Cusco is the most tourist-visited city in South America. There are lots of reasons. It is in the very heart of the Andes Mountains, and the Andes are magnificent. The Andes extend more than 5000 kilometers, from Venezuela in the north down through Chile and Argentina in the south, with peaks higher than 20,000 feet. The town of Cusco sits in a basin at 11,150 feet in elevation. It is surrounded by higher mountains. They’re green. We are still in the tropics. Cusco was the capital and center of the splendid Inca civilization, which was in its prime seven hundred years ago. Downtown Cusco today is full of Incan architecture, still standing and still strong. The stunning, mesmerizing, incredible aspect of the architecture is the Incan stonework. They used rocks and stones and boulders, many of them weighing tons, to build temples and homes and fortresses. They carved and sculpted and shped each rock to fit perfectly (perfectly!) with the surrounding rocks No mortar. No cement. Just a perfect (perfect!) fit, with the rocks leaning into each other to support each other. The classic comment is that you cannot fit a credit card between the stones, but you can’t stick a needle in there either.

This particular stone is the most famous one in Cusco. It is called “The 12-angled stone.” The workmanship to fit it into the wall is quite impressive.

The llama’s name is Blancanieves. (Snowwhite)

This rockwork is one of the great mysteries of the world. How did they do it? How did they transport the rocks over the great distances? How did they lift the rocks up twenty or thirty feet? How did they fit them so perfectly? And how did they make their buildings so seismographically sound, strong enough to withstand the severe earthquakes that hit here? Seismologists from North America, Asia, and Europe have come to Cusco over the years to study the architecture. Some of these scientists have concluded that the only possible explanation for the accuracy of the cutsis that the Incas used laser beams. Another popular theory concerns the intervention of extraterrestrials. The only thing that we really know for sure is that, today, with our technology, we couldn’t duplicate these structures.

Anyway, people come to Cusco to see these stone walls. And they come for the mountains. And forthe Inca ruins onthe outskirts and all around Cusco. And, of course, for Machu  Picchu, one of the seven wonders of the world. But that’s another day.

We spent eight days in Cusco. Monicatook Spanish classes Monday through Friday, from 9:00 in the morning until 1:00 p.m. She made some good progress in conversation skill, and also in using the subjunctive mood, both the present and future, as well as the imperfect subjunctive! (this is for the benefit of fellow language nerds out there.) Moni’s teacher was a woman named Magda (short for Magdalena). It was a one-on-one class,and they talked about lots of things.One day, they went to the public market and talked about, among other things, the hundreds of different types of potatoes that are grown in The Sacred Valley.

I (Mike) used my time to wander around the city a bit, and to sit in the plaza. The city is full of narrow streets, and stairs to go up and down.

The Peru flag is on the left. The Cusco flag is on the right. The rainbow flag flies over all the government buildings.

The main plaza in downtown Cusco.

Cusco is vibrant. It is a mix of ancient and modern. Colonial and indigenous. There are people here from all over the world. There is a mix of cultures and an acceptance. Good restaurants. Good coffee. The local people talk to the tourists. This can be good and bad. On the one hand, it’s easy to meet and talk to people. On the other hand, there are seemingly thousands of people out on the street who are hoping to sell you something. Guys with paintings, women with jewelry or weavings or sculpted gourds. They see you and come after you. “Looking is free.” “Please buy something from  me.” “I make you a good price.” “Look how beautiful.”  If you sit on a bench in the main square, you will be approached. Some of the vendors can get quite insistent. Sometimes it can get a little infuriating. We bought some things, and a few times, we just gave some money without buying anything. It’s all such a delicate balance.

It is a treat sometimes to talk to and get to know the artists. One day I was sitting in a small plaza, Plaza San Blas, and there was an indigenous woman sitting there also, spinning wool with a drop spindle, then weaving with it. I talked with her for a half-hour before buying a beautiful thin wall hanging from her. Spinning and weaving with alpaca wool is a centuries-old art and skill. I watched Felipa as she horizontally placed one thread at a time through the vertical threads (she said that there were 84 threads) to produce designs of, among other things, pumas, hummingbirds, llamas, owls, condors, and even a depiction of Tupac Amaru, an indigenous leader,  being torn apart by four horses. (You gotta love the Spaniards.)

Monica bought a bracelet from a woman named Maruca. Maruca sets up shop on some steps that lead up to a mirador. We talked with her for a long time, and Monica watched as she macramed a few beautiful bracelets.

This llama’s name was Paolo. They do know their names.

One day, a chica named Jovana pulled us into her little shop and giggled as she dressed us up in traditional clothing. She had a great time doing it, all because Monica wanted to buy a stuffed guinea pig (called cuy) that was in front of her store. Cuy is kind of a national dish here. Lots of restaurants serve it, oven roasted. Cusco has something for everyone. We loved getting to know the city and some of the people. The heart of the Andes. The heart of the cusqueños.

We crossed the border from Bolivia to Perú early Sunday morning, February 24. Again, we walked across the actual border as the bus dropped us off on the Bolivian side and recollected us in Perú. Leaving the Titicaca Lake basin, we spent another 7 hours busing through the high, dry desert of the altoplano and reached Arequipa at nightfall.

Our hostal was upstairs in a dark colonial building near the main plaza. Besides overcharging us, the taxi driver from the bus station tried to convince us to stay at another hostal. We learned this is a common practice as the taxistas receive commisions from the hostals. We were glad we did not change hostals. Our Park Hostal had a gracious owner and staff, and had a large roof top terrace where breakfast was served.

View from terrace

Arequipa is the second largest city in Perú. Three huge volcanoes tower over it. Known as “the white city”, many of the massive colonial buildings are built of white volcanic stone called sillar which glistens with silica flakes in the sunlight.

Plaza de Armas, Arequipa

It wasn´t until we returned to Arequipa a week later that the weather cleared enough to see the volcanos.

We explored the city for 2 days and then headed to the beach. Mejia is a beach town on the southern coast and a sumer spot for families from Arequipa.. Here we stayed 5 days in a small boarding house run by a retired couple, Luz and Manuel. We had the penthouse suite: a small room and bath on the roof of their house. Outside our room was a sitting area with couches covered with ripple roofing. Laundry lines crossed the rest of the roof where Luz hung her sheets and towels.

On the beach, the long flat sand is lined with rows of umbrellas and shade canopies. On three of our days there, we rented an umbrella and chairs and just lounged the whole day. The sun was strong, but the ocean was cold and there was a shore break. We never did go into the water, but lots of folks did. Once we watched the red and yellow clad life guards swim out to rescue a boy carried out beyond the surf. And we made friends with Olga, a young waitress at the beach-side restaurant, who greeted us with kisses and did little dance steps as she cleared tables.

When we left Arequipa the second time, we headed to Colca Canyon. One of the deepest canyons of the worls, maybe 60 miles long and 10,000 feet deep, it is famous for nesting condors. We stayed at the head of the canyon in the town of Chivay.

Chivay

Once we arrived, we wished we had allowed ourselves more time. Chivay is spectacular. The canyon there is spanned by a bridge built on Incan foundations.

The Incans actually hung suspension bridges of woven fiber from the foundations. Some are still in existence.

Three kilometers upstream is a hot springs that the community developed to now include 5 different pools. It opens at 4 am and townspeople go then to bathe.

Pool overlooking river valley

Colca Canyon is also known for its typical dress featuring dense embroidery. The women embroider on treadle sewing machines. We saw little tallers (workshops) with machines side by side in rows. We went shopping twice at one collective for girlfriend gifts!

Representative painting, and people actually did dress like this, but we did not want to take pictures of them.

Detail from skirt border.

Our last morning in Chivay, we got up early to climb the mirador above town. Taking the wrong turn at one point, we came across a bullring in the mountains.

When we did reorient and head to the mirador, we found ourselves walking across a hillside of pre-Incan colcas. Colcas are circular stone structures used for food storage and/or burials.

We counted more than 12 colcas on the hill. Mirador at top.

We did not crawl into one!

And from the mirador, we caught a view of the volcanoes down the canyon before the clouds covered them.

We departed Chivay to catch the Inka Express, an archeological tour along the road to Cusco. The ten hour bus trip actually flew by. Ronald, our bilingual guide, spoke in detail about the history and current culture of the area we traversed. We made five stops. In Pucara, we learned about the practice of mounting ceramic bulls on roof tops for protection. Indeed, the tile roofs of Cusco Valley are full of them.

Our hotel roof in Cusco

We visited two museums along the way with Incan burial remains including mummies.

High born Incans were buried clothed with possessions for their life in the next world.

By far the most impressive stop was Rachqi. This was an Incan center, possibly an astronomical center, which combined Incan stone and Tiahuanaco adobe building techniques.

Adobe above, stone below

Temple? Astronomical observatory?

The doors and windows in the temple were oriented towards the sun, the moon and different constellations at different times of the year. Another example is this main passage through the residential district. On the winter solstice, the rising sun shines straight down the road.

Extending over even a greater area than the housing were the storage colcas next door. Grains and dried potatoes were gathered from all over the valley and stored here to be dispersed later in years of draught. And the Incans could predict accurately weather in the coming year and plan accordingly.

One of the fully intact colcas with a new roof. Conquering Spaniards dismantled many Incan structures to use the stones in their buildings.

As we passed through the maiz and potato fields of the fertile Cusco valley, it was easy to appreciate the past and present abundance.

Five days on Lake Titicaca. Magnificent. Lake Titicaca is an enormous lake, up at 13,000 feet in elevation. It straddles the Bolivia-Peru border, and it is over 1,000 feet deep. The name Titicaca, source of innumerable corporal jokes, actually comes from the Aymara culture. That is the pre-Inca culture, dating back approximately to 3000 CE (common era) It supposedly means “Sacred Rock,” because La Isla del Sol was considered the birthplace of all.

The Aymara culture is still strong on the island. The language is spoken at home and at times studied in school. The indigenous people are the majority of the 5,000 inhabitants of the island.

It’s an hour and a half boat ride to the island from the town of Copacabana, Bolivia. The island is pretty small. It’s about ten kilometers long, three kilometers wide. It rises steeply (to say the least) out of the water, and its ridge is 1000 feet above the lake. There are no roads on the island. There are no vehicles on the island. Neither are there (obviously) any stop signs or traffic signals. Neither are there any banks or credit cards, no internet, no telephones (except for personal cell phones) no police. Electricity arrived about ten years ago. The matter of cell phones is interesting, because often you see an ancient indigenous woman, for example, walking down the trail with her sheep like they have done for a thousand years, talking on her cell phone.

Anywhere you want to go, you walk. Up and down. We hiked all over the island. There are trails everywhere. There are also terraced, cultivated fields everywhere.

People have been living here in much the same way for many centuries. Centuries. These stone walls and terraces were not built with tractors. They were constructed over lifetimes.

The town of Yumani is the main town on the island. It is on the ridge, 1000 feet up from the water. Everything comes in by boat, then is transported by donkey or humans up the trails.

Monica and I made the trip up from the water three times, A thousand feet up. We were huffing and puffing and resting, while the local people (many of them ancient looking) just said Buenas tardes and kept going. The first time we went up was when we first landed, with full packs. There are kids who hang around the dock, waiting for people just like us. One of them, a boy about eleven years old, named Wilmer, latched onto us, and insisted on carrying Monica’s pack. Our pride wouldn’t allow him to do so, and we kept rebuffing and huffing. Finally, Wilmer couldn’t stand it anymore, and he just grabbed the pack and put it on, and led us up the hill. Our own sherpa, and sure worth it! Wilmer kept up a running commentary on the history of the island, his school, his grandmother, and he pointed out some herbs (named muña) that help with the altitude, and he told us we could rest whenever we wanted. He also offered to carry my pack at the same time, but that was going too far.

There is one main road (actually a stone trail) that goes north and south, along the ridge, and connects both sides of the island. One day, we walked from Yumani to the north end, about eight kilometers. However, nobody refers to distance in this way. They measure distance in time. For example, people told us, “The north end is three hours,” or, “”The temple of the sun is forty five minutes,” or, “Yumani is fifteen minutes.” Distance is always measured this way.

The walk along the north-south trail is a “thing” that the turistas do, and we met people from France, Switzerland, Austria, and Germany along the way. At the north end, we got on a boat for the return back to the south end. The boat took forty five minutes.

Another day, we hiked up to one of the peaks of the island. The Aymaras have always appreciated the interconnections of land and water, earth and sky. They use the cross as a symbol of communication and protection. The constellation Southern Cross is clear in the sky every night. Monica and I have loved watching this constellation, one of the most recognizable sights on the planet. This symbol reflects the stars and invokes connections, much like crossing a river, or speaking to a person from another country, makes a connection.

We ate dinner three nights in a row in a restaurant called Las Velas. (The candles) To get there, you walk through a grove of eucalyptus trees, and then you emerge on a cliffside. It’s a small place with no electricity, with a great sunset view. Pablo is the owner and the chef. We talked a lot with him about the Aymara culture and the state of Bolivia.

Bolivia’s officially recognized name is actually Estado Plurinacional de Bolivia. (Multinational State of Bolivia) This was just started a few years ago, when Evo Morales was elected president. He is indigenous, and his government has worked hard to include the indigenous people in the decision making of the country. Evo is extremely popular here. He has been in office for five years now, quite an accomplishment in a country that has changed governments 172 times in 190 years. The flag of the indigenous people flies in front of the parliament building. The flag was banned for political reasons before Evo took office. The flag also flies outside of Pablo’s restaurant.

Even at 13,500 feet, there’s no need to be deprived of organic pizza.

Moni and Las Velas

Lake Titicaca is a powerful place, clean and high.

We will always remember it.

They say that La Paz, Bolivia is the highest capital in the world. It is also possibly the most quintessential South American city on the continent. It is in the heart of South America, and it has everything that you could hope for if you are searching for the “real” South America. It has bustling and chaotic street scenes, crowded with food and clothing stalls, and with the vendors calling out their wares. The traffic is loud and unpredictable. It is colorful. And the people are gentle.

La Paz is a city of up and down. Very steep streets, with old Dodge or Chevy or Blue Bird buses defying laws of gravity and transmission physics. Wheelbarrows are everywhere. People use them to carry things up and down the hills, or to set up mobile stands to sell fruit or whatever they have. I don’t know if it’s easier to push them up the hills or to slow them down when they’re going downward.

The cholitas are the women who wear the beautiful traditional skirts called cholas. It is just their everyday clothing, although it looks like they’re all dressed up for a special occasion. They often carry extremely heavy bundles on their back, using a weaving to wrap it up. Sometimes they’re shoveling dirt, or cooking potatoes, always at their own pace and very gracefully.

The markets and the stalls sell everything, from beautiful 100% alpaca ponchos and sweaters to llama fetuses. These are used for an offering to Pachamama–sacred mother earth. The fetuses are often buried at the entrance of a new home or business in order to bring prosperity..

We stayed in La Paz for only three days, but we loved the pulse and spirit of the city. We met María and Agustín at their little business. María sells fabric, sweaters, and indigenous flags. Agustín is a musician who produces pipes and flutes, and who plays the charango. The charango is a traditional Bolivian stringed instrument, smaller than a ukulele, but with ten strings.

Later that evening, we went to hear a concert by Ernesto Chauvo, reputedly the best charango player in the world. The concert was tremendous, and one of the highlights of our La Paz stay. There were a few other musicians there also, each playing various instruments. The concert was held in a room at the Conservatory of Traditional Music, and there were only about 25 people in the audience.

La Paz has it all–vibrancy, tradition, gentle people, a thriving arts scene. We could have stayed longer, but we heard Lake Titicaca calling. We soon were on our way.

The bus from Tilcara reached Villazón on the Bolivian border around noon. We had heard many stories about problems crossing the border, but we had our visas from the Bolivian consulate in Jujuy and were as prepared as we could be. The countries are divided by a small river and there is no public transport across the bridge. We were let off in a large parking lot on the Argentine side and climbed up into the crowds on the bridge. We saw no signs and no apparent order or lines. People were just milling about and street venders selling juice or snacks. There was a check point for private cars crossing and we walked to the side of that. We passed a window on the side of the building where a few people seemed to be filling out forms, but no one was visible inside and no one stopped us. A few more steps and we were in the streets of Villazón, immediately a different world of people and color. No cars in the street and the sidewalk lined with stalls selling artesania, souvenirs, hardware, housewares, carnaval masks and confetti.

We paused and turned around and went back to the window. Sure enough, inside but below street level, was a desk with two customs officials. They stamped our passports after we filled out the forms declaring we were not bringing over $10,000 in any currency into Bolivia, and we were done. I´m still not sure if they were Bolivian or Argentine agents. Half a block onwards was a tiny storefront with an open door and the Bolivian state seal over it. We stopped in and a kindly man in uniform looked at one of our passports and said there was nothing more we needed to do and directed us to the bus terminal.

Villazón was gearing up for Carnaval. Crews were erecting bleachers along three sides of the main square, the streets already closed to traffic. Brass bands rounded the square from time to time.

Boys – little to big – ran around the square in groups with plastic toy weapons that squirted water. The targets were the girls, some of whom ran squealing with delight while others hovered close to parents and were generally off limits. There was collateral soaking we discovered to our distaste. We were also to discover that water fights were a national custom during Carnaval. Potosí held more of the same, with the additional weapons of water balloons and cans of spray foam. We were seriously foamed in a drive-by shooting on the narrow streets of Potosí. Many citizens wore thin plastic raincoats for protection – even band members were not immune.

We took an overnight bus from Villazón to Potosí. Our experience at the Villazón bus terminal is a chapter in itself. All good!, and we arrived in Potosí in the chill of dawn. Potosí is 4060 meters (13,400 feet) above sea level, one of the highest cities in the world.

Potosí was born in 1545 when silver was discovered in the mountain and quickly grew into the largest city in all the Americas and the wealthiest city in the world. Today the mines produce just a trickle of silver and the city is but a shadow of its past glory. Nevertheless, the remains of its colonial splendor justify its selection as a UNESCO World Heritage site.

Figure of Saint Francis (San Francisco) above cathedral door

Street outside municipal market

We spent just a few days in Potosí, adjusting to the altitude and dodging water balloons. Thanks to Mike´s investigation, we learned that the tingling in our hands and shortness of breath were side effects of the prescription we were taking to prevent altitude sickness! Stopping the med relieved much of the symptoms, but we still walk slowly. All our time in the Bolivian altoplano has meant climbing up, up, up, and down, down down – in city streets and terraced hillsides.

We had been hearing about “La Quebrada de Humahuaca” since Mendoza, when we started heading into Northern Argentina. Quebrada means broken, and the Quebrada is actually a long and very dramatic canyon that runs north and south for about sixty miles in Jujuy Province. Jujuy is the far north of Argentina, bordering with Bolivia. From the border down to the very south is more that 3000 miles.

The road follows the river at the bottom of the canyon, and the mountains rise up on each side. There are three main villages that are nestled in the Quebrada, north of Jujuy city. Purmamarca is the first. It´s a teensy little village that is at the base of La montaña de siete colores. Layers, strata, of different colored rock shine in the morning and evening light. Tour buses come just so people can gaze at the colors. The next two villages, Tilcara and Humahuaca, are also at the base of impressive mountains.

We stayed in Tilcara for three daysin a beautiful spacious hostel.

Our room is to the right, and yes, that is a hammock.

I took advantage of the grounds to juggle in the late afternoon light.

Tilcara is about 7500 feet in elevation, and the mountains are everywhere. They are what makes the quebrada a quebrada.

Most of the buildings in town are made of mud and bricks. The people make the bricks from the earth, and they can build a house pretty quickly. They are durable and beautiful.

We arrived in Tilkara at the beginning of Carnaval. Unbeknownst to us, the entire quebrada has a tradition of being a Carnaval hot spot for people from all over Argentina. As few as ten years ago, it still was a sleepy town, but within these past few years, Tilcara and the other towns have become a destination at this time of year. We arrived on Wednesday, and on Thursday, the town filled up with Porteños and people from all over the country. The restaurants were full, and this being Argentina, the asados were full steam ahead.

Llamas are beautiful, with big eyes, but they are also delicious.

We left Tilkara, bound for Bolivia. A new country, a new culture. We bid farewell to Argentina, the immense country. Here´s Monica at the bus station, waiting for the bus that will take us northward.

We took a little vacation from our trip to visit the little village of Cachi, Argentina, way up in the mountains , southwest of Salta. The road from Salta to Cachi goes through El Parque Nacional de los Cardones. Cardones are cacti that grow everywhere on the hills. They are very similar to saguaros, and they are protected by law. The road climbs and climbs, and goes over a 12,000 foot pass before descending to Cachi.

The road is not paved high up there, and it is really narrow. Once, when there was another vehicle (a pickup truck) coming the other way, our driver had to back up around the curves until there was a wide spot in the road. Mon didn’t like that part too much.

Cachi is a quiet little town, about 6800 feet above sea level. It’s old, with beautiful stonework and adobe. The town plaza is especially lovely, with stone arches for entrances, and stone walls for definition.

The whole town seems to be right out of Zorro—–especially the church and the buildings nearby. At sunset, three girls galloped by on horseback, and I thought we were in a time warp.

There is a sign when you pull into town that tells you that Cachi is 2280 meters above sea level, and then it invites the visitor to discover the poetry hidden in its old houses and streets, where time is asleep, then it implores you to please try not to wake it up.

We tried not to.

After three days in Cachi, we got on a bus back to Salta, back over the 12,000 foot pass. The bus was crowded because the day before there was a rockslide and the road was closed. The driver played really loud and bad music, but my thought was, “Hey, anything he wants.”

From Salta, we continued north. We are headed toward Bolivia, but first we stopped in Jujuy (pronounced hoo-hoooo-eee) and the small village of Tilkara, just in time for Carnaval.

Salta is the beginning of the north of Argentina. The further north you go, the warmer it gets. The Inca culture comes down from Bolivia and mixes with the mainstream Argentine culture. There are more indigenous people here, shorter and darker. Coca leaves are sold in stores. The coca leaves come from the mountains of Bolivia, and they help with the altitude and with energy.

There is different regional food here, mainly hearty country-style stews like locro. Salta is a province as well as a city, and both are famous for their empanadas.

I love to sit in the parks and plazas. The public spaces are always lively. Salta’s Plaza Principal is beautiful, and busy all day. It’s lovely to have a beautiful plaza as the center of your town.

Salta also has Parque San Martín. The park has a little lake (more like a big pond) where peoplerent little paddle boats.

The park especially comes alive late in the day as the sun gets low and loses some of its power. As the evening comes on, the park is full of people, full of families, everybody enjoying the coolness. Now people rent little bicycle carts to cruise around in and have fun.

Salta is known as Salta la Linda. Salta the Beautiful. The colonial architecture has been well preserved. However much of its beauty lies in the surrounding hills and mountains. We stayed in the city for two weeks. We both took some Spanish classes, Mike for one week, and Monica for two. Each of us had our own one-on-one class, two hours a day, and we both appreciated the opportunity to speak with somebody who would correct us. Taking classes is also a great way to learn about the area and its history.

The school arranged for us to stay at the home of a woman named Cristina. We had our own little apartment behind her house, and we used her kitchen and living room when we wanted. We immediately became friends with Cristina, and she took us to meet her parents, then the four of us became friends. We got together with them a few more times before we left. Amelia, Cristina’s mom, is 86, and Toto, her dad, is 90. He is still very strong, and keeps up with the maintenance of the house that he built. They have caretakers who help them, but Toto is ready for anything.

The first time we met him, he had just finished laying a concrete pad at the base of some stairs, and he insisted on having us sign our names along with his on his work. Years from now, when we are long forgotten, it will be a mystery who “Mike and Monica” were, and why they helped Toto.

We went to a park with them the next day, and spent a nice afternoon. The following week, we got together with them and some other relatives for dinner. We really liked talking to them, and they liked talking to us.

Cristina and us

Moni Amelia Cristina

The next day, Monica and I returned to the same park, called San Lorenzo, to hike up the river, through the forest. The river comes down from the snow-capped peaks, and if you walked long enough, you could cross into Chile.

The best part of our time in Salta was living with and sharing time with Cristina. She’s a busy modern woman with a lot of things going on in her life. We had lots of opportunities to talk with her about life and its challenges and rewards. We shared cooking, and we felt very at home with her. The good part about traveling is meeting people, and the sad part is saying goodbye.

And here we are on our final morning, sad to leave and ready for what’s next.

Mendoza, Argentina—–The city of Mountains, Wine, and Sun. Mendoza Province is the epicenter of the Argentina wine earthquake that is rocking the wine world. There are over 950 wineries here. Small one-person operations to mega-production. There is wine everywhere—billboards, stores, magazines, posters on the hostel walls, everywhere.

Geographically, this area is perfect for–take a guess–wine. The city of Mendoza is about 1500 feet in elevation. It is desert. However, it also sits at the base of the tallest peak of the Andes, Aconcagua. Water flows abundantly down from the high Andes, and the desert is alive. There are beautiful old sycamores that line the street. There are gardens on the corners. Flowers. Shade. All of these have been planted and irrigated through the years. Without irrigation, there is just desert, but there is irrigation everywhere. The canals run along the streets.

Wineries and farms–lots of olives and olive oil here too–have been established up the sides of the mountains. There’s a magic combination at work here. Desert. Elevation. Volcanic soil. It hardly ever rains here. Too much rain, or rain at the wrong time, can wipe out the grape crop overnight. At the same time however, there is a full and never-ending (?) supply of wonderful water. The elevation also means that there are hot days and cold nights. Grapes like that because they can produce lots of sugar. Also, different varieties thrive at different elevations and at different sun slopes. Wineries just a few kilometers away from each other can produce totally different wine.

Malbec is the most famous wine from here. Malbec is what makes Mendoza one of the eight wine capitals of the world. Nobody else does Malbec. California does Zinfandel, Australia does Syrah, Germany does Lieframilch, Italy and France have their specialties. But Argentina has Malbec. And a good Malbec is pretty tasty. We didn´t stay in Mendoza very long–four days–but we did manage to combine two of our favorite things, bikes and wine, in a bicycle winery tour. We biked to three different wineries on the outskirts of Mendoza, got the tour of the wineries, and we drank a lot of good wine. Martín has a little business, taking people around and talking wine. He himiself is a wine grower and a bicycle builder. Lawrence from Germany, Senon from Australia, and Joro from Bulgaria (our first Bulgarian!) went also, a total of six of us. Martin’s rule was, “If anybody looks like they’re too happy, I call a taxi and their tour is over.” We all were able to contain ourselves, and a great time was had by all.

Lawrence and Monica saddling up

Our first winery was a very small, very personal winery, named and owned and operated by Patti Caramelo. His name is on every bottle, and one of his impprters is in Oregon, so maybe we’ll find it in Eugene. Patti wasn’t there on the day that we arrived, one of the few days of the year when he’s gone. His three daughters are all involved in the winery, as growers and marketers. One of the daughters, Cecilia, talked to us about the winery and about wine. We learned how to swirl the wine properly, in order to produce what we English-speakers refer to as “legs.” These are the tell-tale traces of wine that release most of what we smell. I asked Cecilia what they call them in Spanish. They are called lágrimas. Tears. It´s more poetic and evocative than legs, and, I believe, more accurate. Running down a glass, they do look like tears, running down a cheek.

Cecilia and Mike talking wine

We also went to a couple of bigger wineries. We went into the underground storage rooms and saw some giant old oak barrels, and we tried a lot of different regional wines.

Lunch with Joro, Moni, Lawrence, and Martín

For the first part of our stay in Mendoza, we stayed in a little apartment in the back of a house. We moved into a downtown hostel after two days, just to be in a more central location. Raúl and his wife Mónica live in the house with their 18-year old daughter Vanesa, and Mónica’s 78-year old mom, Morroch. We talked a lot with them and learned about their lives in Argentina and in Mendoza. Raúls father was from Italy, and he emigrated to Argentina in the middle of World War Two. Raúl grew up on a farm, without electricity or running water. Now he’s in the computer and cell phone world.

He wanted to do a real Argentina asado (barbeque) with us, so we planned it. He asked us what time we wanted to eat. We knew that we were in Argentina, the land of late dinners, so we didn’t want to say anything too early. We said, “How about eight o’clock?” Raúl was appalled. “You can’t eat at eight o’clock! What are you thinking???”  “Okay, how about nine o’clock?” “Noooo, it’s still light at 9:00.” So, he came up to the terrace at 9:30 to start the fire, and at 1:30 am, we were still sitting around the table, along with Paula and Richard from Chile, who were also staying in one of the apartments.

Mónica and Mónica

Mónica and Morroch

One of the features of an Argentine parrilla (that’s the structure that is in every backyard in the entire country, where they cook the meat) is its size, and one of the tricks of the asado is to have a fire burning in one corner to produce coals and embers, while the meat cooks on the other side, slowly and evenly. The coals and embers are continually transferred, from the fire in the corner, to under the meat. Raúl was very good at maintaining the proper temperature. I got the feeling that he had done this before. The next day, we said good-bye and caught a bus into town. Here’s Moni with all of our belongings, waiting for the bus. In a few more days, we will be off to Salta, way up in the northwest of the country.Onward Ho!

We ended our month in Chile with a five-day stay in Valparaíso. Monica had been wanting to go to Valparaíso for years, ever since she read The History of Love, by Nicole Krauss. In that novel, there’s a character who sits in the cafes of the city, reading and writing. That image has stayed with Monica throughout the years, and she has wanted to go there ever since.

She finally got her chance after her retreat. We went straight there from Santiago. Valparaíso is a port city, about 100 kilometers from Santiago. The guidebook says that “it is the most unique city in Chile, and perhaps in all of Latin America.” This is because of a combination of natural geography and human ingenuity. The city is designated as a UNESCO World Heritage Site, for its architecture, geography, and history. The city is on a bay (hence the port) and it rises dramatically out of the ocean. It is immediately steep and hilly; Valpo is comprised of 42 separate hills, some of them very steep and high. These hills (cerros) offer magnificent views of the beautiful bay. Also, humans have built beautiful buildings up and down all of these hills, and have built boxcar elevators (ascensores) that will c arry you up and down the hills, for a small price. The earliest of the ascensores were built in 1886, and the most recent one in 1920. There used to be 39 of them, but now there are only ten that are still operating. They’re old and rickety, but they still work, and they definitely save your knees. There are great views of the city on the top of the cerros.Valparaíso is a working port. The navy has ships there, and big freighters come and go, loading and unloading. Cruise ships too. The port is always loaded with tourists watching the action. You can also get on little tour boats to take a tour of the bay. The town is full of tourists. Lots of peole from Brazil and other parts of Chile. Lots of people from France and Germany. Mostly, they wander through the streets, looking at the beautiful views and discussing which restaurant they want to eat at. The big vistas out to the bay, the steep streets, the colorfully painted buildings. The town is also famous for the colorful murals that are all over. Even Salvador Allende has a rememberance.

We stayed in a little hostel (five rooms) in a historic part of town. We took an ascensor up and down to get there and to go to the city. The hostel had a “balconcito” where we could look out over the street. 

Our hostel, “Puerta Escondida” is the blue building.

We wandered through the town like the rest of the tourists, enjoying the beauty. One day, we took a bus and went north of town, to check out the beaches and towns. This is mid-January, and high season for the people of Santiago (los santiaguinos) to head for the beaches. It’s summer vacation for the kids, it’s hot in the city, and families take off. Viña del Mar is a city right on the ocean, just a few kilometers from Valparaíso. The beaches were full of people. Chilenos everywhere you looked.

There were also lots of pelicans nearby. We spent an hour or so being closer to pelicans than we’ve ever been. They are spectacular birds, and I love seeing them on the Oregon coast, but yu can’t see them this close. And the pelicns here are different. They fly the same, but they have distinctive black and white band on the tops of their wings, visible as they fly.

Of course, Valparaís is much more than a tourist and beach town. The plazas are full of life, especially in the early evening. In the afternoons, though, they’re also full of people playing cards, buying and selling, and spending time. People get around the city on little buses that zip along. They have their designated routes, but they don’t have many actual bus stops. You can just flag them down wherever you are, and get off wherever you want. The traffic, like the city itself, is very chaotic, but they do stop for you when you’re in a crosswalk. 

Great music! They got a tip from us.

The market is also bustling and beautiful. Lots of great produce, lots of great seafood.

Do you see Monica?

Mote con huesillo was one of our favorite drinks in Chile. Mote is a type of grain, a type of wheat. Huesillos are little dried peaches. They boil the mote with the huesillos (it actually means little bones, or pits) and some sugar, and they serve it cold. We saw it all over Chile, always on the street or in the markets. This was our last mote con huesillo, because in the evening we got on a bus to Mendoza, Argentina. A month ago, we were in the cold rain of Chiloé. Now, on January 16, we´re headed toward Mendoza, the city of wine, mountains, and sun. Chile has treated us well.