Japan on My Mind

A random Facebook "Which nationality are you?" quiz taken some time ago revealed that I was apparently Japanese. Strange, I thought... that's probably as far from Bulgarian as one can get. After spending 2 weeks in Japan, I have to say that there must be something to that quiz. Japan felt strangely familiar for some reason, most of the time at least. 

Until about 2 years ago, Japan had not really been high on my bucket list. Yes, it sounded intriguing and different, but how much of high-tech, modern cities could one actually take? Milos changed that. He had always wanted to see Japan - for the mix of modernity and traditions, cities and nature, the possibility to be completely lost (in translation and otherwise). After reading more about Japan, I had to agree. It would be quite a different travel experience.

Our itinerary was ambitious. Part of me felt that we may need a vacation from our vacation, but on the other hand, we seem to like it that way. We wanted to go, see, do as much as possible. You can see the map below, but for a quick recap the "tour" included: Tokyo - Yudanaka (close to Nagano) - skiing at Shiga Kogen (some runs were used for the 1998 Nagano Winter Olympics) - Tsumago and Magome (and hiking an 8-km portion of what used to be the old trading route between Kyoto and Tokyo back in the day) - Kobe - Osaka (incl. sumo tournament) - Koyasan (center of Shingon Esoteric Buddhism) - Kyoto - Hiroshima - Miyajima (island off the coast of Hiroshima) - Kyoto - Nara - Tokyo. (Phew!) It sounds crazy but actually we never felt super rushed. Japan has probably the most efficient train system on the planet (or at least from the parts of the planet that I have visited). They all run on schedule to the second; they are super fast (we could take most bullet trains with our Japan Rail Pass), spacious and clean. It was actually pretty hard to return to Economy class on our flight back. I could cover each place we visited at length, but that would take way too long (and also probably put you to sleep.) But I will note the things that stood out for me the most from the whole trip. 

View Japan in a larger map

Stepping out into Narita airport, I felt like I could have been anywhere in the world. Airports are generic like that. But as soon as we got onto the train to Tokyo and then into Tokyo itself, differences became immediately apparent. Aside from the obvious (i.e., signs in Japanese everywhere), we also noticed that everything was super clean; there wasn't a single piece of garbage to be seen anywhere. Which was somewhat paradoxical, given that we also immediately noticed a lack of trash cans in public spaces. (We still haven't figured that one out. We were told this was for security reasons; yet, they have storage lockers at all train stations, which would seem to pose a bigger threat if we are talking about someone potentially planting a bomb. Others told us that the Japanese carry their trash with them until they get home. But nothing was confirmed.) 

The Japanese take great care in making sure you are given all the information you could possibly need (and this is done not exclusively for tourists' sake, although we did notice a large number of "Thank you" signs from the official Japanese Tourism Agency). Overhead monitors in trains list not only the next station stop and the time it will take to reach it, but also on which side the doors will open, and where the nearest station stairs/escalator/elevator are located relative to the train car you are in. Over the two weeks, we noticed this many times, which I interpreted this way - they don't want you to feel any confusion or frustration. If you look lost, someone will immediately approach you to help you out (even if they speak little English); if you are asking for directions, they will go out of their way to show you the way (one woman stepped out from her shop into a snow blizzard in only her t-shirt in order to point us in the direction of our guesthouse). Which leads me to perhaps the biggest impression our trip left on me: how helpful and genuinely friendly Japanese people are. From the lady I mentioned above, to a Japanese photographer who gave us a ride back into town (and even offered to drive us on to our next destination), to a man who operates a rest-house in the middle of the hiking trail between two small towns on the old trading route between Tokyo and Kyoto who provides free tea and pickles to all hikers and maintains a personal log of hikers' home countries as a hobby, to the staff of all hotels/hostels/guesthouses we stayed in... the list goes on and on. Now, I have heard from foreigners living in Japan that it is hard to make friends or, at least, it can take a long time. But I guess when it comes to interactions with strangers, they seemed quite open and helpful. 

From what we saw, Japanese people lived up to the stereotype of following rules and not straying from the norm (and the crowd). We didn't see a single person jay-walk or cross the street at a red light - even with no cars around. When waiting for the subway, everyone lines up at indicated spots where the doors open. There is no pushing/rushing to get into the train; they let passengers step out first, before attempting to enter. (What a difference from NYC!) Although they were less formal towards foreigners, the formalities during interactions between locals (and I am not referring to friends or family members) are interesting to observe - bowing at the beginning and end of the conversation, formal language (we were told) - which apparently varies in formality based on who you are speaking with, cautious initial approach. I read somewhere that the language can be very indirect, i.e., requests are made in a very round-about way as being direct is considered impolite (obviously, we could not catch this ourselves given our non-existent Japanese language skills, but it makes a lot of sense to me, given everything I have seen/read). That is I guess why some translations of signs into English sound so indirect and awkward - most are literal translations from the Japanese. They are also taught to be considerate of others: signs and announcements on the subway/train tell you to silence your phone and if you must take a call (this applies to train only), to do so in the vestibule outside the train car. Near priority seating areas (for the elderly, disabled, pregnant women, etc.) phones must be completely turned off. I am not sure if everyone complies with this latter rule, but they definitely do with the former - we never heard a beep or ringtone.

What surprised me is that there were actually quite a few signs in English (or at least using the Latin alphabet) and even announcements in English on the trains, subways (in Tokyo, Kyoto and Osaka) and some buses. I had expected it to be a lot more difficult for us to get around, but we didn't have too many "lost in translation" moments. (And as a side note, that scene from the movie when the director's long rant is translated with one short phrase into English could actually represent reality. We found announcements in Japanese - on the plane or train, for example - to take much longer than the English versions. I guess, they just have a long-winded way of saying things. Anyway, back to what I was saying before.) Even if all signs were in Japanese at subway stations for example, you could always read the subway line maps, since all stations are numbered using a system of one letter and a one- to two-digit number (e.g., R2, T15). The only times when we felt completely lost was when we first arrived in Tokyo and stepped out into the bustle of Shinjuku Station, with streams of people flowing in all directions. There were signs in English to get us to the exit, but beyond that we were completely clueless. Street names were impossible to read; we had the hotel address, but had no idea where we were in order to be able to tell from our map in which direction we would have to go. So, we asked a station police officer. Our first of many helpers along the way. He spoke no English really but he quickly pulled out a map that he could read, read the name of the hotel we gave him, checked the map, and then pointed us in the general direction.The second time was when we arrived in Yudanaka in a snow storm and it was already dark. Again, we had a map but could not tell which street we had to take from the train station - the shop lady I already mentioned above showed us the way. 

Although they make quite a few concessions when it comes to tourists (like skipping the formalities, not demanding that you take your shoes off in all temples), there are some instances in which the Japanese draw the line. Several of the Buddhist temples we visited (although not all) did not allow photographs inside the temple or of the Buddhas. It was somewhat refreshing to see that there are limits to commercialism. Another thing we noticed was that sometimes several people were doing a job that could easily have been done by one person or even a sign, such as directing people from a temple parking lot to the entrance. Or that they had people working in places where you normally would not have anyone in other countries, such as on the sidewalk directly in front of a parking garage exit - to let pedestrians know when a car is exiting the garage and to let the driver know when it is safe for her to continue on her way out. Sometimes there were even two people doing this job. Now we have an idea of why unemployment is so low. 

I can spend ages talking about the food alone - everything was so delicious - from soba/ramen/udon noodles, to all sorts of sea food (raw, smoked, cooked in a variety of ways), to delicious beef in the form of shabu shabu and sukiyaki, to okonomiyaki. I felt like we spent a good chunk of our time simply eating. We had plenty of traditional dinners and breakfasts, where the presentation mattered as much as what was on the plates. We would be presented with a platter of different-sized and shaped plates and bowls, each holding something different, but it always included at least the following in one form or another: soup, sticky white rice, seaweed, fish, tofu, pickles, and some vegetables. I learned that miso soup is primarily a breakfast soup. I am not a big tofu person, but I must say that I had some delicious tofu in Japan. The best was probably what we were served in the Buddhist temple we stayed in in Koyasan - part of their traditional Buddhist vegetarian cuisine. There are also millions of desserts to choose from - Kit Kat alone has a dozen flavors, among them green tea, wasabi, red bean, strawberry, and seasonal cherry blossom. (It is true - the Japanese are obsessed with their cherry blossoms! They even follow what is going on with those trees they gifted to the US that draw the crowds in DC.)

Delicious okonomiyaki

We also learned that the Japanese have "Western-style" toilets that have special toilet seats that heat, provide bidet/spray functions (with options for desired water temperature and spray strength), can dry your butt afterwards, and sometimes even have a flushing sound button (in case you want to muffle other sounds, I guess). The only place where I didn't see this type of toilet was on the trains. In comparison, the "Japanese-style" toilets are the crouching, hole-in-the-ground type. Japanese love their hot water baths and onsen (hot springs). A few things we learned about the logistics and etiquette of onsen and public bath bathing: 1) you need to wash/scrub yourself before entering the pool/tub, 2) men and women bathe separately, 3) you bathe completely naked. The water is very hot (sometimes unbearably so), but I actually got to love these hot-water baths at the end of the day - very relaxing, especially after having been on your feet all day. Our favorite were the outdoor onsen - cool air on your face, but you are all warm inside.

Toilet controls

For a nation that is so technologically advanced it was surprising to learn that the cash culture is still dominant. That is also part of a larger paradox we encountered - that while they are so advanced in some aspects, the Japanese can be quite backward in others. For example, amidst the regular tiles on the sidewalk, a line of special tiles with a rougher surface helps blind people navigate their way safely, away from the edge of the sidewalk and the street. The tiles stretch out in a line all the way from one block to the next and indicate when a block comes to an end and there is a street to be crossed or that there is a change in direction, when the texture of the tiles changes - from lined to dotted - so that the person's cane would pick that up. That's the first time I have seen something like this and was very impressed. At the same time, they have no bike lanes, and many people simply bike on the sidewalk, not on the street for some reason.

Special tile "paths" for the blind

However, the most stark "backwardness" is when it comes to gender attitudes and inequality. Women are still expected to take care of the household and kids and put their careers on the backburner. Even if they choose to continue working after having children, they are often relegated to dead-end clerical jobs, as they cannot (nor do they want to) put in the expected 15-hour days to compete with the men for promotions. For those that stop working, if they return once their children are older, it is mostly in lower-ranked and poorly paid positions (again, mostly clerical). There are few Japanese women in management positions or holding political office. This is shocking to me. Just think of all the untapped potential! 

And a few final notes on the brighter side. From our experience, the Japanese are quite curious about foreigners. We had people stop us several times to ask where we are from. This included a lady at Osaka train station who upon hearing that we are from "Bulgaria and Serbia" replied "Oh, I'm so happy". And while we heard stories of waiters and shop assistants disappearing mysteriously upon realizing they might be faced with a foreign language situation with a tourist, we found quite a few people who were eager to practice what English they knew (even some who spoke very little English). 

And finally, I had a really hard time understanding young Japanese women's fashion sense. It is hard to describe, but to me it often looked like a bad mixing and matching of styles, colors, and season appropriateness. Most wear high heels, many wear super short skirts (even in winter and often just bare-legged, although it definitely was not warm), and I noticed that very few wore jackets/coats of any kind. (I definitely felt the need for my jacket the whole time we were there; temperatures varied between 8 and 15 degrees C). The knee-high socks are definitely a hit, as are ankle-high socks with lace ruffle. I was pretty amazed by many of the outfits. 

In the end, that's one of the things I love most about traveling - you get to see things that surprise, shock or please you, and you always learn something new. Daydreaming of the next trip already...

Home to the Happiest Sheep on Earth: Iceland

Our interest in Iceland was sparked while reading “The Geography of Bliss” by Eric Weiner. In the book, the author visits what according to one database are the happiest countries in the world. We were a bit surprised to see Iceland on that list. When I thought of Iceland, I thought of cold, endless nights and an empty landscape. Weiner’s descriptions of Reykjavik and its people did not jive with that image at all. So, Milos and I decided to add Iceland to our travel list and see for ourselves, although we had no idea when we would actually make it there. The happy coincidence of a Delta inaugural flight to Reykjavik from JFK (i.e., cheap promotional fares), a wedding in Bulgaria, and the desire to see something other than our home countries on a visit to Europe, transformed Iceland from an item on a list to a destination on an actual itinerary. So, off we were on August 12.

I have always believed that first impressions of a place and people are the most telling; and also quickly fade away as one’s senses adapt to the surroundings. My first impressions from Iceland would have to be:

1.     People are super friendly and helpful. They are also curious as to what you think of their country and how you are enjoying your stay. All in all, they are the perfect hosts.

2.     Nature in Iceland is overwhelming… in a good way. I felt small and insignificant in comparison. The only other time I have felt that way was in Patagonia. (But more on nature later.)

3.     Iceland feels empty. I had not realized that the population was only 300,000. A little more than a third lives in Reykjavik. So, as soon as you exit the city, it’s just you and nature (and some sheep). (More on sheep later.) No surprise then that even Reykjavik on a weekend lacked the hustle and bustle. That’s population sparsity for you.

4.     Reykjavik is a fun and very livable mini city – it’s green, clean, walkable, child-friendly, and party central on the weekends. Seattle is apparently its sister city and, although I have never been to Seattle myself, from friends’ descriptions I can see how the way of living and proximity to nature can compare. Conclusion: I would not mind living in Reykjavik (although I reserve the right to change my mind until I have had the chance to experience a Reykjavik winter as well, although Icelanders say it is not as cold as one would assume, since the Gulf Stream brings warm air, but it is dark…for a long time).

5.     Icelanders love fast food. Apparently, there is a strong US influence. Iceland has one of the highest per-capita consumptions of Coca-Cola in the world. They love hot dogs (that’s like the national food), burgers and pizza. While at a famous burger joint in Reykjavik, we saw families downing their burgers with pitchers of Coke. I had not expected that for sure!

6.     And Icelanders love coffee, and they prize high-quality coffee. All of the coffee we had there was much better than most coffee in the U.S.

7.     Drinking and partying is reserved for the weekends (and people go all out on both fronts on Friday and Saturday nights), but the rest of the week is pretty calm and quiet. I guess work hard, party hard is what they abide by.

8.     Sheep are everywhere (outside of Reykjavik that is). They graze freely, and we spotted some in pretty remote areas, far from any farms. Usually, they wander around in groups of 3-5, not large herds, so I would guess families?

9.     Iceland is expensive. I guess that should come as no surprise. It is not as expensive as it used to be before the crisis, but it is definitely not a cheap destination. Didn’t feel much different price-wise from New York.

10.  Children rule. Reykjavik (and Iceland on the whole) must be one of the most child-friendly places I have ever been to. Families with their kids were out everywhere; people aren’t bothered by the multitude of strollers (as is the case in NY), there are plenty of perks and discounts for kids. As one magazine article I read put it, “Icelandic moms look happy and relaxed, not stressed and worn out.” I also enjoyed reading the following somewhere, “Icelanders treat children as mini adults, therefore visitors to Iceland may not see as many things geared specifically towards children.” Who knew?

For me, the most memorable parts of the trip will be the ones spent outside the city. I had been craving some “nature time” for a while and I definitely got my fill and more. My descriptions will not do full justice to the scenery, but I hope the photos will rectify some of that. After an initial day in Reykjavik, we hopped on a bus to Skaftafell National Park in the south, located at Iceland’s largest glacier – Vatnajökull. The way inter-city buses are organized in Iceland is mostly to serve tourists. Most bus journeys are accompanied by some audio guidance, highlighting interesting sights and explaining this and that along the way. On one trip, we had the “guide” tell us a number of Icelandic sayings and superstitions for a good 10 minutes. At the end of it, I only remembered one, perhaps because it seemed the most absurd: “If you see nine cows in a shed with a grey bull next to the door, and all of them lie on the same side, you are in luck, because you will be granted one wish.” I had no such luck.

As soon as you leave Reykjavik, you feel like you have entered another planet – black igneous rock, covered by patches of green moss, alternating with hills of the same colors. And that’s just the beginning. From there the scenery changes several times along the way. Horses and sheep dot the landscape. Villages and towns are merely a collection of houses, sometimes as few as five, and it’s actually gas stations that serve as transit points, where you can switch from one bus to another, not towns or villages. Or perhaps the gas station is the central spot of the town, given the lack of a central square or other central location. There is definitely no lack of natural sights. We stopped at a couple of waterfalls along the way, and saw many more from the bus. 

But the highlight of the day would be Jökulsárlón – the glacial lagoon filled with icebergs, which have broken off from the Vatnajökull glacier. Shades of white, blue and black alternate on these giant floating blocks of ice, some over 1000 years old. We took a boat tour to view them at close range (although you still can’t get too close for safety reasons; apparently, the icebergs are known to flip over without warning and with more than 50% of their mass underwater, you need to keep a good distance). While waiting for our turn to board, we enjoyed watching some seals make laps in the lagoon. It was almost as if they were taunting the tourists. Their heads would appear periodically above water, they would swim around, then dive and disappear for a long time, leaving you wondering whether you will get another chance to capture them on camera. 

 

After the lagoon visit, we returned to the park, hiked up to our guesthouse and left our things, before going to see yet another waterfall, Svartifoss. This one flanked by black basalt columns, which made for an impressive sight. There is much more to explore at Skaftafell, including glacier hikes and other activity involving snow and ice, but we had decided to spend more time trekking more to the southeast, having become acquainted with glaciers on our climb of Huayna Potosi in Bolivia. Landmannalaugar was calling – the starting point of the Laugarvegurinn 4-day trek to Thörsmórk. 

 The bus ride to Landmannalaugar the following morning was accompanied by drizzle. We had had good weather the previous couple of days but knew that there was rain in the forecast and had been mentally prepared. Plus, Icelandic weather can be quite fickle and you can get a little bit of everything in a single day. On the way we stopped at Eldgjá – a volcanic rift that stretches 40 km. According to our bus brochure “only the name itself conjures up images of a mysterious and powerful place.” Although definitely different, I did not share the feelings of the brochure’s author. A trail through the rift led to another… you guessed it, waterfall. This one made up of multiple cascades. The drizzle persisted to Landmannalaugar, covering the surroundings in a veil of mist, which made the greeting “Welcome to beautiful Landmannalaugar” a bit incredible. We had reserved beds at the only hut and were told to find two mattresses in room #1. Room #1 actually contained 32 mattresses and I knew right away it would be a long night. There was no way in the world that at least one person (if not more) would not snore that night. But all in all, the hut was quite comfortable (as were the remaining huts we would stay in along the trek): we had access to a kitchen (cooking and eating utensils included), hot showers (for $4 per 5 mins), and, most importantly, a warm and dry place to spend the night! Our first stop was the thermal pool near the hut. Hot springs are so common throughout Iceland that at some point your nose stops picking up on the sulfur smell, but what is not as common is water of temperature that would not scorch your skin right off. Turns out that in Landmannalaugar water from a hot spring and glacial runoff join to create a pool of perfect temperature. Even the continuing cold drizzle could not keep us away. By the clumps of people in the pool, one could immediately tell where the temperature was best. I only wished that such pampering awaited us at the end of our trek.

The next day, the sun was peeking through the clouds, and just like that, the veil had lifted. (I even got to use my sunglasses that morning! Something I would not repeat until Day 4 of the trek.) The landscape had magically transformed from black-and-white into full color. As we started the trek, I had to admit – it was quite beautiful. Rolling rhyolite hills of shades of green, red, orange, and purple; patches of light blue sky; the tents at the campsite we had just left behind mere colored dots on a canvas. (Given all the volcanic activity in the country, we quickly learned about different kinds of volcanic or igneous rock. Apparently rhyolite rock is formed when mineral-filled lava cools unusually slowly, and the result is these spectacular colors.) 

Another highlight of Day 1 was the geothermal area Stórihver, which literally bubbled, boiled, and steamed. Unfortunately, there was no flow of cold water in this part to make any of the hot springs batheable. As we approached the hut where we would spend the night (Hrafntinnusker), the ground began to gleam in black and grey. What seemed like silver from afar turned out to be black obsidian rock (formed when lava cools rapidly with minimum crystal growth, according to Wikipedia) – very smooth and very shiny. And it was literally everywhere. Hrafntinnusker greeted us with sunshine. But as soon as we got ready to explore the area, the rain started coming down. We decided to wait for it to let up a little and then still hike to some collapsed ice caves nearby. By the time we returned (after making a detour to another set of hot springs as well), the hut had become considerably more crowded. People’s wet clothes were draped to dry all around the hut (which made for a cozy, but somewhat smelly experience). A group of Slovaks (who were camping, but had sought out a drier, warmer place until bedtime) were squeezed into the vestibule area of the hut with all the hiking boots, sitting on small stools, but they did not seem to mind and were engrossed all night with game after game of cards. (I always knew you guys were sturdy hikers, Nadka!) We were just happy that we did not have to camp.

Day 2 greeted us with dense clouds and fog. Some people decided to wait a little to see if the fog would lift but there was little indication of that, and the warden also did not seem optimistic, so we set off. There is not much to report on given the limited visibility, until we began the descent to Lake Álftavatn and could spot the lake in the distance. We knew that the next hut was located near its shores. This turned out to be the most luxurious hut of the hike: we slept 4 people to a room in what looked like a recently constructed building. The only downside was that all of a sudden we felt a little too close to civilization again. A bus made a daily stop at the hut, and some hikers began or ended their hike here, instead of trekking the full route. It was here that we said goodbye to a French couple we had befriended along the way. It was also here that we met a young German, who had brought along nothing but 500g of pasta for the trek, not even pasta sauce or ketchup. By the end of the 4 days he was infamous but definitely did not take himself too seriously – making jokes of how his diet was actually varied, because one day he would make the pasta al dente and the next day cook it fully through. A side hike around the lake turned into an adventure as Milos decided that the trail led up a rocky incline. While the views from the top were spectacular, the scrambling down was not so much. But we made it back to the hut in one piece, just as it began to drizzle again.

Day 3’s highlights included the fording of two rivers (icy cold of course, but also refreshing and good for your feet and circulation!) and walking through an endless desert of black sand. The sight got to be a bit monotonous, but the soft sand underfoot was definitely welcomed by my knees. The sun also peeked out a few times. 

After reaching our destination – the huts at Emstrur – and dropped off our backpacks, we took a side hike to what many described in the guestbook of the hut as the highlight of their day: the Markarfljótsgljúfur canyon, what someone termed as the green Grand Canyon. I have to admit, it was pretty spectacular, especially as greens flowed into reds and into blues. The color palette in Iceland is amazing. Some strange white birds were circling in the canyon. The sun peeked out again and as we headed back to the huts, we were rewarded with a breathtaking view of the Mýrdalsjökull glacier – the sun’s rays hitting the dazzling white ice cap.

 Day 4 greeted us with sun. But a dark cloud was fast approaching, so all of us hastened to pack our backpacks and head out as soon as possible. All along the way, the clouds were at our back, but luckily did not reach us. The terrain was a bit more varied from the previous day – hilly, grassy, rocky in turns. We had to wade through another river. This one had a stronger current than the two from the previous day, but we made it across with no mishaps. So did most people; only one girl managed to drop her boot somehow, and her hiking buddy had to chase it downstream, jump in, and grab it. Then she herself stumbled and fell. By the time we helped her out, she was soaking wet. Luckily we were not too far from the last hut, so we lent her some dry clothes and she hurried on. Then trees appeared. We hadn’t seen any trees in days. It was a nice way to end the hike – walking through a semi-forest, which then opened up into a clearing, and there was the Thörsmórk hut, with the infamous Eyjafjallajökull in the background. I had imagined we would see a ravaged landscape, given last year’s eruption, but it seemed quite like the rest of the Icelandic landscape (may be because it is all volcanic in the end). Our final destination and a bittersweet feeling of accomplishment and nostalgia, as our adventure had come to an end.

Iceland is harsh, resilient, surprising, unique, friendly, and much more. Mostly it’s just hard to sum up in words. I am happy to have experienced it and would recommend it to all nature lovers. Go out there and feel insignificant. I can also confirm Weiner’s observations: people in Iceland seemed quite happy. But the happiest to me without a doubt would be the sheep. 

Travels Revisited

Just now I re-read a post I wrote three years ago about a trip I took with classmates to Puerto Rico. It was wonderful to revisit the details but also disturbing to realize how many of those details I had actually forgotten in the meantime. So, I made a pledge to myself to write up in more detail as many of the Bolivia/South America trips we took as possible. Yes, the experience is not as fresh in my mind as it would have been right after each trip, but I am sure I still remember more now than I will five or ten years from now. This is a pre-New Year's resolution -  to capture in writing the following trips:

- Isla del Sol, the birth place of the sun

- The Jesuit Mission towns in Eastern Bolivia

- Potosi (or how the Spanish Empire bankrolled its conquests) & Sucre (the other Bolivian capital)

- Puno and the Urus floating islands on the Peruvian side of Lake Titicaca

- Torres del Paine and other highlights in Chilean Patagonia

- The Bolivian Amazon (forget Brazil, Bolivia's Amazon region is more pristine and cheaper to visit)

How Would You Like Your Salad?

Chopped. Is apparently the right answer. Or at least, so I learned today when ordering a salad at a deli and being faced with the question, "Would you like it chopped?" Now, let me explain that the salad and all of its ingredients were already chopped to (what I think of as) the regular bite size. You can imagine my confusion when the man behind the counter asked me whether I would like my salad chopped ... further ... using a chopping machine. After a second's pause, I responded with a "No." He obviously recognized I was a newbie at this and persisted, "Are you sure?" "Yes." I almost felt the urge to tell him, "My salad is normally sized, and I don't need it shredded to bits, thank you very much." Apparently, however, other people did. Two women ahead of me in the line as well as one behind me had theirs chopped. Why? I'm not really sure. It looked so unappealing. But apparently you can then eat it with a spoon. Oh, and the deli can probably charge you more for it.

Door-Hoggers & Solo Cafe-Goers

Slowly,  I am getting used to the sirens at all hours of the day and the go-with-the-rush-or-you-will-be-run-over attitude. Do as the natives or... One thing I am definitely never going to understand (and probably my number one NY pet peeve as of now) is the door-hogger. This is just a random term I have started using to refer to people who enter the subway by taking one step inside and then just standing by the door, while a crowd is gathered to board outside and the inside of the train is empty. Seriously, I haven't seen that anywhere else. Not in DC and definitely not on any of the European subways I have ridden. No-one else really seems to notice or mind from what I can tell, so perhaps over time I won't either.

But I think the phenomenon that has struck me the most this time around is the solo cafe-goer (and this is not something particular to New York, but to the U.S. as a whole). While grabbing coffee is a social experience in most countries, or at least the countries that I am familiar with, in the U.S. it is often a solitary experience. In the rest of the world, most people would not be caught dead sitting alone in a cafe. You go to a cafe to meet up with friends, to spend time with others, to socialize. Perhaps Starbucks is not the best comparison, but I find that even at other "alternative" or European-style coffee shops most of the tables are occupied by one person, who is more often than not typing away on a laptop. It fascinates me. Perhaps Europeans or Latin Americans are afraid of being spotted alone at what is considered a social venue. Or what I think is more likely (at least if I base this judgment on myself) is that the cafe is merely a vehicle for a social experience. It is not the coffee or the wi-fi availability per se, the functionality so to speak, that I am interested in. It's the way in which the setting makes it possible for me to spend time with people I care about. If I just want coffee, then I'll make it at home. So why this difference? Perhaps it's just a difference in socializing vehicles. Here people seem to prefer to socialize over brunch, dinner or drinks. Can't say that the same is not true in Europe or Latin America, so I'm not sure that quite answers my question. Perhaps others will have better ideas.

Goodbye Bolivia, Hello New York

I had the good intention to write this before I left Bolivia (which was actually 2 months ago at this point). But moving across three continents, planning a wedding celebration and then ultimately trying to settle in my new city (New York) somehow got in the way. (Excuses, excuses.) I miss Bolivia. I miss the crazy landscapes of La Paz and actually writing this post now is helping me feel closer to my Latin American home. (For anyone wondering why I refer to Bolivia as home, this may be helpful.)

Highlights of my last month in Bolivia (some of them involving neighboring countries):

1. The first glimpse of Machu Picchu before sunrise (and getting up at 2 am to hike to the entrance). Machu Picchu (and Peru in general) has been on my destination list for a long time. Vaguely since I first started learning Spanish in 2000 and more definitively since I sat next to a Peruvian woman, who told me all about Peru's sights and wonders, on a bus in Costa Rica in 2005. It helped significantly that La Paz is not that far away from Cusco and Machu Picchu. Long story short, I was excited to finally get so close. Milos and I had thought about hiking the Inca Trail, but in the end opted not to, since it gets very crowded in June-August and is quite expensive. We figured we had hiked similar trails in Bolivia with only our guides as companions and this would not be able to compare. So, we decided to take the train (finally running after the landslides of last February). There are then two options to get to the site itself. Take a bus or hike. There is no daily limit on the number of people let into the site but there is a limit on the number of people allowed to hike Huayna Picchu - the peak that rises behind the ruins in all classic postcard pictures of Machu Picchu (400 people per day). We had been told that climbing to the top of Huayna Picchu is a must, so we were determined to be among the first 400 in line the day of our visit. This meant hiking up to the site, since the first bus would not get us up there early enough. (We had been told that aiming to be there around 5 am should be fine.)

We arrived by train to the village of Aguas Calientes (or Machu Picchu Pueblo as it is now known) and decided to do some recon on the trail up to the site.  It was pretty much a walk on flat ground for 30 mins to a bridge and beyond that the trail started going up an endless set of steps. Some guards stood by the bridge; out of curiosity I asked them at what time people start coming by this way in the mornings. "3 am and if you want to climb Huayna Picchu you shouldn't be much later than that." So, we quickly changed our wake-up time from 4 to 2 am. Very few things can make me get up in the middle of the night, but I figured that the climb to Huayna Picchu would be worth it.

So, at 2 am we woke up and at 2:30 am we we off. We got to the bridge in 20 minutes. There was already a group of 20 or so people gathered there, waiting for the bridge to open (which wasn't until 3 am, it turned out). As they opened the bridge at 3 am, I almost felt like a contestant on the Amazing Race, rushing off from the starting point. Steps and more steps. People would huff and puff, stop to rest, as did we, but apparently less than the others (which we didn't even realize at the time), because by the time we got up to the entrance (an hour or so later), there were only 2 people in front of us! (Yeah, we overshot it a bit.) We were actually not sure at first whether we were in the right place, since there was no-one around. But soon enough, more people started coming and 30 minutes later the line had really started forming. Every newcomer (who, disoriented at first about where the line actually begins and where it ends, would usually head towards the front) was greeted by angry shouts of "Fila, fila!" (Queue, Queue!) and headlamps being shined on him/her, until s/he got his/her bearings and headed towards the back of the line. We had almost 2 hours of that to bear until opening time.

At 6 am, we were let in, stamps for Huayna Picchu in hand. Although quite a few people had been waiting in line, somehow the crowd dissipated as it entered the site. No photos do Machu Picchu real justice. It covers a huge area, which you only realize after you start climbing up and down the various terraces and trying to get from one end of the ruins to the other. In the onset of dawn and surrounded by silence, I had the feeling that I was seeing it as its earliest visitors must have seen it. There are no tell-tale signs of modernity or time more generally. Just the signs of an ancient civilization hidden among green mountain peaks. I stared at the ruins and it was like time stood still. There are very few places where I have experienced this feeling. The sun's rays began to illuminate the ruins, more people started entering the site, and then that quiet moment passed. I was back amongst photo-takers, backpackers, and women sporting crystal skulls. For anyone headed to Machu Picchu, I strongly recommend either getting to the ruins really early the morning of, or staying until the site closes. For me, those were the most magical moments.

2. Playing with a bunch of cute Peruvian kids in Ollantaytambo. Ollantaytambo lies in the Sacred Valley. Apart from being a departure point for the train to Machu Picchu, it also boasts its own ruins. (Although no Machu Picchu, the ruins are definitely worth a visit, and the village itself was one of the highlights of the trip for me - with its narrow, cobblestone streets and mountain-water canals.) While exploring its streets, we passed by a group of kids (5-8 yrs old). One of them started saying something to me. I didn't quite understand at first, but then figured out that he was asking me to take a photo. I told him to get all his friends together and I would take one of all of them. They gathered very excitedly and hugged each other, ready for the shot. As soon as the picture was taken, they ran up to me to see it (oh yes, they know digital cameras). "Again!" they cried. So I took another one, and then another one, and another one. I think I ended up taking 5 or 6. I had to tell them that was the last one. At which point, one of the smaller kids came up to me and said, "Cárgame" (Carry me). I thought this was an odd request, but he was so cute I couldn't refuse. It was hard to get him to let go afterwards. In the meantime, the older kids started getting water from the canal and splashing us. It turned into a bit of a water fight, with the younger kids still pleading "Cárgame, cárgame." In the end, I had to literally extricate myself, as one little girl hugged my leg with both hands and would not let go. It was comical and endearing at the same time.

3. Seeing a pink river dolphin. When I first read in the Lonely Planet Bolivia that you could spot pink river dolphins in some of the rivers in the Amazon, I was intrigued. I had no idea such a dolphin existed. When we finally made it to the Bolivian Amazon in July, I couldn't wait to get on the river. Then we were told that they were actually pretty difficult and rare to spot. Well, I guess we were very lucky because we saw one on two different occasions during our 3-day tour. Perhaps it helped that there were only the two of us and a guide in the boat; we were a lot quieter than some of the bigger groups, who had no such luck. For anyone curious as to what a pink river dolphin looks like, it would be better to consult google images. We only saw its back for a few seconds before it disappeared again underwater. But, no, it is actually not pink in color.   

On another note, the difference in the level of tourism between Peru and Bolivia is staggering. Peru's tourism is very well run and organized. We saw tourists of all age groups in Cusco. Of course, this has its pros and cons. Pros mostly for the country itself, because the revenues from tourism can be substantial (and unfortunately Bolivia has not really tapped into them yet). And cons to some extent for the tourists - everything may run pretty smoothly, but you will always be surrounded by hundreds of other tourists and don't get to enjoy nature and the sights quite like we did in Bolivia. There is something to be said for untouched and remote locations.

Of course, now I am in New York and this is as far removed from remote as one can get. Despite having been here for a month now, I am still adjusting. There are many aspects about this city that I love - the diversity, the ability to find anything you could possibly be looking for, the international feel. But the hustle and bustle, the noise, and the pushing on the subway definitely don't make that list. We debated with a friend the other day, "Why do New Yorkers have so much patience to wait in line to get ethnic food at some food fair, but when it comes to waiting 2 minutes for the next subway train, that patience is non-existent?"

Well, I am sure I will be asking myself a lot more questions and gathering a lot more impressions as I get to know my new city. And I have made a decision to document all this here in a new series, New York Stories. After all, it's not healthy that looking for a job take up all of my time.

A Nomad's Journey Never Ends

My first memories of life abroad (i.e. outside of Bulgaria) involve feeding squirrels and birds in the park and watching the daily outings of two rabbits on the lawn outside our apartment building. I was 3 or 4 years old. Later, I also remember getting lost a few times and crying while searching desperately for my parents. I remember getting bitten (or should I say pecked) by a swan. I remember eating french fries with mayonnaise and not being allowed to own a helium Mickey-Mouse-shaped balloon (which I wanted so badly since we didn't have those in Bulgaria at the time). I remember trying to stay awake to meet Santa Claus and getting angry at my parents for letting me fall asleep and then not waking me up when he did come by. Of course, these things could have happened anywhere. There is nothing about the place that defined these moments. But they were my first explorations outside my home country's borders (this first time, in Amsterdam) and little did I know at that time that these explorations would more or less turn into my way of life.

I have not always considered travel and exploration to be a blessing. At 15 and back in Bulgaria after five years in Zimbabwe and travels to other countries during that time, I almost felt ashamed for having seen "so much" of the world outside my own country. I tried to downplay the fact that I spoke fluent English and wanted the ground to swallow me whole any time an English teacher would allude to this fact in front of the entire class. I used to hide the fact that I had lived abroad for fear of seeming stuck-up, too privileged or different. (I had simply been lucky that my father worked for the Bulgarian Airlines.) At a time, when many people at home had very little and had barely ventured outside Bulgaria's borders, it felt wrong for a 15-year old to have done so and not only to have ventured, but to actually have lived abroad. I had missed the fall of Communism and the hunger years of the early 90s. I was behind on the grunge and heavy-metal phases that many of my classmates were in. Many people reminded me of this. So instead of opening other people's eyes to what I had experienced, I shut my own and tried to mask these differences.

I am not sure what exactly made me apply to colleges in the U.S. I just remember feeling that if I had the chance to study somewhere else and experience something different, then I should go for it. At that point, I hadn't even been thinking about better opportunities after university or a higher-quality education. Neither had my parents tried to convince me to do it. It had been my idea. I had just wanted to see a new world. Landing in the U.S. in a college with many other international students, many of whom had lived outside their home countries or at least yearned to (which was their reason for ending up in the U.S.), made me open up about my experiences for the first time. I stood on even ground with many of these girls. I was no longer "different".

Since then, I have ventured near and far, both literally and metaphorically. At the beginning, I would constantly ask myself the question of which side of the ocean I actually belonged on, until I realized that question was irrelevant. I have felt at home in many places. And it is part of human nature to adapt no matter what. Frequently, I have followed my wanderlust and packed up and moved more times than many people (especially my parents) would probably have liked me to. But over time I have also learned to stay put when it mattered. I guess I can't really imagine my life any other way. It's not easy starting from zero (or close to zero) but when a new place starts feeling like home, the feeling is indescribable. And when you leave and return to that place years later, the familiarity of it is extremely heart-warming. It's like coming home over and over again, in different locations.

Many people claim that it is hard to build a life if you are constantly moving. Well, I guess my response to that would be that it is not always about building a life, but about living it. And I am not ashamed to say that now.

Is There Such a Thing as a Perfect Market?

I had always thought that the ubiquitous Economics-class phrase perfect markets was just that: a phrase that did not reflect reality. After all, for perfect markets to exist we need perfect information, in real time, immediate; no participant with the power to set prices; no barriers to entry or exit. Well, I think I found the closest thing to a perfect market that I will probably ever find: minibus fares in La Paz. Perfect information? The "sidekick" of every minibus driver yells the fare out for everyone to know before they board (that includes other minibuses running the same route). As soon as one starts reducing or increasing fares, the others follow suit. This happens in a matter of minutes. No participant with the power to set prices? The only thing that exists is a ceiling on the fare set by the government (2.30 Bolivianos); other than that each driver and his sidekick decide the fare independently. No barriers to entry or exit? This I am not so sure about. Most minibus drivers belong to a syndicate, but I know for a fact that some do not. How easy is it to do this without belonging to a syndicate? I don't know. Perhaps I should chat with one of the drivers one of these days to find out.

Evo, Chicken and Gays

Some things the Bolivian president says linger long after he has stopped speaking. You may have read in the news last month about Morales's comment about chicken and gay men. It basically went something like this, "the chicken that we eat is full of female hormones. Because of this, when men eat chicken, they experience deviations from being men." (El pollo que comemos está cargado de hormonas femeninas. Por eso, cuando los hombres comen esos pollos, tienen desviaciones en su ser como hombres.) Of course, there was outrage from the gay community, and he has since had to apologize publicly for his comments several times. However, the more interesting thing is how this faux-pas has been adopted in the Bolivian vernacular. "Oh, I don't think you should eat that chicken," say my male colleagues to each other at work. "I think you may have had too much chicken lately," if you want to really annoy a macho Bolivian. "I'm going to stick to beef, thank you." And so forth.

The more shocking (but I guess not really surprising) reaction came from my colleagues one day. We were celebrating someone's birthday at work with the habitual mid-morning salteñas* and everyone was gathered around the table. The chicken joke came up as some people reached for the chicken salteñas. One of the directors (a woman) said to the guy making the joke, "Well, what about if someone among us is homosexual? How do you think these jokes would make him or her feel?" There was a very brief silence, and then people burst out laughing. The thoughts behind the laughter: Someone among us, homosexual? What is this, a joke? And so it goes. Instead of discussing such topics openly, people just hide their insecurity on the issue behind their laughter. 

Evo sure knows how to stir things up.

* Bolivian stuffed pastry, similar to empanadas, but better.

Aiming for the Top

The climb to the summit of Huayna Potosi (6088m, 19974 ft), 24-26 April 2010

Warning: This is a long post, but I wanted to capture my impressions while they are still fresh in my mind. I hope you enjoy it.

Since the very first time that Milos read about the “easiest 6000+ m climb”, he had it in his mind that we should do it. I was a little less excited. I hate the cold and was picturing myself out-of-breath the whole time. (Hey, I still get out-of-breath during more high-intensity cardio workouts at the gym and we’ve now been in La Paz for 8 months. So as you can imagine, I had my doubts as to my physical abilities at high altitude.) But nevertheless, we added it to our Bolivia travel checklist back in October and then forgot about it for a while. The best period to make the climb is between May and September, so we decided to put off the decision until then.

Well, fast forward to mid-April. Somehow Huayna Potosi came up again, and we decided to ask a couple of agencies that do mountaineering trips about prices and the general itinerary. Milos got even more excited after this. I still had my doubts. The biggest one was whether to do the climb in two or three days. Three days allows you to spend more time at various altitude levels – 4700m, 5200m, and then finally 6088m – and acclimatize. But they told us since we already live in La Paz (at 3600m) we were pretty well acclimatized and could do it in two days if we wanted to. The advantage to doing it in two days is that you spend only one night at high altitude, where it is often hard to sleep. We asked people who had done it before for advice and we got different recommendations – one person said, do it in two days, another said do it in three. Then I started hearing about the people who hadn’t made it to the top. In the end, we decided that getting in more time to rest between climbs would probably increase our chances. Or if not that, at least calm my mind.

The night before our climb, I couldn’t sleep very well. I had an upset stomach and kept getting chills during the night. I thought to myself, “Great, we finally sign up, and now I get sick.” But since we had two more days until the actual final climb to the summit, I decided to take some Cipro and sit it out. We met our mountain guide, Felix, at 8:30 am and drove to a house in El Alto to grab our equipment, which we would learn to use later that same day: climbing boots, crampons, harness, ice axe. We then drove to the base camp of Huayna Potosi at 4700m (approximately 1.5 hours outside of La Paz). After an early lunch, it was time to practice some ice climbing. We walked for 30-40 minutes to the edge of the glacier where we put everything on. Climbing boots resemble ski boots – they are quite heavy and inflexible. Then we practiced walking, climbing up a 70-80 degree wall, rappelling down, etc. It felt just like rock climbing (well, except for the bulky boots and ice axe in hand). Having never used crampons before, I was quite amazed at how well they grip to the ice. After about an hour or two, we walked back to base camp and relaxed for the rest of the day. On the way back, Felix told us how in the 1980s the glacier had extended much further down. We would have been walking on ice instead of rock. Many of the neighboring peaks had been covered in snow back then. Sadly, much of this snow is now gone, and the glacier (like many of Bolivia’s glaciers) has receded significantly and continues to do so at a disconcerting rate. That night we were alone in the lodge at base camp. During high season (June-July) apparently this and the other 1-2 nearby lodges are full to capacity and the surrounding area is dotted with tents. The accommodations were pretty basic but comfortable and warm enough: sleeping bag on a mattress in the middle of a big room.

The next morning, we set out to high camp at 5130m. We retraced much of the route we had taken the previous day and then continued up the rocky slope. We reached high camp in about 2 hours. On the way, we passed several groups of climbers making their way back down. Felix would stop to chat with each group’s guide about their climb. With the exception of two people (out of about 12 we passed), none had made it to the summit. Talk about discouraging statistics. Felix told us that approximately 70% of people who attempt the climb, make it to the top of. Just three days before that, he had made the trip with two Brazilians. They hadn’t made it either. He told us the most important thing is neither to be negative nor overly confident about the climb. The goal was to set your mind to it and then just take it one step at a time and go slow. Apparently, many people overexert themselves at the beginning, only to have zero energy left for the final climb to the peak. That afternoon, we had more time to relax. The peak of Huayna Potosi towered above the lodge. I spent most of the afternoon gazing at it and making peace with the mountain. I thought it couldn’t hurt if I didn’t feel intimidated by it. Late in the afternoon we were joined by four French guys and their two guides. The nine of us were the only ones staying at the lodge that night. After an early dinner, we went to bed at 6:30 pm. Felix was going to wake us up at 1 am and after a quick breakfast, we would start the ascent to the summit.

I didn’t sleep very much between 6:30 pm and 1 am. The wind was howling madly outside and for some reason I couldn’t fall asleep (perhaps it was the altitude, like everyone says). I just dozed off a few times. At 1 am, Felix greeted us with the news that we would have to put on more layers. Apparently, the wind wasn’t usually this strong. I put on almost all the clothes I had brought with me. Two layers below my skiing pants and five layers below my winter jacket. It turned out it wasn’t that cold after all, but I was happy with all my layers. At around 2:30 am we set out to the edge of glacier, donned our crampons and fixed the rope to our harnesses. Felix led, I followed, and Milos came last. The four French guys were also tied in twos to their respective guides. And so we set out, headlamps on, one slow step at a time. There was almost a full moon so we could actually make out a little more than just our immediate surroundings. I tried to concentrate on the walking and not to think about anything else. I knew we had a long way to go. Felix had estimated six hours. One-two, one-two, one-two I would count off in my head. Breathing was getting harder, but somehow I managed to keep a rhythm. At times, I felt a nauseating feeling rise up from the pit of my stomach, but I tried to suppress it. I just pretended it wasn’t there. I knew that if I started thinking about it, I would not make it far. The first portion of the climb was fair, the incline wasn’t too steep. The wind was strong, but not super cold. And it helped to have others in our group. I just focused on making it to our next rest point. I wasn’t even thinking as far as the summit. There was a long way to go. I had been told that when people make this climb in the middle of the night, they often ask themselves what the hell they are doing there. I had suspected that I would ask myself the same question, but I didn’t. I guess by that point, I was determined that I wanted to be there and my only goal for the next however many hours was to make it closer and closer to the summit. Why I was there was an irrelevant question. As we continued to make our way up, the French guys gained on us and slowly disappeared out of sight. We passed a couple who were debating turning around. We trudged on.

Felix had told us that many people turn around at the pequeño palo, a 50 m section with a 45 degree incline at approximately 5700m. You need to climb up on all fours, and the wind right after that section is always strong, as you end up in an open pass. Make it past that section and you are halfway to the summit. But climbing up the wall takes a lot of energy out of you. We started taking breaks more often. Milos started having a hard time breathing and had to stop frequently to catch his breath. But we managed to keep a more-or-less steady rhythm. We passed another couple who were wondering whether to turn back. The girl wasn’t feeling well, but the guy wanted to continue. Their guide was waiting for them to decide what they wanted to do. We continued.

The next section was fairly flat, but at this altitude even walking on flat ground was quite tiresome. We would make brief stops to catch our breath, drink some water, and eat chocolate for energy. I didn’t look at my watch. I didn’t want to know how long I had to go. I kept the rest stops as my intermediary goals. We had to step/jump over a few crevasses but all in all it was a pretty uneventful stretch. As we stopped for another break, Felix told us we had just one more steep section to go and then we would be right below the peak. At that point, we saw that the last couple we had passed had decided to continue. They had caught up to us. The girl still wasn’t feeling very well, but had decided to power on. We talked them into continuing with us. The sun started peeking out from behind the horizon and it revealed a whole new world: glistening snow and ice formations, mountain peaks in the distance, La Paz and El Alto down below.

With ever more frequent breaks we made it to the last stretch before the summit. We would have to hike up a stretch of medium steepness (approx. 30 degrees), then climb up 70-80 m stretch with a 45-50 degree incline on all fours, then walk carefully along the ridge at the top towards the summit. People were inching their way up. Some were already at the top. The goal was in sight. By the time we made it to the 45-50 degree section, some people were already coming down. The problem was that they blocked half of the path up and made it even harder for us to climb up. This section truly felt like being on a vertical rock face (although I realize it was far from 90 degrees). With each step, we had to dig the ice axe into the slope, make a step up digging the crampons into the ice and then push/pull ourselves up in order to repeat the same steps again. The problem with being tied to someone else is that you have to keep up with the average speed. Milos needed to stop more often to catch his breath. I wanted to keep a steady pace because I felt that if I stopped too much my legs would just refuse to continue climbing. The people coming down didn’t help either because they limited our reach. I don’t know why they hadn’t waited for us to climb up the wall before coming down. But somehow we made it all the way up. The other girl gave up, but at least at that point she was able to join the group coming down, so that the guy could continue with the guide. He made his way before us on the ridge. Felix told us not to look down. On the left-hand side was the slope from which we had just come; on the right-hand side was a free-fall area, a vertical drop that seemed to have no end. So, yes, it was better not to look down. Luckily, the wind wasn’t very strong at that point. We edged along and sooner than we knew it, we were there. We were at the summit, 6088m above sea level! We made it up in 5 hours. I could hardly believe it. My eyes teared up. The summit itself is pretty small in area. There is nothing marking the top. It was just us, the other guy (who turned out to be a New Zealander), the two guides, and the magnificent panorama all around us – the rest of the Cordillera Real peaks to the north-west and south-east, Lake Titicaca to the west, parts of El Alto to the south, and the clouds above the Yungas to the east. We spent about 20 minutes on top basking in the sun, enjoying the views, and assimilating what we had just done. Then it was time for the descent. Yes, unfortunately, there isn’t time for too much relaxation since you have to be pretty alert on the way down and can’t let your body go into “rest mode.”

As we made our way down, I understood why this climb is done at night. (Well, the more technical reason is that the slope is more stable at night when the temperatures are lower.) But the psychological reason is that in the ignorance of darkness chances are lower that you will get discouraged. You can’t see how far you still have to climb. All you see is the area within a 2-meter radius and you press on. Walking the same route in the daylight is a completely different experience when you can appreciate the scenery around you – the heaps of snow, icicle formations, crevasses in various shapes, the imposing slopes. The more we descended, the more my disbelief grew. We had climbed all this? The descent gives you a completely different perspective. We made it down to high camp in about three hours. We then took an hour to eat and gather our strength for the descent down to base camp (another 1.5 hours). Oh, and before we left high camp, we added our names to the other writings that dotted the walls of the lodge. It was a tough but very gratifying experience. And it gives me a whole new appreciation of the world of mountaineering and all the people who make summits such as Everest or K-2. Felix suggested we join him on his next climb up Mt. Illimani (6462m) on 1 May. I think we may skip that one, but I may consider another climb in the future, who knows?