that the horse was not going to stop even though I had his neck wrung sideways.

So off we went for a couple kms. Zooming through the gorgeous red rock canyon. Taking some tight corners around some very thorny bushes. Stirrups long disengaged. Hanging on for dear life to the saddle with both hands. Hearing the collective screams of the girls just paces behind me, whose horses had followed mine´s lead. I think I was horizontal at one point. And I alternated between experiencing the thrill of my life and nearly pissing my pants.

It takes a bit of extra time to register that your only chance at surviving this ordeal without serious injury is to bail. I´d like to think I did a pretty cool ninja roll/monkey flip off the horse. In truth, it was probably less graceful. But I escaped with just some minor scrapes and extreme nausea, yakking in the bushes moments after. The girls are a bit more banged up but nothing serious. I´m sure the long term story will be worth the short term pain.

I don´t know how far the horses kept running after getting rid of us. But in about an hour, we were back on the saddles. For a quiet walk home we were assured. I guess they didn´t realize the affinity my dumbass one has for trains. As the locomotive sped by, my horse seriously thought it could outrace it. ¨Here we go again,¨ I muttered, unable once more to corral the animal. I landed this time in a patch of dirt. Now my butt really hurts when I sit down. I frickin´hate horses. But damn is it a rush when they decide they just wanna go fast.

Horse shit remains copyright of the author bchu, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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The trip actually spans 3 days travelling in a 4x4. Sometimes, when lucky, riding on the roof. It wasn´t all salt flats either. I´ve seen enough flamingoes and lagoons for the next few months. Cacti, llamas, and 4:30am wakeups too. Still, the landscapes and the moments travel with me many days later and likely for years to come. Incomparable. Bliss. Fortune.

This would also be the last time the 6 of us traveled together. For reasons indescribable, and for me often incomprehendible, it had to be. So Andrew and Kitty are gone. Soon the other 3 will be too. It sucks, plain and simple. But in a sea of salt, tracks of dust, multicoloured lagunas, and the worst hotel bathroom ever, the ghosts of an incredibly fitting end hang on.

Salar de Uyuni remains copyright of the author bchu, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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I will forever remember it as the place where I bashed my head and had to brave the Bolivian medical and dental systems to get fixed up.

What happened? Well, I hate to brag but I was a real hero out there... singlehandedly thwarting the gang of shotgun armed thugs who stormed the hotel in the middle of the night. They got a couple of good shots in, I admit. The cuts and gashes near my eye were when I couldn´t quite dodge the flying knives fast enough. But the black eye? That was accidental. Hey, sometimes you misjudge the speed of a falling baby when you swoop down from the balcony to catch it. Please forgive me. And the bloody mouth and broken tooth? That was obviously from the wild boars that the robbers brought with them. Man, those things are fast and charge hard. I´ll be more prepared next time. Currently they are building a shrine and gold-embossed monument in my honour in the plaza square. After renaming it Plaza de Brian of course.

You don´t believe me? Well, ok. Maybe the real story was a little more stupid and a little more embarrasing. Maybe it involved something along the lines of goofing off near a toxic landfill. And sprinting down hills with Jodie on my back. And losing balance and smashing my head on pavement and being dragged unconscious to the side of the road and all that trivial stuff. But I swear there were also shotguns and flying babies and boars.

Aftermath:
The gashes were not a problem. Those always go away. I was a little nervous getting stitches in a public Bolivian clinic but the nurses were very professional and caring.

The big problem from the get go was my front left top tooth, which after it connected with cement, was left hanging by the slightest of gum tissue. Originally I really thought I was going to have to pull a Lennox and return home to get it fixed. That was until I was blessed with the consultations of Dr´s Woolsmith, Shutsa, and Resnick. I am forever in debt to these guys for guiding me with pinpoint instructions and advice. More importantly, they relieved a lot of stress and anxiety. I can not thank them enough nor Tandis and Chris for putting me in contact.

This is Dr. Mirko Coronado, the greatest dentist in Potosi. I hope I will not retract that statement in 2 weeks when all my teeth fall out. He didn´t speak much english but was very good at understanding it. Conversely, I am now much more adept at my spanish dental terms. Anyways, to say I was nervous is an understatement. I don´t even like dental surgery back home. So to do it in Bolivia? With a man who was constantly distracted chatting to Jen while he was operating? With a man who kept repeating ¨es muy dificil¨ with a little smirk on his face? With a man who turns up for work each day 1 hour late? I am one lucky SOB to be able to say I think everything is in order. There will be a lot of retreatment to do when I get home such as fitting myself for a new gold tooth. But Dr, Coronado, you´ve done a lot in the meantime. Thanks.

As bad as things were, at least there was no other significant damage. Im grateful as hell that Jodie just bruised her knee...I would have never forgiven myself if she ended up like me. I´m fortunate my concussion wasn´t more severe and that I didn´t hit my eye instead of my mouth. And I´m lucky the Bolivian medical system isn´t as bad as it sounds. Maybe you should come here for your next procedure. Check out my bills, ridiculous:

X-ray: $1.50
1 week supply of antibioitics: $1.50
Stitches and medical visit: $2.00
Dental consultation: $1.50 (plus a complimentary vial of local anaesthesia)
Root canal, tooth bonding, etc.: $60

Finally, I´m thankful as hell for my amazing friends, whose travel plans I´ve likely fucked up and yet they´re too selfless to give a damn. I feel much worse for them than for me. It would have sucked here by myself without you guys giving me grief, reminding me how hideous I look, and patching me up with silly donut bandages. You guys are something else.

The adventure continues...barely.

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You stroll around and you keep noticing new things at every corner. Elderly women wearing veils and large bowl-like hats. Shoeshine boys wearing masks to keep from shaming their families. A multitude of houses scattered on the hills, reminiscent of tiny cardboard boxes. Little buses scurrying up and down the roads, picking up passengers in some organized chaos. And twenty barber shops in a half block radius.

We´re staying in a colourful area aptly named ¨The Witches´ Market.¨ You can buy anything here: coca leaves, llama fetuses, toilet bowls, lizard skins, magical sex oils, anything. And at dirt cheap prices. I´m hoping to send some interesting souvenirs home.

What else in the first 36 hours? Jen´s been attempted pickpocketed. Pete broke some kid´s toy after being too enthusiastic about playing with it. The first museum we´ve visited this whole trip...the Museo de Coca, highlighting the extraction of cocaine from coca leaves. And we couldn´t take out any more money last night...so we used our remaining equivalent of $10 to feast 6 people on a various assortment of fried chicken concoctions in our hostel room. Why couldn´t we get cash? Well, the hostel strictly advised not to go to the ATMs along the bank row on Sundays. And if we wanted to change cash at that hour, our best bet was to go to ¨the two guys on the corner of the plaza square¨...yea right!

I don´t know where we´re going from here. But I got this feeling that both the sketchy and adventure metres just shot up a few levels. Just the way I like it.

New beginnings remains copyright of the author bchu, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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So my mind wanders, again. To the same related topics that have irked me the past few days. I start questioning whether all of it is for something like this,

or this.

Or maybe neither. Doubt parades around everything. I catch a glimpse of the 20 yr. old backpacker in me. Shit, the last thing I want.

Argentina and Chile were amazing...but lacking some of the intrigue and novelty that I´m holding out hope Bolivia and Peru will soon provide. But even then, the big picture, does it add up? This is not about South America anymore, is it?

Not sure where I´ll be next Monday. The plan says Bolivia. My air ticket says Bolivia. My friends are going to Bolivia. It´s obviously Bolivia.

¨A dominant impulse on encountering beauty is the desire to hold on to it: to possess it and give it weight in our lives. There is an urge to say ´I was here, I saw this and it mattered to me.´ But beauty is fugitive, it is frequently found in places to which we may never return or else it results from a rare conjunction of season, light, and weather. How then to process it, how to hold on to the floating train (the sinking car), the halva-like bricks (the crumbled toilet) or the English valley (or the granite peaks)?¨ - The Art of Travel, p.218

¨We meet people who have crossed deserts, floated on icecaps and cut their way through jungles - and yet whose souls we would search in vain for evidence of what they have witnessed.¨ - Ibid, p.254

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Man, New Years is so overrated but hope yours went well anyways. I´m gonna try to post more random trip photos on Flickr from here on out. Peace.

Twenty-oh-seven remains copyright of the author bchu, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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The side trip to Uruguay has fully erased any regret that might still be lingering over heading to the coast instead of up north these few weeks. Colonia was spectacular...a sweet little throwback town, which we tore up on our dinky motorscooters that were somewhow louder than fighter jets. We were not impressing anyone with these things, just annoying the hell out of them with all the noise. Colonia was also our introduction to the Uruguayan obsession with meat (many will admit that the best carne and asado is in Uruguay). One of their traditional dishes is a chovito...a steak topped with ham, bacon, cheese, a fried egg, and garnished with fries. That, my friends, is a good meal. Some miscellaneous pictures:

The road out of Colonia took us to San Jose. This whole province of Uruguay isn´t even in any of our guidebooks. But it happens to be the hometown of my friend Ana who I worked with in Toronto. Unfortunately, she couldn´t make it home for the holidays but she was sweet enough to help arrange a visit for us nonetheless. So Ana, if you´re reading this, the rest of this post is dedicated to you. I gotta say that your sister and her family were the most gracious and hilarious people ever. You said the best asado is in Montevideo but our vote is for Hugo´s house in San José. Just because of the great time we had that first night with everyone, we changed our plans around and stayed another night there. And despite what your niece might tell you, we were not singing Britney Spears in a karaoke pub. Repeat, we were not! Thanks again Ana, hope you enjoy the pictures. My family is expecting you to make a visit out to Mississauga now.

A few days in Uruguay remains copyright of the author bchu, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Why is she so sad? Reminds me of the girls that had to dance with me during my tango class.

The Boca neighbourhood is colourful but only around the disappointing tourist section. This suburb is actually a pretty rough area where you are more likely to see poverty than coloured houses.

They play soccer everywhere.

Pete was smitten with this chick playing a metal drum instrument on the street. Her voice was really captivating.

I think this is some important museum or church. We didn´t actually go in.

The widest street in the world, about 8 lanes going each way. Pete and I stupidly tried to jaywalk across it once.

Reminiscent of the famous Montreal convenience store.

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Just wanted to shout out a Merry Christmas and preemptive Happy New Year to everyone, wherever you are, whatever you´re doing. It was a wild Xmas Eve here in Argentina...didn´t make it home tilll 8am...story and photos coming shortly. Still, if there was ever a day or two I wish I was home, now would be it. I´d trade the sun and glamour of Buenos Aires for the snow and shenanigans of Toronto in a flash.

Thanks also to anyone who´s sent me an email over the past 7 weeks... and many apologies for not writing back. I´ll work on that in ´07.

Nos vemos.

Addendum (Dec. 29): I tried writing about Xmas Eve/Xmas but realized I couldn´t really capture or describe the events. In very brief, we incredulously ran into guys we met in El Bolson 2 weeks ago and followed them around the ghetto of Buenos Aires and eventually to a rock/ska party. They live in the area but appear homeless. They specialize in street art, street fighting, street dealing, and eating trash off the street. They found a half full beer bottle, wasn´t sure if it was beer or piss...one of them took a swig and then smashed the bottle on the ground...we´re guessing it was the latter. They were handing out tango cds as Xmas gifts...where they got these cds, who the hell knows. They temporarily lost their vial of coke but one guy had just dropped it on his nuts. They jumped up and down in celebration like little school girls when they found it. We walked 30 blocks through some rough neighbourhoods but had to cab the final 4 because they were too scared to walk across. THEY were too scared...wow. The party (held in a converted circus shed) had a live band, served only beer and only in 1 litre cups, showed hentai on a projector, and was absolutely electric. While people inside did whatever it was they were doing, old women and men danced outside and children lit off firecrackers till dawn. And then the long haired bearded scrawny hippie at the door refused to let people leave at 8am...he tried so hard to get everyone to go back inside and keep partying. The cab Andrew and I took home didn´t stop at red lights or intersections because of all the loonies and roughians parading the surrounding streets. I think I saw fires amongst the crowds too.

It may not sound that bad but it was much sketchier in person and yet so unbelievably genuine. You travel to have messed up experiences and this was one of my most memorable Xmas´s ever...for all the right reasons. I just wish I could properly explain it.

Damien (2nd last photo, far right) took all the above pictures for us (along with a hundred other really weird ones). I don´t think we´d still have our camera if we tried taking them ourselves. FYI, for those in the know, Damien is like the Colonel to the next level. So thanks dude. For some strange reason, I got a feeling I haven´t seen the last of you, your bro (3rd last photo w/ glasses), or the Doctor (1st photo) just yet.

Feliz Navidad remains copyright of the author bchu, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Whether it be from back home, other travellers, or South Americans, more than a few people have commented what a great city Mendoza is. After 4 days here, it´s hard to argue. This place will cure any funk you might be in.

It didn´t start out so great however. Inexplicably, we followed some old kook to his house which was miles away from the city centre. That was the least of our problems though. This guy, whom we dubbed Old Man River, wouldn´t leave us alone. For what seemed like an eternity, he explained every little detail about the place including the ever difficult...how to turn on the gas stove and how to lock the door...I shit you not. Speaking of shit, he also taught me the secrets to cleaning up dog shit. We made an extra effort to spend that whole day out, return late at night, and leave before he woke up the next morning. Andrew made an early run for it...but was caught...only escaping by making an excuse he was in a rush to go to the beach (note: there is no beach within 10 hours of Mendoza). Pete and I weren´t so lucky. I could try to describe it in words but I think a picture would more accurately describe the moment. I´ll never hear an accordion again without shivering.

But ever since we hightailed it out of there, everything´s been pretty sweet. The food, namely the asado (bbq) is wild. This is an all you can eat buffet, rocking out at midnight on a Wednesday night. No really, the place was more alive than a lot of clubs and pubs back home.

And the Mendozan women...simply, wow. I have never seen seen so many gorgeous girls or taken so many cold showers in a single day than I have here. Out of this world. Here´s a sampling of our dates the other night.

We also decided to attend a tango class/social club, held in the basement of a bank/medical clinic. I think I am the first person to ever attempt the tango wearing hiking boots. The teacher and poor girls I danced with were really sweet but I think they were relieved to know I was leaving town before the next class.

Here´s my barber. Among the topics of discussion (with his wife by his side) were...the number of Canadian tourist paragliders that have died in Mendoza (2), his rastafarian son who is a rafting guide and throws wild jacuzzi parties (sadly, he is currently out of town), and his apologies for running out of dope so he couldn´t give me any. Four canadian dollars well spent.

Also rented bikes one day and rode around the massive park at the edge of town. I´ve always wondered how many kids you can fit onto a slide. Apparently a lot.

Later on my tire got a flat and I needed a new tube. After asking a around, I was led to the garage of a house where a 9 year old fixed my bike like a professional. Then he gave me his business card/calendar as a souvenir.

It´s a good thing my bike was working again because we stumbled upon a dirt bike course. It wasn´t even technically open but the guys running it let us ride around for free for a couple of hours. Andrew stacked it once and we both realized quickly why most bikers don´t wear flipflops.

Mendoza´s probably the first place in South America where I think I could actually live. The people are ridiculously chill and friendly for a city its size. The highest peak in South America (Acongagua) is only a couple hours away. Chile is also next door. Snowboarding is huge in the winters. If I actually appeciated wine, this is the mecca. And did I mention how stunning the girls are here? I am so sold.

Couple other random photos from the last week and a bit. Kayaking down the river and drinking maté (a strong Argentinian tea) in the park with Pedro, a local kid who likes to throw rocks at cars.

Sweet Mendoza remains copyright of the author bchu, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Photos remains copyright of the author bchu, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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For some reason, the main bar was closed so the venue of choice to watch the game was the petrol station. No joke. I thought this immediately added an extra element of ambiance. The gas attendants even hooked people up with beer mugs and salted nuts.

Boca took the early lead to the cheers of 2/3 the station. The kid in the middle was extremely pumped...this picture is right before he stood up on the table and tore his shirt off.

But the Estudiantes came back to win 2-1. These are some hardcore fans celebrating on the street. The guy near the middle holding the puppy...yea, when they scored, he would repeatedly toss the dog a couple metres in the air and catch it. Pretty hilarious.

Unfortunately, the league is on break now for the summer so I won´t be able to catch a live game in Argentina. I guess I will have to settle for the next best thing... the Bolivian super league! Quality.

Soccer Madness remains copyright of the author bchu, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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