Thursday, February 18, 2010

bom dia brazil


The flight from Caracas to São Paulo took around six hours, but because São Paulo is two and a half hours ahead of Caracas (itself a half hour ahead of Boston) I spent most of the day in transit, and the São Paulo International Airport did everything in its power to prolong this exposure. Collecting my bags, I made a valiant effort to exit the airport, but was foiled my the cleverly-designed Duty Free shop that appeared to be guarding the exit. In reality, having failed to notice what was little more than an unmarked door leading out into the airport, I entered a maze of tax-free items from which there was no escape. It took me the better part of 20 minutes just to get to the point where I could then wait to clear customs and officially enter the country. After a bit of chaos, I was able to get a cab into town that dropped me off at my friend Walter's apartment, a little more than 15 hours since I had first left the apartment in Caracas.

Surprisingly alert, I showered, changed, and joined Walter and a collection of his friends for diner at a nice little Italian/Brazilian restaurant. The food was great, the company was excellent, and it was a good opportunity for me to meet the group of people I would be spending a good deal of time with over the next few weeks. After dinner, we drove to a rather hip and trendy night club as a way of integrating me into Paulista culture. We stayed out late enough for me to be just shy of the 24 hour-long day mark, and I was properly exhausted when we finally returned to Walter's place. I must say, he had quite the set up ready for me in his converted three-bedroom apartment, and I continued to feel spoiled by South America as I sank into my comfortable double-bed.

The next day was kicked off by a stop by a nearby shopping mall with Walter's friend Andrea. I was hoping to find some clothes to replace the ones stolen in Venezuela, but time and again Brazilian fashion/sizes didn't exactly conform to even my more eccentric standards. I returned from my shopping venture to pack for a trip out to Walter's country house out in Minas, which promised to offer a few days of rest, relaxation, and (most importantly for me) rural surroundings. Adrea was also coming along, and the two of us met Walter and walked over to his parent's apartment (half a block down the street from Walter's) for a quick lunch followed by a frenzy of loading. Soon enough we were off, the towers of São Paulo melting away into the background as we sped north.

Whizzing by the Brazilian countryside.

The drive took most of the afternoon, and when we finally pilled out of the car in the charming provincial town of Saint Sebastian of Paradise, I was more than ready to stretch my legs. made a pit stop to see Walter's grandmother - most of his family lives in SSoP. We had a light dinner, performed a rather inspired arrangement on kiddie instruments for Octavio - Walter's gigantic 16-month old cousin - and then headed off for the country house. Andrea and I were shown to our rooms, and we spent of the rest of the evening relaxing by the pool. The pool would largely become the focal point of our activities over the next few days. I have to imagine that in the few days we spent in SSoP, I swam as much in this pool as I did my own back in New Hampshire, during its all too brief life. In the morning, I would wake up before anyone else, and slip down to the water for a few laps while breakfast was set out by the maid. Walter's father was usually the first up after me, and we would sit and enjoy an embarrassingly full breakfast while everyone else slowly left their beds. Walter was always the last out of bed by far, and I grew to not expect the pleasure of his company before 13:00, though usually much later. This was in part a symptom of a developed nocturnal habit that usually kept us up passed 3:00 in the morning (on at least one occasion everyone did not sit down to dinner until a quarter to midnight), and in part a result of the excellent sleeping environment provided by the countryside.

Casa, sweet casa.

On our second full day in Minas, we took a trip out to see the family ranch, and the "villa rustica" (as apt a way of employing my Latin education to describe something as I've come across) farther out of town. Our adventure began with a tour of the villa rustica, currently in the final stages of construction. The tour was punctuated by a visit to the basement, where with a series of loud claps, Walter's father startled some bats into flying around our heads. A second round of applause accidentally frightened a pair of bats into the main area of the house where we cooridinated our efforts to herd them outdoors. Quite proud of our mastery of nature, Walter, Andrea, and I continued our tour of the grounds, where I enjoyed seeing my first wild parrots and leaf-cutter ants. There were, I am grieved to report, no monkies in the trees that day, and so the bats, birds, and bugs were the only creatures I was able to see.

An admirable Land Rover advertisement if I do say so myself.

Before returning to the country house, we drove through the family coffee plantation in persuit of a rather elusive waterfall, nessled in one of the few stretches of pristine Atlantic forest left. While the womenfolk waited in the car, Walter, his father, and I set out through the mud and vines on an admittedly short, yet very satisfying expedition. The waterfall thus appriciated (from a safe distance, given my history with foreign waterfalls) we returned to our lives of near-comatose activity lounging by the pool.

Brave river explorers.

Different branches of Walter's family were constantly stopping by the house, and it was right after a rather large family lunch that one of Walter's cousins happened upon my Portuguese phrase book. It is fare to say that the selection of words and phrases complied in such a book provide insight as to the author's opinion on what forms of social interaction their readers are likely to be involved in. And so much was made of the "Dating", "Romance", and "Problems" sections of the book, which were the cause of many mock-scandalized looks cast my way.

Gazing out at SSoP from the window of my room.

We spent our last days in pool and hammock-related relaxation before finally packing things up and heading back to the city. Saint Sebastian of Paradise provided an excellent introduction to Brazilian food, culture, and napping habits, but it was time to switch things up with a proper immersion into the São Paulo nightlife. But that's a story for another time.

Tuesday, February 9, 2010

vamos de venezuela


Returning to Caracas from Merida involved more Spanish than I was prepared for. When I left for Merida a few days earlier, it was from "the good bus station" which is conveniently close by my apartment. But when the bus pulled into an unfamiliar station in an unfamiliar part of town, I grew concerned. Exiting the bus I was immediately set upon by a small gaggle of taxi drivers, each more eager than the next to welcome me into their cabs. The problem was that any time I mentioned the address of the apartment, I received confused, yet hopeful expressions; as if I might give up on this foolish address and pick a more familiar destination. Finally, one enterprising driver decided to put on a confidant face at hearing the address, and gestured me to his cab. Ten minutes into the drive, and it turned out that this show of confidence was nothing more than a clever ruse. It seems my driver was relying on my mastery of the layout of Caracas - explained to him in my fluent Spanish - in order to bring me to my desired location.

Navigating through Caracas.

Things went better than I would have expected, and through a haphazard stream of "left", "right"s, I somehow managed to navigate my way through the city, and arrive at the apartment. Having achieved such unexpected success (as fifteen minutes into the ride, I had all but resigned myself to kidnap and torture) I was quite content to take inventory of my remaining possessions and crash for the rest of the day. That night I met up with Ricky's friend Ignacio, and we swung by his apartment for a relaxed house party populated largely by Ignacio's relations (it took me a while to appreciate how many people Ignacio is related to, but I can now safely assume that his relatives account for roughly two-thirds of the population of Venezuela).

The next morning, I swung by the Brazilian Consulate to pick up my passport, which contained a shiny new Brazilian visa, before joining Ricky's aunt for a day at the beach. It was a relaxed afternoon of sun, sand, and suspiciously warm ocean water, and it gave me a chance to think through my plans for South America. One of the things left on my Venezuelan itinerary was a hike up Mount Avila, the moderately-sized peak that separates Caracas from the sea, which stared down at me every morning through the sliding glass windows of the apartment.

Gratuitous greenery.

And so, early the next morning, I found myself at one of the more unusual trail heads I've ever set off on. You see, the city of Caracas, strained by its desire for growth amidst challenging topography, has built itself right up to the very slopes of its surrounding mountain ranges. Which means that this particular trail head began a vertical assent under a main highway artery. Yet climbing higher, I was surprised at how quickly the tell-tail signs of the urban metropolis vanished into a sea of green. While still on the main trail, I passed a number of joggers taking advantage of the cool forest for a morning run, but as the trail branched out, I began to see fewer people until it would seem I had the mountain to myself.

Following a stream as it trickles off the mountain.

The day grew hotter as I climbed higher, and at some point I came upon a little side trail. Offering a more adventurous route up the mountain, I was soon grasping onto tree branches and vines as I followed the twisting "path" higher. Assisted by a newly-carved bamboo walking stick, eventually I reached a high plain, not quite the top of the mountain, but evidently the end of the trail. I tried to find a way to continue my ascent, but quickly realized that I was getting myself lost, and abandoned the summit in pursuit of good sense.

Crawling through the thicket on my way up the mountain.

Tracing my path back down, I was left with some rather spectacular views of the city, which welcomed me back from my all-too-brief escape from its clutches. I spent my afternoon finalizing air arrangements that would take me down to Brazil early the next day, before meeting up with Ricky's cousin Caro for a tour of her university. Exploring the campus, I was then invited into her public speaking class, which I found rather fascinating. There is, of course, so much more to public speaking than the words that you use, and this becomes very evident when you cannot understand the language that a speaker is using. So I watched as various students gave their speeches, focusing my attention on their cadence, inflection, and facial expressions in order to interpret what they were trying to convey. It was a very education experience that was capped by the professor requesting that I give a two minute speech (mercifully in English) about myself.

Gazing down on Caracas

I met Ricky's parents for dinner, and went through the easiest packing experience of my travels in preparation for the morning's flight, but it would seem that my last day in Caracas was not quite over. Ignacio stopped by, wanted to make sure I had a proper send off, and so we retired to a nearby bar for some late night revelry before I finally returned to the apartment and collapsed into bed around 2:30 in the morning. What seemed like minutes later, my 5:00 alarm went off, and I showered, dressed, and said my goodbyes to Ricky's parents before meeting my cab at the front door. I tried to get some sleep during the 45 minute drive to the airport, but I was largely unsuccessful, and so I was still in a bit of a daze when I arrived... which might have explained my suspicious activity. Unsure of where to check in (in my defense, they literally hid the TAM booth behind the area most airports employ for checking in) I began wandering up and down the International Departures area, until a security official literally asked me to come with them for questioning. They rifled through my bag, checked my papers, and thumb printed me before finally revealing to me the location of the TAM booth. And thus, I finally was able to leave Venezuela, bound for more wacky airport adventures in Brazil, but that's a story for another time.


Monday, February 8, 2010

meridan missapropriations


Good afternoon, for those of you who had been following my blog, you will have noticed that for the past few weeks I have not posted. The reason for this will be revealed in this, the first of a series of posts that will hopefully get the story of my South American adventures back on track.

After a good deal of research and planning, I recently found myself on a bus leaving Caracas for Merida - a small mountain city in western Venezuela. Merida is Venezuela's jumping off point to the Andes, and I looked forward to some trekking through the area. So with well-practiced lines of Spanish, I negotiated my way to the bus station, bought a ticket, and found my bus. The 14 hour journey began at 20:00 with a pointless American B action movie: (terrorists take over an area, everyone - including recently introduced disproportionately attractive female character - is taken hostage... except one lone guy, lone guy systematically takes out a series of individual terrorists sent to "check for survivors" while simultaneously trying to convince impatient authorities to "give him more time", lone guy saves disproportionately attractive female character, kills head terrorist in an especially protracted and grizzly sequence, and gives a big pointing thumbs up to the camera. Roll credits). The movie's only redeeming virtue was that it was in English, and so I stayed up to watch it before settling into my fully reclined chair and falling asleep.

Driving through the Andes.

While my sleep suffered through occasional pit stops, twisting roads, and a preference for air conditioning settings that would make penguins uncomfortably cold, I reminded myself that I had been spoiled for sleep over the last weeks. The sun had been up for several hours when we finally arrived in Merida, and I disembarked, collected my luggage, and hailed a cab. Ten minutes and twenty Bolivars later I was standing outside the Posada Guamanchi, which my Lonely Planet guidebook had recommended as a good place to coordinate expeditions into the Andes. I checked into a small, lackluster room, called home on my netbook, and took a short nap before checking out the town. I left my room at 13:00 intent on sampling the cuisine, though the first recommended restaurant I came to was a Venezuelan interpretation of McDonalds. Reviews suggested that the burgers were well worth a stop, and so I did my best to wolf down their famous "Double Quarter Kilo Burger with Cheese" (more than a pound of meat). Having conquered the mountain of meat, I was curious to check out the country's most famous ice cream, located just a few blocks away.

Merida: city of steel and stucco.

The Heladeria Coromoto sits in an unassuming building near the center of town, and has been selling ice cream every Tuesday to Sunday for three generations. And while "chocolate" and "vanilla" are available, more eccentric flavors such as "black bean" and "trout" have helped to make the ice cream shop famous. In fact, for the last seven years, the Heladeria Coromoto has held a page in The Guiness Book of Records for having the largest number of ice cream flavors available. With somewhere between 850 and 950 flavors to choose from (depending on the season and availability of some of the more exotic ingredients) Herladeria has something for everyone. I split my selection between the exotic and the bizarre, getting one scoop of Blue Curaco and one scoop of Polar Beer. The curaco was sweet and delicious, the beer was, well... surprisingly true to flavor. And so I happily finished my frosty treat and made my way back back to my hotel.

A small section of the west-facing wall of the Heladeria Coromoto, also known as the flavor list.

Stepping into my room at 15:00, I did not allow myself to become immediately concerned by the sight that met me. There, on my bed, was something that had not been there when I left: and ID card. But more curious than this addition was the absence of both of my bags. Walking down to reception, ID card in hand, I esquired as to the location of my luggage, and it wasn't until I read the look of panic on the receptionist's face that I knew for certain that I had been robbed.

I spent the next few hours in a bit of a daze, trying to come to grips with the implications of what had happened. Aside from the clothes on my back, I had been left with only my netbook, which after calling home with, I hid (for reasons unknown but fortuitous) in the top shelf of a bureau, and must have been overlooked in the break-in. My camera, passport, wallet, and Tilley Hat were also on my person at the time of the break-in, and for this I was grateful, but as I complied a list for the police of what had been taken, the items kept adding up. The UV water filter I had first used in Iceland, the Camelpack that shadowed me up mountains on three continents, the leather-bound journal I crafted to chronicle my adventure, my iPod, my trusty waterproof jacket, a whole trove of adventure-wear, and my backpack itself, which had been with me though not only my world travels but my European wanderings as well. It was a lot to take in, and most of my regret came from losing the items that had such happy memories attached to them. The cable to my netbook was also amongst the requisitioned items; and after draining the battery to call home and alert my parents as to what had happened, I had been unable to boot it up to blog until just recently.

A mural, showing the liberation of Venezuela from the corrupting influence of the west... the bombs that form the crown of the Statue of Liberty are but some of the many interesting little tidbits you'll notice if you look closely.

Once I got over the shock however, I knew I would have to plan my next moves to make the most of what had just happened. In addition to all the aforementioned material possessions, I had also lost around $900 in cash, part of which I had planned to use to finance my time in Merida and the surrounding region. The hotel was doing everything they could to be accommodating, so I accepted their offer to stay the night (free of charge of course) while I planned my next move. I wanted to get back to Caracas to regroup as soon as possible, but I also didn't want my trip to Merida to be a total wash, so I headed out the next day to take a look around town.

The church in the center of town: one of the few attractive pieces of architecture.

Merida is a small city, benefiting from a large student population and an gorgeous placement high in the Andes. The town itself in not all that nice to look at, as I soon discovered, but after taking the advise of the hotel's receptionist, I found my way to a local bus stop (well-marked, not by signs or a waiting area, but rather the curious collection of impatient locals gathered around a random intersection) and was soon speeding off higher into the mountains. My destination was a a nearby National Park, and the end of the line for the overcrowded minibus. I spend a relaxed afternoon climbing through the foothills of the Andes in a part of the country that could almost be confused as being Alpine. The fresh air and beautiful vistas were a welcome relief from the congestion of Caracas and (to a lesser extent) Merida, and it was with regrets that I eventually found my way back to the minibus stop.

Passing by a ranch house on my way into the mountains.

I spent one more night in Merida after an unsuccessful attempt to buy a ticket back to Carcass at the bus station, and spent my third and final day shopping for essentials, having grown more than a little tired of wearing the same clothes for the last three days. While I could just manage to carry the entirety of my belongings in my hands, I happily accepted the hotel's offer of a small backpack. The WUB (World's Ugliest Bag), as I have come to call it, is almost certainly a product (read: catastrophe) of the 1980's, though I can only imagine it must have seen better days. What started its life as a regrettably purple and teal camping bag has not devolved into a mass of tattered straps, and claps missing sockets. By tying a series of straps together, it is possible to secure the bag around one shoulder, while still conserving the one remaining clasp to close the main flap. Either food, fungus, or feces has become a permanent addition to one part of the "bag" which really helps to bring together the whole theme of the bag. It is a piece of luggage I elected to carry out of Merida with me for only two reasons: It was all that I had; and even the criminally desperate would not steal this bag.

Up in the foothills, wearing the clothes I left Caracas in.

Thus ended my trip to Merida, I will be doing my best to get out daily updates of the next series of my travels until I am back up to date, but for now I have to run.