Lake Titicaca

Much like how a friend of mine, who shall remain nameless, only knew of Mahmoud Ahmadinejad through the brilliant SNL Digital Short, Iran So Far, there is a generation of Americans whose only exposure to Lake Titicaca was via a beloved mid-nineties cartoon. Thus:

Photo by carlosdavis.

God, I've wanted to do that for months.

Drew and I stayed on Isla del Sol, the birthplace of the Incas, during our visit to Lake Titicaca. We took the bus from La Paz to Copacabana ($4), ate a delicious lunch of fresh trout from the lake, steamed veggies, and papas fritas ($3), and then took a boat to Isla del Sol ($2, 1.5 hours).

As soon as we got off the boat, annoying little boys hounded us, trying to take us to a hostel and earn commission. That put us in a sour mood. Then we had to climb a rocky flight of stairs from lake level (11,700 feet) to the saddle of the island (12,500 feet), carrying our things. Quite a huff.

Photo by carlosdavis.

But it was all worth it, as we ended up at a gorgeous hotel just on the west side of the saddle, facing the sunsets and Peru.

Photo by carlosdavis.

Photo by carlosdavis.

Photo by carlosdavis.

The hotel boasted beautiful views and a super friendly manager, Javier, but was under construction and had some...questionable wiring. Our shower, for example, featured visible wires running into the little contraption that held and heated about a quart of water before it came out the showerhead. As I stepped into the shower, I remember thinking how odd it was that I could see light flickering inside the contraption...and then I got electrocuted.

Isla del Sol is steep and has no paved roads, only rocky trails ranging from one person wide to four people wide. Thus, there are no vehicles. No cars, no bicycles, no wheelbarrows, no carts, no nothing. The only way to transport stuff around the island is on your back -- or on the back of one of the many donkeys. Yes, there were numerous donkeys, and a handful of llamas. It's true that donkeys hee-haw. That's exactly what it sounds like. And I don't know what braying is, but if it means honking, then that's the other noise donkeys make. They were constantly hee-hawing and honking to each other from their perches on the step-terraced hillsides. A squealy ''hee'' on the inhale, and a honky ''haw'' on the exhale, followed by a series of, well, honks.

We had clear skies both nights, and were treated to a magnificent dome of stars. Orion (upside-down, natch), Taurus, Sirius, the Plieades, the Milky Way. And we think we saw the Southern Cross, though it's easy to make just about any set of four stars into the Southern Cross.

The next morning we got up early, to hike the length of the island. At breakfast, we found a basket of coca leaves laid out next to the tea and coffee, as though that were completely reasonable.

Photo by carlosdavis.

We rode a boat to the north end of the island so that we could take our time walking back to our hotel on the south end. The hike was supposed to be about four hours.

Photo by carlosdavis.

The first thing we came across was a labyrinth, which we delighted in exploring.

Photo by carlosdavis.

Photo by carlosdavis.

Photo by carlosdavis.

Photo by carlosdavis.

Photo by carlosdavis.

Then we continued on the path that leads down to a coastal town. It seemed like every bit of land that could be cultivated was cultivated, with step-terrace plots on the hills, and regular plots on the occasional flat areas near the shore. Javier told us that the humidity from the lake, plus all the sun they get, plus temperature-regulation from the lake, plus good soil in the ancient terraces makes the island super fertile. They grow corn, habas (beans, the biggest habas in Bolivia. They export them all over), potatoes, wheat, quinoa, and more.

Photo by carlosdavis.

Photo by carlosdavis.

We passed several copses of eucalyptus, bringing back powerful scent memories of Claremont for both of us.

Photo by carlosdavis.

For lunch we stopped on a beach, reapplied sunscreen in an attempt to beat the fierce high-altitude sun, and then tossed the disc around a bit. Let me tell you, running after a disc two miles above sea level: so not the same as running after a disc in Santa Monica. There was a bit of an on-shore wind, so we had fun looping some fat I-O's out over the lake. Then Drew went in the cold, cold lake, because he is crazy.

Photo by carlosdavis.

Photo by carlosdavis.

On the boat ride back to Copacabana the next day we witnessed a storm across the lake, with a half-tornado pouring down from the clouds, like the snout of an anteater. The boat's owner said water tornadoes whipping up off the surface of the lake were common, but that cloud tornadoes only happen like five times a year. Cool.

Photo by carlosdavis.

Photo by carlosdavis.

The World's Most Dangerous Road

Drew and I rode mountain bikes down the World's Most Dangerous Road. It was a blast.



And yes, that guy's beard still looks like that.

Before the ride, we fueled up with delicious egg-and-bacon croissants, and fresh-squeezed orange juice.

Our group was half guys, half ladies, and half Irish. The Irish had specifically planned the ride around St. Patrick's Day (the next day), because they knew they'd be getting wasted all day on the 17th, and recovering all day on the 18th. They had awesome accents like the cute coach in Bend it Like Beckham, saying things like ''Jaysus'' and ''shite.''

The starting point was way up a freezing mountain. In the parking lot, I took a picture of the altitude: 14,406 feet. Later I learned that Mt. Rainier is 14,411 feet, and if only I'd pushed my bike up the sloped parking lot to the road, I could have topped Rainier. GOD DAMMIT.

Gear: we started out pretty layered up, because it was in the low 40's and we'd be going downhill. Tights, pants, windpants, gloves, thermal shirt, fleece, wind jacket, balaclava. Plus, everyone wore bright orange road-crew-type vests. And a helmet, of course.

Anyway, our guide, Justin (who looks just like Gordy), gave a safety spiel, and then led us in a ritual to Pachamama (Mother Earth) to keep us safe: pour a little local moonshine on your front bicycle tire, then take a tiny sip. Some for me...and some for my homies.

The first 39 miles are on pavement, so we got to really scream down, leaning into fun S-curves. A thick fog cloaked the mountain, so I could only make out maybe three to four orange vests in front of me, each fainter than the last, until finally they disappeared into the mist.

The World's Most Dangerous Road itself is one-lane dirt road with the occasional, well, ''turnout'' is a generous term, but turnout. The dirt is mostly hard packed with some small rocks, and not much loose gravel. It is extremely twisty, with a cliff rising on the right, and a 600-foot drop-off on the left.

To confound matters, we were supposed to ride on the left. Recall that the drop-off is on the left. And that the steering wheel is on the left side of a car. So, people are supposed to drive on the left so that the driver can lean out his/her window and see how many inches away from the edge their tires are. I shit you not. Since driving on the left was the custom for cars, we bikers had to follow suit or risk rounding a corner on the right and smashing into the grill of a truck.

The actual mountain biking section took some getting used to for me, since I normally road bike. But the bikes had excellent shocks, and I soon learned that as long as I was going straight, the bike could handle pretty much anything on the road: small rocks, grooves, other assorted bumps. As I gained confidence, I was able to go faster and faster. But then I'd pass a row of crosses erected on the side of the road -- a sobering reminder of just a handful of the lives claimed.

Clouds wafted up the valley, obscuring the view of the drop-off most of the way down. (This was probably for the best.) As we descended through the clouds, the temperature rose; we began to hear birds calling to each other; the vegetation and accompanying smells went from sparse grasses and wildflowers to ferns and palms. It went from smelling cold to smelling lush.

We rode through a little waterfall, and a couple of small streams. A light drizzle had dampened the road, so our tires flicked flecks of silty water all up our chests, faces, and backs.

Ending elevation: 3,704 feet. Time elapsed: 5 hours. Total elevation loss: 10,700 feet. By the end, I felt like I knew what it was like to operate a jackhammer for a living; my hands and forearms were super sore from all the hours of bumping and jerking.

Us with Justin, our guide and Gordy's doppleganger:

Then, because of a landslide on the New Road, we had to drive back up the World's Most Dangerous Road. At dusk. In my opinion, this was more dangerous than biking down it in the first place. Below is the view out the right side of the van. Recall that the custom is to drive on the left, so this is all the room that remained on the right. Just a few inches of tire tracks and mud.

Needless to say, I did not inform my parents of this little excursion until I was safely back in the hotel room.

Mendoza

Mendoza is a famous wine-producing region, so I obliged, sampling the wines, attending a Grape Harvest festival, and touring some wineries, or bodegas. (Say it with me now: bohhh de-ga.)

Let me just get this out of my system:



Hahaha, I'm such an asshole.

I visited three bodegas, and they were nothing like that. The first one was a huge, industrial operation, owned by the same company that owns Bailey's and Smirnoff and other liquor brands. Here's what I learned:

Red wines: Grapes are crushed, stems separated out. Seeds and skin are left in to give the wine its color. Ferments for 12-15 days in these huge, Strange Brew-esque tanks. After that it's table wine, and you can drink it.

White wines: Same, but only the juice of the grapes is used, not the seeds or skin. For sparkling whites, they do a second fermentation to get the bubbles. (''Actually, all champagnes are French. Named after the region. Anything else is really just a...sparkling white wine.'')

But the reserves, the good, full-bodied wines, are aged in French oak barrels for 12-18 months. The barrels must be kept underground at cool temperatures and 80% humidity. This place had an enormous underground warehouse, with thousands of barrels stacked ceiling high. Each barrel is only used twice; after that it loses the ability to impart the proper flavor to the wine. And! The barrels aren't glued or nailed together or anything. They're just held together by the pressure of the metal rings around them and the humidity.

We learned how to properly taste wine, a procedure that consists of four steps:

1) Holding the glass by the stem so as not to alter the temperature of the wine, lift it up to natural light, or to something white. Examine the color for...something.
2) Without swirling the wine, smell it and get your first impressions. Nod pensively.
3) Swirl the wine and observe how the tears run down the inside of the glass. If they run fast, it's a young wine, a table wine. Sniff the wine again, now that it's been opened. Make an appreciative noise.
4) Take a sip, letting the wine linger on your tongue. Swallow. Nod again.

After the big, industrial bodega, we went to a small, organic one. This one looked like how I'd imagined a winery, more A Walk in the Clouds. Rows of grape vines stretching into the distance, a quiet, country feel. They keep pests -- birds, insects, and bacteria -- in harmony by planting olive trees around the edge of the vineyards, a walnut tree in the middle, and roses at the end of each row of vines. If bad bugs come, they'll attack the roses first, and the winery workers will know there's a problem. At this bodega, they fermented the wine in cement tanks, lined with a neutral epoxy. Cement!

Malbec grapes:

Two women from the hostel and I had accidentally all dressed the same, down to the purple toenail polish, so we took a picture.

At the last winery, we had the most redonkulous lunch. We arrived to a long table covered in cheeses, beans, vegetables, spreads, breads, dried fruit, and, or course, wine.

The week I was in Mendoza coincided with the Vendimia, or Grape Harvest festival. Though as far as I could tell, it had more to do with beauty queens, reinas, than grapes. There are 18 reinas, one from each wine-producing region, I guess? Anyway, there's a week leading up to these parades, in which each reina gets a themed float, and they throw grapes, pears, walnuts, juice boxes, cookies, and more to the crowd, while blowing kisses and waving.

People would hold out their hands, or hold up baskets tied to poles, to get treats from the reinas. This wee supplicant was especially adorable, sitting on her father's shoulders, stretching out her cupped palms, Oliver Twist style:

After six weeks in National Parks and small towns, though, Mendoza felt too big and chaotic, so I left it for Uspallata, a two-road town nearby...