Manufacturing Content

Falling for Brazil

Given my recent visit to Niagara, I was ready and eager to judge the rest of the world’s so-called waterfalls.  Victoria Falls, Iguazu Falls, bah. 

Maybe I should have seen Niagara in the summer, when I wouldn’t have been pelted by sleet in minus-twenty degree cold, but I couldn’t help but be impressed with Brazil and Argentina’s shared Iguazu Falls.

It took two days to take in the whole thing, which spans a huge area, and is made up of two main chunks, with many little falls and areas along the way.  Day one was spend in Argentina, and day two in Brazil.  The difference between the two sides is that the Brazilian side is like watching a movie, while the Argentinean side is like being in one.

To contrast with Niagara, the first thing that struck me was the lack of casinos.  Brazil and Argentina each allowed one hotel to be built on the falls, along with the well laid out parks on each side.

Argentina’s park took a whole day to navigate, mostly because the Easter Sunday crowds were oppressive.  But despite the throngs, the traffic moved well, as the park is laid out with very easy to navigate walkways and boardwalks along the rocks, allowing you to get to the best viewpoints without being in danger of plunging over the edge.

The Brazilian side was short and sweet, with only one path to walk down to view the falls.  Although we weren’t as close to the falls, we were able to get a grasp of the size of the fall area and appreciate just how magnificent they were.

We were blessed with good water levels (about 120,000 m³ per second, whereas sometimes the water can be as low as 70,000) and great weather.  The natural park surrounding the falls was pristine, clean, and full of wildlife, and after seeing Niagara, I have to say that it is truly better to have such a natural wonder surrounded by nature, rather than tourist traps and industry. 

More (many, many) photos have been posted in the Brazil album.

D.

Welcome to the Jungle

We’ve made it out of Bolivia, and past the Pantanal, a beautiful wetland region in Brazil.

Photos are uploaded, and more compelling and, uh, wordy blogposts are forthcoming.

A couple of highlights, however, are necessary:

Trudging through the muddy water up to our waist in the Pantanal: Before we could get our bearings and learn that there were caiman, piranhas, snakes, and other fun wildlife in the water, we went on a two-hour muck-fest through the mosquito infested wetlands.  The sunset was worth the trip.

Snorkeling in the Rio de Prata: Touted as the best fresh-water snorkeling in the world, the spring-fed Rio de Prata, with visibility of about 10 meters , was amazing. So were the baby anacondas, 10 kg fish, and capuchin monkeys jumping across the river.

D.

P.s.: To all you Sens fans out there, coping with the fact that Montreal is now in first (for the time being…) – haha!

On tour

We’ve started our first group tour, which means that we cannot think for ourselves anymore. I’m fine with that, for the time being, but I’ll soon be looking forward to running around foreign cities trying to find the cheapest hostel and the quickest bus to the next city.

Photos have been added to the sidebar, but some highlights include:

Uyuni Salt Flats – If nothing else, we’ve come to realize that the world will never run out of salt. And if it does, we can just mine my sandals, which are saturated by the stuff.  Also, having a totally flat, white background, allows travellers to put on their own budget special effects clinics.

Multi-coloures lagoons – High in the southern corner of Bolivia exists a mountain range rife with minerals just sitting atop mountains. As a result, there are blue, green, red, and white lakes nestled at about 4000m between volcanoes, geysers, and flamingos.

Potosi Silver Mines – In case you thought your job was tough, a 2 hour tour of the Potosi Silver Mines, where over 8 million African and native South American slaves died during the three-hundred year Spanish rule will quickly change your mind. At fourteen, you can start working in the mines, as long as you can haul four tonnes of rock out with a pick-axe and wheelbarrow. And you aren’t allowed to work more than 36 hour shifts – safety first.

D.

Achieving La Paz

The short four hour bus ride from Copacabana to La Paz had me in a great mood for daydreaming.  I can't tell if it was the finally perfect weather, or the rush of endorphins that my body was releasing as I recovered from another short bought of the stomach-rumbles.

Maybe it was just the scenery.

I mean, busing along the quiet highway (if you deign to call any road in South America a "highway") through the Altiplano - the high, fertile plains of the region - I just couldn't help myself.

We passed little idyllic villages, so loose in their housing clusters that it was hard to tell where one ended and the next began.  Keep in mind, however, that these aren't the "idyllic little villages" that you might see in Europe, or even elsewhere in rustic corners of the world.  These were clay-brick, stray dog, minimum electricity, basic plumbing, nothing paved little villages.  Livestock, the only visible measure of wealth besides land, roamed the muddy streets. 

But, somehow, the essence of life emanating from these little towns reel me in from the safety of the bus window, and I dreamt.

I could move here, if K decided to leave me for some taller, darker, and more handsome drink of water.  I would be the strange Gringo of the neighbourhood.  I would spring for the fancy wireless internet for only one year so I could learn to work the land with my own two hands, eventually becoming so proficient as to eschew the need for wikipedia to help me. 

I would plant enough food to live on, own a few chickens, pigs, and a donkey (which I'm sure is somehow necessary here).  Then, as my skill and wealth grew, I would begin hiring local help and expand my cocoa, potato, and corn patches into an eventual cooperative enterprise benefiting the whole area, which would lead to my becoming the mayor, or local magistrate. 

I would own a horse, and a small sailboat, and take solitary treks into the foothills, mountains and islands around Lake Titicaca.

Then, some dozen years down the road, the newly elected president - an extreme socialist and idea man - would visit on a regular tour and become fascinated by this Gringo-farmer.  We would get to talking and he would hire me as his speech writer. 

In this post, and using my newly gained knowledge of the average Bolivian, I would become his closest adviser, until the day, no more than a year later, we would both be killed in a bloody military coup, no doubt backed by the American pig-dogs.

Well, I guy can dream can't he?

D.

Picking Up Strays

Travellers are a strange bunch at the best of times, and even this early on into our voyage, we’ve learned which to avoid, which to plug for information, and which to follow to the local hot-spots.

Whether they be French, American, Japanese, local or, uh, canine, you can always find the use in a fellow traveller on the road. 

Americans are ubiquitous.  In a tour group, especially one that was booked through your two-star hotel, you can bet that there will be at least one pair of old ladies, who are fantastic cover for the inevitable tourist traps and scams along the way.  They are always more than happy to buy bags full of crap so you can wander off to take photos or chat up the locals free of the guilt of not supporting the local tourist economy.

Of course, regionalisms must apply.  In Bolivia, where the US is fighting on this perceived front of their “war on drugs”, Americans are few and far between, and the ones who opt to visit pay the $100 for their visa (for a point of reference, on the budget that K and I are on, $100 will last one person about five days here).  By and large, every Yankee we’ve come across in Bolivia has been a delight (and all bias aside, most of the others are a-ok too!).

The ones who arrive at the border without this forewarning of this expense are great fodder for their pride, which refuses them to acknowledge that this is simply retaliatory.  I seriously heard one justify it as “must be because of 9-11…”.

Oddly enough, the French seem to be most in tune with our goals and ideals while we travel.  The two groups we’ve met have been fountains of knowledge, advice, and warning.  They seem to have a knack for getting the inside scoop, at least in South America.

They are also one of those countries who encourage taking a year off like us.  The Brits and Aussies tend to take a year to work or do something productive before allowing themselves the luxury of touring.  Not so the Frenchies, who are more than happy to just go.

But, by far the most cooperative, helpful, and enjoyable comrade we’ve found has been a stray dog we met on the walk from Copacabana to Yampupata, who we dubbed Simon, because he was, after all, “de Bolivar”.  I’m not sure if the locals would appreciate naming a stray after their national hero, but we allowed ourselves this little inside joke along the hike.

For two hours, Simon bravely warded off any stray cats, birds and butterflies that may have crossed our path.  He kept us on the trail, and kept our pace up.  He allowed us to make fast friends with local schoolchildren walking the dusty road home from their daily lessons, and all without asking anything for return.  Hygiene forbade a pat or a scratch, and a lack of supplies did not allow for a shared morsel of food or water.  We wanted to give him his shots, a good warm bath, and maybe some discipline training, and take him home.

D.