Ryan's First Sabbatical - ryanmyers
Somehow I convinced Bob to give me a year off work to travel South America, so I bought a oneway ticket to Lima, Peru. I'm spending the first two months in Huancayo, a city in Peru's Andes, and...

Pretirement Party
Edmonton, Canada
Todd and my sisters are picking me up in 20 min to go to the airport. It still hasn't hit me of what I'm getting into, but right now I'm a little too tired to ponder the unknown. The idea of sleeping on the plane is starting to sound pretty good. I'm mostly excited to sleep.
There's not a lot of time to say goodbyes or add all the pics I want to, but thanks to everyone who came out. Thank you Todd for holding my legs and thank you everyone who dressed up! Sinbad, you need to get those glasses in prescription. Adam, you were right, goodbye parties are way better than birthday parties. And if you anyone wants more pics from last night just ask Kyle or Jonny Mon - they're all now on John's spare computer.
written by  ryanmyers on January 11, 2009 from Edmonton, Canada
from the travel blog: Ryan's First Sabbatical

Lesson 1
Huancayo, Peru
I spent the first night in Lima with Lydia´s family - she works for Kuyay Sonqo, the org I´m volunteering with. Her husband, Juan, introduced me to Sour Pisco. Pisco is a Peruvian alcohol which is kind of like a harsh vodka. Sour Pisco is it´s most common cocktail form. He works for the Peruvian Ministry of Agriculture, so he was happy to show me his avacado tree, peach tree and grape vine in their courtyard before he played Risk on the computer. I spent most of the night chatting with the yankees about the differences between Canadians and Americans.
I woke up late this morning a quick breakfast before catching my 8 hr bus to Huancayo. The further from Lima´s centre we got the more poverty you see. The dogs in the streets are only out numbered by the garbage. And the tiny one-room houses cluttered the entire country side and up mountain slopes. As we rose in altitude the shacks were slowly replaced with red mountains that are too steep to build on.
I sat by an American on the bus from Illinois who knows where Edmonton is. He told me as much as he could about Huancayo, including to be careful. Unfortunately, that advice didn´t stop my wallet from getting stolen. Ah well. This is lesson 1, which is don´t keep your wallet in your pocket and only take your credit card or money with you if you are going to use it. ...so right now I have some mixed feelings. The money situation stinks, but I´m finally here. It´s good to be here. And I have my own room! Plus, Cecilia and her husband Gerj are incredibly nice. Gerj reminds me of Tony Lau.
Peace out,
Ryan
written by  ryanmyers on January 13, 2009 from Huancayo, Peru
from the travel blog: Ryan's First Sabbatical

Mi Familia Peruano
Huancayo, Peru
I´m staying with Cecilia here in Huancayo. She´s the same age as my sister Meghan and just as sweet. She´s incredibly sincere and her love for her husband, Guillermo, and 9 month old son Adrian is obvious. The longer I stay here the more we arm up to each other. I´m now able to tease her like a sister - thank god cause I needed an outlet.
Guillermo is a karate teacher in town and one of his students is the national champion of his age. The incredible part is that his dad is a cab driver and can´t afford to pay for instruction, so Guillermo teaches him for free. He´s a pretty cool dude, who loves teasing everyone. I suppose I can relate.
Adrian is cute as hell. Not much to say about a baby, except that he stares at me constantly. Even more than the other gringos staying here.
Speaking of which, when we picked up Harry (from Colorado) from the airport Guillermo said he looked like an angel because of his long blonde locks. As soon as he spoke I had a different opinion. My American buddy is Spicoli from Fast Times. Holy crapoli, I´m living with Spicoli. But it´s working out good because he has a healthy sense of adventure and about as much Spanish as me, so we´ve been heading out to town together. He´s going to be here the whole time I´m here.
Right now there is a couple from MIT, Michael and Lisa. Michael´s dad is from Peru, so he speaks Spanish fluently . They´re also teaching at the orphanage while they´re here, which has been pretty cool to have an interpretor tell me what the kids are saying.
The amount of energy the kids at the orphanage have is insane!! We weren´t really briefed on what we need or should do, so today we walked in and they asked us to teach math to a class. They have the greatest range of ability, so it quite unruly. I do enjoy playing futbol with them though. Not only are they better than me, but my lungs don´t last more than 30 seconds of running. Thank goodness Peruvians are so short. Being a giant is the only thing I have to back up my smack talk.
Harry and I are going to try teaching them some science and history. If any of you folks have some suggestions I´ll be more than happy to read.
Once I get some money I´ll go to an internet shop and upload some pics fors you folk. And I´ll tell you about my trip to a pre-Inca site and Lesson 2 (aka first night on the town).
Peace out!
written by  ryanmyers on January 19, 2009 from Huancayo, Peru
from the travel blog: Ryan's First Sabbatical

Lesson 2
Huancayo, Peru
It was Harry, the American couple (Michael & Lisa) and a bunch of gingitas from another orphanage and I who ventured out on my first night on the town. A metal head (the only one I´ve seen) showed us Avenida Puno, which would be more aptly named Avenida Puny, after the age and size of it´s patons. In the first club we visited we quickly learned that the drinking age is 14 and that fire laws restricting the numbers of patrons is merely suggestional - kinda like traffic laws. The entire club was packed like a mosh pit, makng it difficult to hold a drink, let alone dance. And man o´man was Harry´s goldie-locks a hit with them! Everyone wanted to be our friend. Some liked us so much that they felt it was okay to check our pockets for money and squeeze our squeezable parts. Despite the few with slippery hands, everyone was generally friendly and wanted to dance with us. I don´t blame them, I mean, who can resist my moves?
The second club we partied at was a step up. The patrons were actually our age and there was room to move my limbs to the rhythm. I wound up dancing with a couple of local chicas for a while until she asked me to go back to her place to dance. After that a random guy leaned into Harry and told him those girls were working. So yeah, I spent my first night out dancing with high schoolers and hookers.
Apparently when Michael and Lisa left the club they asked a sketched out teen for the time. He was off by 4 hours or so and then asked them to come back to his place. Again, a kind onlooker leaned in to fill in the blanks for us. He told Michael that kid was trying to kidnap them.
I always knew it was a bad idea to go home with strangers, but nothing reinforces a tenent like that than experience.
written by  ryanmyers on January 24, 2009 from Huancayo, Peru

Los Niños
The orphanage is a gated community for these kids - it keeps the lil troublemakers in adn the big ones out. When you first walk in to the orphanage you´ll notice a cluster of buildings (houses and classrooms) behind a paved soccer pitch and a small playground. Everything looks used because it is. Frequently. The most beautiful and probably the least appreciated asset is that their crops in the compound open up a panoramic view of the mountains surrounding Huancayo. The stoop facing the pitch is the regular place to hang out and chat with the kids and this stoop offers the breathtaking vista.
Okay, on a second cheesey thought, maybe the most beautiful and probably underappreciated asset is the kids themselves. There are about 40 of them (3-17yrs old) and for the most part they´re like any other group of kids. You have your gossip girls, cry babies, bullies, too-cool-for-school dudes, etc. Yet they differ from your average school yard crew because they do *everything* together. Their friendships are more tolerant of each other. ...haha, to a degree.
When I met Jackson (3) he had his shoes on the wrong feet. He was trying to squirt some girls with a garden hose. Since then I´ve had a soft spot for that guy. He´s always happy and always up to something.
Miguel (17) is the oldest and it shows. He´s calm, mature and can handle a soccer ball like a woman on the dance floor. Not only that, but he enjoys chatting. He has a genuine interest in what we do and to share his life with us. In a few weeks he turns 18 and is then on his own. He told me he´ll probably be a gardener. Harry and I have told him to see Guillermo to learn karate because Miguel couldn´t have a better rolemodel.
Handsdown Steven (10?) has the best future ahead of him. It´s currently their summer vacation, so many of the others don´t want to learn. Yet everyday Steven asks for more homework. Harry started to teach him the first day and since then Steven can´t get enough. On top of that, he´s also the one who is willing to help clean after we teach or help out with chores around the compound.
Benjamin (10?) is my best student. When I see him with other kids he can be aggressive, but I´m starting to think that´s just the pecking order. He´s not as quick a learner as Steven, but Benjamin always asks to study. Lately he´s been on a big kick of thumb wrestling. I don´t wanna brag or nothing, but I can beat him with both hands at the same time.
I haven´t mentioned any girls because they are a little harder to bond with. To be frank, some of them are really needy. They want more attention then I can give (let alone want to). There is one girl who was possesive of me for a while, so I kept telling her I´m here for everyone. She got mad, but now seems to be over it.
The older girls are a little clic. Harry did a good job of busting his way into them today by singing on the playgound. I heard him from the soccer pitch singing Fat Bottem Girls, so obviously I had to join in. Queen rocks. That´s all there is to it.
[On a side note, did I mention 80´s are popular here? Well, it seems like all we here is latin music (combia, arangay, samba, reggaton (like dance hall, but with bad mixing), reggae and salsa) and 80´s. I didn´t expect that.]
Anywho, my favourate girl is probably Jennifer (pronounced Hay-nee-fer). She´s prolly 8 tops, but is just all around cool. She often just shows up and hangs out. Sometimes I catch her hanging out with the older girls to. When she wants to play she doesn´t beg like some of the other kids. I gotta admit, that´s appreciated. The whining gets annoying when there´s 20 of the anklebiters begging for an avioncito (airplane ride). I mean, they´re fun to give, but you trying giving out a few of those at 3300m above sea level and you´ll be begging for a rest.
It was Harry´s bright idea to work afternoons on Tuesdays and Thursdays. The cool part about that is that none of them will study then. It´s all play. Either soccer, basketball, hackey sack (I brought mine), monkey bars (my feet touch the ground, so I haven´t lost a race yet!!) or just chilling in the shade. I brought cards, but one abnoccious kid (the others call him chicken, but it doesn´t hold the same meaning here) took my decks. One day Michael explained the rules to capture the flag and that led to a pretty sweet game. Unfortunately Harry, the new Assie named Jimmy (23) or myself don´t have the linguistic capabilities to explain something like that.
The first week of teaching was simply chaos. The lil anklebiters distracted each other and were more interested in scoring a new pencil than writing anything down. Lesson learned. We need handouts, which by the way have worked like a charm. And tomorrow we´re bringing some candy to play math bingo. ...we gererally teach them math because it´s universal or english. I real good at it.
Cuidate por ahora!

Field Trips
CHUPACA
I remember if I already mentioned Chupaca. Guillermo´s sister Patricia took us (Harry, the Yankee couple and me) to the neighbouring town of Chupaca. On our way we didn´t notice a separation of Huancayo and Chupaca. Just randomly a plot of land was empty with livestock tied to a stake.
In Chupaca we visited a slaughter market. That was quite the cultural experience. The whole time there we were followed by a sketchy dude in a red sweater. We´d stop, he´d stop. So I wore my backpack like I was preggo. Every so often you look over in the market and see sheep twitching. Then you notice it´s head is on the table near by. Not quite the same as Superstore - although there is a new Walmart type store in Huancayo. I suppose that´s the beginning of the Western cultural invasion. For the most part though Huancayo has been able to resist a full onslaught of America.
Anywho, after the market we went to see a Pre-Inca wall. I remember typing this earlier, so I won´t say more.
CONCEPCION (the town of baby making)
This time Angela tooks us (Harry, Gringo Jim - a sheep shearer from Australia - and two more Aussies) on our field trip to the neighbouring town of Concepcion. They have a giant statue of Mother Mary on top of a giant hill. Almost like the Rio de Janero. Under Mary is a the towns name in giant white letters. Just like Hollywood. We hiked up there and even climbed up Mary via the stairs inside her. She offered quite the view.
Back in Concepcion I got my picture with a 15 piece band playing infront of the local cathedral before we headed out to a trout farm. Weird, I know.
I´m not sure how or why the fish farm became a tourist attraction because it´s a 20 min drive outta town. The scenary though was beautiful. It was what I was expecting to see of Peru. Huancayo is fairly dusty and in the middle of a flat valley. It´s not the mountainous town you may expect. After the fish farm we had a meal at a near by restaurant. Oddly, Harry and I were the only ones who ordered trout. Gringo Jim and the Aussie Dave had cuy (guinne pig - a Peruvian treat that tastes like turkey with 100 times more bones). On the way back I chatted with a civil lawyer and his daughter in a jam packed bus (not really a bus, just a van). His daughter asked for a picture with us and my email address. She never emailed though. A shame cause a lawyer would be a great connection down here. Ya know, just in case.
TORRE TORRE
The first time I encountered water baloons was 3 weeks in and on our way to Torre Torre (literally Tower Tower). We (Harry, Gringo Jim, two other Aussies, Guillermo, Cecilia, a random kid who wanted to come with us and I) were walking up a street at the base of the surrounding mountains when we found what looked like an ambush. There boys and girls were grouped on top of two buildings on either side of the street. Each group was armed with butt loads of water baloons for each other. We just walked under with only a few thrown at us. Thankfully baseball isn´t the national sport here. I dunno what is, but it´s definately not baseball.
Down another street a girl eyed us while tossing water balloon up and down. It broke in her hands and spilled all over her. That was a good laugh. Its odd though, before these encounters we never saw water balloons. Now kids are tossing them from buildings everywhere. Maybe we just opened our eyes.
Anywho, Torre Torre is tucked in the corner of the surrounding mountains and is some geological phenominon. A tiny creek has cut through the mountain to create bluffs that are much better explained in pictures. After going here I caught a craving to camp out on the mountains. Maybe Guillermo will take us.
This weekend though, we´re heading into the jungle.
written by  ryanmyers on February 5, 2009 from Huancayo, Peru

Parade & Glacier
The last three days have been rather epic. We never really knew what we were getting into either.
FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 20 - THE PARADE
Harry, Jimmy and the new yankee girl were told to show up at the orphanage at the usual time (9am) to prep before the local parade. We wore traditional Peruvian clothing, probably what you seen in movies and post cards of Bolivia and Peru. Us guys (gringos and a few boys) sported white shirts under panchos with dress pants and a nice bowler hat to top off the outfit. The girls wore colorful skirts that make any butt look big, white shirts, braids, a shall and no socks in their shoes.
6 kids and 6 gringos (including 2 older Canadiens from Laval) piled into the back of the orphanages pickup truck and were shipped to the parade. We waited here for roughly 2 hours before any sign of the parade getting underway, which gave us plenty of time to get a couple of pictures with locals and have hundreds taken of us. I laughed today when I heard Eminem's lyrics, "Ya'll act like ya never seen a white person before". Anywho, I never understood the tradition of putting baby powder or flour on your face for festivals. But when in Rome. So we put confetti in our hair, flour on our face and watched all the locals buy this in excess amounts. They even bought some itchy plant.
We were lucky to be situated right behind a band, so we could hear them clearly, making dancing much easier. Once they fired up we started dancing down the main drag in Huancayo not having any clue what we were getting into. One lady told us this was their version of Carnivál, but when I think of parades I resort back to Uncle Ricky driving his tractor down Rosthern and picking up peanuts off the street.
The reality of the situations hit us in the form of a water balloon. Then a bucket of water, followed by flour in the face. It didn't take us long to realise that we enlisted in a 2 hour, 10 kilometer water fight where everyone - spectators included - are fair game. Spectators would lob balloons from 4 stories up and hurl buckets of water from rooftops. Being a gringo seems to make you more of a target too, which just added to our fun. Every once in a while the paraders would swarm someone running up to soak us and smear them in flour. The itchy plant, well that was a saviour. Ususually some teen would sneak up behind us with a bucket and soak one of us only to get jumped by the group behind us wiping the itchy plant on their skin!
At the central plaza some folk were tossing purple water at us from 3 floors up, so Jimmy and I thought it was funny to dance close to the window and then casual slide out the way at the last second. Then just a half a block up one guy ran out of the crowd with bucket. I had some flour, so I challenged him. I kinda expected to get wet, but I didn't expect to get hit by 10 buckets of water, one after another! It made for a good enough photo to be in full colour on the back page of the local newspaper.
After the parade we saw this yankee living here, so went over to say hi. I had no idea, but she has her own TV show here that covers local events, so we got interviewed and will be on TV tomorrow tonight.
FRIDAY NIGHT
We went out with the yank that night and she asked if she could bring her camera crew. Harry and Jimmy are not shy. We went to a few clubs and danced the night away with a stellar rock cover band. Hands down, the best rock I've heard since I've been here.
SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 21 - THE GLACIER (HUATAPALLANO)
We woke up hungover and went to the central plaza to meet the tour group. We lucked out big time as it was just Harry, Jimmy, the new yankee volunteer, a cab driver, our guide and me. We left civilization behind on our way to the glacier, but one of the last places anyone lives was a small hut on the side of a mountain, far beyond the tree line. We asked if we could stop and meet the family, which turned out to be a humbling experience. An old man lives the simple life there with his little girl and wife, letting his cattle graze the steep slopes. They only had three huts, including one for the dogs to sleep. No electricity, no gas, no water. He used small shrubs to burn for cooking and boiling water from the mountain stream. He really demonstrates what you NEED to live.
The hike to the glacier was a measly 5km. The hard part was that we were hiking up to 5100m above sea level (Edm is 660m, Calgary is 1100m, Mt Robson is 3500m and Canada only has a few mountains above that height). Singing and hiking don't mix to well at this altitude, especially when you're hungover. But we made it and Jimmy got to see snow for his first time in a blizzard, followed by throwing snowballs and building a snowman on a glacier. God I miss snowboarding.
To top of the beauty of it all, we were the only 5 people on this trail on this day. I couldn't believe how exhilerating hiking to a glacier could be. On the way down the blizzard cleared, so we just had clouds above and below us wandering by. Harry and I hiked down faster until we got to a tiny valley where we waited in the silence of a mountain birds and a glacier creek. It was incredibly touching as an intimate moment with nature. Sorry to sappy, but me and mother nature had a moment.
Getting back to base camp (actually just a restaurant with more character nailed to the walls than imaginable) my hangover reminded me of its presence by thumping on my temples. Not cool considering we were pulling a repeat night.
SATURDAY NIGHT
Same bar, similar crew. But we went out later though so we could nap and rehydrate. I'm happy to say that my second go at dancing with local girls did not include hookers. Nope, not this time. Woot woot, lesson 1 payed off!
SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 22 - I LOVE GOING OUT FOR LUNCH AFTER A NIGHT OUT
The yankee girl was sick today, so it was Harry, Jimmy and I who went for lunch with Cecilia, Guillermo, his mom and sister and Adrian. We went to a tranquil restaurant on the outskirts of town. I had my first meal that had a proper portion and god was it good. Mashed potatoes and avocado sandwiched a tuna medly. Mm-mm-mmm.
The restaurant has a stocked pond, some exotic animals, some kiddie-sized quads among other rec activities. Naturally the Harry the yank wanted to try out the power vehicles, which was kinda fun. But we spontaneously found ourselves in the middle of a soccer game after. An old man played net for the other team along with some young kids. The game lasted for what had to be at least a half hour before we said our goodbyes. That's part of what I like about it here, time isn't a concern like it is back home. No one checked their watch to see how much time they were wasting. No one was in a hurry to leave. We'll all get done what we need to.
written by  ryanmyers on February 22, 2009 from Huancayo, Peru

Funeral Crashers
Yesterday Harry, Jimmy and I ventured out to Chupuro, a small town near Chupaca, to go hang gliding. After a half hour of contradicting instructions in Chupaca we finally found a sketchy cabby to take us to Chupuro.
In Chupuro a couple of drunk men in a small convienience store called us over, so not really knowing where to go for hang gliding we joined them for a few beers. My Spanish still blows, so understanding slurred Spanish was ridiculous. Nevertheless, we found out that hang gliding isn't for another week, so when they invited us to join them we had nothing better to do for the afternoon.
They took us to the shores of the Rio Mantaro via rickety trikes to meet about 20 of their family. After hello's I sat down with the younger folk and chatted what us young people like to chat about - swears, girls, drugs and politics. Later I found out the drunk guys brought us to a funeral gathering, which we felt pretty bad about. Wedding Crashers was a funny movie, but I never anticipated on actually crashing a funeral.
Anywho, the day passed with us witnessing local funeral customs of washing the grieving in the river and chewing coca leaves while drinking the sorrows away. Some of the older men - who happened to be the coolest dudes there - invited us to dinner with the family. We've heard not to refuse a dinner invite here, so naturally we accepted.
After a delicious courtyard meal we shared a sunset cab back to town with some older ladies. Along the way, in the neighbouring town of Breña, there was a carnival going down. While inching our way through the crowd a girl pulled us out of the cab for a quick dance before continuing our way on back home.
written by  ryanmyers on March 1, 2009 from Huancayo, Peru

Reply to Norma's Comment
Hey Norma,
I just read your comment and lemme tell ya, it's good to hear from you. I think you - and ol' man Robert especially - would be happy to know that I've had the chance to explain the Métis people, culture and history to not only other volunteers here, but also many locals as well. The locals tell me that the natives here have a very similar experience, especially when dealing with the government.
As for my projects, well we started out teaching english and math each day followed by recreation time. The kids just returned to school this week, so as their summer vacation slowly shrunk, the length of recreation time slowly increased. Eventually we weren't giving any lessons, but simply spending time with the kids - playing, singing and trying to talk through our poor poor Spanish.
Recently though, a few Québecois ladies came along with some money for projects. Since we stopped our formal classes with the kids, we decided to help the French ladies cement, plaster and paint a kitchen/house/guinne pig shed (we eat those lil rodents). Back at home Harry called a little junket with us volunteers to pitch his idea for the mural. The idea itself was good, but it was his flashy presentation that sold us on the idea of painting ¡VIDA! (LIFE!) on the wall, with each letter containing something life related. I'll show you when it's done.
As for the other projects, we've helped wash the compound, worked in the fields, fixed tire swings and will be painting the playground before we leave. As I type this it sounds more impressive to me than it feels. Really, any Joe can do this stuff. It just happens that Bob gave me time to do this and I am down here doing it. Amazingly simple.
Anywho, take care of yourself and the rest of our folks at the nation.
Your friend,
Ryan
written by  ryanmyers on March 4, 2009 from Huancayo, Peru

Escape from Huancayo
Ica, Peru
To be honest, last weekend was somewhat of a bender. It's not a Surprise that I can leave it to Paul Simon to put things into perspective for me. After this morning's shower I layed on the roof under the menacing Huancayo clouds, enjoying the sun that did make it to my pasty chest, reflecting on the weekend with Paul's wisdom echoing in my ears.
FRIDAY, MARCH 6
Harry, Jimmy, Clara the Yank, Louisa the Pom and I planned our own little getaway to Ica and Pisco for the weekend in an escape from Huancayo's reliably unreliable weather. After an overnight bus we arrived in Lima at the crack of dawn with Jimmy keen on swimming in the ocean for our first time on this trip. He only lives two hits of a 3 wood away from the ocean in Southern Australia. This has had to have be withdrawl for him.
Our taxi dropped us off at beach by a group of twenty odd morning runners stretching. We dropped our pants in the morning haze and ran for the ocean. The sand in my drawers was well worth the refreshing dip before we hopped on another bus to Ica.
Ica is only city of a hundred thousand, yet was still busselling more than Edmonton after a playoff game. We had no idea when we planned our lil getaway, but we arrived on the first day of a two week festival celebrating the start of the grape harvesting season - which is quite a big deal here because Ica is the pisco capital of Peru, even moreso than the city of Pisco itself. I'm sad to say we never participated in the official ceremonies, which included cockfights and pisco making.
Instead, we were staying in a small tourist village/hamlet/resort called Huacachina just outside of town, so picked up presips and TP before heading to our hostel. It turns out Huacachina is an oasis. Not figuratively, but literally. In the middle of sand mountains, there is this smelly lagoon surrounded by lush trees, hostels, dunebuggies and heaps of foreign and local tourists. We quickly ditched our bags and rented some sandboards to hit the slopes. With each step up I slid a half step down making the small treck decievingly long, but well worth it. I reached the peak of the giant sand hill just as the sun set behind the Tatooine-esque horizon (that's a Star Wars reference for those of you claiming not to be nerds). Sliding down was a tease, as sandboarding is much harder to turn than snowboarding, so you're better off just going straight to catch some speed. Unfortunately that makes the climbing to boarding ratio much larger than desired, which in turn makes renting dune buggies much more appealing.
The night out turned out to be a bust for me. Jimmy got sick and I took him back home while everyone partied in Ica. So after he was naked on his bed I ventured to the hostel's bar by the pool and hammocks to chat with whoever I could find. The yankees I met bragged about how much they knew about Canada. I bragged about the new slang I learned. I said that Aussies, and now I, call them sepos. It's short for septic tanks or yanks. I'm glad they laughed. The Columbian I met made it worth staying in as she told me her favourate places to go in Columbia and invited me on a hike in April.
SATURDAY, MARCH 7
We rented a buggy, but unfortunately weren't allowed to drive it. Prolly for the best though. The dunes ran on as far as we could see to the east, with Ica and Huacachina far off in the west. The guide said we would board faster on our stomaches, which was true, but that didn't satisfy ol' Ryan. Standing up offered much more of a thrill. Unfortunately, it also offered a greater chance of catching an edge, which resulted in a full front flip and landing on smack on my back. The pain is still splitting from that one.
After washing off the sand in the lagoon and then the smelly lagoon water in the hostel pool, we headed to the town of Pisco, where we were to catch a tour of the Islas Ballestas (aka "Poor Man's Galapagos Islands") early the next morning. The hostel was family run with an incredibly hospitable son, Julio, and a daughter whose smile will make you blush. It's too bad she had a crush on one of her brother's friends. Potential wife, I tell ya! They were getting ready to party in Ica, so we shared our 2-6 of pisco with them and their pilot friends. They invited us to come along, but warned us they would only get back at 6am and we had to leave at 7am for Islas Ballestas. No problem. Turned out to be an epic night. On the way home we dropped off the pilots at the airforce base.
SUNDAY, MARCH 8
It turns out Julio is right, the perfect cure for a hangover is coffee. One cup a joe and a 2 hour boat ride is nothing! From the boat we saw shore birds, pelicans, vultures and sealions. I didn't get shit on and slept on the way back to shore. Perhaps that excursion would have impacted me more under different circumstances. ...or if I wasn't a sardine jammed in a boat of touristas.
Later that day we stopped off at the small surf town of Cerro Azul. The rest of our crew went to the beach after lunch, but I opted for a nap. Best nap of my life! Harry and Jimmy couldn't wake me by banging on the door, so they crawled the ledge between the girls room and ours. After dark Harry, Louisa and I headed to the central plaza for a BBQ dinner from a street vender. I tried cow heart. Not bad. The large moon offered plenty of light for a walk on the beach before I retired again for another incredible sleep.
We caught the bus back on the side of the highway between the dusty town of Cerro Azul and the sand mountains. All said and done, it was an exhaustingly good weekend.
written by  ryanmyers on March 10, 2009 from Ica, Peru

Goodbye Huancayo
Have you ever had a girlfriend/boyfriend you can't dump? Or a friend you can't ditch? Huancayo is starting to look like that. We've had good times together, but it just won't let me go! I was supposed to be in Lima right now, waiting for Jamshade and my parents at the airport, but there are some rather large boulders in my way. Harry the sepo, Jimmy the Aussie and I were smart and bought bus tickets to leave on Friday, which would give us more than a day than we needed. Unfortunately a rockslide foiled that plan. We've been back to the bus station, bags in hand, 5 times since then. Still no luck. Apparently it will take until Tuesday to clear all of the rocks. So now I've sent messages to Jams, mom n' pops that I'm going to meet them in Cusco (a good 22 hr bus ride from Lima). They're all on their flights here, so wish them luck!!
We're going to need an adjustment period after leaving the Huancayo. We're leaving our comfort zone for the Gringo Trail of Peru, which includes all of the tourist hot spots. No longer will children tug their mom's arm and shout "Gringo" at us. Although, that was starting to happen less and less anyways. Jimmy supposes we're walking with more purpose. I think I'm just less wide-eyed. I'm hoping that we're also going to leave the rain behind. Apparently I chose the two rainy months of the year to spend in Huancayo and this year was particularily wet. Each morning my shoes are still damp from the day before, so I started wearing my hiking boots out to save my shoes for dancing - which I gotta say, I think I'm starting to catch on to moving my feets to the latin beats, thanks to the hard work I've put in at the clubs here.
Most locals tell me that Huancayo is not the ideal travel destination. They say Columbia is the place for beauty - as in culture, volcanoes, beaches and women. Every gringo I've met tells me that Bolivia is the most amazing place they've been. I'm keen to find out why. Nevertheless, there are still a fair few locals who believe in the beauty of the Mantaro Valley. I'm going to have to side with the few optimistic here in the same way that I side with the few who believe Deadmonton can be a fun place to live. Either way, I'm pretty stoked to actually get on a bus tonight and get moving.
written by  ryanmyers on March 14, 2009 from Huancayo, Peru

Machu Picchu
Cusco, Peru
I met up with mom n' pops here in Cusco. Not easy though. And Jamshade got here too, after surviving the shadiest cab ride I've ever heard of. Yup, we were all here together for my birthday. Mom n' pops treated us boys to dinner, so I chose an Italian restaurant fully expecting the Peruvian take on Italian food to be sub par. Was I ever wrong! The chef was Italian himself and even invented the mouth watering sauce that was served with my alpaca steak. Thanks mom n' dad!
After dinner the boys and I went out wearing shamrock stickers from my sisters, got back from the bar around 6am and decided to do some sight seeing. Good idea too cause when we got to Ollantatambo around 8am there were barely any other tourists and the sun was shining from the perfect spot. Jimmy napped with a dog on a terrace while the rest of us explored the ruins of the Quechua's last stand (aka Incas, but the Inca was actually just the king - the culture, language and people is Quechua).
Obviously we rested between then and starting our treck to Machu Picchu. Some well needed rest! The trip started in the middle of a cloud at 4100m above sea level as a bike ride, declining 2300m down a mountain for 6 hours. After only 20 minutes of cold biking down hairpin turns we encountered a traffic jam and a change of plans. What caused this traffic jam? Another landslide of course.
Apparently the landslide took out a truck along with the road. By the time we arrived some people had been waiting 15 hours (I found out today that it took 4 days to clean up). Our guide, Johan, and his father, Lorenzo, wouldn't let a mere landslide stop us, so they investigated the best route around. Some other groups actually climbed the slide, but Lorenzo deemed that too dangerous. Some government workers were busy cutting a trail over the landslide through the high jungle, which was to be our route of choice. It's important to note that my dad is scared of heights, which has brought quite a bit of entertainment to the family in the past, but the danger factor of the landslide brought in an element that made me hold back all teasing. Everyone seemed to have a little bit of fear in their eyes, everyone except Lorenzo and Johan. Let me tell you, it was not an easy hike through the jungle - the ground was soft and slippery, the slope was steep and we were carrying all of our gear with us. In all honesty, I was proud of myself to reach the road on the other side. As for Tony, I was impressed. And kudos to mom, she finished up ahead with all the young folk. Apparently while we were crossing above the landslide someone fell from the landslide to their death. A few days later the path we went on gave way adding to the slide.
On the other side we were left without bikes or a bus, we had to walk the rest of the way down the valley to our hostel with dusk quickly approaching. My mom asked Johan how long the walk would be. He told her it's not worth knowing. He's only 17, but is wise beyond his years.
Eventually a gas truck with a flat bed on top picked us up. The tailgate appropriately read "PELIGROS - COMBUSTIBLE". Eventually there was close to 30 of us winding down the road to Santa Maria for the night. We ended up driving more than 2 hours after dark. Thank god we didn't walk that!
A warm dinner was welcomed in Santa Maria, as a shower would have been if it worked. No biggie though, I couldn't get much dirtier. After dinner us boys went behind the hostel and played soccer with some local kids, not really knowing how much energy the next day would require.
Day 2 is Lorenzo's favourate day and it's understandable why. We hiked along a river before climbing up into the jungle and eventually meeting up with one of the old Inca trails (of which there was 25,000km in the height of the Quechua empire - 4 different ones connect with Machu Picchu).
Tony likes to say he's not afraid of heights, rather precipices. Well, the Inka Jungle Trail had more than your average person's fair share of precipices in Day 2. I can honestly say that I have never seen my dad more scared in my life. Lorenzo quickly became dad's best friend, whom dad kept asking, "Lorenzo, are you okay?" At times we were walking on stairs that were less than a half a meter wide, with the rock face on one side and an 800m cliff on the other to the Rio Urubamba. Johan would often casually stand right on the edge to proudly educate us on Quechua culture. I say it's absolutely nuts that the Quechua messangers would sprint over these paths to deliver messages at a ridiculously fast pace!
My words don't justly describe the insanity and serenity of the scenery throughout this trek and neither will my pictures. Even our lunch stop was a jungle oasis with hammocks and our pre-dinner cool down was lounging in a hot pool filled naturally with fresh mountain water. The day finished with us in Santa Teresa, where we found out that Day 3 was much easier. Naturally us boys decided to go out again. The club was so hot it looked like I just stepped out of the shower.
Day 3 was essentially us walking along train tracks to Aguas Calientes (the tourist town at the base of Machu Picchu). I got there and slept.
We were woken up at 4am on Day 4 to walk up the mountain that is Machu Picchu (Apparently Machu Picchu is the Quechua name for the mountain and the name for the ruin city is very difficult for Ryan to say, let alone type. Archeologists believe the city was a university for the Quechua elite to study close to the heavens). That was possibly the hardest leg of the whole trip and was accomplished entirely in the dark. Well worth it, as we saved on the expensive bus ride up. That's a valuable $10 you know! I've never been this cheap in my life, but I need to stretch my doe.
When we got there the clouds blocked all views during our guided tour. After which, the clouds parted and we climbed Huaynapicchu (the classic mountain you see in almost every picture of Machu Picchu). This intense, slippery climb took about an hour and offered an incredible ariel view of the site. Mom n' pops passed on this one, so the boys and I had a cliff side lunch at the top of Huaynapicchu by ourselves, which included tuna and avacado sandwiches.
For the remainder of the day we walked around the city trying to see as many of the sites as possible. After a solid 12 hours of climbing up and down stairs we almost saw all of the 5 major sites (the city, Temple of the Moon, Huaynapicchu, Inca Bridge), but were stopped by a guard half way to the last one, the Sun Gate. Amazing nevertheless.
Dinner's here, gotta run!!
written by  ryanmyers on March 18, 2009 from Cusco, Peru

Lago Titicaca
Puno, Peru
I'm writing from Santa Cruz, Bolivia. I left Peru a short two weeks ago and have left myself with much writing. Especially the second half of my trip with Erna and Tony, who has since dubbed his trip "Ryan's Revenge". To be fair, forcing my dad to encounter his greatest fear head on wasn't planned. To be honest, I did enjoy it at times.
Anywho, with the Inka Jungle Trek proudly under our belts, Tony, Erna, Jamshade, Harry, Jimmy and I were excited to relax on Lake Titicaca's tranquil islands. Naturally there was an agrarian strike, so our 7 hr bus trip from Cuzco turned into 12. You see, I couldn't have planned these revenges if I tried. Honestly.
After a night in Puno, the Peruvian city on the steep shores of Lake Titicaca (3,812m), we woke up earlier than desired to find a boat. Well, actually only Harry went to the harbour to find a boat while the rest of us had breakfast. Thanks, Harry! I remember the rest of us having excuses, just not what they were. I'm sure they were legitimate. Either way, Harry found a boat captained by a local Quechua guy with family on Isla Amantani, which we decided to spend two nights on.
Our first stop was at one of the floating islands. Long ago the Uros people fled the land in favour of the lake as a means to escape the fighting with the Inca and Aymara peoples. "Screw house boats," they said, "we want mobile islands!" With a little ingenuity and a copias amounts of reeds, they left their houses on shore for their reed houses on their islands. Apparently it was a good idea cause they still live on 40 odd of these, with a few set up to make a buck off of tourists. Being islanders, it's obvious these folk eat fish. With Lake Titicaca being the largest lake in South America, I expected their trout and catfish to be small sharks. But nope, they're not even as big as a hotdog bun. Our best guess is that's due to the low levels of oxygen at this altitude.
Both Puno and the floating islands are found in a large green-water bay of algae. However, once you pass the enclosing peninsulas for the open waters the lake reveals its true colours, which happens to be a beautiful Mediterranean blue. Our boat slowly crept out of the bay revealing our Isla Amantani, our next destination. And I mean slowly. Jesus could have walked to the island and back with holes in his feet before we got there.
Kitchen View
At the island El Capitán introduced us to Oswaldo and his family, who were to host us for the next two nights. This is the view we had from their dining room! It was here where we did our best to converse with Oswaldo and chowed down on his wife's delicious vegetarian meals cooked over fire. To import anything to the island is expensive (relatively speaking), so meat isn't commonly served. Another rarity on the island is electricity, which is provided from solar panels for some house lights at night. Jamshade couldn't have been happier though, it was a great opportunity to use his bargain LED flashlights from Cuzco.
On our second day Oswaldo gave us a tour of his island. We took a breathtaking hike up to the two highest points on the island, where the Pachamama and Pachatata ruins sit. This is at a staggering 4400m above sea level, making them close to a kilometer higher than the tallest mountains in Alberta. From the top of the island and through the light, clean air we could easily see Bolivia's snowcapped mountains bordering the other side of the lake. Being that close to Bolivia, I could feel the mountains calling me! Tony, on the other hand, was close to a precipice and could feel Pachamama's wall calling him.
Tony Enjoying the view at Pacha Mama
In addition to two nights on Isla Amantani, we also spent a morning on Isla Tequila, where you can tell marital status amongst much more just from the patterns and colours on their toques. Geographically, this island was probably more beatiful, but it just didn't match the serenity from Amantani - seemingly untouched. As El Capitán picked us up from a crystal blue water port, Harry and Jimmy took a dip in the lake. I'm not gonna lie, I was pretty tempted, but am not sad with my decision. Apparently it's much colder than it looks.
Back in Puno, we all had a final meal of brazed chicken and french fries before we slowly started to part ways. First to go was mom n' pops. They left just after dinner and mom cried. No worries though, I think she'll be okay. She's a strong one.
Second to go was Jimmy. He had to leave bright and early in the a.m., leaving us with one last night together as us boys, so we went out. There were riot police on the main stip - bad omen. The first club we went to was closed, as was the second. Some locals told us there was some sort of shut-down. I still don't know what it was, but whatever it was it caused almost every bar to close down for a week. Those locals took us to a pub smaller than my kitchen and packed with dudes. Not really my ideal locale.
We left before ordering and headed to the main plaza. Here we met some Americans and a girl from Kitscoty, AB, who were embarrassed that they were on a trip to discover themselves. Together we found a lounge where we exchanged stories of our travels. On our walk home the riot police were gone, leaving the streets with drunks smashing bottles. We were more than happy to find a jovial group, chillin with their instruments. Once they discovered Jimmy could play guitar, they had him play a few songs. We sang Sublime's What I Got with them and cheered along while they sang some Spanish tunes. After all was said and done they walked us back to our hostel.
written by  ryanmyers on March 30, 2009 from Puno, Peru

Our Trio's Down to Two
Lima, Peru
Back in Lima it was Jams, Harry and I. Originally, the plan was to head north to Columbia where we'd all part ways. However, after seeing Bolivia's snow caps and remembering that Air Canada forced me to buy a ticket to Santa Cruz, Bolivia, AND thinking about the logistics of my trip, I decided it would be best to head east to Bolivia and part ways sooner than later.
In light of my decision, Harry also swapped his plans of Columbia for Iquitos, a Peruvian city on the Amazon that's only accessible by plane or boat.
The three of us had just a few short nights in Lima. The first included bargaining for a hotel room because all of the hostels in Mira Flores, the Whyte Ave area, were filled up. We negotiated her down from $150US to $35US for a two-bed room with a nice bathroom and access to a gorgeous balcony, where we held our after party following a wild night out. The down side is I had to sleep on the floor, which I didn't realise how frequent I'd be doing after that.
The following night was Harry's last and sadly uneventful. I was sick and thoroughly tired from many long bus rides over a short time, so I didn't have it in me for another night out.
written by  ryanmyers on April 1, 2009 from Lima, Peru

Last stop in Peru
Trujillo, Peru
Trujillo
Jams and I headed north from Lima to Trujillo with our friend Kati - our friend from Lima who we met in Cuzco. Our Trujillo stint was short and relaxing with heat that was welcomed after 2 and a half months in the Andes, especially for Jams. It was a perfect spot to just chill with the giant waves, palm trees, reggae and hippies. More importantly, I had the best ceviche I've tried so far. Muah! Ceviche is raw fish, shrimp and octopus, but very different from sushi. It's marinated in lemon and served with other sauces. Definately worth trying if you're in the neighbourhood.
Kati's friend, Magali bused it from Lima just for one night out. She's nuts. Nuff said. After that I said goodbye to Jams and then headed for Santa Cruz.
written by  ryanmyers on April 3, 2009 from Trujillo, Peru

Ken and the Boys
Cochabamba, Bolivia
Some people have asked me lately, "Ryan, how it is travelling alone?" I found it that awkward to answer. It wasn't because I had food in my mouth or because I wasn't wearing any clothes, but because I haven't considered myself to be travelling alone. When I look at it, I have always been with people. I spent a couple of months with a Cecilia's family, travelled with Harry, Jimmy, Jamshade and even Tony and Erna for a while, too. I'm happy to say, I haven't felt alone.
Since then I've been staying with Ken in Santa Cruz, Bolivia. Lemme tell ya, it's more than hot in Santa Cruz. We've been steadily in the high 30's and broke 40 a few times. If I sleep past 8 the sun will shine on my mattress, making it impossible to sleep - not from the light, but from the sweat tickling me as it drips down. Plus, the parakeets have a screeching competition in the neighbour's tree every morning from 8-9am. I've found that to be the ideal time to eat breakfast. It works well for me because the sun is usually off my mattress by 9:30, so if I want more sleep the option is there. Yup, it's so hot that I had to shave and get a hair cut.
Anywho, Ken is a missionary from Saskatoon, who has a boys home that provides the opportunity for former street kids to attend university. Right now there's 9 boys (almost all 20 yrs old), Ken and I living at the house.
FRANZ educated me on the local politics. I understand that Cambas (lowland, eastern, jungle folk in Bolivia who are relaxed enough that they don't feel it neccesary to pronounce the 'S' at the end of their words) see Evo Morales as the antichrist, the second Hitler and Satan himself. They want more atonomy like what Canadian provinces have. The mountain dwelling highlander folk (mostly Quechua, but the name of them escapes me) see Evo as their saviour and the lone good guy amongst all bad.
Franz also beat me in a swimming contest, making me his cachiman. Since then I have been laying down the smack talk on my fusbol skills. After our game he'll be walking away with his tail between his legs, but we still haven't found a place to play. I spotted a bunch of tables in a plaza close to Ken's house the other week when I was walking around lost, but for some odd reason they were gone the next day.
SANDRO is incredibly short and eats his weight every meal, yet doesn't gain any weight. It baffles me. Not only is the the shortest, but he's also the oldest at 23. When I first met him I thought he was quiet and serious, but his high pitched laugh quickly proved me wrong. Throughout the day I'll usually hear Sandro constantly mumbling "mi cachiman", which more or less means "my servent". In my first day at the home that became a running joke that hasn't gone. These boys have been teaching me a bunch of street slang and the Santa Cruz accent, which is the last thing my broken Spanish needs.
DAVID and RONELO each have baby girls that they're obviously proud of - they've showed me their pictures. Ronelo emphasized that his girl got her good looks from him. He also likes to remind me that he's the best looking guy in the house. David, on the other hand, first told me his name was Brappy, so I could never figure out who David was. Eventually it was clear that David tried to tell me his name was Brad Pitt. heh heh, didn't work so well.
ANDRES was sick and quiet for the first week I met him. Then one day he instantly felt better and started teasing everyone constantly. Funny guy, but I don't know where he get's his energy from.
Last week a praying mantis landed on my leg. I only know those freaky bugs from nature shows when they fight each other to the death, so, naturally, I freaked out in a very manly fasion. You've gotta see them, they have huge pinchers!! Andres caught the praying mantis and chased me around the kitchen table reassuring me they are harmless. ...turns out he's right. I held it in my hand and it just relaxed. Regardless, I was happier with it outside.
YIMY (pronounced Jimmy) is studying to be an electrician. He also used to play soccer for a just-below-pro team here in Santa Cruz. He's a quiet guy, polite and confident. Actually, all the guys are very confident and most are polite too.
Like Sandro, JOSE MIGUEL comes across as serious, but in this case he actually is. A nice guy though who's been kind enough to come with me into town a few times to use the internet.
JESUS has been rather quiet and I haven't chatted with much. He has a son who is scared of white people.
I'm sleeping on the floor in RUDDY's room. Everyone else has 2 or 3 in a room, but Ruddy. I dunno if that has to do with good behaviour or what, but it works for me. He seems to have a healthy balance in his life. It's not rare to catch him singing or whistling while doing chores - sometimes trying to sing louder than the other boys. Plus, he's incredibly patient, especially with my Spanish and teaching how to play the sampoña (the typical reed instrument you'll hear in Bolivian or Peruvian folk music). Lately he's played a song or two in bed before turning the lights off. I honestly think it helps me sleep better.
Ruddy is studying communications to possibly be a radio personality or something in the radio/music industry.
Those are the boys. From what Ken tells me, the typical story of street kids in Santa Cruz is something like this: Their parents split with the mom taking the kids. She finds a new man who then abuses the kids, so they escape the bad scene at home for another bad scene on the streets. Many turn to drugs and alcohol to cope, which is funded usually by stealing. Some kids voluntarily show up at orphanages for a better way of life. For Ken's boys, this is mostly the story they have and some are still struggling to keep their past behind them.
With that said, these guys are now studying at university with all of their expenses paid for. They live in a clean home (and what a beautiful home!) which they help to maintain. But most importantly, they're quality people. It's been a privilege staying with them.
written by  ryanmyers on April 6, 2009 from Cochabamba, Bolivia

Feria Fever
Cochabamba, Bolivia
For the month of May, Cochabamba is my home. My friend Flor, who I know from Huancayo, scored me a flat in her building for about half the cost of a hostel. I'm not gonna lie folks, my room looks pretty sweet. There's a sleeping bag inbetween a backpack and a chair. It's luxuriously spacious! Don't underestimate my chair though. I haven't sat in it yet cause it's been my bookshelf, nightstand, towel rack and table to burn insense, which masks the peculiar odor. And to top it off, my place is literally a 10 min walk from everything - the university, Sunday market, many parks, the "Whyte Ave" and enough restraunts to try a new one everyday until I leave. Which, by the way, the fruit salads and juices here are amazing!! And the world's largest Jesus (apparently bigger than Rio's) is about an hour walk away. Up a lil mountain mind you.
On Saturday night Flor, her friend Freddie and I went to the Feria - almost exactly like the exhibitions. The commercial exhibits were, let's say weird. For example, the shampoo exhibit had you walk inside a mirrored corridor that got smaller and smaller. Then you left. Like I said, weird. I was thankful that everyone else looked baffled too. Almost all of the exhibits, like the tile or cooking oil exhibit, had beautiful girls in princess dresses sitting in chairs smiling. Anywho, that was the commercial area - the rest of the Feria was more or less normal with beer tents, artisans and rusting rides. Now, I'm not gonna lie here because it's relavent to what follows. I had maybe the equivalent of 4 drinks, danced to some Cumbia and went home.
I've been in Cochabamba for a week now, but haven't spend as much time outside of my flat as desired cause I had to fight a fever - and not the Saturday Night Fever variety. I can handle that. Really. The morning after the Feria I thought I had an unjustified hangover, so it wasn't a fair fight from the start. What else would you think when you vomit in the morning after some drinks? So I slept that day away, but felt alright by 'bed time'. I won that round.
I felt so good I didn't think there was round two. In fact, I was aces in the morning and downed a delicious banana milk smoothie with a fruit salad. That night my fever came back with avengence. I was so hot that you could boil water on me - which is good cause you can't drink the tap water here. That lasted all night, but by morning and without warning it submitted defeat. Psh, they always do. I've been feeling great for a few days now - stool and all.
written by  ryanmyers on May 5, 2009 from Cochabamba, Bolivia

Futbolin
Cochabamba, Bolivia
The boys finally found futbolin (foosball or table football) at a mini fair their neighbourhood had to celebrate its anniversary. They found my chance to make Franz my cachiman!
I would have been extremely surprised to see a shiny Tornado foosball table there, but that didn't stop my heart from slumping when I saw what I expected. The vintage tables had been repaired so many times, that few had their original parts. The tables rattled off sounds similar to kicking tin cans and spinning rolling pins. Upon closer inspection I noticed the players were all metal for increased lifespan and decreased in-game control.
After all the smack talk I dished out, it was important that I beat Franz. Even Ken asked me to whoop his boys for him - they can be cocky at times too. If I was going to beat Franz, it had to be on his home turf.
The group was just Andres, Sandro, Franz and I. The game was winner plays on. Franz beat me 4-1 in the first game, then beat Andres and lost to Sandro's crazy style. Then I wooped Sandro and Andres only to lose to Franz 3-2. Franz won the next two games and then beat me a final game 3-2. I still think I'm awesome, but yeah, I'm Franz's cachiman forever.
-o-o-o-o-o-
--o--o--o--
Later in Cochabamba I played Flor and came real close to losing a best of 5 series. It came down to the last ball of the last game, but this time I saved my pride. Plus, I let her use spins. Woot woot!!
written by  ryanmyers on April 28, 2009 from Cochabamba, Bolivia

Email Extracts
Sorry folks, I've been piss poor at keeping the blog current since I left Cecilia's. Almost my all time on the internet is spent replying to emails (corporate_junky@hotmail.com). I've scanned through my 'sent messages' and pasted stories from the last few months here in Bolivia. I'm a grammer geek, so square brackets [ ] indicate an addition to the original quote.
APRIL 8, 2009 to ERNA from SANTA CRUZ
I still haven't shaved since Huancayo or cut my hair since Canada [I buckled after a week of Santa Cruz weather, but got it back in Cochabamba!]. I gotta say, this is quite the treat!! I've dreamed about being this scruffy before, but never got to live it until now. And the humidity is definately helping my hair stay curly at a longer length. I don't think I could keep it this long at home.
Oh, and the weather here is much hotter than Lima. Bolivia is land locked, yet it is mucky and hot here cause it's only 400m above sealevel and in the jungle. And, I'm FINALLY reaping the benefits of living in the Andes for 3 months. When playing soccer with the guys [Ken's guys] last night, I could run as long and hard as them. Funny cause I'm not exactly in shape and some of these guys used to play for quality teams. Now I just need some coordination [any at all] with my feet and I'm good to go.
APRIL 8, 2009 to TARA from SANTA CRUZ
Sometimes it's frustrating [learning Spanish] because I learn the same word about 50 times (no exaggeration!). Often I recognize the words, but don't remember their definitions. Other times I understand the words, but not the sentences. Funny story, I was having dinner with a Kati in Lima when her friend joined us. Her friend was speaking talking about me in front of me, but I couldn't decifer exactly what she was saying. She finished by saying "No entiende mierda" (literally "he doesn't understand shit"), which was the only sentence I knew. That was about all I understood, so I said, "No, entiendo mierda". She was a little embarrassed.
I'm hanging out with 9 ex-street kids who had/have some problems - almost all are around 20 yrs old, so I hope I can be a good influence. Plus, Ken said he has 9 guys staying with him, so if I sleep on the floor (which I am), then what is one more?
I've only been in Bolivia for a few days, so it's hard to say exactly what the differences are. Plus, Santa Cruz people may be different from other Bolivians [They are!]. One difference is that people in Santa Cruz say "Bueno dia" and "Gracia", not "Buenos dias" and "Gracias" [Woowee, them folk are hard to understand!! Folk in Cochabamba are much easier to understand.]. I suppose they lost their S's a long time ago. And the cars honk less here [On second though, I think I've just gotten used to it]. However, I suspect that further west (closer to Peru and back in the mountains), the culture will be very similar to Peru.
APRIL 11, 2009 to TONY from SANTA CRUZ
I've told a lot of people down here how proud I am for you [for the Inka Jungle Trek]. Today we were at a pool with a giant mariposium (a ridiculously large butterfly and bird enclosure) with a tall look-out tower. One girl tried to climb it but her fear of heights had her drop on all fours and tremble. It really helped solidify how terrifying heights can be for some people. It also reinforced how difficult the trip must have been for you. Good on ya, pops!
As for down here, the other day I went to a slum home, which was the size of your kitchen. I gotta say, it was humbling. We made empanadas with them, which in hindsight, I think was more food than they had in their house. I played some soccer with the guys in the family and lifted weights with the dad! haha, obviously he was stronger! He also shared his story of how he got off the streets and how god has helped him out. He spent over 8 yrs on the streets before finding his own land and building his own house. Tough life. [my facebook pic is from here]
Probably the best part so far has been hanging out with the ex-street kids here. We call each other cachiman, which is their own slang and roughly means slave or servent. I suspect it's a little more rude, but who knows. Either way, they've been incredibly welcoming and patiently chat with me. The other day I had a long conversation about Evo Morales with one of them, which was a part of my choice to come here - to see how people view him.
Anywho, take care of your body, too pops! I've definately been getting my fair share of exercise. You wouldn't believe how much physical labour I've done down here. I've yielded machetti's several times lately. [Don't worry, I wasn't partaking in genocide, but helping out a grade 11 mission group from Saskatoon]
APRIL 13, 2009 to MEGHAN from SANTA CRUZ
I went to church for your birthday, which was awesome because there was lotsa singing and lotsa air conditioning. Santa Cruz is blistering hot! After that, the chaperones from the gr 11 class from Saskatoon had an Easter egg hunt for all of us, the boys and I included. The guys down here have all been extremely good to me - teaching me street slang and messing up my already not-so-good Spanish.
APRIL 29, 2009 to ERNA from SANTA CRUZ
Today was my last day in Santa Cruz. I leave at 6am tomorrow for Cochabamba. And yeah, I saw Che's moselium, execution site, last battle site and the location where his body was shown to the press. To be honest, the conversations I had on the tour were as good as the tour itself. I went with an Irishman and an Israeli and our guide was from Germany. The best conversation we had was in the hostel with the hostel lady who is from Cochabamba. [Woowee, was she passionate about her politics! Good to see.]
MAY 14, 2009 to TARA from COCHABAMBA
Funny enough, there's a bug here in Bolivia around Santa Cruz that'll bite you and half of your face will be paralyzed for a week or so. After that you're fine. Average Bolivian's don't seem to know this though, only doctors [Ken spoke with his doctor about this one]. So there's a wive's tale that if you leave the house just after showering in the evening you'll catch a cold cause of the temperature change. You gotta realize how rediculous that is - Santa Cruz is tropicly hot as hell. Their nights are at coldest 15 degrees and in freak insidences get down to 5, so if that was the case we'd all be permanently paralyzed in Canada!
MAY 20, 2009 to TARA from COCHABAMBA
And yup, things are cool down here. Tonight I'm gonna go to a show on how dada art influenced punk rock. [I understood the punk part cause I was famiar about it, but the dadism portion was a little tougher. I think he was arguing that dadism broke all rules of art, granting freedom to artists. Thus opening the doors for the possibility of punk. Personally, I think that's a far stretch and rather dadism is connected much closer to psychadelic rock (The Beatle's "Number 9") or experimental rock (The Velvet Underground's "Heroin") than punk. I think if there is a connection between visual art and punk it's more likely to be found in an art style like deconstructivism or whatever style is simple, yet strong.]
MAY 24, 2009 to MEGHAN from COCHABAMBA
I went to a pet market today. Outside the soccer stadium is a small market where you can buy fish, iguanas, cats, dogs and crabs. I'm not sure why you'd wanna buy crabs. You can get that free in most public washrooms. Anywho, there were tons of puppies that you'd wanna hug and kiss for hours. My favourate were the wrinkle dogs, hehe, they look so funny! [Notably I beat Flor at foosball with only my left hand - not that I'm bragging.]
After that Flor and I went to an artisan market. Honestly, the coolest stuff they had were plants. I suppose I'm not keen on buying trinkets. Just not my thing. But the plants are freaking cool. Most plants here are dirt cheap and the dirt is even cheaper!! Plus, tons of plants that we can only grow during the summer and inside can be grown outside all year round here. For instance, there are many poinsetta trees here.
Adam once told me that his dream home would be a penthouse and on the patio he'd have tons of pine trees with a fire pit in the middle. That way he could go camping on a highrise downtown. Cool idea, hey? Well, if I lived here I'd definately do that, except I'd have orange, mango, apple and avocado trees.
written by  ryanmyers on May 25, 2009 from Cochabamba, Bolivia

Second Hand
Below I tweaked an email to Nicola today:
I went to the Cancha (a second hand market in the rough parts of Cochabamba) yesterday with Amy, a cool Missionary girl I met here through Ken. She's actually a former punk rock band manager, but now has her own Mission that reaches out to kids on the street. She describes her job as respondnig to random chaos everyday. Rewarding, but challenging.
Oh man, is there a lot of crap from back home. Most of it is from the US, but there's tons from Canada, too. Apparently, when in Tanzania, Adam saw t-shirts from Edmonton a few of the guys. Even crazier is how many shirts are brand new. Most are ugly participaction shirts and a few have their Target tag still on.
Anywho, the market was crowded with people, garbage and literally towering piles of clothes - neatly separted into male/female and adult/kids. Some venders has small shops displaying their product on hangers, but when a shirt was on a hanger you'd know the price was inflated - around 20 Bs. (CAN$3.50). The real bargains are found in the 5 Bs. bins (CAN$0.90).
After digging - literally digging - around for a few hours I walked away with a knife, 4 Reeces Peanut Butter Cups and a thin, soft, blue t-shirt from one of the 5 Bs. bins - woot woot! I gotta remember to wash it before wearing! And the Reeces, you gotta understand how rare a find that one is. Thanks Amy!!
Aside of the clothes, it's really like garage sale shopping back home. The exact same plates, pots, X-mas decorations - even kids books in English. Oddly, it's all priced equal to the brand new stuff here. I think that's cause the new stuff is poorer quality, less durable. God bless plastic. :P With that considered, if I were to live here my flat would be decked out with sweet vintage swag.
written by  ryanmyers on May 28, 2009 from Cochabamba, Bolivia

Quickie Before I Catch My Bus
Last night was my going away shin-dig. Flor invited all of her friends that I've met and hung out with over the last month - which is a cool mix of great people! We turned my room into a luxurious pub with 4 chairs and one table.
Last night demonstrated the international culture of drinking. For example, jello shooters are international, while booze soaked gummie bears are not. As well, the game of 'Buzz' (using multiples of 7 and numbers with 7) is international. I didn't expect that one.
Anywho, I really gotta run. My bus is leaving soon and I need to eat dinner.

¡Potosi No Es Posi!
Potosi, Bolivia
Originally I wanted to leave Cochabamba for Uyuni on Saturday morning so that I could visit the Uyuni Salar (beautiful dried up prehistoric salt lakes) on my way to meet Jordan. Instead, I stayed a day later than desired for my going away fling - well worth it. As a result, I couldn't catch a bus until Sunday night.
It's Monday morning now and I'm in Potosí, the closest "major" city near Uyuni and the world's highest city at 4000 and something meters. The buses usually leave here every day at 11 for Uyuni, but there's an agrarian strike. The one company that is still running that route failed to mention the strike and the danger factor of trying to reroute a blockade. I'm a little hesitant to go with them.
I'm not sure what I'm gonna do - wait it out or head south for something else. Wish me luck!!
written by  ryanmyers on June 1, 2009 from Potosi, Bolivia

I Got Mine
Tupiza, Bolivia
Email to my mom today:
It's your son, Ryan, here. I'm in Tupiza, Bolivia, which is about 4 hours from the border with Argentina. I was hoping to sneak in a trip to the salt flats between Cochabamba and Buenos Aires, but it's not possible.
Upon arriving in Potosí I found out that there is a blockade between there and Uyuni, thus preventing me from entering the salt flats. Having lost some time I couldn't squeeze in a trip to the salt flats, so I grabbed a hostel in Potosí. At 4000 and some odd meters there the nights get fairly cold, so I was happy to find the hostel had a heater in the room and gas powered showers! Woot woot! Literally the best shower I've had in over 2 months.
With a day to kill in Potosí I went on a tour of a mine. You gotta note, it's NOT an abandoned mine. In fact, there were workers working during the tour. They were replacing a brace that was colapsing. The tour was surprisingly interesting for a mine. Our guide was a former worker who started at age 12 as a gopher for his dad. He took us through tunnels smaller enough that you had to crawl on all fours and showed us El Tio. Apparently outside the mine, the miners worship God normally, but inside the mine they worship El Tio (a.k.a. the devil). I can see why - it's hot, mucky, dangerous and the work sucks. It certainly feels like hell. I guess if you go on a Sunday you can see them sacrifice a llama at the entrance. You'd think it's a joke until you see the blood all over the mine entrance.
After leaving the hell hole we we lit some dynomite, took some pictures with it lit and then nervously waited to watch them blow. Good times, good times.
Alrighty, I'm off to write a few more emails before grabbing an empanada and some sleep. I'm exhausted after last night and the ensuing bus ride. Last night I hung out with 3 English dudes - one of whom turned 40, 2 Yankees, 1 Irish dude, an Italian guy who can't cook pasta, a French guy, 2 girls from Barcelona and a Dutch named Has. It was somewhat of a birthday celebration, so I had some drinks against my best intrest knowing I had to catch a bus at 7am. Well worth it though, as it was an interesting mix of people - everyone having incredibly different personalities. I spent most of the night chatting between Spanish and English with the non-English natives. It was a real sign that my Spanish has come a long way. Heh heh, I think I'm ready for Argentina's differnent take on the language.
written by  ryanmyers on June 2, 2009 from Tupiza, Bolivia

Raw Hide
Tupiza, Bolivia
I did my best not to exaggerate or be expicit below. I succeeded on the first.
Tupiza is a country town. They play country music, have rodeos and live in cactus country. Hence, I was pretty stoked to be going on a 2-day horseback trek. I signed up with Elissa, an Aussie that also wanted to see the salt flats, but had to change plans cause she couldn’t wait for the blockades to subdue. The tour company asked us our experience, which is little for the both of us (although Elissa took riding classes when she was younger than she can remember). I guess they have docile, medium and crazy horses – we got medium based on our previous experience.
On the first day we were given vinyl chaps that were actually vinyl flooring with velcroe, but did the trick just fine. I was wearing my new plaid shirt from Cochabamba's second hand market along with my beard and cowboy curls. Even the "chaps" made my hiking boots look somewhat like cowboys boots. I looked the part. And by 'part' I mean awesome!
Anywho, we left town for a rainbow scape of mountains - white salt-licked mountians, contrasted by rich red soiled mountains, alongside grey mountains peppered with cactuses. The natural high of the experience was amplified when Franz, our guide, booked it galloping. Not to be outdone, my horse took-off without command and we were racing a creek through a valley towards insane rock formations - where we stopped for a break. The rush certainly made my camera smacking my arm not seem so bad at the time.
Later, on our way to lunch, Oscuro (literally "Black" - the name of my horse) took off running again. At this point my back pack unzipped from the consistant up and down. Thankfully, Franz recovered my t-shirt. During lunch I realised my snacks fell out too. Oh well.
We had lunch under the shade of some huge trees beside a fast-flowing river. Lunch was delivered via motorcycle and I'm not sorry to say it was late. It gave me a chance to refill my filter-water bottle. That was a real bonus cause I lost that earlier and received a replacement in Cochabamba. Thanks Mom!! ...I also had the chance to take a nap in the shade. Although, I couldn't seem to get comfortable. It felt like there was always a rock under my butt. Once I was back on Oscuro I realised the bouncing up and down was the cause.
During our final stretch Oscuro was antsy. That ...horse didn't want to walk - only trott or gallop. Franz figured he was impatient and wanted to get to food, water and shade. What that meant for me was more ass-slapping fun. I gotta admit though, he sure was exciting when he got going fast. The odd time there'd be a dip or hole and he'd jump over. I'm still not sure if I was ever in control. He'd listen to faster, but fought me like hell when I wanted him to slow down. Once again, some stuff fell out of my bag. This time Franz brought me back my back my toilet paper. That evening I figured out that my precious water bottle also took flight! Ah well, what can you do.
I was a little disappointed that we didn't get to camp, but that desire was gone got to our hostel. It was rustic. Found in a beige village of adobe houses, this place had two floors - one with nothing but beds and the other with a kitchen and a table. While waiting for dinner I played the neighbour's boy at UNO. That kid cheats, so it was fun to beat him. hehe
After dinner, Elissa, Franz, the nice lady who cooked our meal and I played UNO over a few beers. At one point I felt the back of my pants, which was wet. I didn't remember having a wet fart, but was scared I shat my pants. I played out the games and beers, planning on checking the situation before I went to bed.
Upon inspection I was releaved to find bowel-control was not the issue!! Instead, riding Oscuro had chafed my butt, leaving me with a red rorchach nicely folded together. The chafe had been weeping and even bled a little, leaving my pants now crusty. Yeah, it's disgusting, but imagine how my butt felt!!
Elissa and I had a good laugh while falling asleep over how awkward it'll be to explain to Franz. In reality, it's surprisingly not. He just laughed.
Getting on the horse this morning was hell. And Oscuro's angst hadn't left either. When Elissa's horse would walk, mine would trot at the same speed. He helped the saddle slap my chafed ass all day. The only time both Oscuro and I were happy was when he was galloping. I could stand up on the styrups and he could sprint - sometimes off the path and a few minutes outta the way. hehe, and about an hour after I left the hostel I realized my bracelet that Flor had made me fell off during the night. That sucks cause it was a cool bracelet.
Finally we got back to the hostel. The first thing I did was wash my pants and undees. My pants look surprisingly well, but my undees look like I wasn't prepared for that time of month. I hope they dry fast, as I have a bus to catch at 4am. I can't see how I look walking now, but I imagine I look like I spent the night in prison - walking no faster than my 94 year old grandpa. To top it off, my pants are wet, so I have longjohns underneath shorts. To compensate, I have about 5 layers of shirts to keep warm. I look rediculous. Elissa thinks I look like a man wearing everything I own.
I also found out that my toothbrush, toothpaste and floss flew out of my bag during the trip. Karma is either kicking my ass for something I did or I have real good luck coming my way!!
written by  ryanmyers on June 4, 2009 from Tupiza, Bolivia

Culture Shock
Buenos Aires, Argentina
Crossing the border from Villazón, Bolivia, to La Quiaca, Argentina, showed the difference money makes. Beyond cleaner streets and political posters replacing political graffiti, the lady selling orange juice on the corner wasn't sporting the classic Quechua bowler hat and a colorful blanket caped over her back. Instead she had a leather jacket and a friendly conversation.
My sorry lil' butt is happy to say that Argentina's legendary buses lived up to their reputation. No told me this before, but Alberta and Saskatchewan have relocated to northern Argentina. Looking out the window of my bus I couldn't believe my eyes! There was the Canadian prairies, neatly divided into square fields with quaint country homes. We left behind sidewinding dirt roads in Bolivia for smooth straight roads, accompanied by telephone poles looking over barbed wire fences. What's more, the highways had passenger vehicles and old men driving giant farm machinery - both rarities in Peru and Bolivia! And there was ranch after ranch of Oreo cows.
Funny enough, I met several Peruvians on the bus. In fact, the person sitting next to me was 5 year old Carmena who couldn't stop talking. She told me I had caca in my pants - what a cutie! I also met a guy from Huancayo who recognized me from the carnival.
Anywho, last night and tonight I'm sleeping in an old colonial hotel in a part of town that was once for the rich elite, then for poor imigrants, then for poor artists and now for tourists. Today there's an antique market in the plaza outside my door and for anyone who likes old rock, you'd seizure in joy here! I held so many authentic classics, like The Beatles's "White Album", Pink Floyd's "The Wall" and Paul Simon's "Graceland". What a treat! And while I was sifting through the treasure there was live flaminco playing with tango dancers entertaining the masses outside cafés with GOOD COFFEE! The icing on the cake is the people watching. Old men in leather jackets and scarves, cross dressers and some of the most beautiful women in the world.
While meandering around the market I had many conversations with the venders - extremely friendly! Before I knew it 6 hours had passed, so I'm a little hungry now. Apparently one man said it's so safe here that he leaves his store unlocked. One morning he came in to find money on his counter and a note of what the person bought. That evening he left the change on the counter. ...alrighty, I gotta run and grab some eats. Chau!
written by  ryanmyers on June 7, 2009 from Buenos Aires, Argentina

Karma
Buenos Aires, Argentina
I came to the Buenos Aires airport today to meet Jordan. It's a tedious 2 hour cold bus ride from the city centre. I was a little late, but still waited over 3 hours and he never showed up. On the bright side his flight is supposed to arrive tomorrow.
written by  ryanmyers on June 8, 2009 from Buenos Aires, Argentina

Happy Canada Day!
Buenos Aires, Argentina
So I was late on my second go to pick up Jordan. The funny thing is Julio arrived less than 2 minutes after me to get Jordan. Then the three of us and Julio's wife Noemi spent the next 3 weeks together around Buenos Aires and Neuquen (which is a palandrome!). And, well, we were spoiled. We ate, drank and were treated like kings. I can't say enough good things about them.
We spent the first week in Buenos Aires, where we were taught how to make mate and were introduced to the pleasures of Argentinean life (dulce de leche, alfajores, mate, coffee, facturas (aka pastries), chocolate, pasta, steak, beer and both wine and beef that is sinfully delicious and ridiculously cheap. And that's not mentioning the world's best ice-cream. I never felt so emotionally satisfied while eating as I did then. Right after my last bite (of a 1/4 kg tub all to myself) the euphoria left me feeling a little saddened and wondering when I'd get my next scoop. I'm telling ya, it was so good that Jordan brought it back to impress a girl. No jokes. He sealed it up and put it on his luggage under the plane. Like I said, the world's best ice-cream.
The second part of my time with Julio, Noemi and Jordan was in Neuquen - an oil city inbetween BA and the mountains. There we saw Julio rock the casbah playing piano and singing with his band at church. You bet Jordan and I were dancing up front too! Over the two weeks we got to know some of the younger crowd and went bowling with them and danced late into the night at the church.
Jordan and I were keen on snowboarding, so we went to Bariloche. It's like Banff, but in Argentina. And it's famous for killer chocolate. Their Johnny Walker chocolate is essentially a quater ounce of booze encapselled in chocolate. We pulled into town at 5am and took a few hours to find a hostel that wouldn't charge us an extra night to sleep for a few hours in the morning. In the main plaza there was a huge stage set up to celebrate the Festival of Snow. Kinda lame though cause there wasn't even a flake (of snow) in town. Which was an extra bummer cause the snowboarding trip turned into your typical "lie your way backstage as magazine photographers and then dress up as missle toe and crash another hostel's Christmas party which turned out to be a sausage party". Sheesh! Although, after all was said and done, I honestly had a great time in great company.
We also took an earlier trip up north to see Iguazú Falls and hopefully hitchike our way back through Uruguay. That was a bust too. Jordan thinks I'm bad luck. I think it was destiny cause our failed attempt led to the best bus ride of my life - in luxurious seats, with plenty of wine, pillow fights and the occasional mooning of oncoming traffic. Yeah, we really bring out the best in each other! ;)
Jordan is gone and I'm back in Buenos Aires. I'm trying to get a job teaching English for a month here, but haven't heard back from the boss lady yet. Really, I just wanna know if it'll pay enough for me not to finish the month with less than I started with. Otherwise I'm better off continuing on towards Chile. If I don't hear from her tomorrow then I'll prolly skip town the following day.
I can't lie here, my Canada Day was fairly lame. I slept in and hung out in the hostel with the other tenents. They really are more like tenents. Bohemian tenents. All of them are from either Chile, Colombia and Argentina and all are artists. ...so it probably goes without saying, but all don't have jobs either. Except the Colombian hairdresser who's selling dope until he finds a salon to work in legitimately. Then his wife can join him here. After playing darts and exchanging music in the lobby I took off to buy some groceries, then ate my sandwiches and drank my beer (yes, the beer was my part to celebrate Canada Day, as well as wearing my Trade Mulroney t-shirt) while watching Shaft with a Colombian rastafarian. I finished off the day reading "Hey Nostradomas!" (a book I got from Jordan) before bed. Definately not the most exciting Canada Day, so I felt a little inspired to do something more today.
And I did. I got up late again, but this time went for a walk in the city's ecological park. hehe, but not before grabbing a choripan outside the park. Choripan is a fat delicious chorizo sausage in a bun and this particular establishment has more condiments than you figured existed. Anywho, BA has a large chunk land near a ritzy neighbourhood that's officially a protected area for birds and unofficially for the odd stray dog too. Which, by the way, I need to tell you that Argentina has the world's best fed stray dogs. They eat beef scraps and have the fat rolls to show it! My walk through the park was nice and the sun helped soften the cold of Buenos Aires winter, which is more like Edmontonian fall. I left the path to sit on some rocks and listen to the waves crash in. I was looking for some solace, which I think I found. I started to think that being alone is no problem. Being lonely is what sucks. Not that I'm never lonely, but down at the waterfront I was alone, not lonely. ...later on walking past couples making out made me feel lonely. Or something else altogether.
Looking out at the sea the sailboats and tugboats were dwarfed by the humungous cargo ships. I lucked out in choosing the centre of the park to relax cause the crashing waves were drowned in the north and south of the park by the sound of industry. It's no wonder the park is located by the waterfront - otherwise the city would have to look at rusting steel sail away and disappear before the horizon into the brown smog. Plus, trees help counter pollution.
Alrighty, time to hit the grocery stores and make me some dinner! I hope everyone had a great Canada Day!
written by  ryanmyers on July 2, 2009 from Buenos Aires, Argentina

Making Friends
Buenos Aires, Argentina, Argentina
In email to Gary:
haha, yeah, the hostel is actually some what of a dump. A dump, but a bohemian dump with heaps of character and heaps of characters. Last night I watched another movie with the Colombian rasta. School of Rock this time and thankfully with Spanish subtitles. Dubbed flicks always bomb. We hung out a little bit after, heh heh, which kinda sucks cause I can't follow any of his conversations, so I just sit and smile. I think the next hostel I stay in will be a little more of a gringo hostel. Sometimes those get old, but at least it's a little easier to make friends. Ya know, I never have a problem making friends with friend's friends - it's easy as pie. I'm in my comfort zone. But for some reason I'm shy when it comes to making friends with complete strangers. I hold back on my comments in fear of offending people. Truth is, my comments wouldn't offend me, but not much does. ha, and then the language barrier doesn't help much on top. ...but usually there's at least one person who's nice to me (and can understand me - that's always important) and then I start making more friends. Yup, that's the process of how I meet people right now.
The nice person at this hostel is Valeria, a fashion designer from a city north of here. She's trying to sell some of her designs and then wants to travel Europe. She showed me an reversable vest she made - not my style, but pretty cool. Today she told me about a Salvadore Dali expo downtown, so I'm heading there and then will prolly buy a ticket outta BA. It doesn't look like I'll be getting the English job here. I'm gonna call the big-boss-lady one last time to see what's up. No biggie though. My finances are a little better than I thought: budget traveller poor, not beggar poor.
You got a good idea, Gary, I should start painting you naked. Or at least drawing you naked. I can't really paint, but I sure as hell can draw. Maybe I'll start doing that and then once I get a collection I'll start selling to other travellers. It'll probably create an influx of Edmonton bound travellers.
Right now I'm reading a butt load. Jordan left me "Hey Nostradomas!" and I've plowed through it in 3 days. That's the equivalent accomplishment as Steven Hawking running a mile in 8 minutes. I haven't figured out exactly what this means. Either I'm bored and should change something or I should keep reading as normally I'm pretty lazy in that department. And before that I read "The 5 Love Languages". Hands down I speak Quality Time.
written by  ryanmyers on July 3, 2009 from Buenos Aires, Argentina, Argentina

Three Bums in the Park
Rosario, Argentina
I'm in Rosario, the birthplace of El Che. I went for a walk today and saw the house he was born in. Pretty historic looking. Makes me realize that our historic buildings look very temporary since they're all of wood.
After the house I went to the park along the river, which is kinda different from Edmonton cause Rio Paradarara.... (aka. I can't remember it's real name) is much much much wider and there's no city on the other side. It kinda makes you feel like you're at the end of the world, but can see a completely different one over yonder. heh heh, I should use "over yonder" more often.
Once I snapped a few pics (which I've been fairly lazy about lately - maybe a lack of inspiration, I dunno), I followed the park looking for the monument of the flag - a giant obalisk. Argentina's flag was invented in Rosario. Remember that a U of A grad invented the Canadian flag? I do.
Along the park I saw some dude reading a paper by a banged up guitar, so I mustered up the balls to ask him if I could snap a picture of him. Normally I walk past wishing I woulda asked the dude for a picture, but something about this guy seemed inviting. He was actually fairly cool about it, too. His name's Marcelo and first off he played me a song while I snapped some photos and then we started chatting. He tells me he plays guitar on the city buses at night for a living. Despite being a borderline bum and occasionally sleeping on the streets, he seems fairly well educated. Later he told me he is an avid reader, which may be the key. Either way, his wife is a nurse, so I'm assuming most of their income is derived from her side.
We chatted about life, love, street life, politics and religion before his buddy showed up, who is a real homeless guy. He said the world is his home. I told him he's got a beautiful home. I'm pretty sure the second guy was drunk cause he slurred a lot of his words and staggared when he walked. He also brought with him a cheap bottle of wine and kissed Marcelo a lot while telling him how good of a guy he is. heh heh, text book case if you ask me. Anywho, the three of us enjoyed each others company for another hour or so in the park over a bottle of wine. These types of moments remind me why I'm here.
Tonight I'm heading out to a salsa night at rock pub with three French guys who all love to sing in the shower.
written by  ryanmyers on July 8, 2009 from Rosario, Argentina

Cold Dessert Night
San Pedro de Atacama, Chile
Right now I'm in San Pedro de Atacama in nothern Chile and high up in the Andes. Here the sun is unforgivingly strong in the day, but well missed during the bitterly cold nights. This village is in the driest dessert in the world and boasts salt flats, salt lakes, incredible mountain biking, a plethera of hikes, geysers galore and is one of the world's best places to star gaze (the only time I've seen better stars was on the Whitsunday Islands, Australia). For this, San Pedro is Chile's tourist mecca. And I think there are more tourists per capita here than in Cusco, which has it's pluses and minuses.
The plus is I bumped into Arnaud, a French friend of mine from Mendoza, Argentina, who I hiked with in Aconcagua on route to Chile. He also put me in touch with his Bohemian buddies in Valparaíso (South America's Bohemian capital, a short few hours west of Santiago on the coast). I stayed with his friends there, but that's another story. I also randomly bumped into Flavien, another French friend of mine, while walking in the streets of San Pedro. I know Flavien from Córdoba. We, and a great group of Argentines, had a great time hanging out in that city, but again, those are other stories for another time.
For reasons unknown to me, the local authorities see it fit to have all establishments closed down by 1am - that includes bars. Which means there aren't any bars. It's a shame cause Flavien and I were keen to party. I got word that there was a bus leaving town at 1am for a place just outside of town limits. We waited at 1am for the mysterious bus, but it never came. Eventually we walked to the center of town (read 2 blocks) and asked a passing truck if they knew about this party. Sure enough, this truck was the transportation there. So after paying a small fee and a short ride we were on the outskirts of San Pedro at a private club. An odd experience this was. They had a DJ and a small beer only serving pisco sours and beer for a small fortune. Understandable considering there are no other options in this tourist hot spot, but still a tad pricey for this backpacker. It was also odd cause they didn't have any lights. Although there was a barrel with a fire, which was much appreciated on a cold night.
Today is my last day in San Pedro. It's too expensive here, but more importantly I'm really keen on heading up to Colombia to meet Harry. And hopefully visit my Peruvian friends along the way.
written by  ryanmyers on July 24, 2009 from San Pedro de Atacama, Chile

Rey de Futbolin
Santiago, Chile
Hey folks, just needed to brag. Along with an English girl named Sam, I stomped 6 Brazilians at fuseball consecutively.
written by  ryanmyers on July 21, 2009 from Santiago, Chile

Home Sweet Home
Lima, Peru
It's August now. Edmonton nights are getting shorter, slowly but surely, just like the time left in my trip. *sniffle* *sniffle* ...I've visited Perú, Bolivia, Argentina, Chile and now find myself back in Lima, Perú, awaiting the 3:45 to Tumbes - Perú's Pan American border city to Ecuador.
To be honest, I'm not hoping to spend much time in Ecuador cause I'm booking it up to Colombia to meet the self titled Harry "American Thunder Nutz" Kleeman. haha, I miss that guy! En route I decided to make a quick detour to Huancayo to visit Cecilia and brand spanking new baby. They are afterall my Peruvian family! Plus, it also served as a nice way to recouperate my body after a solid 2 days in buses and terminals. I remember dreaming in Huancayo of how it'd be like to return after some time on the road and to have different eyes. However, I never expected Huancayo to feel so much like ...home!
This experience was strikingly similar like family vacations to Saskatchewan. I recognized road stops, landmarks and was going to visit some people whom I'd like to see much more often. This sensation left me with nothing less than a confident smile. I truly forgot how it felt to have my bearings. To know where everything was. To not have to ask people where to find a bakery, bus station or a bank. And to know what street was coming next. I could walk around freely without the fear of getting lost! What's more is I could understand everyone! heh heh, that's right, I don't have to go home to get these sensations!!
It was a treat to have Cecilia's niece Ximena greet me at the door. She's an 8 yr old brat that can take it as well as she can dish it. It's much easier to make fun of her with my bigger vocabulary! Cecilia's mom, Jesus, was already cooking lunch for us. Ooowee, did I miss her cooking! Mm-mm!
And I got a great big hug from Cecilia. I was a little surprised to see her face so tired, but it quickly dawned on me that she did just have a baby less than two weeks earlier. I was especially excited to see Guillermo cause you could always tell he wanted to talk more, but the language barrier was, well, a barrier. So when he got home from work on his new motorbike we swapped stories of the last 5 months and chatted like old friends.
I also got my watch fixed in Huancayo, but the kid messed up the hands. When the minute hand points at 12, the hour hand obscurely points inbetween two different hours. So I don't know what time it really is now. I figure I should header and catch my bus though. heh heh, not like it'll leave on time though.
written by  ryanmyers on August 2, 2009 from Lima, Peru

Bus Buddies
Quito, Ecuador
Each bus ride is never the same. One of my latest bus rides was particularily memorable. I have a cup of coffee and rum waiting for me upstairs in my hostel, so I'll try to make this quick!
I took the cheapest bus I could find from Lima to Tacna - a 17 hour bus ride. Sometimes I'm too stubborn and cheap for my own good cause whenever you take a bus overnight or over 15 hours you should spend a little more for the added comfort.
I ended up sitting by a 37 yr old Peruvian who looked 27. He smiled and said "Shhhhh!" when he told me his age. I tried to chat, but it was obvious that my Spanish is still stunted cause we couldn't understand each other very well.
After the pit stop for dinner I noticed my bus buddy smelled like he just smoked an oregano cigarette. After a short bit with the lights off he seemed to be sleeping sound with the help of his herb. I, on the other hand, could not. The seat was stiff, the 4 young kids around us were crying, whining or banging on their seat and inside my stomache a little cramp was developing that needed some relief. If I was to sleep I had to relieve the pressure down below!
In the bathroom I encountered some bad news that made me freeze. The toilet wouldn't flush. I stared at the toilet and shook my head. There was a bang on the door, so I tried to flush again, but the water was out!! Seriously, what bad luck. Panicking, I found two plastic bags in my hoodie, scooped up my warm mess and hucked it out the window in two full loads!
Opening the door I saw everyone staring at me with their shirts covering their noses!! Ooowee, did I feel bad. Back in my seat I asked my bus buddy in a whisper if we were allowed to drop a deuce in the toilet and he burst out laughing. heh heh, that answers that question. While filling him in on what I did, one of the nose-covered suffurers from the back told the bus driver of my dirty deed. My bus buddy told me that meant I'd have to clean it up. Worse things have happened.
Thank god the next stop was only 15 minutes away cause I just wanted to get this over with. I went to the washroom and explained to the lady that I didn't want to pay to use the washroom. I just wanted a bucket of water and a crap load of TP. As soon as she figured out why I wanted that she burst out laughing. And, to be honest, cleaning the toilet wasn't that bad. I did most of the work earlier with my plastic bags. When I returned the bucket the washroom lady was laughing even harder. A bunch of the folk sitting near the back were there, so I tried not to laugh, but I couldn't help but crach a smile.
Once on the bus again I slept like a baby.
written by  ryanmyers on August 5, 2009 from Quito, Ecuador

Fun at the Frontera
Pasto, Colombia
I've been excited to come to Colombia for quite some time and this is my first experience:
The border between Ecuador and Colombia is notorious for scams and tricks, so when I arrived I was more cautious than normal. Some other Canucks I met told me that some thieves even dress up as cops to "inspect" your passport before taking off. In hindsight that'd be pretty impressive to pull it off considering the overwhelming police presence, all decked out in riot gear.
Over the my trip I've made it a habit to always ask several people what a good exchange rate or cab fair is ahead of time. I mean, the last person to tell you a fair price is the cabi or the money changer. Armed with knowledge that 2000 pesos to the dollar is fair, the money changers slowly offered me better rates from 1800 to 1900 to 1980 and finally 1990. The money changer pulled out a calculator from his fanny pack and showed me that US $80 times 1990 is roughly 132,000. That looked funny to me because 80 x 2000 is 160,000. The number should be relatively close, so I walked away, got my passport stamped and did my own calculation. It should be 159,200. I showed him how his calculator is magically wrong and that my math skills are old school, but sound. He reluctantly agreed and counted out my money. When I recounted the money he gave me there was only 132,000. I dunno how 25,000 kept disappearing. It must have been an honest mistake. Reluctantly he gave me the rest of my money and I hopped in a cab with some New Zealanders and an Austrian into the nearest town.
We dropped the Kiwis off in the centre and continued on to the bus terminal. The Austrian's guide book said US $1 is a fair price from there, but we were willing to pay $2. After all, we are tourists. But the driver was insistant that $4 is normal. He educated us that we are in Colombia now, not Ecuador. Thank you. The price of gas is much more expensive here and the 1km to the bus terminal is considered a very long ride for a cab. Interesting. After much arguing at the terminal he said, "Alright ask another cab driver!" Gladly, the Austrian walked up to another cab, turned to a local leaning on the fence and asked him. Sure enough, $1 to $1.50 is normal!! So we gave the sleazy cabi $2 that is more than fair and left. He didn't follow us or even shout at us walking away - and believe me, if there was a problem he would have!
Thankfully every other Colombian I've met since then has been incredibly nice and friendly. I even chatted with a friendly father and his son on the bus all the way from the border to Pasto. He told me to email him the next time I'm in town. And in all honesty, I'm still very happy to be in Colombia!
written by  ryanmyers on August 7, 2009 from Pasto, Colombia

Breath Easy
Manizales, Colombia
Today's tour consisted almost entirely of a bus ride with photo-op stops. It was a tour of Los Nevados National Park near Manizales. We started in the jungle where some plants had leaves bigger than bass drums and vines dangled on the road. That disappeared and was replaced by midgit palm trees that look more like they belong in the cactus family. Apparently they're only found in Ecuador, Colombia and Venezuela. That was followed by brown pine shrubs and eventually nothing. Absolutely nothing. No life. Just high altitude volcanoes and snow. Desolate.
Thankfully though, that was where the hike began. Today I learned why climbing Everest must be a bitch. The altitude alone can be a bitch and climbing uphill is never easy, but the killer was the relentless wind! When my Great Aunt Irene died there was an incredible blizzard, so we never watched the coffin let down. Instead we ran from the car to the funeral home gagging from the wind. That's what it felt like trying to breath here, except I was 5,125m above sea level and walking uphill. Sure, it was only a 1km walk with only a 300m increase in altitude, but it took close to an hour to walk it!
At the top the snow was fresh and I felt energized - on top of the world! Plus, the walk down (well, more of a skip) took only 10 minutes. :) The tour finished off by relaxing in some hot springs - you could tell it was the real deal from the wonderful sulfuric egg smell. I was a little shy to walk into the pool cause my torso is covered with 40 bed bug bites from Bogotá (I counted in the shower today). Once in the water though, all was good. Muy tranquilo.
written by  ryanmyers on August 11, 2009 from Manizales, Colombia

Futbol en Medellín
Medellin, Colombia
Right now I'm in Medellín and it's 28-32 always. It's called "The City of Eternal Spring". Yeah, after many months in moderate to cold temperatures I am finally in hot weather!! Woot woot!! It's beautiful here too - many trees and parks that create shaded areas perfect for mugging oblivious foreigners.
Yesterday I went to a soccer game with Harry and his buddy Joe. En route from the metro to the stadium we were followed like the paparazzi behind a naked Angelina Jolie. Except they didn't want pictures so much as coins and cigarettes. We met a couple of young locals and they accompanied us into the stadium and showed us where they liked to sit - way up in the cheap seats with the roudies! I was happy to be with some locals because some of the crowd didn't look too friendly. They continually asked us for smokes and coins (which baffled me because they all were sitting in the same seats as us - why beg to us??) and when I told them I don't smoke they looked pissed.
Throughout the game some more friendly people came by and chatted with us - explaining which players are good and that I am lucky I didn't come on Saturday wearing my red shirt cause I would have been beaten up. The opposition today had yellow and luckily Harry changed out of his yellow shirt just before we left for the game. Damn lucky! Joe, on the other hand, got it right. He wore green - like Los Nacionales, the home team.
Throughout the game everyone remained standing, continuously chanting along to songs that made it hard to believe the home team couldn't win. The yellows scored first, but that wasn't important because everyone chanted more fiercely with lyrics like "We have to win; We can't lose!"
After a while I realised why we were sitting where we were - the fumes from the pot everyone was smoking would blow out of the stadium with the night's nice cool wind. Plus, it was a great place for the boys to bark and whistle at girls passing by outside the stadium. Mmm, that's right, I haven't mentioned that yet. There was probably only 3 girls in the whole section. It was testosterone filled, so when a new girl entered the section all eyes turned as though we were all in a restaurant waiting for our food on empty stomaches. Eyes turned like the girl was the first plate of food being served. And in case you couldn't feel the testosterone, there was a mosh pit during the game too. Just to make it blatently obvious this was a manly event.
I was happy to see Los Nacionales win the game 4-2 - an exciting match too! Although our young friend told us the opposition lost before the game started. haha, that confidence seemed to be a norm amongst the fans. The bonus of the win was it'd make for a safer return to the metro.
written by  ryanmyers on August 13, 2009 from Medellin, Colombia

Nuevo Comencio
Santa Marta, Colombia
My first impression of Colombia was great - everything I expected! A population of beautiful people in a beautiful country that have been living in a dangerous and corrupt atmosphere to the point that they now live life to the fullest. My friends in Pasto helped initiate this impression.
The following three weeks, however, have disillusioned me. A Chilean girl I met actually warned me this would happen. The corruption, drugs and inflated gringo prices found in the main tourist areas has been getting to me. To be honest, I got used to being a novelty. Everywhere I've been (even the European influenced Argentina) I've been a novelty. In Colombia though, I've felt like a walking target. A lot of people in tourist areas aren't keen to chat and charge me prices that are outrageous in comparison to the cost of living in Colombia.
Last week I went to the Lost City with Jimmy and some English folk which marked the change for me and my experience in Colombia. The tour itself was hot and sweaty with short, but difficult hikes. The city itself was amazing in its own right, but not at all like Machu Picchu. Only 10% has been uncovered, despite much more being already discovered. This is because the natives (who still frequent the paths and live traditionally) have deemed the rest to be sacred and want left as is. And even in the 10% that is uncovered and restored, there is thick rain forest vegetation that isolates visibility of any given spot to itself. A true imagination is needed to view the city as a giant center of an ancient culture.
Anywho, this wasn't the changing point I'm slowly closing in on - just a prelude to where I was and what was happening. Our group had 15 people, 11 of which decided to finish the hike a day early. Jimmy, 2 Aussies and I wanted to take our time and finish it in 6 days. After all, we paid for 6 days, so that'd save me a days accomodation and food.
During the second last day it was just the 4 of us at the final camp. Jimmy and I heard about a waterfall nearby that you can jump 10m off of into a small lagoon, so took off in search of it. A young guy clearing some land said his dad can show us the fall if we go to his house up the road.
At the mud brick house was an older man sitting in a homemade chair apparently doing nothing. Behind him was a few ladies casually mustering around. Jimmy and I - sporting a moustache and a mullet respectively - inquired about the waterfall and the old man went searching for someone to help us get there. I figured it'd just be by the river and easy to get to.
Another old and bearded man showed up. Alfredo was his name and the first guy was his brother. Alfredo put on his rubber boots (apparently standard gear that the locals wear in this region - natives included) and had us follow him down the steepest mud path you could possibly walk on before you'd call it a slide. Along route I started asking the old man as many questions about him as I could think of. I just wanted to chat with the guy after spending so much time with gringos. He mostly fed me short, direct answers. At the bottom we scaled an intricate path amongst the rocks that you'd only know if you owned the land. We arrived at the base of one of the most beautiful waterfalls I've ever seen. I'm sure this would never win a competition against Angel Falls or Iguazu, but these falls were Alfredo's private falls on his land. You can't take a bus here, pay a park entrance and snap some photos with your cup of joe. This set of breathtaking waterfalls were Alfredo's and can only be found if you introduce yourself to the man.
He told us to be careful on the slippery rocks, but assured us we could walk under the falls. What a rush!! Right underneath the falls it was hard to breath with the water surging past causing the air to scream by.
This wasn't the place to jump, just a place Alfredo wanted to show us. He had us follow him scaling the up the rocks to the jumping spot. When walking towards the area there was a log sticking out of the water that looked like a mother holding a baby. Not important, but seemed to echo the natural beauty found here. On both sides were rock faces going straight up for countless meters meeting by a single waterfall feeding the deep lagoon.
Alfredo told us we had to scale straight up the rock to get to the jumping point, so Jimmy started climbing as though to get it over with. To be honest, I don't think it was 10m high, but it was high enough that any hesitation to jump would surely leave you chickening out. It was high enough to get the adrenaline pumping too. Although, I think the secluded pristine setting added to the euphoria we felt after flying off the rock face.
After our first jumps our white haired friend stipped down into his boxers and dived in, swimming to the waterfall for a refreshing shower.
On the way back to the house Alfredo started chatting with us, telling us that he owned the land from the waterfalls up to the top of the mountain for the last 27 years. He showed us his out-of-commission fish farm, the chicken coop he's building and all of the fruit trees he has. He farms cacau and coffee. The latter we got to taste when we got back to the house and spent some time chatting with the family and joking around.
Alfredo didn't want anything from us for the guided tour of his property. Instead he gave me the freshest cup of coffee in my life and introduced me and Jimmy to his family. What a cool dude.
This was definitely a highlight of my trip. Two days later offered me a second experience that makes me believe my experience in Colombia is changing.
Colombia beat Ecuador a the World Cup Qualifier game lengthening their chance at making it to South Africa. After that win they're tied with Argentina and Ecuador for the final spot. While walking back from the internet Jimmy and I heard some drums beating at an upstairs joint - the same drums we heard from our hostel when we watched the game. We stopped, looked at each other and both knew we were going there before either of us spoke.
Inside we were the only white folk and got a lot of curious looks for it - a good sign that we're welcome. I think these types of experiences are only possible when you have one, two or three people. Big groups are intimidating.
The band was all percussion and rocked!! The played afro-beats that'd make the most prude of people bobbing their head. The crowd inside was enthusiastic as hell and dancing in ways that would be inappropriate back home. Our waitress pulled us onto the dance floor to everyone's amusement - they loved it! We knew they were laughing at us, but it was to everyone's benefit and more and more people came on the floor to show us some new moves and dance with us. And we danced having a ball. But they kept telling us to dance, which we soon realised meant move your hips. Their version of dancing couldn't be described without words like gyrate or grind or hump - and EVERYONE danced like this!! The old men, the middle aged women, the fat lady and especially the 15 yr old girl. Man, she's going to be recruited to dance in a rap video shortly. Jail bait, that is.
As long as the band was playing, Jimmy and I kept the beer flowing and our hips moving. I'd be lying if I said I could remember having more fun dancing than there. They wouldn't allow otherwise. By the time we left we had a few drunks filling our table with drunk talk.
After our stint there Jimmy and I met up with the English to head out for the night. The first club rejected us, so I cut my losses and went back to the hostel happy with the night I already had. Man, that was such a weird combo - some of the most sexual dancing I've seen, yet it was also innocent fun.
written by  ryanmyers on September 6, 2009 from Santa Marta, Colombia

Dear Gary
Riohacha, Colombia
Where I ended going was a small place called Casa Grande in between Palamino and Santa Marta. It's run by a Colombian guy named Jorge - or Jota as everyone including his 9 yr old son call him - who lived in Canada for some 7 odd years or so cause some of his family was kidnapped, so the safety issue warrented a move. The move had him working 3 jobs at a time in St. Catherines and eventually in Calgary doing catering for the Flames. As I left today he told me I'm an alight guy except that I cheer for the Oilers. Ya know, I really ought to send him some Oiler merchandise when I get back home.
Now everything has calmed down drug war wise and Jota is looking after some beach huts on the Carribean coast. He's living what we'd call the easy life, but he figures he's earned it after busting his butt in exile for over 9 yrs. Last year two Canadian brothers from Burlington entered his life and after falling in love with the place proposed setting up a surf school, which they officially did so this January by weasiling their way into a student visa.
In Santa Marta some sepos running a new hostal told me about the surf school, so I decided to check it out. I have only surfed once before, 9 yrs ago in Byron Bay on a longboard that you could safely take your family from Cuba to Miami on. With my lack of experience I chose to learn myself the ways of the board and after two days on the waves managed to catch many and wimpily stand up on one. Picture a kid first learning to walk - that's how cool I looked! ...except probably not as cute with my mullet. No worries though cause I caught the jist enough to want to try again when I get to Central America.
To be honest, I'm not sure what my Venezuelan experience will be like. There is one city which is supposed to be safe, so I'm gonna take 2 days to get there. Along the way I'll see if there are any cool places to stop off at. If it doesn't feel right then I'll probably leave within a week and jump back into Colombia.
As for jungle animals, I saw some big ass toads and tons of mozquitos n' sandflies. I can't imagine the correlation is coincidental. Now my feet are polk-a-dotted and puffy. Oh, there were also some beautiful butterflies and in the rivers there were fishies that liked to nibble on your sandfly bites. That was a little disturbing, yet oddly cute. Other then that there wasn't much fauna. The flora, however, was as abundant as it gets. Every tree was a host to 5 or so more species of plants, including vines, mosses and ferns. In the Lost City it really looked like a scene from Indiana Jones.
written by  ryanmyers on September 9, 2009 from Riohacha, Colombia

Santa Cruz to Merida
Merida, Venezuela
My short surfing career ended last week as I packed up my sandy tent - which has added a load of weight to my already heavy pack. Lately I've been thinking about what I should ditch to lighten the load, yet everything seems essential. ....well, minus that kilo of yerba (herb for mate) I have. While I was on the Carribean coast I wasn't really keen on making a hot cup o' mate.
Anywho, I hauled my buldging bag from Casa Grande to the highway and stuck my thumb out at oncoming traffic - finally putting my money where my mouth is. ....although, that phrase doesn't really apply to hitchiking, does it? After a short 15 minutes a yellow Jeep stopped. I ran over and threw my bags in the back. Unfortunately they were only going 15 minutes up the road to the small village of Huacachina. The 50 year old lady in shotgun had beautiful eyes behind her giant shades and armpit hair poking out from her white summer dress. She wanted to practice her English, so she spoke to me in English and I replied in Spanish. We chatted this way until their destination just outside Huacachina. I waved the yellow Jeep goodbye as it disappeared on a jungle road.
Not even a minute later a mototaxi stopped and told me to come with him into town. I tried to explain that I was hitchiking, but he insisted on taking me. It took me a while to realise that he wanted to give me a lift to a better spot to get picked up. I felt bad for assuming he wanted me to pay.
In town I saw the yellow Jeep again and chatted with the lady. She asked me if I believe in god. I said no, I believe in love. To her they were one in the same. For me, not so much. Nevertheless, she and her man were done their business in Huacachina and were heading further up the road, so I caught a lift with them as far as they were going. At this point I waited a couple of hours, watching mototaxis, buses and the odd car zip by. No one stopped. Eventually I flagged down a bus to Riohacha, the last town of any size before the border.
I checked into the cheapest hotel I could find and passed out from the heat. My room wasn't far off looking like a jail cell. It was just big enough to fit a bed (without a sheet), fan, toilet, sink, shower and a TV strapped to the ceiling. The toilet-sink-shower combo was separated by a brick wall, probably to keep the smell from the toilet away because there was only running water for a few hours in the morning - and only from the sink. To properly flush your crap down the toilet you needed to fill up a bucket of water. The bucket didn't fit in the sink, so you have to use a bowl to fill up the bucket. The same bowl I used to shower in the mornings. ....well, by shower I really mean rinse the sweat off. In this heat there is no escaping sweating. I imagine the locals accept it because it's simply a part of life. They know no other way.
I really only stopped in Riohacha for one reason - to take out money. Usually it's easier to just take out cash from an ATM after you cross the border, but not in Venezuela. The official exchange rate is incredibly inflated at 2000 Bolivares : 1 USD. The practical exchange rate is 3x better at 6000 Bs : 1 USD, which can only be granted through the black market. Growing up I always imagined the black market to be some giant Arabian market with shifty eyed venders selling anything and everything from nuclear warheads to stolen Picasso paintings to babies (for adoption, slavery or eating - ya know, whatever the customer wants them for). The only thing that matched reality was the shifty eyed vender. At the bus station in Maicao (Colombia's border town) a kid brings you through a few doors until you get to a room with one guy behind a desk. Unlike the Colombian-Ecuadorian border money changers, these guys were legit. Their calculator gave me the rate I wanted and I was on my way.
I took a shared colectivo to Maracaibo with a family of Venezuelans from Caracas. The kid who helped me exchange my money told me the colectivo had AC. He lied. There I was, jam packed with 6 others for supposedly 3 hours in a gigantic rusty station wagon. All cars in Venezuela are giant and most are rusty. I can't justify the rust, but the size is cause it costs only 1 USD to fill up a full tank in a big ass car.
Crossing the actual border was probably the easiest one I've crossed so far. I just had to fill out a photocopied form, recieve a stamp and then was on my way. No x-ray of my bag, no search of my stuff, no nothing. Back in the colectivo, however, the reality of the situation arose. Apparently one of my co-passengers overstayed her visa to Colombia by a few days, so every checkstop we passed gave her a hard time. It wouldn't had been a big deal, except that we passed well over 10 checkstops within the first hour passed the border. Each time she argued with the cops which ended with her bribing them. Eventually our driver - a fat man with a sleazy moustache - said to give him the money and he'd do the bribing. I was happy cause he was much more efficient at it. And the officials didn't even care to look at the rest of our stuff once they had the bribe.
Once all the checkstops passed our car broke down. The driver assured me it was just a little problem. We drove at 10 km/hr for a good 45 minutes before it finally died. At this point our driver flagged down a cab for the family. I had to wait another 15 minutes before he could finally flag down a ride for me. I finished of my journey to Maracaibo in the back of a relatively new Ford pickup - not the ideal entrance into a city that has a reputation for crime and is not safe to go out after 5pm.
The truck dropped me off a few blocks away from the bus station, where I was to wait 8 hours for my night bus to Merida. At the bus station a pregnant girl shared some candy with me. First she asked me where I was from, then how long I've been travelling and finally if I have already had sex on my trip. Funny sequence of questions from a funny girl.
I almost missed my bus to Merida because I forgot to bump my watch forward. Thankfully the grumpy lady who sold me my ticket saw me and ran to the bus with me. She came with me not to show me where the bus was, but to secure me a seat. The first bus we tried was full, as was the second. It's a shame cause they were nice buses. The third bus was rickety as hell, so sure enough it had room.
The old man beside me didn't speak Spanish, he mumbled it. I couldn't understand a single word that guy said the whole trip. He never moved his lips, I think that was his problem. No biggie cause there's no need to chat on a night bus. Instead I tried to sleep while the leaky roof dripped water on my arm every time I started to drift off.
Once on the road we had to stop at 2 different checkstops. Here, not at the border, was my bag first x-rayed. At 2am we pulled into a gas station to fuel up and get some snacks. What looked like a routine stop turned into a 3 hour repair session. I stood outside the rickety bus and watched bus load after bus load of passengers get off and then back on their comfortable buses, then drive off into the darkness.
Finally, as the sun was rising, we all loaded our tired asses back on the bus towards Merida. Of coarse, my bus didn't go to Merida. I needed to catch a city bus for the last 45 minutes of the journey before reaching the beautiful Merida, nestled in the Andes. Beautiful Merida and her cool nights.
written by  ryanmyers on September 14, 2009 from Merida, Venezuela

Coincidence
Cali, Colombia
This happened to me once before when I was in Australia.
Yesterday Felipe, a real Colombian gentleman who I met last month in Manizales, and his girlfriend Carolina showed me around Cali, the salsa capital of the world. Normally Cali is incredibly hot and humid - that Latin heat I always imagine - allowing the local girls to flaunt the work of the world's best plastic surgeons city, but there was a fresh breeze. I suppose to cool everyone down from election day. It also helped that no one can buy or sell liquor (legally) on election day, leaving the normally lively streets empty.
Felipe and Carolina took me to a park with a comedian who thankfully used a lot of physical humour. Hell, I don't need Spanish to understand what a different guys look like at the urinals. heh heh, nah, just a rotten sense of humour! ....so yeah, he was hilarious.
Anywho, I got back to the hostel early and read a little before deciding to conk out. Just as I was about to turn off the light this guy walked in - the only other person in my dorm. He sounded North America when he said hi. Oooh, I was excited. Maybe another Canadian!
Hey, I'm Ryan.
I'm Mat.
Where you from?
Canada.
Where in Canada?
Edmonton.
Where in Edmonton?
Downtown.
No way, I'm from St. Albert!
Really! I'm from St. Albert originally!
It turns out Mat went to school with Meghan and knows Tara in addition to several of my friends. I've even partied with his younger brother several times. Finally, someone to talk hockey with!
written by  ryanmyers on September 28, 2009 from Cali, Colombia

Another Day in Pasto
Pasto, Colombia
Earlier, in Cali, I met Mike Johnson's older brother Mat randomly in my dorm room. It was just the two of us in the room, so it was a crazy coincidence. A fellow St.Albertan who went to high school with Meghan, knows Tara and played in a band with Conner. It was kinda surreal at first, but now it feels like I've known him for a while.
Anywho, he came with me to Pasto, where I have some friends (Melisa and her boyfriend) that I met cause Mom works with their relatives in the Calgary library. So we showed up at 5am after a god awful bus ride. I bargained to get the bus tickets for $12.50 instead of $16.50. I thought it was a sweet deal, but the my seat wouldn't stick in any position and there wasn't very much space for my legs. So there I was, sitting upright cause the lady behind me had a kid on her lap and kept pushing my seat up. Of coarse the lady infront of me also had a kid on her lap, so her seat all the way back. No inch of room to play with! Thank god it was only 9 hours - anymore woulda killed me. I couldn't have slept more than 30 minutes during the overnight trip, so Mat and I checked into a hotel and slept a solid 7 hours before getting up to meet Melisa.
Meli, her boyfriend Santo, Mat and I went for a scavenger hunt around town looking for a Santo's tent. His friend had the tent, but we first had to locate his friend's girlfriend to track him down. We tried several houses and talked with several old folk just chilling on the sidewalk, but to no avail. We even went into the Urgency Room - not to be mistaken with the Emergency Room. No, if your problem is an emergency you must procede down the road to the hospital. An urgent problem though, hell come right on in!
We never actually found the tent. Hopefully it'll show up before the weekend when we go camping. Eventually we gave up and went to the university, where we bumped into a punk rocker friend of Santo. The five of us chilled on the pasto (grass in English) in Pasto where all the uni kids enjoy the pasto experience.
All over town, and especially at the uni, was graffiti saying something roughly like "Gringos get out of Colombia" and "No Yankee bases in Colombia". Colombia's capitalist president Uribe (and corrupt as fuck with his hands in the coke mafias and paramilitaries) wants to set up some US military bases in Colombia. Beats me why. Funny though, being a foreigner with a North American accent walking by slogan after slogan telling sepos to get out.
Later we found ourselves waiting outside the house of another one of Santo's friends - Fabio. We waited on the stoop with a big bag of contraband norteño - cheap brandy from Ecuador - for several hours before Fabio finally showed up. He arrived just after La Negra. She says her name is too hard to pronounce, so everyone calls her Negra. Man, she's one of the craziest girls I've ever met! ADHD is the easiest way to describe her. It puts in all the right stereotypes you ought to imagine. And she's never serious either - even when she's telling you about her problems two minutes after meeting her.
Later on Santo passed out, so naturally Fabio wrote on his face with everyone's help. After waking up from camera flashes he and Meli went home. La Negra was buzzing mad like normal, but Mat and I needed to crash, so we took off to the hotel.
written by  ryanmyers on September 30, 2009 from Pasto, Colombia

Volcanoe Camping
Bogota, Colombia
I just watched a video Gary sent me of Jamie's birthday party. Everyone was decked out in cheezy 90's outfits - heh heh, nothing like a costume party make ol' Ryan miss home.
No worries folks, I'm not throwing in the towel and coming home. Nope. In fact, I just got my ticket to Mexico! There I was, complaining to the lady at the front desk of my hostel how I can't buy a ticket online when in walks a Venezuelan travel agent telling me she can get me a cheap ticket. Talk about perfect timing. So I'll be heading to Districto Federal (a.k.a. Mexico City) on October 8th on a cheaper ticket than I could find online! Woot woot!
Alrighty, so that's where I stand now. Saturday night though, I was standing on the side of an active volcanoe looking for firewood in the moonlight. And what a moon it was! Full and shiny, smiling down at us camping. Although, last night on the bus I thought that when the moon's face is tilted slightly he kinda looks like Jesus's face when he's hanging on the cross. Ya know, with his mouth open, eyes all glossy and looking down to his left. You see that picture on tons of buses here.
Anywho, Mat decided to stay for the camping trip on the volcanoe. I'm glad he did cause he's a super positive guy. Brings a good dynamic to the group. Plus, without him it would have been Melisa, her boyfriend, me and La Negra - the crazy girl from the other night. Oooh, that woulda been too coupley.
Mat and I packed up our stuff and sucked up our hangover, strapped on our shoes and mosied onto Melisa's house, where we had to wait an hour for Santo and La Negra to show up. Except they never showed up. By 1 in the afternoon I still hadn't eaten, so Mat, Melisa and I grabbed some greasy empanadas and the oldest hotdog I've ever had. HACIP would have a field day. Santo and La Negra eventually met us, then we had to buy groceries and gasoline. By the time we left it was 4:30, which only gave us one and a half more hours of sunlight for the 2 hour hike ahead of us.
To cut some time we bussed the first part. We later spent that saved time ooohing and awing at a beautiful waterfall - something like 40 meters high and only accessable by hiking through dense bush and then scaling a rock face.
When I think of camping back home it always involves driving out with my car so packed full of stuff that there's barely enough room for passengers. Then you arrive to site 8 on circle B with an outlet and a picnic table by the grilled firepit. Nope, not here. We had to walk all of our stuff up. Yup, all the way up this volcanoe that apparently errupted on Tuesday. La Negra said it was a "code orange alert".
At first the path was easy, breazey, beautiful - it was wonderful, girl. As the sun set the path started to get tricky. The dirt path would slide away under you with each step, sending a dusty shower to everyone below. There was enough dust to inspire a full Woodie Guthrie album. Plus, around this area there weren't any roots to give your feet grip either. And the rocks you did grip would just come loose and happily bounce down the hill.
After the dusty dirt came the crumbly rock face. It was exactly as it sounds. Mat went first, which sent rocks whizzing past our heads. We desperately asked him to stop, but even when he was just standing there dust would shower down with the odd rock. After that we figured it best to go one at a time. While we were deciding this I was hanging on the side of a horizontal rock face with every limb clenched, dust in my face and sneezing like mad. Man did it ever get dark fast.
Once we passed the crumbly rock face Mat and I took out our head lamps - woowee, great purchases those were!! And we were the only ones in the group with them. Even with the headlamps it was tough to spot a way through the root maze. At one point I had to take off my back pack - the big one - and throw it uphill through the roots. Although Canadians invented basketball, I still contest that we aren't very good at it. The roots were entangled such that I had to toss my bag exactly top-to-bottom through the hole - no other way - then climb through and repeat on the next root hoop.
After that was a much easier spot of just thick dirt clouds, but with trees and roots to grab onto. Finally, finally at the top was a tiny creak that feeds the water fall. This is where we camped. Mat and I both decided that the hike was the highlight of the trip. Equally as hard as Machu Picchu or Lost City, but in the dark, with dust up your nose, sneezing and rocks flying by your head ontop of an active volcanoe!
What a relief to arrive. Mat built a fire and La Negra cooked while Santo and I set up the tents. Melisa took off her wet shoes.
Like I said earlier, the moon was amazing. Once the glowing Jesus-on-the-cross rose there was no need for flashlights during our countless fire runs. Ya know, even in the remote bush on the side of the volcanoe you can find garbage. During one wood run we found a TV. Just the outside though. I can't imagine the reception would be very good. At least it made for some fun photos.
Anywho, the next day we split up. Mat went to Ecuador, the Pasteños went home and I headed back to Bogotá.
written by  ryanmyers on October 5, 2009 from Bogota, Colombia

Continental Change
Bogota, Colombia
This afternoon I'm leaving on a jet plane, but figure I'll be back again. Yup, I fly to Mexico from Bogotá, Colombia, via Miami. I imagine coming from Colombia with a beard and dirty clothes will get US Customs all worried I have coke up my bum. Not the case though. If they decide to check all they'll find is traveller's diarhea!! haha, just kidding. I got over that a long time ago.
Yeah, about two months ago I started thinking about going home, continuing in my routine and seeing the same people I already know (and love), but after the last 10 months on the road it hasn't been appealing. I suppose it even scared me. I thought about it lots and figured this:
The only constant in the universe is change. We will change regardless where we go or what we do. Some change is growth, other regression and other nothing more than a unsubstantial difference. Nevertheless, if I return home I will change and - fingers crossed - grow too. However, living in Edmonton, continuing my job and watching hockey at the local pub isn't how I want to facilitate my growth over the next year or so. The path of change and growth are not definitive, but almost predictable. Granted, my future isn't written in stone and I can do much to change it, however I don't believe I would vary much from that path.
Staying in Latin America, on the other hand, will offer me a different path for change and - fingers crossed - growth. There are far more unknowns down here. That excites me! I don't know who will be my friends, where I'll live or what I'll do - which are some of the greatest influences on personal development. This may sound like I'm not satisfied with present Ryan Myers, but that's not at all the case! Nope, I still love me! hehe But think about it, it's obvious your experience makes you who you are and your journey in life gives you this experience. That much is for sure. So, if we are completely aware of this then why can't we manipulate our environment to facilitate the positive changes we would like to see in our lives!!
So that's one reason to stay down here. Another is that I can speak Spanish, but sure as hell am not fluent like immigrants in Canada can speak English. Another year down here ought to fix that. Another reason is that ol' Ryan has fallen in love with the culture down here. Much more open minded, social and flirty!
So far the three places I'm looking at staying are DF (Mexico City), Bogotá or Buenos Aires. I haven't been to DF, so I'm hungry to taste Mexico first before making any decisions. I hope it's spicy! However, I'm leaning towards Buenos Aires. It doesn't have the Latin flavour found in the rest of Latin America, but what a cool place!! So that's where I'm leaning towards, however if I can find a job for an NGO in Mexico or Colombia I'd happily go there instead. Plan B is to teach English. That's an easy job to find in these three countries.
Yup yup, so that's what went through my head and heart as I decided to stay here. Funny enough, I wasn't homesick once until I sent my Bob an email saying I'm not coming back. Then I started to realise it'd be much longer before I'd sip on a pint of beer in a pub while watching a hockey game with my friends.
written by  ryanmyers on October 13, 2009 from Bogota, Colombia

Babylon and Beyond
Mexico, Mexico
Last night I saw Havana lights while flying to Babylon. I was reading Ragtime over a couple screwdrivers, getting excited about the anarchist Emma Goldman. Kyle has a copy on his bookshelf, so when I spotted it in a book exchanged I figured it'd a be a goodie. During Emma Goldman's speech about how socialism and anarchism need to be united worldwide the captain said, "Ladies and gentleman, to your left you'll see the Havana city lights glowing. We'll be arriving shortly in Miami in 20 minutes." Except he said it in Spanish. And all I really caught was Havana, left, Miami and 20 minutes.
I never really wanted to stop off in Babylon, but beggars can't be choosers. Can they? And man o' man, what a joke. I was laughing with a Colombian dude named Miguel - he purifies the water in Bogotá - about how they'll take a retinal scan to ensure we're not terrorists. Being Canadian I had no problems, but others actually had to get all their fingers scanned and a photo of their eyes!! Paranoia, paranoia coming to get ya. My favourate part of the Babylonian airport was the security on segways. What a contrast to where I've been. And then instead of a lady mopping the floor a frail old man drives a zamboni around to buff it up.
While trying to find a bite to eat in the Miami International Airport (which shares the same acronym as Missing In Action), I discovered something about my Spanish. No one could understand my English! So when people don't understand my Spanish it's probably the same problem: theirs. Nah, the real reason is no one in Miami speaks English, just Spanish. No worries though. The only food that was open was a coffee shop or Burger King. I haven't seen that many fat people together in one place in a while.
Did you know that the MIA benches have arm rests? Makes it awkward to sleep on. The elevator music doesn't help either. I felt like I was being drugged to stay happy, but I knew better. The only pause from the music was the lady on the intercom. She'd tell me the time every 15 minutes and reminded me not to bring liquids or gels on the plane.
Currently I'm in the very center of Mexico City. At 5pm tonight I'm going to meet Carlos - a buddy I met in Mendoza, Argentina - and crash at his place. Cool guy, Carlos is.
Alrighty, I'm gonna go kill some time before meeting him. Maybe do something touristy or Mexiano. Like eat an empanada.
written by  ryanmyers on October 14, 2009 from Mexico, Mexico

Cultural Anthropology
Oaxaca de Juarez, Mexico
Time for some good ol' travel literature. I'm not talking about what bus to take, sights to see or how much to pay. I'm talking about the good ol' fashioned cultural anthropological type, self-reflecting on what makes us peoples of the world different from each other. -sorry, interuption. I'm on Skype right now and recieved this message from a friend: "Nada es mejor o peor que otro...solo distintoss" (no one is better or worse than another...only distinct). She's right of course, but that's a cop out answer. Which distinctivenesses are better?!
WARNING: Stereotypes point out differences between the AVERAGES of groups and by no means account for the totality of any group. Varity WITHIN groups always surpasses varity BETWEEN groups. Thus, their only purpose is to pinpoint generic social differences which make for hilarious racist and sexist jokes.
One conclusion (read stereotype) I've made is that Canadians are repressed in comparison to Latinos. Yup, we're repressed. Even with the liberal Colombians and Venezuelans aside, Latin America has no problem with public displays of affection. I dunno about you folk, but I still relate to The Beatles classic "I Wanna Hold Your Hand". Yeah, a public hand hold can still make ol' Ryan self conscious. I mean, she's touching me!! But that's not even considered PDA in Latin America.
Nope, what's considered PDA here is more overt. Here you gotta be caressing your lover's cheek while tasting the salt content of their sweaty neck. ....on the train. ....at 9am. Old, young, it doesn't matter. Making out in public is the norm. In fact, the absence of affection is a cause for concern. Are you ashamed of me? Are you not attracted to me?
If you're too selfconscious in public to kiss that special lady or man or lady-man then you care too much about what other people think. The lack of PDA in Canada makes me think we're a repressed culture. Not like Japan or Korea (why do you think they have such a ....*peculiar* underground sex scene?), but repressed nevertheless. I mean, whatever happened to the sexual revolutions of the 60's?! And the other ones for that matter. I'm telling ya, the revolutions of the 60's failed on every front. We're still consumeristic, imperialistic and sexually repressed. Maybe culturally we're back in the 50's. Picture it - if you were in the 50's you wouldn't know you were repressed. You'd be all like "Hot diggity dog, we've won so many liberties and freedoms from the war. Golly jee, life is snap, crackle and poppin!"
So that's sexual repression in public. But that's not all. The other morning (note it's the morning - not the time to be crazy), I had breakfast with Carlos's family on a roof top patio at some hotel over looking Zócalo (the central historical plaza in Mexico City). There was a live band playing some music - creating that thing we like to call atmosphere. You could probably guess that this is an upper-middle class establishment, not for the poor. Nevertheless a family sitting behind us was clapping and dancing in their chairs while chowing down the dainty cuisine. A beautiful mix of two of life's greater pleasures! Anyone else take George Constanza seriously? Think about it in context. Can you picture an upper-middle class Canadian family dancing in public restaurants (without alcohol)? Let alone in the morning. See? I would call that difference repression. We're afraid to move our bodies freely. Afraid we'll disturb someone else's dinner. Afraid we'll look stupid. We will look stupid. But that's not the point! The point is feeling the music and enjoyng the moment freely. Yup, we're repressed. Not just you, but me and every other Canadian afraid to dance to the rythem. The ones who aren't we call crazy because they break those social norms that protect our obese comfort zones.
It's fitting to note here what my dad said at a conference. He was describing the differences between Canadians and Americans, which he claims can be summed up in constitutional differences. Three words can be used as principles of each document. The fur traders honour peace, order and good government, while the Yankees honour freedom, liberty and pursuit of happiness. It made me laugh.
So there we have it folks, instead of talking about stereotypes of Latin American countries I've rambled on about Canadian stereotypes. Well then, let's discuss Latin American countries. I suppose there's not much more to say other than, no one is better or worse than another. They're only distinct.
Okay okay. Peruvians, Bolivians and Mexicans are mild mannered and humble. Argentinians are proud, as they should be. Chileans speak ridiculously fast. Colombians and Venezuelans are liberally minded and live life fully. All of them know their politics.
As for the other tourists, Australians and Irish like to drink and swear and Canadian girls like them both. Israelis bargain well and are proud of it. I have an affinity for the French and a sneaking suspicion the Spanish are always holding back a rude joke. I wish they would share. There's no need to comment on the English or the Americans. And hippies are the same everywhere.
written by  ryanmyers on October 22, 2009 from Oaxaca de Juarez, Mexico

Halloween in Mexico
Puerto Escondido, Mexico
I've been hearing about Halloween preparations back home, which has got me thinking. Next Halloween I'll go as Seinfeld. I also have a craving to go as a skeleton - although, if they encourage it for the day of the dead I'll do my best to go as one here in Mexico. I'll have to see though. Ya never know, it might be a mockery to their culture. Although that could just make for a even better night. I haven't had eggs thrown at me since my first year of high school.
One other costume I thought of would be the moon. You could wear all black sprinkled with an odd star - including a hood. Then paint your face as earth and your bottom as the moon. I don't think it'd be distastefull. Especially if you had some real constellations. I'd put O'Rion's belt on my belt too. Feel free to steal my idea. There aren't enough Halloweens in one's life to use all the ideas.
Anywho, I haven't told a story yet about where I am or what I'm doing, so I'll ramble on until a story comes out.
I'm in Mazulte. A town of 800, south of Ixtapa and Aculpoco. Google Maps won't produce it for me, so I tagged this entry as Puerto Escondido. But I ensure you Mazulte exists. I'll vouch for it. It's hot and mucky, so I try to strip off my salty shirty (salty from my sweat, not sea water) and take a dip in the baby blue Pacific at least twice a day. In fact, my board shorts are still wet from the ocean as I type. Although by now it might be from sweat instead of brine.
I caught an overnight bus from Oaxaca to Pachutla, then took a camioneta to Mazulte. I arrived with a Mexican and his gringa girl, who said nothing the whole time in our camioneta ride to the beach. Camionetas are pick-up trucks that haul people to and from the beach towns. Sitting under the canopy I squinted my eyes and played down my boyish smile - giddy from the truck ride. The novelty still gets me. Maybe it's nostalgia from hanging out at Jordan's farm back in the day. I suspect it's from the wind in my hair, like Guy Lafleur on a breakaway. There's one thing I share with dogs.
Anywho, under a clear sky of nothing but black and stars (what a great idea for a Halloween costume!) we jumped out of the canopied box at 6am, which is early for anywhere. But in a beach town that hour simply doesn't exist. I'm sure the coloquial definition of twilight zone is simply 6am. The Mexican and his gringa just plotted themselves in beach chairs, apparently deciding to sleep until the town woke up. I was bagged after not sleeping on my bus, so walked around looking for and finding no one. I sat myself on a rock to watch the sun rise. This land faces south, so you can't see the sun rise or set. Nevertheless the clouds light up the sand pink. Eventually at 7am there was one place open, which is where I pitched my tent and happily slept until the early afternoon.
Since then I could sum up my time with four verbs: sleep, eat, swim and read. I do all of those at least twice a day. Nothing more, nothing less. Although I met three Canadians girls from Smithers. They tell me it's the same latitude as Edmonton. Wow, that caused a lot of confusion. They were hanging out with a cute Mexican girl who's English decays when talking to me. She blames it on me speaking Spanish. I would like to blame it on me making her nervous, but that'd just be a lie to make me look cool. Doesn't matter though, she's shared more real conversations with than I've had since Carlos.
Alrighty, that's all for now folks. Keep fit and have fun!
written by  ryanmyers on October 27, 2009 from Puerto Escondido, Mexico

Día de los Muertos
San Cristobal de Las Casas, Mexico
Day of the Dead turned out to be a bust. Not to the fault of Mexicans mind you. Movies always gave me the impression it was a wild street party with James Bond chasing a mysterious woman through crowds of dancing skeletons. So ol' Ryan started out the day like any other. Slowly. I got up by 10, showered and left the house by 11, finished breakfast by noon and then hit the road to visit a small town cemetary with Erika, the couchsurfer I was staying with.
By the time we got there, roughly 3, the place was devoid of all life, but not desolate. At this point I learn that Erika previously told me that Day of the Dead festivities start early morning and finish by noon. It's easy to misinterpret Spanish, especially if you don't want to get outta bed early the next morning. There was evidence all around of an intense morning bonding with dead and baring gifts of flowers, hoards of flowers, delicious treats for lossed loved ones and bottles of vodka shared with friends 6 feet under. When I got there the joint was empty. The deceased were back in bed for another 364 days of solitude. Meanwhile dogs meandered through the graves searching for remnants in bags of chips or uneaten fruit that the dead were too full to finish. But aside of us there wasn't a single other soul there. Well, I can't be for sure cause I don't have that 6th sense. But I imagine most of the dead were sleeping on a full stomache or passed out drunk.
The most modest of the graves had pine needles over the dirt mounds with flowers lovingly leaned against the headstone. The popular dead had mountains of flowers and beautifully multi-coloured wreaths that'd surely belittle Trudeau's funeral. The grateful dead just had roaches and friendship bracelets.
Later we headed on down to the church - and what a big church for such a small town. The floor was covered in the same pine needles as the graves while the walls were like a museum of porceline dolls standing inside luminated wooden boxes with glass windows. Please don't touch. Pray. Place a candle nearby, but please refrain from touching. Each box had a name of a saint, so you have your picking. Not a good place to pray for the indecisive. Or those like Sindy and Sherry who are afraid of dolls.
So at least I got to see the scene. Evidence gave me plenty of details, Erika some more and my imagination happily fills in the gaps. While I didn't see any dead out and about on la Día de los Muertos, I did get to get a makeover like a zombie a few days earlier on Halloween. Okay, a zombitch.
Not forgetting to buy some facepaint (which later turned out to be quite valuable) before, I met up with Erika at her friend Romeo's art exhibition. His vibrantly and beautifully coloured collages have heavy Catholic imagery mixed with gay culture and a plethera of penises. The religiously sensative will likely see it as a perversion of the holy, but I liken it to a fusion of that which is natural to Romeo and natural to others. The last supper with transvestites. A bearded emmaculate concepion with a halo of penises.
So here, at the exhibition, Fabien painted my face into a zombitch. You can't really tell the difference between zombies and zombitch. The secret is really who designs it. Fabien himself had fluffy ears, a leopard print blazer and cat tail.
I headed down to the pub a head of the flamboyant croud with a bunch of other foreigners and Erika. I was the only one with any sort of costume. As it turns out you gotta pay an arduous entrance fee if you don't have a costume, so happily outta my pants I whipped out my paints. Within 15 minutes we were all disguised and entered for free.
written by  ryanmyers on November 16, 2009 from San Cristobal de Las Casas, Mexico

Ryan's Takes a Trip to a Zapatista Community and Rants About the Environment
San Cristobal de Las Casas, Mexico
It's been a dream of mine to visit a Zapatista community for years now - ever since I studied them in uni. I learned of EZLN, their guerrilla army filled with indigenous farmers wanting nothing more than what Mexican legend Emiliano Zapata fought for: land and liberty. He was a man not unlike our own Louis Riel, if we chose to embrace him. As famous as Che Guevara here. The Zapatistas, dressed in black ski masks, annexed much of the state of Chiapas the moment Mexico joined NAFTA. They demanded land and rights. Years later they're still a thorn in Mexico's side, but the dust has settled much.
Relidad
I hopped busses to Margueritas where I was packed into the back of a pickup with Cheetos and chairs, tomatoes and children for a 3 1/2 hour ride to Relidad - a remote Zapatista village of 80 families nestled in the clouds of Chiapas' jungle mountains. I should have expected it, but was surprised to see a fresh mountain river dividing the town with it's lifeline. All the houses are walled with wood planks topped with tin roofs, separated by streets of gavel or grass. Some homes have concrete floors. Some don't. None have electricity despite the powerlines.
When I jumped out of the truck the first thing that came to my eyes were the random chickens everywhere and the horses cutting the grass. I travelled in time to when Erna was a toddler running on the farm naked. Not really knowing what to do or where to go I asked around if there was someone I should see. They pointed down the road.
Walking down I saw little girls with babies tied to their backs with blankets and women washing their clothes or themselves in the river, which later I learned I would do the same. It was mid-afternoon when I found Sergio leaning on the side of a building. His job is to register the tourists who come by. Imagine that. Out in Relidad he's in charge of managing tourism. He really ought to have been more of a chatter, but we sat their in silence as he wrote in pen on torn paper my info. He says when he's not registering visiters, which is all the time, he takes it easy. Oddly he wasn't much of a chatter. I think he takes taking it easy very serious. Everyone's gotta have a hobby.
Several hours after arriving and sitting and waiting in silence Sergio shows me the building I can stay in. It's locked. None of the keys fit either. Plan B is to have me stay in a long hall by myself. The second night I pitch the tent to keep mozzies off my face.
Every morning the neighbour's girls come by to pester me. They come along, spit on the floor and wait for me to make conversation. Although they aren't really interested in my conversation so much as my crackers. My crackers leftover from a lunch of tuna n mayo. Mayo also seems to be the bees knees.
After getting settled in I asked Sergio about helping out the Zapatistas however I can. You know, teaching kids, working the fields or shooting guns. Turns out the ranks were all full. There was nothing for me to do, but read and play soccer. Thankfully I brought 3 books! In one short week I polished off 3 books and let in 7 goals.
One day Ryan got bored -okay, one day in particular when I was bored I decided to take a walk. Ya know, spice up life.
WHAT RYAN LEARNED FROM HIS JUNGLE WALK
Some cows have huge floppy ears. Ridiculously huge. I assume they're the donkey strain of cows - bred to be dumb and strong.
I have good hiking boots and walk a lot. I mean, sometimes there's not much else to do. Hence the jungle walk. Yet still old ladies in bare feet pass me. Does this mean in the animal kingdom I'm more of a Shitzu than a Labradour?
The distant sound of streams is the same as an approaching truck's tires on a gravel road. Especially when the sound from my own feet is thrown in the mix.
After hours of walking on a gravel road without a vehicle passing one becomes shy of trucks loaded with workers and seriously contemplates hiding in the bush.
Waving is a better alternative than jumping into the bush. It makes you feel good inside and doesn't scratch you.
Some Mexican jungle birds whistle just like construction workers do at the cute girls. A walk through the jungle can be quite good on one's self esteem.
No matter where you are there is garbage. Even kilometers from the nearest village in the middle of the jungle plastic bottles and foil wrappers stubbornly sit on the road not decomposing at any discernible rate. It's truly sad. These remote villages import little, yet these evil reminders lay on the road and will lay remain there much past my time. The banana peels and discarded paper break down and reenter the earth, but the plastic and metal stay. Only pristine national parks appear garbage free, but that's a happy illusion trucked outside park borders each day. If Relidad - a village that's as close to organic as most will get - is littered then the rest of us are seriously dillisional about the severity of earth's health.
plastic bottle n foil wrapper
I want to rant more, I really do. But I don't want to complain about where I point the finger and why. Or what finger. I'd rather be encouraging. So know that recycle, while valuable, is a distant third in the 3R's. Remember first to reduce and then to reuse. Plant a garden. Carpool. Buy secondhand. Buy local. Buy organic. You don't need to be a hippy to be green.
written by  ryanmyers on November 17, 2009 from San Cristobal de Las Casas, Mexico

Mozzies n Bikes
Tulum, Mexico
Goooood morning!! Hmm, that's deceptively cheery for how I really feel right now - first thing in the morning. Still waiting for coffee to be ready with eyes half shut. I look like I hate everyone and everything, but that's just not true. I only hate the damn mosquitos. Hell, I even like the ants. I can forgive those guys when they bite me. I mean, they work hard and efficient together in such harmony - like nature's perfect lil communists - and never complain when you block their path. They just bite. Understandably so, it's the only way to communicate with giant hairless apes and we them loud and clear, "#@*! OFF!" And we do!
But the mosquitos. Hate them. Each mosquito I kill I smirk and think of all the possible offspring I stopped from existing. In Tulum, Mexico, there are a lot of mosquitos. This town shares the same beautiful stretch of Yucutan beach as Cancun and is named after the Mayan ruins looking out at the Carribean from a nearby cliff. Inland is a flat, flat, flat with a jungle of cenotes (what I'd call watering holes) and Mayan ruins.
So Tulum is where I am now, waiting for my breakfast included in the hostel price. Free use of bikes is also included, which I happily took advantage of yesterday. I hit the road with a couple of English guys, one Aussie and myself all on wide seated one-gear bikes with cute baskets in front. Let me tell you, we were an intimidating gang on the highway. With the sun at our backs and the wind in our faces we even bullied that swealtering heat away. The wind more than compensates for exercising in the heat of the day - it was cooler than relaxing in the shade with a beer (and I'm not one to readily admit that). As if the bike's wide handlebars didn't make me feel bad ass enough, when I over took a motorbike I think Clint Eastwood would have peed his pants.
Ooh, priorities! Coffee's ready. Adios!
written by  ryanmyers on December 4, 2009 from Tulum, Mexico

Mérida's Fair
Merida, Mexico
What luck! I found myself in Mérida during the annual fair (held just outside of town), so went there with Wes, an English dude from my hostel. Honestly it wasn't really that different from K-Days, the Ex or the Stampede. Well, there were subtleties.
For starters, the rides had more rust. And they were much smaller, but that's expected cause Mexicans are a much shorter people. Hey oh! Aw, it's a shame none of my Mexican friends will read that. But seriously folks, the ferris wheel was only 3 meters high. With the right sneakers you could slam dunk your toddler into the highest chair. Although, hindsight tells me that maybe unlike Canadian adults, Mexican adults just don't like being whirled around in all directions at ridiculous speeds.
Another thing different is that the carnies aren't obviously carnies. I mean, back home a mullet or gold teeth will give away who's the carnie and who's not. Nope. Not in Mexico. And just to mess with ya they don't wear tacky vests or name tags to identify themselves. Although they do have fannie packs for the tickets and money, but that doesn't help cause so does everyone else. So you gotta wait until you see someone else buy a ticket before asking for tickets to see the world's smallest woman. ....then again, maybe Mexicans don't have a bad stigma against carnies.
Mexican food is generally fatty. Vegetables are scarce and fruit more so. The diet is tortillas, beans, rice, corn, cheese and meat. Oh yeah, and chilies! If you can fry something that's better, but usually it's good enough to just grill it. How you mix em together varies from region to region, but my stereotype says that generally this is the basis for Mexican diet. Now you gotta imagine a food at the Stampede in comparison to regular Calgary food. The same ration applies to Mérida's fair. Deep fried hot dogs with french fries topped with mayo and chili. Or a small bag of Dorritos topped with cheese and jalepeños. Or pork rinds with cheese, corn and chili. Or a churro (deep fried batter that taste like elephant ears) drizzled in chocolate sauce. ....okay, so I exaggerated. It's no different than street food readily found in Mérida.
Side note. According to the World Health Org here is my list of the fattest countries in the world (at least the countries you and I will recognize) as of 2008:
1-7: All southeast pacific island countries
8: Kuwait
9: USA
13. Argentina
14. Egypt
17: New Zealand
19: Mexico
21: Australia
35: Canada
Alrighty, a classic favourite of mine from ol' K-Days was seeing the half-something half-woman illusion. Ya know, the Wasp Lady or the REAL Ladybug. I dunno why they were always part insect. Here's the hook: the ridiculous illusions aren't the best part. No sir. Once you enter you ask them digging questions about their lives like, "What's it like being larva?" or "What sort of names did the other kids call you growing up?" Before seeing Maria, who had an alligator body and woman's head, I forgot to think of a question. That turned out to be no big deal cause she was submerged at the bottom of a tank, so wouldn't have been able to hear me anyways.
The carnie who took my money (at least I think she was a carnie) opened the curtain for me and I got nervous as I walked up to see Maria. Walking up I noticed the illusion had her submerged in water, but figured she would just pretend the pretend the illusion's physics don't apply and answer my question. Suddenly I got nervous being that I was about to talk to such an important person and quickly lost confidence in my Spanish. I panicked.
Ryan: "Puedes sonreír?" (Can you smile?)
Maria: [puzzled look]
Ryan: [hooks corners of mouth with fingers and pulls up]
Maria: [smiles and nods, then one-piece alligator body dances separate from head]
Ryan: [happy tension is over, but still can't think of another question and slowly walks back to the curtain]
In hindsight she prolly just couldn't hear me or understand me. I bet alligator women have a hard enough time with Spanish, let alone my accent. Ah well.
The next thing I saw were the freaky animals - a two headed rabbit, a chicken with 4 legs, a dog with 2 tails and several others following that theme. They were all baby animals in jars of formaldehyde.
The final freak show I went to was Carla, the woman with three breasts. Logic tells me three are better than two, so I was intrigued. The carnie - it was obvious this time as she was perched on her own stool - told me I had to wait 5 minutes until I could see Carla. All I could think of is why the guy before me needed 5 minutes. Just like that I had no desire to see Carla.
I also missed Anna, the world's smallest woman. Carla had spooked me and I didn't even see her. So Wes and I wandered through the isles of fake watches, belt buckles and tattoo parlors. Woh woh woh!! Tattoo parlors?! Yeah, tattoo parlors! Well, Wes and I dared each other, but by this age double dog dares aren't effective peer pressure. Instead we took a stroll through the cattle show. That stunk and we went home.
written by  ryanmyers on December 4, 2009 from Merida, Mexico

Dolphin Love
Varadero, Cuba
Before coming to Cuba ol’ Harry passed on a joke to me from a Cuban. The second favourite past time of Cubans is sex. The first is ripping off tourists. ....usually the truth is funny.
Back in the streets of Bogotá Harry told me a better joke. Looking around the street he asked me, "Ryan, you know where I can find a veterinarian? "
"Nah, Harry, wadda ya need a vet for?"
Flexing his arms in front of us he shrieks, "Cause these pythons are sick!!"
Classic.
Carly also told me a good one recently. Why couldn’t the lifeguard save the hippy? Cause he was way too far out, man!!
So now I’m in Cuba and, more importantly, with my family. Mark, Meghan’s boyfriend, asked me if I changed over the last year on the road. I said yeah, but then had trouble discerning any way I actually did. After a few short days with the family it seems obvious that maturity is a category in which I haven’t changed so much. No sir. I know this by how much I still love patting the Tone-man’s belly. I really do. His annoyed reactions always make it worth it. When all’s said and done I figure I haven’t matured much over the last year so much as realized how immature I really am. That’s a step though, right? ....right? Although, as I keep finding out, his best friends and colleagues also enjoy teasing the ol’ man, so I’m not gonna hold it against myself.
Anywho, planning to meet the family in our hotel, I arrived in Havana all by myself. I found out quickly that the Cubans could give the Chileans a run for their money for the most bastardized version of Spanish. Well, the Chileans would easily win, but this island has done a commendable job in making it indiscernible for ol’ Ryan. They sounds like slack-jawed Spanish on speed who have a vendetta against pronouncing the letter S. Nevertheless, a tour guide I met on my bus to Verodero (Cuba’s Cancun) assures me that Cuban Spanish is of great quality. Who am I to argue?
Being Canadian, not Cuban, I was given only one option for the 2 ½ hour trip from the airport to the hotel – a $40 bus ride. I soiled myself right then and there as Harry’s joke echoed through my head. That’s a two days worth of spending you know! Sniffle, sniffle.
Today the family went on a catamaran tour to Play Blanca. I was keen as to come along since we got to kiss some dolphins at the end. Not quite the same as cute girls, but it was fine in its own right. And I’ll be damned, I never would have thought it, but dolphins make me just as bashful as a high school boy taking to his crush. Now, due to dolphin anatomy –no lips– the kiss ends up being a gentle nudge on the cheek. Sometimes more of a head-butt. But you never get mad at the them for that because you know kissing has never been a part of their culture, despite what impressions cartoons may have given you. Anywho, getting head-butted by a dolphin truly was beautiful. If a more sensitive Ryan existed, he would have cried. Thank god, cause less sensitive Ryan would have mocked him, only making things worse.
Just to satisfy your curiosity, dolphins feel just like those rubber balls with silly faces that you find in WalMart. The kind that are too light to throw well, so are really only fun if you’re under 6. And they’re equally as squishy, too.
written by  ryanmyers on December 12, 2009 from Varadero, Cuba

Playing with Danger

Child Psychology

Eco Roof in Totora

Entiendes?

lucky dude

10k waterfight

Monica and Hilda

Avioncita

The world goes round

Jennifer

Funeral in Chupuro

Guillermo, me & Cecilia at the zoo

the stoop

Chillin with their surrogate mom

Steven teaching Richard how to play guitar

Trujillo

Relidad

plastic bottle n foil wrapper

Dance Jesus Dance

!Huayco!

New Crew

Peligroso: Combustible

In Need Indeed

The Inca Trail

Tony Enjoying the view at Pacha Mama

Headlight

Kitchen View

That's Bolivia in the Back

Pacha Mama

Islands on the Lake

7am at Machu Picchu

Irony

Our New Album Cover

Classic Picchu

Pride Rock

Cataratas de la cerva son radical

Hey Ol' Buddy!!

El Sombrero

Octopus is the name of the game

Postrevalle

Story Time

Team 2 at our Samaipata hostel

Lavandaria

Rocks are Billboards