We’ve had a really amazing time - if anyone ever wants to know more we’ll probably never get tired of talking about it.

Thanks for reading along,
Josie and Andrew

(This was written on the 10th of April, but due to bad internet connection and fruity cocktails we’ve been unable to post it until now.)

Alright, the time has come for some catching up. We’ve been a little busy lately, making our way from one side of the continent to the other. But I am now happy to let you know that we’ve finally reached the sunny beaches of Brazil, only one week and 64 proper bus hours later. It was a little hard leaving Bolivia. We had kind of gotten used to the luxury of private rooms (for a lot less than a stinky dorm in Argentina), all the pretty artisanal work, and, of course, the food. Ah, the food. Let me just say that Bolivia has understood the whole vegetarian thing a lot better than its Argentine neighbours. For once, my diet didn’t consist of bread, bread, bread, (and dulce de leche - which I have recently developed an allergy for). Yes, it was with a heavy heart that we left Bolivia (not only because of the thin air). Speaking of which, we thought we would have turned into strong athletes after three weeks on 3000-5000 meters altitude. But no folks, it’s a myth. I promise.

So from La Paz we took a bus and then a 17 hour night train to the border. On the way through northen Argentina, we made a 3-day return visit to the charming village of Tilcara, for a sweet little reunion with our greek friend Panos from all those months ago in Bariloche. We also stopped by the mandatory Iguazu Falls, for some awe-moments among one of the biggest waterfalls in the world. It was pretty neat.
From there we were only 27 hours away from Paraty, the lovely little Brasilian seaside town on the Atlantic coast, and I gotta say, things are pretty neat here too. It’s the first time we get some proper beach action since Uruguay (four months ago), so it was about time! Not much to say though, today we went to the beach, yesterday we swam in a waterfall… One thing’s for sure, we can’t complain, (except that we don’t have the slightest idea of what they’re saying in this gigantic country).

Mixed bag

Varning: this post may lean towards the wordy, as Andrew’s reading a lot of non-clive-cussler fiction.

We’ve been in Bolivia about two weeks now and it’s safe to say we’re pretty thrilled with it. The main destination, and one of the more common activities upon entering the country, is the ‘salar de uyuni’, the largest salt flat in the world. We started a four day tour (ending at the salt flats) in the town of Tupiza, famed as the spot where Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid were gunned down by the Bolivian army (fittingly spooky and cacti’d). We took the tour with six people we’d met crossing the border from Argentina - our little united nations (representing ireland, canada, sweden, turkey, belgium, and spain). We were accompanied by 2 drivers and a (gratefully) wonderful cook, then split into two toyota four-runners. We’ll try to do this trip justice in pictures because I don’t think I can handle it all in words. But here’s an attempt: pink flamingos grazing in expansive 20cm deep arsenic and borax colored lagunas, tremendous rock formations taking the shape of trees/women/condors, a desert named after Salvador Dalí (so melty he could have painted it), and of course - our jeep drivers looking more like coca leaf chewing surgeons lazily plowing across rivers, up streams, and through grimly named canyons. For anyone stumbling upon this blog looking for tour recommendations: we highly recommend Tupiza Tours.

Another thing - it’s very high here. Just after the tour we stopped in Potosi (with it’s startlingly depressing history of mining) - the highest city on earth. On the tour we were told not to drink milk at night, because apparently when you’re at 5,000 meters above sea level it will expand uncomfortably in your unaccustomed stomach. For the most part it hasn’t been much of a problem - I had some head pangs at first and Josie had a hard time adjusting with sleep. Mostly it means that we don’t argue because we’re winded after about 30 seconds. But speaking of headaches - Coca leaves are another interesting part of the Bolivian experience. Used mostly as a type of snuff (a golf ball sized lump is commonly noted in most mouths from noon on) but also in numerous salves and balms, and about as far away from processed cocaine as peppermint (except, i guess, cocaine isn’t technically made from peppermint), a quick wiki seach tells me that it’s possession and use in the U.S. is classified as a federal felony. It’s also what we were recommended for altitude sickness. The effect was somewhere between nothing and a slight edge of laziness on the headache. If it’s a drug at all it requires a lot more dedication than this tourist has time for. And speaking of coca leaves - did you know that the president of Bolivia, Evo Morales, used to be a coca farmer? I think that’s fun. Josie wasn’t feeling up to it, but I got the chance to see him in ceremony at the last carnival of the year held in Tarabuco (just outside Sucre) - a celebration of the defeat of the Spanish by indigenous groups, it brought crowds from all over Bolivia to see small groups of community musicians and performers march their way through town to the plaza where the President and members of his council sat.

One last comment on Bolivia is how wonderfully inexpensive everything is. A simple 4-course lunch is about $2. We have a room with a private bathroom and a t.v. now, at the staggering price of $10 a night. T.v. was nice for a change - we watched part of “Failure to Launch”  (i took a massive dose of u.s. by sitting through at least 30 minutes of m.mcconaughey) then reflected on what this movie must look like to a 40 yrold bolivian man sharing a room with his mother, widowed long ago by her miner husband. Also, Portland, you’ll be proud to know “Portlandia” hits Bolivian airwaves later this month. I’m sure this will seem altogether normal as well.

Ok, next up is La Paz, then lake Titicaca. We’re slowly losing members of the group we went to the salt flats with, but have been grateful to have them as traveling partners for this long and are excited to hear about everyone’s next adventure! We’re certainly looking forward to ours.

As I start formulating our thoughts on our last wwoofing farm, I realize that it’s so much more fun (and easier) to write about a crazy Basque and a bad experience, than about a good one. But I am going to try.
A lot of things were different this time. Sure, we were still by the foot of the Andes, only 1037 km (644 miles) further north in Argentina, (also known as Mendoza), and with beautiful Aconcagua in the horizon, the highest mountain of the Americas, (at 6,962 m, 22,841 ft). And even though the farm owners weren’t crazy, we still had to deal with a few quirky conversations, (but note! these were conversations, not monologues).

The farm was not a farm per se. Sure, it had charming cows and half-savage horses, but none of them where being used, not for milk, nor for riding. (We’re actually not sure what role they played.) A third of the land was a vineyard, the front yard served as a garbage dump (for convenient reasons (?)). And then there was a big part that they just wanted to make wild and lush (Mendoza is not exactly known for it’s green hills). We camped in the lush part, underneath a giant tree full of chatty cicadas and crickets.

Our days consisted of hard work, sometimes from 7 am to 10 pm, but somehow the days flew by. Probably because no day was the same as the other, and because we were actually learning something, (which is kinda the idea of wwoofing…). We landed in the middle of harvest season and the family was busy preparing products to be sold at this tiny bio food market. So we picked tons of figs and grapes to be dried, made into marmelade, or (if they were over-ripe) vinegar. Two days were spent making grape juice with a manuel juicemaker (“excellently welded”, according to Andrew). The juice was then bottled and pasturized in a rusty oil drum, laid on it’s side on bricks, with room for a fire underneath. Very… charming.

As you can tell, everything was pretty down to earth, or “homey” if you prefer.
The family also made (truly) homemade wine, (which Andrew lovingly referred to as “headache juice”) It was thick and had the darkest color of burgundy. The man of the house liked to bragg about it, claming that you could add the same amount of water and still call it wine. (Apperently that’s what they do to commercial wine? Eh, don’t quote me on that one.)

The only downside was probably the toilet. To put it in a nice way, it was a place we gladly avoided. On the other farm, we showered once a week, using a 20 litre (5 gallon) solar shower bag. This time we didn’t shower once. Now people, don’t get repulsed. As our friend the Basque said: “Dirt is not dirty”. (Btw, the average swede uses 165 litres of water per day, just for hygiene. To me, that’s kinda disgusting as well.)

Alright, enough with the moral lessons. As you can tell we had a great time and we are happy to conclude that wwoofing is pretty great, after all. You just have to find the right place (perferably with unlimited access to delicious grapes and funky wine).