Sayta Ranch and the Famous "Enrique"

Images not as clear as usual.  I've started compressing the images for the web as WiFi is not so great in Bolivia and Peru. Use your imagination, it's still beautiful

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While hiking in Torres Del Paine, Christina and I met a Chris and Jane, a British couple who had spent three days at the Sayta Ranch, about an hour outside of Salta, Mendoza.  They told elaborate stories of horseback riding in the mountains; massive midday assadas and a charming ranch removed from, well­-pretty much everything.  They also began to paint a picture of Enrique, the owner of the ranch, the orchestrator of all things meat and the master of everything with four legs.  I’ve always loved horses.  I spent a lot of time as a child, hugging my dad’s leg as he cheered on the thoroughbreds at a racetrack in Kentucky, near our house.  My father has been involved in horseracing since the 1970’s, so much of our small talk at the dinner table revolved around horses.  And, since as far as I can remember, I made it a personal life goal to own a small piece of land with a riding horse, lots of four-legged critters and a pond where I can fish and play fetch with my dogs.  So, when I heard of Enrique’s ranch in all its glory, it sounded like a dream come true.  And, from the moment I realized I would be visiting Argentina, I had conjured up images up riding horses in the mountains with gauchos.  So, it was settled.  Christina and I traded glances across a picnic table and without a spoken word; we both agreed that we would visit the Sayta Ranch.

Getting to Sayta Ranch would require an 18 hour bus ride from Mendoza, Argentina to Salta, where we would then be picked up at the bus terminal and transferred by car another hour to Sayta Ranch.  We caught an overnight bus leaving Mendoza at 8:00p.m.  After a bizarre game of bingo in Spanish, a few hours of dodgy sleep and five movies, we arrived at the Salta bus terminal.  Outside of the bus terminal, a man held a sign that read “Clayton”.  We hopped in his car and quickly made our way out of the city and into the rolling countryside peppered with adobe houses and perfectly spaced rows of tobacco.  An hour later, Christina and I arrived at Sayta Ranch.

All the pretty horses.


Tobacco.

As we hopped out of the car, we were nearly tackled by Mickai, a humongous Dogo Argentino with testicles the size of baseball. And, Fiona, a rambunctious yellow lab that immediately made me miss my own dog, Lola.  Before even getting our footing, we were greeted with an aggressive hug and kiss by Enrique: a burly, big bellied Argentinean with a grey beard and a large knife tucked squarely into the front of his rather large custom embroidered belt.  Enrique is the type of character that appears only in movies and books.  He’s like a Latin American Earnest Hemingway, with bits of Juan Valdez and Indiana Jones mixed in.  We set our backpacks on a bench and before we knew what hit us, Enrique had pulled us over to a long wooden table underneath an awning and began pouring full glasses of wine while he filled our plates with chorizo, blood sausage, beef ribs,  tenderloin and sirloin; all perfectly charred over a wood burning fire.  Christina and I had met more than a handful of people while traveling that had crossed paths with the famous “Enrique”, so we were well aware of the mid-day all you can drink and eat meat festivals.  However, we were not prepared for Enrique’s unique form of “meat hazing”.  Enrique, admittedly, lives only off of bread, wine, and meat with an occasional hand rolled cigarette.  He claims his diet has kept him healthy and as such, he has turned it into a quasi religion of which, he makes no qualms about recruiting people to the cult of “meat”.  In a matter of thirty minutes, Christina and I had been force fed a bottle and a half of wine and enough meat to feed a family of five.  After begging for mercy, Enrique finally let us up from the table to see our modest accommodations.  I felt slightly ill and really buzzed, but optimistic about the next few days.

 Enrigue working the grill.

 A lunch for five.



Our humble abode.

The next few days were some of the most relaxing days I can remember.  We were over an hour from any sort of industrialized civilization on a picturesque farm where dogs, chickens, ducks and all sorts of four-legged critters roamed freely.  We were being hosted by a small, but gregarious Argentine family and not a single word of English was spoken during our three day stay.  What a unique experience it was,  each day consisted roughly of the following:

-Wake up and have coffee and bread outside of the horse barn

-Take a morning three hour horse ride through the endless fields of tobacco plants and into the foothills of surrounding green mountains

-Return by 1:30p.m. for our midday assada in which a small group of guests would be force fed as much wine and meat as they could possibly stomach before their refusal to eat more turned down right angry.

-3:00 hop back on the horse, completely full, rather buzzed and noticeably sore to head back into the mountains for additional horseback riding.

-Return by 7:00 for coffee and tea outside and relax as Enrique peppers everyone with questions about the ride.

-8:00 Enrique would begin force feeding us red wine.

-10:00 we would enjoy dinner in the kitchen of Enrique’s house, after which more wine and lots of storytelling would ensue

-12:00 hit the sack and continue to be woken up every hour by rooster’s cockle-doodle-doing!!!

 Just trotting along...

 The Ranch.

Me and my horse. My big ass surely made him tired.

Some Highlights:

*Riding a horse at full gallop is an amazing and being able to do so at will in the Argentine mountains makes you feel a bit like John Wayne reincarnate.  However, my body was sourly unprepared for the beating it would take.  When I woke up on my second day, I honestly thought I could not walk to the bathroom, let alone sit on the toilet. Subsequent horsehides were painful, but eventually worked out the soreness.

*On our second night, after many, many glasses of wine and conversation, Enrique escorted us to a secret room where he kept a rather large and impressive collection of illegal guns and ammunition that his father had started when he was a child.  In this room were at least 100 different types of guns hanging on the walls and lining the floors.  He had lugers from WW II, civil war era pistols, the actual knife used in the Crocodile Dundee film and an endless assortment of other guns, many of which I’m sure were bought and smuggled illegally into Argentina.  More impressive, however, were the grenade launchers, shoulder fired rockets, live mortars, grenades, Gatling guns, and the single live ground to air missle in the corner of the room.  I was forbidden from taking any pictures, but hopefully you can get the idea.  After an hour of explaining his favorite weapons in detail, we retired back to the kitchen where we drank more wine and continued exchanging stories as best as we could.

On our last night, Mickai, the giant Dogo Argentino, ate one of Enrique’s enormous white ducks.  It was kind of sad, but also pretty funny to see Enrique’s reaction at the paradox of having one of his beloved creatures eat another of his beloved creatures.

 Just another ride...

Enrique with Christina and I on our last night.

All told, our experience at Sayta ranch was beautiful.  It was a perfect escape from 40 days of crazy travel and Enrique is truly the type of character you only meat once in your life.  If you are ever in Argentina, head way north to the Chicoana region, about an hour outside of Salta and stop by the Sayta Ranch to visit Enrique.  This is a place I will definitely visit again before I die.  Thanks for following along on this crazy journey.

Clay



Mendoza, Argentina: Wine, Beef and Wine.

 Have hade a bit of trouble with this post, so please excuse me.  Wi Fi in Bolivia is not the greatest.
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Tuesday morning Christina and I woke up in Valparaiso, Chile and started our journey to Mendoza, Argentina.  We hopped on a semi-cama bus (these are buses with seats that recline, to some degree).  Our bus ride was supposed to be eight hours, but after spending over a month traveling in S. America, we knew better than to expect to arrive in time.  I have no idea what held us up at the border, but as busloads of foreigners passed us en route to Argentina, we sat outside of the border for an additional hour as immigration officials boarded our bus and called individuals by name to exit the bus for additional questioning.  Not long after finally hitting the pavement again, our bus was stopped by the Argentine military and they proceeded to board our bus and pepper a few individuals with questions. Eleven hours after we departed Valparaiso, we arrived safely in Mendoza, Argentina.

Mendoza, Argentina is considered by many the wine capital of S. America.  If you ask a Chilean, they will probably tell you differently.  But, make no mistake, most viticulturist, wine snobs and sommeliers know that Mendoza is a force to be reckoned with and home to the world’s best Malbecs.   However, the Mendoza Christina and I arrived in was a far cry from the Mendoza we had pictured in our head.  If we would have done our homework, we would have known that Mendoza was 4^th largest city in Argentina.   I had pictured arriving to a small town set against the backdrop of the Andes with red dirt roads, children playing futbol in the street and street dogs standing guard at local bodegas.  Instead, we had arrived at a bustling city with sirens, exhaust and Coca-Cola signs abound.  Our first five minutes in Mendoza were not great, but every second there after left a lasting impression on us. Once we uncovered the Mendoza we had conjured up in our minds, we did not want to leave.

I left Valparaiso with the makings of a nasty head cold and it hit in full force upon our arrival in Mendoza.  I was pretty bummed, because I had just survived a nasty virus while in Patagonia and Santiago.  Maybe it was the fact that soap is found sparingly in most bathrooms, or that I had been cooped up in countless tiny busses with sneezing, sniffling, coughing people.  Or, that I had been forced to stuff the very toilet paper I had wiped my butt with in countless bins overflowing with other people’s ass rags (yes, you do not flush toilet paper in S. America.  It’s a matter of necessity, not culture).  Regardless, I was not feeling great and as we hit the pavement outside of the bus station and Christina flipped through our worn Lonely Planet book in search of our hostel, one thing became glaringly apparent: we were in a fucking desert.  It took a few blocks with a heavy rucksack to understand that head colds and hot, dry, arid desserts do not necessarily mix well.  Sweaty and begging for water after only twenty minutes of walking, Christina and I decided to hail a Taxi and pay the five pesos for him to find our hostel for us (five pesos is about $1.25 U.S.).  Less than five minutes after hopping in our taxi, we arrived at Hostel Lao.

We had heard great things about Hostel Lao prior to our arrival and for good reason.  Owned by two former backpackers, Hostel Lao seems like a utopian paradise compared to most of the places we’d stayed.  The backyard is full of sweet smelling flowers, multicolored hammocks, trinkets hanging from the trees and two playful dogs.  There are fridges full of beer and wine and each time you walk through the door, the staff greets you as if you have arrived at your actual home.  Christina and I grabbed a liter of Schneider upon arrival and sat in the backyard as we played fetch with Astor, a freakishly large German Shepherd with a head the size of a basketball.  It was a constant source of amusement in the hostel that Astor, who obsessed over fetch and could easily hold a human leg in his mouth, chose instead to play only with the tiniest, dandiest of leaves.   After finishing two liters of beer, Christina and I hailed a taxi to meet up with our friends Eric and Carla, who were finishing up their honeymoon in wine country.  At the suggestion of Carla, we found a posh dinner spot, ordered a round of steaks, some grilled provolone and a bottle of wine.  Grilled provolone is something I’ve seen only in Argentina and I love it.  The grill masters lop off a three inch thick piece of provolone from a giant log, smother it with garlic and spices and throw it over a wood burning grill. The result is a charred, oozing, delicious piece of cheesy heaven.   We finished yet another meal without a single vegetable, before bidding Carla and Eric farewell and wishing them good luck on the rest of their journey.

Mr. Hugo's- Time for wine.

On our first full day in Mendoza, Christina and I had decided to bike the local Mendoza wine route.  Though many of Mendoza’s best wineries remain far removed from the city in the countryside, there are a dozen or so in Maipu (an area of Mendoza about 40 minutes away) that can be accessed by bicycle.  There are a handful of companies that rent bikes, but by far the most famous is Mr. Hugo’s, whose company was recommended by countless travelers we’ve crossed paths with.  To get to Maipu, we had to first find some cold medicine, then buy a bus card, and then navigate our way forty minutes out of town, all with my broken Spanish.  I will not lie; I get a bit nervous when trying to accurately navigate the bus system in Chicago.  Hopping on a bus deep into the Argentine countryside with loads of uncertainty as to where our actual stop was had me wound a little tight. But, our lucky streak continued and we managed to find our way right to Mr. Hugo’s front door.

The wine museum.



Our fellow travelers did not embellish, after walking through the gates of Mr. Hugo’s before being greeted with a single “Hello” we were met with dixie cups brimming with wine.  Mr. Hugo did not speak a word of English, but he understood that anyone crazy enough to ride 20+ kilometers in the desert heat in search of wine clearly appreciated a good buzz.  Christina and I paid the 30 pesos a piece for our bikes, grabbed our tiny maps (about $7.50 U.S.) and hit the pavement in search of the El Museo del Vino (the museum of wine).

Trapiche Winery

  As we peddled to our first destination, it became apparent rather quickly that our bikes, which looked completely legit, clearly were not.  Never have I had to work so hard to peddle a bike on a flat piece of pavement.  Less than two miles into our journey, my thighs were burning and I had broken a solid sweat.  Christina’s bike was no different, we laughed as we strained to peddle our bikes in a straight line.  After touring the wine museum and heading to an olive oil manufacturer, we hit the road and began to work our way to some of the wineries. 

Maipu did not disappoint, it was all that we had hoped for when Christina and I decided to visit Mendoza.  Tall hedgerows of trees separated endless rows of grapevines and olive trees.  Forty year old cars kicked up dust as they crawled down red dirt roads. Children stood outside small adobe houses and waved as we passed and chickens, dogs and goats filled every other front yard.  Our bike lane quickly dissipated and Christina and I found ourselves hugging a small three inch piece of gravel as semi trucks and busses flew by, kicking up dust and spewing exhaust into our face. Our whole adventure quickly became a bit less romantic and fairytale once we were forced to share the road with eighteen wheelers.  But, we eventually found the Trapiche winery and all was forgotten for the moment.  Trapiche is a huge wine producer and unlike many of the mom and pop wineries that pepper the countryside in Maipu, has a very noticeable corporate edge to it. Still, we were delighted to hear the history of the 150 year old winery and taste some of their finest wines.  Two hours after our arrival, we were back on our bikes in search of some more wineries.  The cartoonish maps given to us at Mr. Hugo’s did not turn out to be accurate and I can’t say that I was necessarily surprised.  They had on them about a dozen wineries indicated with wine barrels and only a handful of streets.

Hefty tastings at Tempus Alba Winery.

After biking for thirty minutes and not passing a single street indicated on the map, Christina and I wondered whether we had taken a wrong turn.  As we stopped on the side of the road to consult our shitty maps, a truck driver pulled over and pointed down the road, ensuring us that we were headed in the right direction.  We arrived a short time later at the Tempus Alba winery and were both greeted with a friendly hug and a kiss from the owner.  Not soon after, we made our way outside to a beautiful terrace that over looked intermittent fields with carefully spaced rows of grapevines and olive trees.  We ordered two tastings and the owner brought ought six glasses nearly half full.

Ahh, it was delicious.



Vina al Cerno Winery

After savoring the wine and our vegetarian lunch (a rarity in Argentina), we hopped back on our bikes in search of Vino al Cerno, a small mom and pop winery down the road.   We stepped into a rustic, worn building that probably looked no different a hundred years ago.  We had our choice from a rather wide variety of wines and Christina and I both chose differently.  As they poured the wine for our tasting, it was clear we would walk out of Vino al Cerno with not only a better knowledge of their varietals, but a really solid buzz.  Surprisingly, our favorite wine was a sparkling chardonnay.  I am not usually a fan of white wines, especially Chardonnay, and Christina agrees.  But, this wine was truly unique and spectacular, like no other wine we had ever tasted.  We bought a single bottle and threw it in our basket as we began our long journey back towards Mr. Hugo’s. 

We arrived back to Mr. Hugo’s and were greeted by a swath of other bikers, enjoying the end of their day with unlimited amounts of Mr. Hugo’s special blend.  Christina and I settled into a table and struck up a conversation with some Canadians, a Swedish woman and two British girls. The wine flowed freely and Mr. Hugo ensured that everyone’s cup remained full.   Two hours later and rather drunk at this point, Mr. Hugo herded his group of tipsy bike riders onto the number #10 bus, making sure everyone made it on the correct bus back to the city.  I knew the bus ride home would be interesting.  Our bus was full of three dozen wine drunk gringos, all dawning ridiculous purple teeth and purple lips.  A few locals boarded the bus and although they were clearly not amused, I could tell this was a sight they had become quite accustomed to

Ohh..  One dozen empanadas down the hatch.

We stumbled into our hostel around 9 p.m. drunk, sun kissed and covered in dust from our day of biking. We were exhausted and starving, but we lacked the motivation to make ourselves presentable enough for a dinner in town.  Our options for takeout were limited to empanadas and pizza.  Our run-ins with Argentine pizza usually left us unsatisfied and slightly grossed out, so we headed to the empanada joint.  There must have been a run on empanadas, because they were out of nearly everything on their menu.  It was cheaper to order a dozen than to order a-la-carte, so we opted for a dozen carne empanadas, our usual go-to. Twenty minutes later, we were handed a folded brown paper package peppered with grease stains.  We were so excited; we nearly skipped back to the hostel.  After scoring some hot sauce from the hostel fridge, we ran up stairs and, to both my amazement and disgust, finished all 12 empanadas as we sat Indian-style in the bed and watched Spanish dubbed TV.

The hot spings!

The next day was Thanksgiving, although it did not feel like November, nor one of my favorite holidays.   When traveling for extended periods, it’s remarkably easy to lose track of time, especially when in a different hemisphere where the seasons and cultures are completely different.  In S. America, summer is just beginning.  The tell-tale signs of autumn and the holidays are nowhere to be seen.  I usually spend my Thanksgivings hunting with my father, followed by reunions with friends and one of the greatest meals my mom makes.  This year would be a bit different, but we were intent on making sure the day was special for both of us.

About an hour outside of Mendoza, in the foothills of the Andes, lays a group of hot springs.  Some one hundred years ago, someone decided to capitalize on the natural wonders and create a hotel and spa.  Christina and I had heard about the hot springs from more than a handful of people, so we decided to treat ourselves to a day at the spa.  We were picked up at 9:00 a.m and herded into a small van where not even the driver spoke a lick of English.  The ride out to the spa was beautiful.  We passed through dessert, canyon lands and countless pueblos before arriving in the brown foothills of the Andes.   Christina and I were the only ones to exit the van and, after a very confusing exchange with the driver, I finally settled on what time and place we would be picked up and our day began.

The spa sits in a small canyon, nestled tightly against two Andean foothills.  Everyone visiting the spa usually does the circuit: consisting of different hot springs, waterfalls, and natural saunas formed inside of caves.   Upon entering the hotel/spa, we were handed white robes and we spared no time signing up for half hour massages.  We made our way down to the canyons edge and, in series of hand gestures delivered by an old woman, were explained the progression of the hot springs.  Essentially, you start cold and work your way up to the hottest springs, before cooling back down.  Mid way through, it’s customary to rub mud from the springs all over your entire body, and then sit under the sun for a half an hour as the mud dries.  The mud was somewhat of a comedic experience for me.  Rubbing handfuls of squishy mud all over my beer belly on purpose just made me laugh, I couldn’t help it.  Once you hit the sun, and the mud begins to dry, you feel as if someone has shot your entire body up with Botox; it’s tough to crack a smile or even move.  When you reach the point where you body has nearly turned to stone, you hit a series of very hot, and very powerful jets that clean you off and massage you at the same time.  It was an interesting experience, but I came out of it with my skin feeling like a baby’s ass.  Around 1 p.m., Christina and I headed to our massage.



Beauty

 

And the beast!


Getting baked; suprisingly fun!

The site of the hotel and spa

I’ve had only a handful of massages in my life and most of them have been memorable for all of the wrong reasons.  There was the old lady in Thailand who kept repeatedly grazing my family jewels even as I laughed, cringed, and repeatedly asked her not to.  There was the $1 massage in Cambodia, where I was led into a dark damp room, forced to lay down on a very, very dirty mattress, where a tiny Cambodian woman proceeded to beat the living crap out of me and I squealed in pain.  The massage I had at the Mendoza was less of a massage and more of tickle fight.  And, the coup de grace was when the masseuse took an entire palm full of massage oil and proceeded to rub it into my scalp, much to my disgust.  I knew the massage was finished when she proceeded to take tiny Chinese medicine balls emblazoned with yin-yangs and play me a little song, making sure she hit everybody part.  ...Another massage failure for me.

After the massage, Christina and I headed to the buffet, which we had heard many good things about.  The buffet included more vegetables than I had seen in Argentina in the sixteen some-odd days that I had spent there.   There were mounds of grilled meat, most of which neither of us could discern nor did we know the Spanish name for it, so we just pointed and smiled as we piled our plates high with one spoonful of everything.  After another round at the mud bath and a circuit in the hot springs, our day came to an end and we headed back to Mendoza in a 90 degree van.

There’s not a turkey to be found in S. America.  In fact, I have not eaten a single piece of poultry in over a month, so I immediately retired any notion of trying to find any semblance of a Thanksgiving dinner and instead, opted for more steak. On the wall of our hostel, there was a whiteboard where the staff wrote down suggestions for various tours, things to do around town, and places to eat.  During the entire time of our stay, there was single bolded line item that did not change: “Don Mario’s- The Best Steak on Earth.”   Thanksgiving would not be complete without completely gorging ourselves, so without turkey or any other accoutrement, we would have to settle for steak.  Christina and I both showered up, dawned the nicest clothes we brought with us and sat in the backyard of Hostel Lao where we enjoyed the sparkling chardonnay from Vina al Cerno we had bought the day prior.

We had traveled much of Argentina by this point and although we had dined on more than our fair share of steaks, we had yet to eat a steak that really blew us away.  For the most part, we had abstained from meat and red wine while in Chile in anticipation of the massive amounts of red wine and grilled meat we would consume when we arrived in Mendoza.  We arrived at Don Mario’s at 10:00 p.m. and much to our dissapointment, we were among only a small group of people at the restaurant.  We opted to sit outside because it was a nice night.  As the waiter took our order, he ensured us that these indeed would be the best steaks we’d ever eaten.  Christina ordered the lomo (filet) and I ordered the Bife de Chorizo (the most expensive steak on the menu).  By the time our salad arrived, the entire restaurant was packed and a small line was starting to accumulate outside.  Just as we polished off our salad, I saw our waiter bearing down on our table with two huge hunks of perfectly charred meat.  As he set my steak on the table, I could not believe the actual size; it must have been at least 28 o.z.  Both steaks sat in a small pool of their own juice, they were piping hot and their color a perfect mix of burgundy and burnt wood.  I sliced off the first very thin piece of the char to reveal a perfectly cooked medium rare piece of meat beneath it: like opening up a present on Christmas day and receiving exactly what you had asked for.  I popped it in my mouth and smiled ear to ear.  I took one more bite to confirm my own internal dialogue before Christina and I both simlutanously exulted that it was, in fact, the best steak we had ever eaten.  I did my best work, but after thirty minutes of widdling down the mammoth piece of meat, I gave up and Christina swooped in to finish what was left.  If you are ever in Mendoza, go to Don Mario’s for the best steak on earth.

The best steak of my life!!!!!!!



Astor; waiting for a leaf.

We slept in the next day in preparation for our upcoming travel.  We were going to hop on an 18 hour bus to Salta, where we would spend the next three days relatively off the grid at Sayta Ranch riding horses and shaking off the city.  But, before we could do so, we had to prepare for Bolivia.  I had been researching and trying to plan our travel to Bolivia since August, but had been unable to nail down all of the details.  Not only is Bolivia the poorest and least developed country in S. America, it is also particularly difficult for Americans to travel there since the election of Evo Morales, a coca famer which the U.S. has come down rather harshly on.  As such, we are practically the only citizens in the world who need a visa to enter Bolivia. So, we spent our last day in Mendoza sitting at an internet café, printing all of the financial and travel documents necessary to enter Bolivia, as well as trying to find a place that was crazy enough to exchange some Argentine Pesos for Bolivianos.   We accomplished as much as we could and hoped for the best, knowing that Mendoza would be the most developed place we would set foot in for the next three weeks.   Here goes nothing! Thanks for following us along on this adventure.

Clay

Preparation for Bolivia.





 













 

 





 

Valparaiso, Chile

Finally, made it to a WiFi connection.  Have spent the past two weeks in an extremely remote part of northern Argentina and most recently, crossing the Bolivian desert and salt flats.  Arrived safely to La Paz this morning and looking forward to my first hot shower in a week.  I've got lots to share, so keep checking back as I will be uploading this material over the next day.

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After only four hours of patchy sleep, Christina and I woke up still slightly buzzed after our night out in Santiago with my old friend, Roberto and began packing our bags. Travel days put both Christina and I slightly on edge, it can be difficult navigating planes, trains and automobiles given the Chilean propensity for rapid fire Spanish. When a Chilean speaks Spanish, it's often hard to discern where the sentence begins and ends, and what the gibberish was in-between; some people call it getting "sprayed". Usually, by the time I figure out the first word out of their mouth, they are on their last and I am left fumbling to conjugate a sentence in response. My mediocre Spanish has fared well for us so far, but I often find myself a bit nervous when I know it will be our only saving grace. As we crawled out of bed, Christina and I both glanced at each other, squinting out of one eye, a tell-tale sign of a hangover; when you can't bear to look at the world and what is inevitably coming with both eyes open. To make it to Valparaiso, Chile, we would have to take the metro to the bus station, followed by a two hour bus ride, followed by a trolley ride, followed by an ascensor ride (more to come on the ascensor's). And, we would both have to endure the next five hours of travel with massive hangovers. We fell into our usual roles, Christina as navigator and I as captain, and surprisingly we made it to Valparaiso without a single hiccup. God must have smiled down upon us that day, because with only shoddy directions in hybrid English/Spanish, I had my doubts that we would make it to Valpo on time and in once piece.



View from the hill near our hostel.



Just a small stop while walking.

We arrived at the bus station in Valparaiso and waddled down the streets with our overstuffed rucksacks to catch the nearby trolley. Like everything else in Valparaiso that we would eventually lay eyes on, the trolleys were old, really old. The one we hopped on must have been in service since the 1940's as we crawled down the streets of Valpo, every nut, bolt, window, door, and latch etc., sounded off in a symphony of squeaks, screeches and rattles. When we got to "Aduana", we hopped off and ventured across the street to catch the ascensor. Valparaiso is a port city that hugs the steep hills of a small nook along the Chilean coast. It serves as both a major naval hub and an artery for freight shipping. Stepping onto the street and taking my first good look at the city, I felt as if I had stepped onto the set of a movie. The houses nestled tightly against the hills of Valparaiso create a kaleidoscope of colors. The hills serve as the canvas and the houses paint it with a palette of bright blues, yellows, oranges, peaches and pastels. The city began in the 1500s but during the California gold rush, Valparaiso exploded with growth, serving as a brief stop for eastern Europeans, Asians and everyone else chasing their dreams of gold to America. As if overnight, Valparaiso became a booming port town. Immigrants and others capitalizing on the success of those passing through began swooping up land and building houses as quickly as they could construct them. There was no formal city planning until later in the 20th century (after a devastating earthquake). And as such, houses are stacked precariously in the hills like a set of brightly colored, odd shaped legos, connected through a maze of alleyways, passageways and stairwells, in effect bringing to life one of M.C. Escher’s famous illustrations. Because most of the buildings in Valparaiso were done before city planning was in place, the street system has little rhyme or reason, resulting in dead ends, turn abouts and looptie-loops galore. In 2004, the city was deemed a UNESCO world heritage site for their "Ascensors" and it has since found a page in most tourist guide books and a significant boom from all of the money. Valparaiso is a city perched firmly at a 45 degree angle. Only a very small portion lies on flat ground, so if you want to get anywhere, you have to head for the highlands. To do so, you grab an Ascensor. An Ascensor is no more than a small wooden passenger cabin set on rails that ascends at a snail’s pace to the top of most major neighborhoods in Valparaiso. For the cost of 200 pesos (about 40 cents), you can save your legs and your back for more important things and catch a rickety ascensor to the top of most barrios. During Chile’s earthquake in February 2010, many of the 100 year old ascencors met their maker. But, although many are currently in repair, there is still a dozen or so operating around the city. You will have no doubt that you are taking an antiquated and ancient form of transportation when you set foot in an ascensor. In fact, you may even question whether walking would have been a better decision.

Ascensor

Tired and slightly travel weary after a full day of travel and only a few hours of sleep, Christina decided to take a nap once we found our hostel and I ventured out to explore the new city. I sat atop Avenida de Artilleria and as a weathered man played the accordion in the background, I watched the loading dock below as the cranes worked methodically and stacked the multicolored containers on the cargo ships in a series of seamless calculated movements. After an hour of a slightly hypnotic state driven by the tick-tock movements of the crane and having watched the sun lower in the sky and change ever so slightly the color of the houses stacked on the hills, I headed to a slightly touristy cafe to grab a coffee in an attempt to awaken from my slumber. After a thick espresso, I ordered two empanadas with Shrimps (as they always say in S. America) and queso to go and high-tailed it back to the hostel.

Sitting indian-style on the floor in our rather posh hostel, Christina and I threw back the empanadas in record time (at this point, we had likely consumed 30+ empanadas a piece during our travels).  Afterwards, we both readied ourselves to hit the showers, a ritual we had both become quite familiar with after a month on the road. The showers in S. America vary greatly in their degree of shittiness. To date, we have yet to encounter a shower both sound in its architecture and safe in its dispersement of water. I have thought seriously about returning to S. America after this trip and pursuing a career in “Shower Architecture”. I could build an empire and people would look at me as I had created both the wheel and fire in one fell swoop. Take one look at the showers we’ve frequented and you’ll quickly understand that there is nowhere to go but up. Our current shower at Hostel Portobello was tied for first place in the competition for shitty showers. Most bathrooms in S. America have a squeegee on a broom handle resting in the corner specifically for shower clean up, as doors are used sparingly and only a small lip prohibits water from spewing freely out of your tiny box and onto the surrounding floor. These showers are often not so bad, because at the very least, they allow enough room for a large man such as myself to wash his entire body without actually having to exit the shower to do so. But, if you happen to catch a shower that actually has doors, you must resign yourself to washing only your upper half and you better pray that you do not drop the soap, or it will remain there until you exit the shower and are able to bend down and pick it up. In the last month, Christina and I have only had the luxury of a few hot showers. And, on those occasions fear of third degree burns often kept us from actually enjoying the luxury of hot water.

After surviving our showers, Christina and I headed for the hills of the Cerro Alegre barrio in search of Poble Nuo, a restaurant our hostel owner had recommended. The Cerro Alegre and Concepcion barrios make up some of the most beautiful parts of Valparaiso. They are both lined with countless cafes and art shops. And, as you wind your way up and down the countless hills, you will no doubt find yourself questioning whether what you are seeing is actually real, or if you somehow fell asleep and in your dream, ended up in some multicolored Latin American snow globe, just waiting to be turned upside-down. Christina arrived at Poble Nuo at nearly 10:00 and, as usual, Christina and I had arrived a full hour before the dinner rush and were the only people in the restaurant. We drank a delicious bottle of Carmenere and threw back someone’s cruel attempt at tapas before calling it a night. The next morning, at the advice of some travel mates we met while trekking, we had scheduled a walking tour of Valparaiso with the famous “Bobby Turman”. And, we had plans to meet up with two of our best friends, Carla and Eric, who were in Valparaiso as part of their belated S. American honeymoon.

The next morning, we woke up early, had the usual S. American breakfast consisting of a small roll and jam before heading out to the Pata-Pata hostel to meet Bobby (our guide), Carla and Eric. There was a lot of hype leading up to our walking tour, as our former travel mates had given Bobby and his tour soaring reviews. I had convinced to Carla and Eric to come along, so I was hoping that the hype was true.  Nearly 10 hours into our supposed walking tour, I had not a single doubt in my mind.

Christina, Clay, Carla and Eric on the walking tour.

Typical Valpo. 

 

Ain't it pretty?



Valpo pre-city planning.

We met Bobby outside of Pata-Pata at 12:00 to begin our four hour walking tour. Bobby is about 5 foot 8 inches, built like an NFL fullback with looks resembling Hootie (from the Blowfish) except with dreads. Bobby hails from Baltimore and his story struck a very familiar chord with me. Bobby was a mortgage broker for eight years and made his first visit to Chile to help out a friend in need. And, after getting out from behind the desk and experiencing the Chilean way of life, he decided he had had enough. Like me, he realized that life can pass you by rather quickly and a life behind a desk and a computer is not the future he had every envisioned for himself. So, he came back to the States, sold all of his belongings and bought a one-way ticket to Chile. He spent two years in Santiago before heading to Valparaiso, where he has been conducting walking tours for the last two years. He has since found his niche and after meeting countless local artists in Santiago and Valpo, has begun a career as an art broker, bringing the modestly priced work of Chilean artists to those in the States willing to pay top dollar.

Bobby is the type of guy who could make friends with a stranger passing by. Few Americans visit Valparaiso, so Bobby was excited to take out a group of Gringo’s and talk shop about the States and all that he’s missed. Not five minutes into our tour, we had all hit it off and I knew we were in for a good day. As we climbed the endless hills of Valparaiso, Bobby would give our calves a break every few blocks as he stopped us to explain things of cultural and historical significance. He took us through the “Open Sky Museum” a collection of murals painted on buildings that a have been preserved and turned into a makeshift museum. As we stumbled down the sidewalk, we came across a man wearing a white coat that was no longer white, but instead, bared the remnants of a life behind the brush. The man in the painter’s coat was a friend of Bobby’s and as we walked by, he was working a series of small murals depicting the Valparaiso landscape, an image he had likely painted a million times over. After a brief introduction, Bobby led us around the corner to show us one of Mario’s pieces. Spanning nearly an entire city block, and multiple flights of stairs, Mario had covered every square inch of available space with colorful acrylic paint depicting the same area in which we were standing. My group of friends and I did a double take as we hopped up and down the stairs marveling at the detail within the detail. As unique as it is, a piece of art like this did not stand out in Valparaiso. In fact, it fits right in. Valparaiso is itself a giant canvas; one sprawling work of continual art. Each corner, each alleyway is covered in a series of unconnected works of art, murals done in every style and often decades apart; working together to form a giant mosaic from countless thousands of painted walls.

Building or canvas?  Why not both?



One of Valpo's many artists.



After a few hours of walking, everyone had worked up an appetite and Bobby promised to take us to a place that would not disappoint. Twenty minutes later, we arrived in a small alley tucked discreetly between two buildings. As we rounded the corner, we arrived to a small crowd standing outside the “J.M. Cruz Casino and Social.” Everyone had come to this small hole in the wall for one reason. In fact, as it turns out, there is only one reason to go the J.M Cruz Casino and Social, because they only serve a single dish: The Churillana. After nearly four hours of walking, Bobby had given much hype to the Churillana; touting it both as an authentic Chilean dish and a once in a lifetime dining experience. As we worked our way through the line and into the restaurant, it was clear that J.M. Cruz Casino and Social was not a place for outsiders. The restaurant was about the size of a small box car with nearly every inch of wall space plastered with pictures patrons had posted. As the waitress greeted Bobby, it was clear this was not his first rodeo. In fact, before arriving at the restaurant, Bobby had promised us that this Churillana was the last one he would consume in his lifetime. We sat down at our table, which had collected thousands of signatures from Churillana fans in its lifetime. J.M. Cruz Casino and Social has been open for 64 years and is the original home of the Churillana, the only thing in which it serves.  What is the Churillana? The Churillana is a heaping mound of French fries, served for either two or three people and smothered in grilled onions, gravy and topped with copious amounts of freshly grilled sirloin and scrambled eggs with aji hot sauce on the side. Bobby ordered a round of beers for our group and everyone’s eyes lit up in amazement as the steaming piles of unctuous goodness hit the table. Our conversation quickly fell silent and everyone nodded in approval as we threw back endless forks full of Churillana. It was no longer a wonder to anyone of us why this place had become and remained famous.

The Churillana 

After another round of beers, we all hit the road in search of another bar, even though our tour with Bobby had long since passed its four hour time limit. But slightly buzzed and completely gorged on Churillana, we were all having a wonderful day and I think Bobby enjoyed the company of some fellow Americans. Next, with Bobby too, took us to one of his favorite bars: La Playa. Most Chileans don’t begin partying until much later in the night, so with the exception of a few locals watching soccer, we made up the majority of the crowd in La Playa. We sat around the table for the next two hours philosophizing about life and drinking liters of Escudo, the standard Chilean pilsner. Six Liters of Escudo later, we decided we should all head home and shower off our buzz before heading out for dinner. Having thoroughly enjoyed each other’s company throughout the day, we planned to meet up with Bobby later in the evening to a bit of bar hopping. A few hours later, sun kissed, tired and still kind of buzzed from the day’s activities, we reconvened outside of Carla and Eric’s hotel to enjoy some more beers and conversations at Bobby’s favorite bars. Two hours later, having finally gotten our appetite back after the Churillana wore off, we bid farewell to Bobby and decided to find some dinner. We headed out for dinner without a plan, which, as I’ve learned, can sometimes have bad results when you are in a foreign country and do not know your way around. We stumbled into a cafe that looked nice enough, but after reading the menu and deciding it was way overpriced, we decided to look elsewhere. As we walked out the door, the owner, who was clearly insulted by our abrupt about-face, ran out the door and pointed us in the direction of the nearest McDonalds. We were all insulted, but decided to divert our attention to some of the friendly street dogs as we searched for another restaurant. At nearly 11:00, we came upon a small cafe and art gallery, where we grabbed a bottle of wine and some cheese trays. Christina and I said our goodbyes to Eric and Carla, but we were hopeful we would run into them again in Mendoza, Argentina. On the way home, as had become our custom in many dodgy cities, Christina and I convinced as many street dogs as possible to follow us home. It’s strange how quickly street dogs will become protective of you if they sense you are kind and willing to feed them food. And, after hearing countless stories of robbery from Bobby that day, not to mention the one where he was mugged and his date stabbed after coming home from the bar a bit pickled and trying to fight off their attackers; Christina and I would take all the extra protection we could get while walking down the shady Bustamante Street.  Having arrived back at our hostel, Christina ran inside and grabbed some stale breakfast rolls for the dogs and we hit the sack. We spent the next day sitting at a cafe overlooking the bay doing some trip planning and catching up with the real world. The next day we would have to catch an eight hour bus to Mendoza, Argentina. But, we were sad to leave Valparaiso. What a great town, what a great experience, what great people. Thanks for following this Journey.

Clay