Welcome to the Jungle (Part 2)

Manaus sits at the northern bank of the Rio Negro, which is the river that actually touches the city, just a few kilometers before reaching the famous intersection with the Solimões. Its port, as previously mentioned, is a vital part of town and is incredibly busy, even early on a rainy Saturday morning.

The most noticeable - and curious - structure in the port area is a Customs Office. Its mere presence there struck me as odd, as the nearest border, in any direction, is roughly 800km away (and that's if you draw a straight line through the forest). And that wasn't all: apparently, the whole thing was imported from England and assembled, Lego-style, on its current location back in 1906, which also makes it one of the world's oldest prefabricated buildings.

After giving it more thought, I suppose there isn't that much civilization between Manaus and the neighboring countries and, since the river is the only available route anyway, perhaps it is easier to just wait until people reach the city instead of trying to cover the vast lengths of the Amazon border. So that could explain it, I don't know. In any case, I guess that if people bothered to bring an entire building from across the ocean and deep into the rain forest, they probably needed it badly.

As we made our way past the gigantic Lego house, just before reaching the floating docks and boarding our boat, we also noticed a huge plaque hanging on a stone wall over the water, marking the highest level of the river during the flood season each year.

Two things stood out there: first, the difference between the highest and lowest points in any given year is staggering - usually 8 to 9 meters, I've been told (which also means that the floating aspect of the docks is an actual necessity, not just to look cool). It wasn't even the dry season and the water was nowhere near the marks on the tablet. Second, the 2009 flood was a big one; in fact, it was the highest ever recorded and the water actually went over the walls and spilled into the streets, something that had only happened a couple of times in city history. Global warming, anyone?

However, oblivious to any sort of apocalyptic affairs, The Boss and I were just happy to finally be on our way. The vessel that would take us to the Meeting of the Waters was a traditional Gaiola (that's Portuguese for cage, by the way), which is the local name for those wooden boats that get trashed by anacondas in awful B-movies. They look really quaint and everything, but what nobody tells you beforehand is that they are slow. Like, really slow. Evolution slow. No wonder the damn anacondas always catch the boat and eat everybody on it, really. The Boss, for one, couldn't get over our speed (or lack thereof) and started to question whether the 6 hours scheduled for the tour would suffice to get us beyond the city limits.

Thankfully, we had our friendly guide, Aliomar - or Al, for short - with us. Al was able to greet people in half a dozen languages and was remarkably fluent in English, but, more importantly, he was also a living trivia database who seemed to know quite a bit about the Amazon, a trait that made the journey much more interesting.

So, as our boat slowly chugged down the Rio Negro, Al shared tidbits about the region with us. For example, that the Amazon river reaches an unbelievable 90km across at its widest point, and goes a remarkable 100m below surface at its deepest; that its water level can vary up to 10 meters over the year and, during the flood season, the river can make entire sections of the forest disappear. And the man just went on and on, each figure quoted more astonishing than the previous one. Everything there is superlative and, if you learn one thing - and one thing only -about the Amazon, it should be this: you just don't fuck with the river.

In that sense, what becomes really impressive is how nearly every single aspect of human activity in that region is deeply affected by the Amazon basin. They eat what the rivers provide, they build houses where the rivers allow, they go where the rivers go, they live according to the rivers' seasons.

For instance, as I mentioned above, there are virtually no roads going through the dense jungle and the water is really the only route available for most people. So they have floating gas stations and, instead of bus stations, transportation to different cities is made through boat stations. Moreover, because most of those boats would lose a race against pieces of driftwood and the villages can be quite distant, some trips may take days or even weeks, so people have to bring hammocks on board for the journey. It's pretty cool, actually.

Another example: the farther you get from downtown Manaus, the simpler the houses get and, to withstand the seasonal inundations, locals have to build them on top of wooden poles. Whenever the flood surpasses their original expectations and actually reaches their doorsteps (which, according to Al , occasionally happens), they simply build a temporary second level and move to the roof. There's no point in fighting the river, so they just roll with it.

Still, even at our iceberg speed, soon enough the city was behind us and there was nothing but trees on both sides of the river, which meant Al was running out of cool stuff to point out - although, luckily, it also meant that the meeting of the waters was pretty close.

One of the main reasons why this aquatic intersection is so famous is that the water of the Rio Negro is, in fact, quite dark (thus the name), whereas the Solimões has that more common brown look. But that, of course, is just half the magic. The real eye-opener is how the two just don't mix. Apparently, differences in temperature, speed (the Solimões is hotter and faster) and density create the invisible water barrier that allows both rivers to run side-to-side for such a long distance. I must confess I wasn't terribly excited about going through all that trouble just to look water, but that was quite a sight (an a pretty neat phenomenon too).

* * *

After the boat spun a couple of times for pictures, it was time to move on. Next, we would go a short distance down the Amazon towards a lake that was notorious for the amount of Victoria amazonica (or Victoria regia, as it is commonly known in Brazil) leaves on its surface. We were also supposed to see a few of the famous Amazon pink dolphins along the way, but the little bastards never showed up. We did get to see a few of the boring grey ones, but they were way too fast for our camera (here's all got - a random bird).

Still, just because the pink dolphins didn't grace us with their presence, it doesn't mean that there was nothing to see. I particularly enjoyed the little floating villages along the river, whose people just live in a completely different reality than the rest of us. It's amazing, really. Unlike their city counterparts, these folks don't build their houses high above the ground, but rather drop anchor and just go up and down with the river as the seasons go.

Furthermore, these houseboats are definitely more house than boat. There's no hull beneath them and they stand on top of rough cuts of trunks from a specific type of tree, one which is able to withstand being immersed in water for up to 30 years. As a result of this cutting-edge engineering, some of the houses look like they are about to go under; although, other times, the houses look surprisingly well-built and even have satellite dishes - definitely a bizarre combination

The runaway winners of the twilight zone award for most unique sight, however, were the two little girls who were riding their bikes on a deck. Never mind the absolute lack of space - and maybe I've seen way too many Discovery Channel documentaries - but aren't piranhas supposed to live precisely in those shallow waters? Isn't that an extremely irresponsible behavior?

When we finally made it to the surroundings of the Victoria regia lake, Al told us that we would first change to smaller boats and visit a nearby igarapé, which is how the locals call the narrow and shallow waterways created by the rising levels of the river into the forest (you know, where the anacondas usually eat those lucky enough to survive that first attack in the main river).

The igarapé we saw was nice and everything, but I wasn't really paying attention to Al's explanation this time. Much more entertaining to watch was the futile attempts of a dragonfly to mate with our very charming (and just as green) motorboat. So yeah, I can't say much about the igarapé (water goes up, water comes down, you know how it is), but I can tell you that the poor bug was probably in love and followed us all the way to through the jungle and back.

Before returning to the lake to see the damn water plants, we also stopped at what could only be described as an Amazon convenience store. Al probably had a deal with those people, who tried to sell us all sorts of handcrafted junk, but he also had something to show us. Suddenly, with a silent nod from him, the owner of the store disappeared behind a door, only to return a few moments later with a teenage boy and a couple of broomsticks. The two then inserted the broomsticks in contraption that looked like a medieval torture machine and began to spin, slowly lifting something from the water.

It was a rudimentary wooden tank that contained a couple of pirarucus, one of the largest fish in the Amazon basin. Beautiful creatures. However, despite its size (or perhaps because of it), the pirarucu is also one of the fishermen's favorites: the poor thing has lungs and has to surface to breathe, only to be whacked in the head by hungry men when it does. Because of its tasty meat, it is also known as the Codfish of the Amazon - although I had it for lunch and, albeit delicious, it didn't taste like codfish at all.

As for the lake with the Victoria regias, for all the build-up involved, it wasn't that impressive. Sure, the plant itself is unique - it has the world's largest water surface leaf or something - but I had seen those things in back home, at the Botanical Garden, so they were nothing really new. And, truthfully, how exciting can a leaf be?

Moreover, in order to get to the actual lake, we had to go on a long wooden bridge that stretched into the forest and then over the water. It was one of the most precarious structures I have ever seen. Honestly, words cannot express how rickety that thing was. Al knew the walkway wasn't really that safe and kept shouting from the back to keep the line moving and avoid concentrating too much weight in any part of it, but stupid people in the front kept stopping to take pictures.

Standing some 4 meters above the ground, I wasn't entirely convinced that that was such a good idea, but I got even more anxious after reaching the water part and seeing a few alligators in the water just waiting for that thing to collapse. Truth be told, most of them were not really that big, but I'm not entirely sure I could take on even the really tiny ones under water. Plus, there were enough gators to make up for any disadvantage in size. And all just to see a bunch of big round leaves? Fuck that, it was lunch time anyway (for us, not the alligators), so I was out.

* * *

The Boss and I woke up Sunday morning not sure of what to do. Our flight back was early in the afternoon, so we didn't have that many options. There was a tour to a nearby city that promised the opportunity to actually swim with the elusive pink dolphins, but it was slightly too long for our timetable. Luckily, the super concierge once again came to rescue us and suggested a quick trip to INPA, the National Institute of Amazon Research, where we could see more of the region's wildlife.

As it turns out, at least from what I could see, the INPA isn't much more than a glorified zoo. And it didn't look like a really well-kept place either. In any case, I'm glad we decided to go, because that's where we saw the animal I wanted to see the most: the Manatee, a giant herbivore of the Amazon that seems to live in a constant Zen state of mind. It is really soothing to watch them slowly swimming around in their tanks, even if those seemed a little tight for such large animals.

On the opposite side of Zen - but right next to the Manatee - we also got to know an Otter that was frantically doing laps in its pool. Seriously, we stood there for about five minutes and it just swam with furious purpose, back and forth, never even taking a break. I jokingly told The Boss that it was probably training for the Olympics, but, given the fact that when we passed by its pool again nearly two hours later it was still going hard at it, it became clear that the Otter was using performance enhancing drugs and would never make it to the Olympics.

One interesting aspect of the INPA was that most of the animals were free to roam about the area - which, while cool to see in person, made it hell to take pictures. Most of the photos I took looked like they came straight out of a page of Where's Waldo In the Jungle. It was easier to capture the bastards in the wild than in that limited environment. Go figure.

(Quick tangent here: It is also really weird, in a scary I-would-certainly-die-here kind of way, how you never realize how much of the forest around you is alive at first glance. However, if you just stand still and observe for a minute, you notice how everything around you is moving. Monkeys, birds, really freaky bugs, you name it.)

I grew increasingly frustrated with my inability to photograph the damn monkeys and I really wanted to take advantage of that no-cages environment, so I decided to take a close up shot of a macaw that nested on one of the buildings. The nest was slightly beyond what I assumed was the implicit do not cross line for visitors, so I asked one of the keepers if I could get a little closer to take a better shot. He said that there was no problem, only I shouldn't get too close. My response was "Yeah, of course, you gotta protect the animals", to which he replied "I'm not worried about the bird, I'm worried about you. She usually attacks children, you know." So here's my close up photo of the man-eating macaw. Not really a close up, but then again I got to keep all my digits, so, all in all, I am happy with it.

So The Boss and I strolled happily on that Sunday morning, seeing snakes, turtles, fish, spiders, alligators, the whole gang. Our time was almost up, but the INPA is a reasonably large place and we wanted to see as much as we could, so we ventured down a narrow path that ended in a charming little lake. Right next to in there was a hut, where a security guard was sitting on a folding chair and taking a nap, seemingly without a care in the world. As we approached the hut, he opened his eyes, so I thought it would be a good idea to get some directions, since we didn't really know where we were going. I asked him what was ahead, over at the lake. He scratched his chin and said:

"Oh, you know. Some turtles, some fish. I think there's an electric eel in there too." And, after a beat, he completed: "Oh, and there's also an alligator loose somewhere around here, nobody has been able to catch it yet."

The man then lowered his hat and went back to sleep, as The Boss and I stared at each other in disbelief. We had seen the kind of gators they had in that place and, suddenly, it felt like a good time to turn around and start packing.

Welcome to the Jungle (Part 1)

A couple of weeks ago, The Boss (for those who were not paying attention, that's my girlfriend's name) and I went to the Amazon for the weekend. For the weekend! The Amazon is not exactly around the corner, even if you are already in Brazil - nor a particularly small venue, for that matter - so people usually don't bother hopping on a plane to spend 40-something hours there. But that's exactly what we did.

Of course I tried to reason with The Boss. I argued that we would spend more time on transit than actually there. I even went on Google maps to show her how freaking huge and far away the Amazon was, but to no avail.

The woman loves to travel and was on a mission. She might be leaving the country for good soon, so lately she added a sense of urgency to her tourism, as if she needs to see whatever is left in Brazil before moving on. And, because she is on the road more often than that George Clooney character from Up in the Air and practically lives in hotels, she racks up miles like crazy, meaning the trip would cost about $3.99 for both of us - breakfast included.

There was one catch, though: the Amazon had actually been my idea all along and I wanted to spend a full week there, maybe even two. I wanted to take a cruise down those rivers, see the wildlife, breath some fresh air and get bitten by prehistoric bugs - you know, the full experience. But The Boss couldn't take that kind of time off work, so, as hard as it is to argue against dirt cheap trips to exotic locations, I had been putting up a fight and negotiations had been stalled for a few months.

Still, The Boss is not one to dishonor her own title and wouldn't let my pretentious veto spoil her "weekend on the jungle" for much longer. Thus, in a rather cunning fashion, she booked the trip behind my back and waited until we were out and I was drunk to break the news. It was genius, really. In my intoxicated state I totally forgot to get mad and, by failing to object in a timely manner, I also forfeited my right to keep blocking the proposal. We were going to Manaus and there was nothing I could do about it (and, after discovering my flight back included a 5-hour stopover in São Paulo, it's not like I didn't try).

Since I was deliberately kept out of the loop during preparations, I would be once again travelling in the dark. The only instructions I received were to take a shot for yellow fever and to buy a gallon of insect repellent; then to meet The Boss at the airport on Friday night at 0700 hours. I was also informed that we would be returning on separate flights on Sunday afternoon, so I would suffer the 10-hour journey back alone. And that was it, end of briefing.

Furthermore, because I had also forgotten to do my pre-travel research (i.e. check maps, distances and things to do at our destination), all I knew about Manaus was what they taught me in school, which only added to my overall sense of blindness.

That's not to say I didn't know anything. I knew, for instance, that Manaus is the capital city of the state of Amazonas, smacked in the middle of the rain forest, right where the rivers Negro and Solimões merge to form the Amazon river (well, technically the Solimões is the Amazon, but it only gets that name after absorbing the Negro). I knew that, late in the XIX century, the boom of the latex extraction industry brought about a golden age for the city, of which the Teatro Amazonas is the most impressive reminder. I also knew that, later on, at some point during the XX century, the national government, trying to foster development in northern Brazil, turned the area into a tax-free industrial zone. Last but not least, I remember my grandma telling me that there were no mosquitoes in Manaus, which had something to do with the water in the Rio Negro.

Nevertheless, despite what was clearly an in-depth previous knowledge of the city, I was totally surprised by what I saw - and in a good way.

First and foremost, Manaus is massive. It has a population of about 2 million people, a figure truly remarkable, considering that the city is mostly unreachable by land. It is also staggering large, spreading out, towards the jungle, for miles and miles and miles. But then again, I suppose they don't really have problems with lack of space around those parts, something that can be inferred from the fact that there are not many buildings that go over 4 stories.

It is also a relatively modern city, not at all what you would expect of a town isolated by the world's largest forest. The streets are wide and, by and large, pretty well-kept. McDonald's is there, as are most luxury hotel chains and roughly one quarter of the total Japanese population (more on that below). Due to its strategic location and the development policies in place, and being the river the most obvious choice for transportation, Manaus also boasts a pretty relevant and well-equipped port, able to handle a considerable traffic that includes full-sized tankers. On a sad note, however, grandma was dead wrong about the mosquitoes in there. Whatever beef they had with the dark waters of the river seems to be in the past and I'd say they are quite comfortable in Manaus these days.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. Evidently, we didn't get to see any of that on Friday night. In fact, when we arrived in Manaus it was almost midnight and there wasn't much to do besides taking a ridiculously overpriced cab ride to the hotel.

The hotel, in this case, was the Novotel Manaus, which was located at the industrial district. Industrial. Anyone who has ever gone anywhere, ever, knows that this is never a good sign, but we were confident that the fine folks of Novotel wouldn't have randomly set camp in a dodgy part of town. And we were right, or at least partially right. I couldn't see anything industrial or fishy about our surroundings and there were a lot of hotels in the immediate vicinity. We were, however, pretty fucking far away from the city center (thus adding the ridiculously to our overpriced taxi fare), and other hotels were all I could see in the immediate vicinity.

I had bigger problems, though. First, my dinner had been some foul-tasting airline cracker and a tiny glass of warm soda, so I was starving. Second, it was almost 1am and The Boss had ambitious plans for the next day: I just knew that, given the extremely short nature of our trip, she would try to do as much as humanly possible on Saturday, even if it cost me my feet. So it was important that I hit the sheets a.s.a.p. in order get as much sleep as I could, but I was too hungry. And the longer it took me sleep, the hungrier I got, which, in turn, made it even harder to sleep. I was doomed, trapped in a misery loop.

It wasn't easy waking up the following morning. In addition to my late-night struggles, it was pouring down outside and my religion does not allow me to get up on weekends before noon when it's raining. But breakfast was included in the price and we needed a decent meal before heading out, so The Boss kicked me out of bed at 6:45am.

When I finally managed to get dressed and drag myself to the lobby, we found the strangest breakfast buffet ever waiting for us. Sure, they had the traditional choices: juices, fruits, cake and bread; two or three types of cereal; coffee, milk and hot chocolate; scrambled eggs and sausages; and even a few exotic Amazon fruits for those who woke up feeling a little more adventurous. But then they had stuff like Piranha soup, rice, cup noodles and chopped beef, as well an entire table filled with Japanese food (no sushi, though).

While we attempted to make sense of this weird, brunch-like menu, we noticed that we were the only two non-Asian people in the entire restaurant. It was mind boggling, I felt for a moment like I was in another country. Granted, we were at a hotel and I half-expected to see more foreigners than Brazilians visiting the Amazon anyway (not really our first choice for tourism), but I wasn't ready for anything like that.

Later on I recalled some alarmist e-mails I received, the kind everybody gets once in a while, claiming that international forces were plotting to take the Amazon away from Brazil. At the time I dismissed those as internet nonsense, but now I'm not so sure. I know that there's much interest in the bio-potential of the rain forest. I even recall a real case of foreigners getting cute with its natural resources, when a Japanese - them again! - corporation decided to register Cupuaçu as a trademark. (Now, Cupuaçu is the name of a fucking fruit and has been used for as long as there have been people in the Amazon, you can't just come from across the planet have dibs on that. Sorry.) We sent those fools packing, but still. First they went after the fruit, now they are messing with breakfast, while their numbers keep growing. What comes next? Lunch? Dinner? Or, God forbid, our deep-fried snacks? Is nothing else sacred?

In any case, as politically engaged as I may sound now, nothing even remotely close to that crossed my mind during our meal. In my half-awake condition, I was infinitely more concerned with our upcoming activities than with the geopolitical ramifications of breakfast. We had booked a boat trip to the famous Meeting of the Waters, the spot down the river where the Solimões and the Negro converge, but still had a few minutes to kill before our transfer arrived, so I decided to find a comfortable couch in the lobby and sleep some more.

The Boss, on the other hand, was a little more anxious, bordering on cranky. The grand appeal of this tour is that the rivers have very distinct colors and run side-to-side, on the same riverbed, for nearly 16 kilometers without mixing. But, with the torrential downpour outside, she feared the whole thing would get stirred up and the only meeting of waters we would get to see was the one between the rain and the river.

Her anxiety increased as time passed and we could see no signs our ride, so she decided we should call and confirm the pick-up. However, since I was the one who made the reservation (my one task other than buying insect repellent) and I had forgotten to write the number down, I would have find a computer and access my e-mail in order to get it... all of it seemed like a lot of work and I really really wanted the extra 5 minutes of shuteye. By then, The Boss was fed up with my laziness and had definitely crossed the border on to Crankytown, meaning I was headed for trouble.

I knew I was on thin ice, so I did the only thing I could to prevent the worst: I furiously pretended to be asleep. Deep down I think I knew how unlikely it was that she would get bored and leave, or that she would even believe I was really sleeping, but perhaps I was hoping my own tranquility would sooth her somehow. Well, it didn't. But thankfully, a thoughtful hotel clerk saw the gathering storm from the main desk and intervened, saying he had the number and offering to make the call.

Much to our (my) surprise, the good man was promptly informed that there was no pick-up scheduled to pass by our hotel that day, at least not from that agency. I actually thought about suggesting we retreat to our room, finish sleeping and then find something else to do, but I could see the foam forming on the corner of The Boss' mouth and realized that it would be a bad idea (she had crazy eyes, man, and they were pointed right at me!). So, instead, I kept quiet and began wondering about my fate: even though I could swear on my life that I really made the damn reservation (Patricia! I spoke to a woman named Patricia!) and it wasn't my fault at all, I knew it would be my head and my ass nonetheless.

That was when the super concierge saved my life for the second time in as many minutes. Since we didn't pay anything up front for our so-called reservation, he suggested we simply join a different group, as there were several of them doing the exact same tour that morning. In fact, he said, there was one of those that had just left the hotel and could still be reached, and he could check if there was room for us, if we were interested. That we were and, within minutes, the kind soul put us on our way to the Manaus port. Whew!

So, against all odds, everything just fine again. The Boss was happy and smiling, my head was still firmly attached to my body - thanks to the adrenaline rush, wide awake too - and even the rain was finally clearing. Things were definitely looking up.

My very own Dakar (Final Thoughts)

After The Boss and I returned from our second visit to the Andes in as many days, it was finally time to move on. That same night we hopped on yet another bus from hell, this one on its way to Cordoba. Actually, let me get it straight: the bus itself wasn't bad at all, boarding the damn thing that was a nightmare. I had never seen so many people gathered right in front of the door of a bus they weren't even taking.

However, once we finally pushed through that impromptu moshpit, we found ourselves in one of the most comfortable buses I have ever seen, with more leg room and entertainment options than our hotel room in Mendoza. I just thought they overdid it a little when the bus attendant served, as dinner, two trays chock full of food, including half a roasted chicken for each person. Unfortunately I couldn't muster the nerve to try a bus chicken (or anything on either tray, for that matter), but, still, that was an A for effort if I ever saw one.

Despite being a reasonably large city and the capital of the province with the same name, Cordoba is not a very touristy place at all and we were there only for a day, really just to catch a plane. But that's not saying the city has nothing to offer. For example, they do have a Krusty Burger restaurant, probably the only one south of Tijuana. Their historical monuments look incredibly neat and well-kept (although we later discovered that they just had them restored for New Year's, so you have to deduct some points there). And The Boss even dragged me, kicking and screaming, to see a freaking rotating house that wasn't even rotating, so it's not like you can't find things to do in Cordoba. However, the temperature there was 47 degrees celsius and I just don't do tourism when it's that fucking hot. I was done, it was time to go home.

So the trip was finally over and, while I sat there on the plane and dealt with a bad case of sunburn, I mulled over the little things I had seen in Chile and Argentina. And here are my final random thoughts:

1) There's a staggering amount of Brazilians in Santiago. I don't know if it's the exchange rate, a newfound love for tourism or just a huge coincidence, but they (we) were everywhere. Still, what impressed me the most wasn't even their vast number, but rather how they don't even try to speak Spanish anymore.

Back in the day, Brazilians would resort to Portuñol in order to communicate with our hermanos. Granted, Portuñol is not really a language. In fact, it isn't much more than Portuguese with a thick Spanish accent and a few easy words thrown in for good measure. But we, Brazilians, were all born fluent in it and, when we speak it, we show we care. Spanish-speakers actually think we bothered to learn their language, we pretend we are more knowledgeable than we really are and everybody goes home happy.

Moreover, even though it's crap (and we know it), Portuñol goes a long way in helping them to understand us. It's odd and I never really understood why, but it is easier for us to understand them than the other way around (I do have a few theories on the subject, but that's for another day). So, with Portuñol, we can balance it out, making it a phony language that nevertheless serves a practical purpose.

But that's all in the past. Swarms of Brazilian tourists now invade South America, speaking Portuguese, loud and clear, and God help the poor waiter who can't understand them. Now that Brazil has finally established itself as a regional leader, they think they own the place and no longer reach for a middle ground. They actually reminded me of that stereotypical North American tourist who travel to Paris or wherever and doesn't even make an effort. And that's never a good thing.

2) Other than Brazilians, there was another overrepresented group roaming freely on the streets of both Chile and Argentina: the stray dogs. Dozens of canines, in each and every corner, of each and every city, just walking around, mingling with the crowd. And I'm not talking about your average urban fleabag either: most of them were not even dogs, they were freaking wolves (and yet, extremely well-behaved ones).

3) There were a lot of cars in Santiago that were missing that traditional front piece with the manufacturer's logo. After conducting further empirical studies, the Flip Flop University Research Center determined that roughly 10% of the cars in Santiago (that's uno in every diez) had said piece removed. The research also showed no correlation between the phenomenon and the price, maker or category of the vehicle, indicating it is in fact a widespread occurrence. Moreover, it seems that the Toyota piece (shown - or better yet, not shown - in the picture) is the trickiest one to remove, as there were more than a few Toyotas with broken pieces still attached to them.

What could not be established by the researchers was why the hell this happens. The most accepted theories are that either a) the pieces actually pass as currency in the Santiago underworld (and that Toyota one is worth a fortune); b) some of the Chilean car owners strenuously object advertising the automakers' brands without proper compensation and, when negotiations fail, they remove the pieces themselves; or c) the latest teenager prank fad in Santiago got way out of hand.

4) Speaking of automobiles, Argentina has the oldest, crappiest cars on the planet. They probably bought their latest batch from the USSR. Here's an example. Oh, and even though the photo is a little blurred and you can't see it, that piece of paper on the window actually read "For Sale". I'm not making this up, I swear.

5) Last but not least, the brave few ones who actually read this entire saga and clicked on every link might have noticed that a few of the pictures are blurred, especially the ones taken from the inside of a moving vehicle (e.g. that last one). I thought that was weird, considering that the camera we used has that image stabilization mode designed precisely to prevent that sort of thing. So I asked The Boss, owner of the camera, why she didn't use the tool and she said the camera actually had two stabilization modes and she wasn't sure which one would be more appropriate, the one where the little man was running or the one where he was skiing. I dare you: try and find the man skiing.

My very own Dakar (Part 2)

When planning the trip, The Boss had decided that we would cross the Andes by bus on our way to Argentina because a) it was cheaper and b) we would have already seen the mountains from above on our flight to Santiago anyway. As far as that second part goes, we didn't really get to see anything from our aisle seats, but I wasn't fretting. In fact, I was much more interested in seeing the Andes from up close, so I was excited (that is, as excited as I can get after being dragged to a bus station at 7am).

Our plan really started to unravel when the fine piece of machinery, 1940's state-of-the-art engineering marvel that passed as our bus pulled in. Suddenly, I was missing the safety provided by Chile's modern funiculars. And then it got worse. We weren't expecting a tour bus, but we imagined than a vessel traveling for 9 hours on such a scenic road would at the very least make a few stops, even if only to let the passengers buy some food, use the toilet and stretch their legs. However, upon inquiry, we were informed by the gentle man who was assisting the driver (a drive attendant, perhaps?) that there were no stops scheduled. None. They would, however, provide tea, crackers and on-board entertainment: Warner Bros. latest blockbuster Troy, featuring Brad Pitt, followed by a showing of a low-quality pirate copy of Ice Age 3.

It didn't take long before The Boss started cursing at me as if it had been my idea to take that damn bus. Fully aware of the futility of using reason against angry women, I decided to focus on the other impending battle, the one between Brad Pitt and Eric Bana, and just wait for the storm to clear. Luckily, she soon became entertained by the mountains and proceeded to take 900 pictures of any hill that still had some leftover snow on it (that's just a sample. She really did take a shitload of those). God bless the Andes.

So this wasn't exactly what I expected when I decided to sign up on this bus idea, but at least it would be over soon. According to our (her) calculations, we would be arriving in our destination at around 3pm, just in time for lunch and a siesta, and could still salvage the day with a nice evening walk around beautiful Mendoza. And we got to see the Andes, which are really impressive, so everything was just dandy.

Still, the funny thing about the mountains is that, after the fifth or sixth one, they start to look the same. By then, Manny had had his baby, Diego and Sid had already escaped the T-Rex and the funny-looking squirrel had lost his nut for the umpteenth time, so I was bored to death and decided to sleep the rest of the way, hoping I would wake up to a juicy Argentine steak. Instead, I woke up when the bus stopped in front of what seemed to be a large warehouse in the middle of nowhere.

After a few minutes of confusion, we established that we were at the border and waiting for our turn to go through. Our friendly bus attendant even opened the door and authorized people to step outside, as there were a couple of buses in front of us and it would be a few minutes before we were called up. Hurray, a stop! It was 1pm or so and we were getting quite hungry, so this seemed like a good opportunity to spend our remaining Chilean pesos in some snacks at a dirty little shop right outside the police checkpoint. However, after thoroughly inspecting the facilities, we classified the jamón sandwich as potentially lethal and the rest of the food there as a type 1 vacation-ender threat, so The Boss, who had been pushing down Alfajores since the trip started, decided to just stock up on water instead. As for me, I blew my last few bucks on a chocolate bar that had been expired for so long it was turning white. Nice.

Moreover, in retrospect, I should have noticed something fishy when the bus dude just let everybody out without a care in the world. Or perhaps when nothing moved for 40 solid minutes. As it turns out, despite building a massive structure in the middle of the Andes and starting a whole joint immigration operation to simplify the process, neither Chile nor Argentina thought of actually sending their officers to the border, so we had to wait for nearly 3 hours while this one lonely dude checked the passports of every single person crossing the border at that moment (in all fairness, there was a second officer at the booth, but for some reason he was just watching the first one).

So by the time we finally entered Argentina, it was almost 4pm and I was freakin' starving. The Boss, who thanks to a steady diet of Alfajores had been showing admirable restraint so far, finally lost it when the bus attendant sort of laughed at her when she asked if we would still be in Mendoza before 5 o'clock. Apparently there were still two and a half hours left in our journey, which once again torpedoed her plans beyond repair, and all the candy in Argentina could not calm her down after that.

According to the original plan, we were supposed to use the rest of the day to see what Mendoza had to offer, as the next two days were (again) meant to be spent on two day-long tours, one to Mount Aconcágua and surrounding areas and the other to some winery, where we (I) would try some of Mendoza's wine, supposedly the world's best Malbec. However, with our arrival now scheduled to 7pm, our walk around Mendoza would have to be postponed and one of tours would have to be dropped.

It pains me to say, folks, that once again the booze drew the short stick. That's right, I spent eight days in the wine countries of Chile and Argentina and never set foot in a winery. Even The Boss, who doesn't even like wine, was deeply ashamed and, always the evil genius, quickly concocted a plan. While making me swear never to tell anyone, she snapped some pictures of a random faux-vineyard they had in our hotel and bought half a dozen of bottles of wine from a local supermarket, creating evidence of a trip that never happened. But I cannot live with this lie burning into my very soul, which is why I now confess: we never saw a single genuine grape while there.

Evil touristic plots aside, Mendoza turned out to be a lovely city. We were staying at the heart of the old center, which has one big square, la Plaza Independencia surrounded by four smaller squares: Plaza Italia, Plaza España, Plaza Chile and... Plaza San Martín. How very eclectic. I never really understood why Christopher Columbus and Simon Bolivar both got countries named after them (and Amerigo Vespucci got an entire continent!) while San Martin, who worked just as hard as those other guys, was never anything more than a street. I mean, there's Martinique, but I'm pretty sure that's in honor of a different Martin, so it doesn't count. And it's not like there was no room for him: Brazil is a tree, Ecuador is an imaginary line, Paraguay and Uruguay are rivers, Chile is now a sauce and Argentina refers to a freaking metal that has become a synonym for second place, so the current names are not that unique and clever to begin with. Thus, I was pleased to see that historical injustice mended in Mendoza and that, at least there, San Martin is getting the respect he deserves and is hanging out with the right crowd.

But I suppose you can't get everything right, so the same people who finally put San Martin back on the map also thought it would be a good idea to have open ditches all over the city, running next to nearly every street (think of it as Argentina's answer to the Amsterdam canals). Not only they are a pain in the ass whenever you are jaywalking, but they also stink up the place when it is hot (and it was pretty f-ing hot). Definitely not the best of ideas.

Another curious element of Mendoza was the amount of signs that read Playa and had a little arrow pointing the way. Now, playa means beach in Spanish, I know that for a fact. And I think it is extremely unlikely they had beaches anywhere near, considering we were on the wrong side of the Andes and everything. Not even The Boss, who speaks much better Spanish than I, could solve that one and I still don't know what on Earth they were talking about. And I swear, those playas were everywhere, even in the most bizarre of places.

My favorite place in Mendoza was Av. Villanueva Aristides, just outside the historic center. It is long street with bars and clubs on both sides that would require weeks - if not months - of dedication to be properly studied and cataloged. It was also there that I found the one gym I know for a fact I would never quit, as well as a restaurant that finally embraced the one truth my grandma has been telling me my entire life: that pizza is not food. A truly marvelous place.

We went west on Av. Villanueva for several blocks, gauging its apparently limitless potential for fun, before it ended abruptly at the Parque General San Martín (who else?). I'm not much of a park type of guy, but that one was pretty awesome. We went there on a beautiful Sunday morning and I think I could have stayed for two days, maybe three. Unfortunately, the place was so inviting that every single mosquito and gnat in Mendoza was there as well, which forced us to retreat back to the city for lunch. And what a lunch it was.

See, I like to eat as much as anyone and I do enjoy a good meal, but I'm not really into gastronomic tourism like, for instance, The Boss. Nevertheless, lunch in Argentina was something special, only matched, maybe, by dinner. I am a proud carnivore and lifelong fan of the Brazilian beef, which I always considered perfect. But man, can those Argentine barbecue a steak or what? And even if you say that our meat is just as good, you can't top a country where you can eat half of a perfectly cooked cow for 2 US dollars. You just can't. I tip my hat to our hermanos: you won that round, keep up the good work.

So, once again, I would have been happy to just pick a restaurant and keep ordering Bifes de Chorizo until it was time to go to Cordoba, but there was another tour to be made. I wasn't terribly excited about spending another day on a bus going up and down the Andes, but I was hoping we would at least take different road this time. Well, we didn't. In fact, we went basically up the same road all the way to the border (and to that despised checkpoint) and back. Even worse, I couldn't even take that silly picture with one foot in each country, as the actual dividing line was either up a gigantic hill or inside a freaking tunnel. What a waste.

However, on this second try, at least we got to stop at some cool places for pictures, such as the Puente del Inca, which is either a natural bridge carved in the rock by the water or a passage made of the petrified bodies of Inca warriors who sacrificed themselves to allow the ailing son of their Chief to cross the river (pick your theory). We also stopped at a smaller, more modest bridge used by our friend San Martin on his way to kick some Spanish butt back in the day; and even at little lake with turquoise water straight from the mountains that looks stunning reflecting the sun.

And I suppose I should also register, without any hint of irony, that I was humbled and amazed - in the truest sense of the word - by the Andes. The pictures we took unfortunately don't make justice to the sheer size of those things and don't translate how minuscule they make you feel. Just seeing the "ceiling of the Americas", Mount Aconcágua and its 6,962 meters, even if from a distance, was enough to make that second journey worthwhile. I actually want to climb it now. It was quite a sight, although The Boss quickly killed my buzz by pointing out that, from where we were standing, the one to its left looked a lot higher.

My very own Dakar (Part 1)

I went to Chile and Argentina for New Year's, which seemed like a good way to close out the 00's. My girlfriend (hereinafter referred to as The Boss because, well, that's pretty much what she is) had been bugging me to take a trip somewhere for a while. Unfortunately, when she says trip, she doesn't mean a romantic weekend away on the beach, unless that beach is in the Caribbean or in some remote island in the Pacific. And that was a bit of a problem, since I've been broke for the past twenty-something years and everything. Thus, the idea of going to nearby countries seemed particularly good, not only due to the cheaper tickets, but also because South America is one of the few places on Earth where Brazilians can find favorable exchange rates. So Chile and Argentina it was (and later I even found out that the people from the Dakar Rally had the same idea. Never felt so trendy in my life).

Because we were flying on The Boss' miles and she was pretty much banking the entire operation, I decided to decline from any participation on the planning or scheduling of our activities. Her trip, her money, her rules. I must say, never in my life I traveled knowing so little about my destination. In fact, on the eve of our departure all I knew was that we would fly to Santiago on the 29th, where we would celebrate the New Year. Then, on the morning of January 2nd we would cross the Andes by bus on our way to Mendoza, Argentina, where we would stay for a few days before heading to Rosario, the only place where they still had mileage seats available for our return, which was supposed to happen either on January 7th, 8th or 9th (I wasn't really sure). As it turns out, even that little bit of information I had was wrong, since we were in fact scheduled to return from Cordoba on the 6th. So, really, all I knew for sure was that I could not let The Boss out of my sight, as it would probably mean I was stranded on a strange land.

Apart from a last minute scramble to finish packing (I was out drinking with friends, our flight was at 5am and, of course, I left it all to the last minute), the flight to Santiago wasn't very newsworthy. When we finally landed, though happy with the start of the trip, I was running on 90 minutes of sleep and coping with the early stages of a hangover, so my mind wasn't exactly at its best and I felt and looked like crap. Plus, I immediately noticed that the air in Santiago was extremely dry and my nose was itching like crazy. Which means I was, at the same time, happy, sleepy, grumpy, dopey, bashful and sneezy. That's six of the seven dwarfs right there, probably a world record. And if you consider The Boss' height (1.54m) and title, a case could be made for Doc's presence as well.

After checking into our hotel and getting some much-needed shuteye, we finally went out to explore our surroundings. We were staying at a neighborhood called Vitacura and within walking distance of a highly-praised shopping center called Parque Arauco, so we figured we could kick things off by going there for lunch/dinner.

I had heard great things about Santiago, considered by many one of the finest cities in South America, so I wasn't really surprised by how nice it looked. Our hotel was located in a really pleasant avenue, with lots of trees and a really nice paseo that had a constant flow of runners and cyclists. I was especially amused by an orange sign in front of the hotel that read Pavimento en Mal Estado (something like Asphalt in Poor Conditions), which meant that they actually sent workers over to install the sign instead of just fixing the road. Great comedy. In any case, it was a truly enjoyable neighborhood, which even had a killer view of the mountains.

After 15 minutes walking we finally arrived at the Parque Arauco and it was love at first sight. That was hands down my favorite place in all of Chile. Unlike your average mall, the Parque has an outdoor plaza surrounded by restaurants and cafes that instills an irresistible urge to just sit down, order a drink and just enjoy the atmosphere. If that doesn't convince you, there's also a giant slingshot that tosses people 30 meters up in the air for the modest price of 30,000 pesos (something like 60 USD). Entertainment for everyone, guaranteed.

While I would have been happy to set camp there for the next few days and just eat and drink the trip away, The Boss was adamant about seeing the rest of the city. See, she practices a type of fascist tourism in which people must wake up early and march all day, taking as many pictures as possible before collapsing from fatigue. It was, in sum, pretty much the opposite of what I was hoping for, but, again, her money, her trip, her rules.

So early the next day, December 30th, the trip was afoot. The plan was basically to take the subway downtown and walk around, and so we did. Now, downtown Santiago wasn't nearly as nice as our little neighborhood and there are only so many churches and cathedrals one can take, but eventually we arrived at a place I actually wanted to visit: the Palacio de la Moneda, seat of the Chilean government. Being a bit of a History aficionado, I had always wanted to see the palace Pinochet bombed nearly to the ground during the coup in 1973, which, according to legend, even after its complete reconstruction in the 1980s still carried some of the bullet holes from those dark days.

Unfortunately, we could not get close enough to inspect the walls and the building seemed entirely too modern to match the images I had in my mind, so I could feel the idea I had of the palace fading away. Apart from the mandatory statues of military figures all around it, the whole thing just did not fit the stereotype. I don't know what I was expecting, but what I was seeing was way too normal for a place that had such a powerful history.

I barely had five seconds to be bummed out about it when I noticed a little ruckus nearby. There were people walking into that little moat, shouting things like A lucha Chile! and Abajo el gobierno! Soon enough, two dozens carabineros showed up, surrounded the trespassers and, after a moment of hesitation (it looked like some of the brave policemen did not want to get wet), proceeded to escort them out of the moat, using gentle persuasion whenever necessary. Much to my dismay, that was the end of it: no teargas bombs, no rubber bullets, no bloodshed, just half a dozen people being taken into custody. But still, I felt that was more like it. My first Latin American protest, and just in front of the Palacio de la Moneda. Hell yeah! They even had a second manifestation happening on the other side of the palace, but that one was part of some world march for peace and non-violence and just lacked that Latin American revolutionary vibe. Still, all in all, a very productive visit protest-wise.

Before leaving the premises and resuming our march across Santiago, we decided to check out the Cultural Center they have below the palace, hoping it would have some sort of museum of Chilean history. Fat chance. Instead, they had yet another exposition with those Chinese terracotta warriors that seem to be everywhere nowadays. My guess is that the Chinese found so many of those dudes buried that they just don't know what to do with them, so decided to hand them out like chocolate on Halloween.

Next on our list was the Cerro de San Cristóbal, a hill located in the middle of the Parque Metropolitano de Santiago, from where we could ride a cable ferry that was supposed to provide an amazing view of the city. The park is quite nice, but the hill is as steep as they come. So, to ascend to its top, we had to take the funicular, which was just bumpy and old enough to give us a little adrenaline rush. I was surprised to learn, while there, that the City Zoo is also on that hill. How on Earth they managed to build an entire Zoo on a hill that steep really stirred my curiosity, but at that point I was too hungry, the sun was too hot and my feet were too sore. I just wanted to get the damn cable ferry thing done so I could retreat to a room with air conditioning, soft cushioning and food. So, after I was done bitching about everything, we decided against the Zoo, only to discover, a week later, that five rare white tiger cubs had just been born there (apparently we wouldn't have been able to see them, which is the only thing that prevented me from kicking myself. Hard).

Once on the summit, we found out that the ferry was out of order, which, I must confess, didn't make me too upset. And at least we could enjoy a nice view of the city, albeit with a very thick smog. At first I refused to believe a city with so much green everywhere and without any visible industries and with no apparent traffic problems could be so polluted, but, as it turns out, Santiago has considerable environmental issues and much of what I had been attributing to the dry air had been in fact caused by pollution. I suppose that, deep inside a valley, the pollution released in the city can't really escape anywhere. So, on that note, we decided to go back to the Parque Arauco to eat and do some light shopping before calling it a day.

The next day was New Year's eve and The Boss had decided she wanted to go on a tour to the nearby cities of Valparaiso and Viña del Mar. The original idea was to make two day-long trips in Chile: one to the wine country and the other to those two cities. However, though usually a masterful travel planner, she had forgotten to take some things into account this time around. For instance, that the New Year's is big in Chile. Big as in the-entire-freakin'-country-stops-on-January-1st-and-you-would-be-hard-pressed-to-find-a-place-to-eat big. So we could only go on one tour and, since she doesn't drink at all and we would already see enough wine in Mendoza anyway, the famous Concha y Toro wineries took the hit. No Casillero del Diablo for me.

The other thing we failed to notice is that Viña del Mar is the foremost touristic destination on the coast of Chile and, as such, the place to be for New Year's. The city was expecting to more than 1 million visitors from Santiago that day, which meant that a) our tour would be shorter than usual and b) traffic would be hell.

So we hopped on the bus and began our journey to the Pacific, while the tour guide talked about Santiago, about Chile, about the wineries, tunnels, rivers, mountains... about pretty much anything that crossed our path. Because we had to get up at 6am I was half asleep most of the way, listening without paying much attention. But then she said something about Chile being a tri-continental country (as in it was part of 3 different continents) and that was news for me, so I decided to listen closely. Apparently, aside from continental Chile, they also claim sovereignty over the Easter Island (which is internationally recognized) and part of Antarctica (not so much). Thus, Chile was simultaneously in South America, Oceania and Antarctica. The chutzpa on those people!

Immediately the latent regional rivalry kicked in and my first instinct was to yell that they were barely part of South America, squeezed between the Andes and the Pacific, let alone of three continents. Never mind that the bit of Antarctica they claim is also "part" of Argentina and of the UK and that they exercise no effective jurisdiction over that territory. Or that the rest of the world actually signed a treaty saying Antarctica could not be claimed by any country and scoffs at their pretense. But the guide seemed to be a really nice lady and I like the country, so I decided to let it go. Nevertheless, I'm always amazed by this facet of South Americans, full of bravado even though they can't back it up. It was the same thing with the Argentine, who still put the Falklands on their maps even after getting their asses handed to them in the 1980's. But I digress...

When we finally made it to Valparaiso, I was less than impressed. Valparaiso is one of Chile's most important seaports and was declared a World Heritage Site by UNESCO in 2003. In addition, it houses the National Congress and Pablo Neruda's former home (now a museum). But, even though it looks pretty from above, the city is actually quite ugly and chaotic, crammed somewhat precariously between the mountain and the ocean. It looks a lot like one of Rio's favelas, only with more colorful walls. But hey, the Greeks went all-white on similar conditions and have been making some serious money ever since, so who am I to judge?

In any case, from the entire city, I only truly liked three things: the mandatory city square filled with statues of soldiers who died horrible deaths on some random battlefield, which looked quite nice; a random monument resembling a copper wire celebrating Chile's status as the world's leading copper producer or something; and the building of the old Stock Exchange, which could not have its exterior changed because of the UNESCO thing and thus forced the Chileans to improvise during its expansion. Pretty cool.

As for the vaunted Valparaiso seaport, it looked a lot like, well, a seaport. Hectic, noisy, dirty and filled with rickety boats overcrowded with tourists. Nothing truly memorable. And, just like that, our time in Valparaiso was up and we had to move on to Vinã del Mar, as the traffic became increasingly worse. Meanwhile, this British dude on the bus was really disappointed he wouldn't get to ride any of the famous funiculars of the city, what, according to the guide he read, was like going to Venice and not going on the Gondolas. Mmm, right. Maybe he was onto something, but I definitely wasn't too eager to board one of those things.

Viña del Mar was literally down the street, on the northern part of a large bay shaped like a "3". The city was definitely prettier than Valparaiso, but still a long way from being the ultimate beach destination described by the tour guides. Cold water, dark sand... it might be the Pacific, but it is no Zihuantanejo, that's for sure. We did get to see, however, an original Easter Island head, one of the few ever to be removed from the island, so there was that.

We started our drive back at about 5pm and, by then, the traffic towards Viña del Mar was backed up all way to Santiago - and I do mean all the way. It's only a 130km trip, but I bet some of those people only got there in 2010. As for The Boss and I, we didn't have any special plans, so we thought about having a quiet night; perhaps having dinner at the Parque Arauco and then watch the fireworks on TV or something.

Again, that was a gross underestimation of the impact of el año nuevo in Chile. By the time we got back, there wasn't a single restaurant in Santiago willing to seat us. The waiters on the few places still open were so anxious to leave that even the people already on the tables didn't dare to order anything else. Our plan B, to buy some goodies at a nearby supermarket, also didn't pan out due to premature closing. And that's how my last supper of the decade was a combo of shady room service and crap bought from a convenience store. It tasted every bit as good as it looks, even if The Boss, always the gourmet, refused to try the "piece of knee" I accidentally ordered, claiming her dad would disown her if she ever ate such a thing. At least we got to watch the fireworks of two different time zones (Copacabana and Viña del Mar) on TV, so, again, there was that.

And if we thought December 31st was bad, it was only because we were yet to see what January 1st had to offer, which was nothing. Not a soul anywhere. We did find restaurants open for lunch, but even our waitress was struggling badly with a hangover. But that general slumber saved me from a trip to an artsy market in the outskirts of Santiago that The Boss really wanted to see, so no complaints, not from me. Plus, we would be leaving to Argentina early the next day and had a full day going up and down the Andes coming up, so I rather welcomed the lazy day.