Argentinian Adventuredome

So after spending the entirety of my first 10 days in Chile, I decided it was time to go abroad. My friend Alex and a new found friend from school decided to border hop to Argentina for the weekend. Vina del Mar, Chile to Mendoza, Argentina is essentially a flat, straight drive. There's really only 1 obstacle that mars the path.... the Andes Mountains- 22,000+ ft. at their highest point. Prior to departure, friends and fellow travelers hyped the bus ride over the range as breathtaking, magnificent, and inspiring. All turned out to be drastic understatements!


We purchased our tickets early in the week, giving us complete agency to pick the perfect seats. Obviously, we chose seats 1, 2, and 3 on the upper level of the double-decker bus. I read later in a travel blog that these seats are affectionately referred to as murder seats because a glass wall is all that separates you from safety and a precarious balance over the edge of the 35 switchbacks you have to traverse to climb the mountain slopes.

Night had fallen when we reached the mountain pass. Luckily, the moon shone bright, illuminating gargantuan mountain profiles all around us as we rambled up the Chilean cliff side. The road was a roughshod, 2-laner that was nearly wide enough for two buses to pass each other abreast. When buses would pass each other, the more senior of the drivers would haphazardly drive with half the bus bouncing along the dirt shoulder. Switchback after switchback the front of the bus would swing towards the edge of the road, revealing a 60% grade descent below us- the cars' lights below shining like little bugs waiting to be smashed by a careening bus falling off the edge. Tunnels along the way seemed cut to just the exact dimensions of our 64-passenger superwagon. It was like the driver was a 3-year old, sticking cubical blocks through the corresponding cubic cutouts.

Hours after our arrival in Mendoza I found myself in the back of a WWII troop transport being hauled to the top of a 2,000m mountaintop. Paragliding time!! This was my first time to paraglide, and I figured the Andes would make the perfect initiatory backdrop. At the top of the hill, we harnessed to the front of our "fliers". They arrayed their kite-like parachutes on the ground behind them, scores of thin ropes connecting us to our vinyl hope of salvation. They barked quick instructions to us, "When I say run, you run as fast as you can, don't sit down, and don't look back. You're speed is what will make or break our takeoff. If you sit down, you'll drag us both down, and we'll fall off the cliff." Simple enough I guess.

Apparently, you need a decent amount of wind to get airborne safely. On our special day, there was none! We stood and waited... and waited... and waited.... Finally, there was enough of a breeze, determined by the flier kicking dust up with his feet and watching how far it carried before descending. The first duo ran down the slope, took off, and then came back down in defeat. The tourist and the flier narrowly avoiding the cliff's edge. However, one by one the tandems of fliers and tourists lifted-off and soared through the air.

I was lucky to be a part of the rearmost tandem. We observed the last of our compatriots take the plunge and were anxious for our turn, when the wind again betrayed us. We waited for another freezing 15 minutes and still nothing. When the dust kicking provided insignificant results, our driver lit a cigarette to determine wind speed and direction. At this point I'm hoping my flier cherishes his life as much I do mine. My introspection was shattered abruptly when my flier started screaming "Corre! Corre! Corre! (run! run! run!). I start sprinting down the hill as fast as I could., urged on by another salvo of "Corre! Corre! Corre!". Halfway to cliff's edge we got airborne for a few meters before returning to the earth. Our momentum had taken us within 10m of the edge and we were still barelling foward. "Mierda! Mierda! CORRE! CORRE! (Sh$t. Sh$it. RUN! RUN!)" my flier yells. By now we're on a 55% grade, sloping straight to our doom. Adrenaline pumping, legs straining, mind questioning I raced as fast as I could in true lemming fashion. Suddenly, two steps from the edge, our chute catches enough of a draft to suspend us above the precipitous drop below.

My hearts pounding subdued as I took in the scene before me.... terraced hillsides, the city of Mendoza, the Andes mountains, and life itself. River rafting the next day will be a breeze....

Siren Penguins

I'm lucky to have a lot of forward thinking roommates down here in Chile. Most of them have been here for a couple of months, and their remaining time is quickly dwindling, as they will all be leaving soon to be home for the holidays. The good fortune for me is their short time has instilled a sense of urgency in them to see as much of the country as possible. Thus, my first weekend in Chile found me tagging along on a trip to Cachagua (2 hours up the coast from Vina) and Zapallar to find an elusive penguin colony.....

We caught a micro (city bus) from Plaza Vina up the coast to the beachtown of Zapallar. It's a quaint, gorgeous little town where a lot of the Santiago millionaires build their vacation homes on rolling beachside hills. The scenery was gorgeous, and we were the benefactors of beautiful Chilean Springtime day, full of sunshine and perfectly warm weather. We had lunch--empanadas, a chilean staple-- at a small restaurant made entirely of wood... the stools were hundred-pound tree stumps. Even the ashtrays were made of wood, which I found to be a strange choice for a tender-box building.


After a quick bite, we were off to see the Penguins. After waiting 2 hours for a bus that was supposed to run every 30-min, we reached our destination. We walked north on the beach for 1/4 of a mile to reach a rocky outcropping that overlooked the island where the 1,500 Humboldt penguins live. The island was about 300-ft away from the coast, separated by a narrow channel. Waves entered the channel from both sides, turning the stretch of water into a tumultuous, frothing, foaming wave pool of grand proportions. Originally we had planned on trying to swim over to the island, but one look at the scene in front of us discouraged any thought of going into the water at all.

We thus contented ourselves with relaxing on the rocks, watching the penguins joll around on the near-distant island, acknowledging our good fortune-- beautiful scenery, perfect weather, and a cooling ocean spray misting us as we sat on the rocks. As many of you know, I love penguins, and I love the ocean. So needless to say, I felt it my self-imposed duty to myself and to the penguins to get a closer look. I nimbly descended (in true penguin-waddling form) down the rocks to the cliff's edge, directly above the wave-rock frontier. From there, I could see the penguins partying in the distance and the sets of waves rolling in, accelerating as they drew near to meet their fate with the rocks. I stood there for the better part of 15 minutes, hypnotically entranced by the whole vision before me.

Suddenly, an internal alarm went off, and I looked up to see a rogue, pseudo-tidal wave barrelling towards the rocks and myself. I knew I was in trouble. I instinctively looked down at my footing, all slick rocks with a 30% grade leading 5-ft straight to rock's edge. Just beneath my feet I saw a crack-line fissure running between the granite. Looking up, I saw the wall of water bearing down on me. The force of the water crushed against me, sending me spiraling like a rubber ducky in a whirlpool. I frantically fumbled for salvation, and with a lucky strike stuck both hands in the fissure. The water, froth, and foam quickly drained off sans me.

Did I mention I'm lucky to have forward thinking roommates? Well I do... and they were forward thinking enough to catch action shots of the whole ordeal... which in the end is apparently better than raising a warning call!
(pre-wave)

(post-wave... and yes, for those of you wondering, my camera is in my pants pocket)

Abe Lincoln's Log Cabin

So I have settled into my new abode, an open-air 5 bedroom casa blanca near to the beach. It's a heterogeneous mix of modernism (internet, cable, refrigeration) and anachronisms (propane heat lamps, mold, and my antebellum floorboards, cerca 1842) I think my room was once host to a small petting zoo, as it smells distinctly of urine and burnt hair. That plus the wooden flooring as affectionately earned it the title, Abe Lincoln's Cabin. Bienvenidos a mi casa!!

And So It Begins....

As with many seemingly monumental occurrences in one's life, there's a loud bang or a bright flash or some sort of jolt that issues in the beginning of a new adventure. Or sometimes an event is privileged to have all three, such as was the case with my flight to Chile:

6AM flight out of Albuquerque- No problem.
2 Hour Atlanta Layover- Easy.
2 Nathan's Hot dogs in Ft. Lauderdale Airport- Routine.
FL to Columbia.... Let the Adventure Begin:

Avianca Airlines. The most trusted name in the Colombian skies. Or so they say. My travel companion (Alex LaCroix) and I were reclined and relaxing en route to Bogota, Columbia; him abundantly partaking in the unlimited free alcohol provided on South American flights. We were discussing the merits of supplying free booze to passengers, obliquely and jokingly stating how it was necessary to maintain a level of tranquility amongst apprehensive passengers. Unfortunately for us, we had just foreshadowed our own fate.

5 minutes after the flight attendant had placed the last dinner tray-- chicken or carne covered in salsa verde, brownies, italian salads, and delicious manejar-- the captain came on and in true pilot fashion mumbled something entirely inaudible, the rapid-fire Spanish only complicating manners. The "ding" of the illuminated seat belt sign served as our translator. Then....

The entire cabin flashed a brilliant white as lightning etched across the sky, the plane dropped out from underneath our seats and trays, and for a split second everything hovered near the ceiling, before our bodies crashed back into our seats. Our food-covered trays quickly followed suit, landing awkwardly on people's heads, seats, tray-tables, and the floor. After 15-seconds of violent shaking the gyrations subsided, leaving a post-turbulence mire of food, frenzied Colombians, and us.

A silent reverie ensued as all tried to mentally assess the ramifications of what had just happened. A sharp "Ding" broke the silence... as Alex illuminated his flight attendant button, "I'm going to need another drink."