In which I go to Iguassu falls

The bus to the falls was filled with tourists. Two German couples hopped on board. One girl was wearing short shorts and a bikini top. Her skin -- I could see almost all of it -- was covered with quarter-sized mosquito bite welts.

A swarthy man sat across from me and stared. He tried to start a conversation: “¿Usted es alemán?” he asked. Are you German?

I shook my head and looked steadfastly out the window, which wasn’t easy because that put the sun right in my face. He sighed heavily and tried to look soulfully into my eyes. (I learned I have a knack for attracting Latin men. Bus drivers and men without teeth, especially, seem to find me attractive. A toothless bus driver -- forget it. It’s a curse.)

I continued to avoid him and jumped off the bus with relief when we arrived at the Iguassú Falls park entrance. But I wasn’t safe. He cut in front of me in the line to pay the entrance fee. He pointed at his money, then at himself, then at me, showing -- I think -- that he would pay my admission fee. I shook my head.

“No!” I said loudly. “I pay for myself!”

He insisted, and the attendant, thinking we must be having some kind of lovers’ tiff -- the kind you have when you don’t have a language in common -- took his money and gave him two tickets. Visions of him following me forever flashed through my mind and I snatched one ticket out of his hand and threw some Brazilian coins into it in exchange. I gave him a dirty look and climbed back onto the bus. I guess he got the idea, because he moved to a different seat.

Iguassú Falls
I walked down the trail to the Falls. The big tour buses hadn’t arrived yet and I spotted hardly any other visitors. The trail was wooded and cool, marred only by the refreshment stand tucked discreetly halfway down where I was able for the first time in several days to find diet Coke. (OK. So I helped perpetuate the stand by buying something from it. But I was thirsty!)

Jewel-colored butterflies darted out of the leaves and alit gently on the wooden rail of the stairs. As I got closer, I could hear the crash of the water. The Falls are enormous. The water churns and throws up mist where it crashes into the pools and makes double rainbows. I walked onto the wooden walkway over the water. The day was burning hot, but the water sprayed over the walkway, casting a cool net of diamonds. The sound of the water blocked all other noise.

A few tourists videotaped. What a fascinating souvenir to show your friends: ten minutes of water falling. Not nearly as interesting as my dozens of photographs of the Falls.

I began talking to a couple who had been on my bus. They were Israeli and lived on a kibbutz, although they’d spent a few years in the Caribbean, where Michael had been a toothbrush salesman. His earnings, though, went to the kibbutz. They were friendly and chatty and wrote down their address for the next time I visited Israel.

I had to ditch them, though, because I’d spotted a promising-looking man (in shorts, so I knew he was a fellow traveler, although I would never wear shorts in Latin America) sitting by himself on the deck, writing in a notebook. He could be my Mr. Right! And what a great meet story that would be: “You tell it.”

“No honey, you tell it better!” he would say adoringly.

“OK, OK. I was backpacking alone through South America and had stopped just for a day at Iguassú Falls in Brazil. There, bathed in the mist of the Falls, I saw him: tall, dark and handsome. Across the walkway our eyes met...We fell at the Falls!”

I liked the way it sounded.

I wandered over and stood at the rail next to him and tried to look soulful and wistful as I gazed at the water. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched him, waiting for some sign of interest, only I couldn’t really see because the mist of the backsplash was fogging up my sunglasses. I realized that squinting at him -- which was what I would have to do if I removed my sunglasses because I’m pretty darn nearsighted -- might not have the sexy effect I would wish. By the time I’d cleaned my glasses and moved to a drier spot, he’d left. Rats.

In which I go to Ciudad del Este

The glamour of Asunción couldn’t hold me. I boarded the city bus for the bus terminal and tried to fit myself and my backpack through the turnstile behind the driver. The Paraguayans mean it when they tell you to board in front and exit in back. With the pack on my back, I couldn’t fit. I had to take the pack off, throw it over the turnstile, then join it. The bus was crammed full of people returning home for lunch and no one was eager to give me any room, including a young girl who was hogging a seat obviously meant for paying passengers like me. I tried to convince her of the error of her ways, telling her that it is considered polite to offer one’s seat to an older person, but she was unswayed. Brat.

The long-distance bus was far more comfortable, with reclining seats and air conditioning and the added advantage that no more tickets than seats were sold. My destination was Ciudad del Este, at the Brazilian and Argentine border. It is only a few miles from Ciudad del Este to Iguassú Falls, my ultimate destination. The road was good and the scenery interesting. I saw more volleyball nets and hammocks strung up next to the houses along the highway than I’ve ever seen anywhere else in the world. The Paraguayans are a very laid back people.

Two hours into the trip, we stopped at a roadside stand and picked up three young women wearing red gingham blouses, white aprons and short skirts. While the bus continued driving, the women worked their way through the aisles, selling bread. I asked if they had sopa Paraguaya, which is a delicious cornbread made with cheese, peppers, and onions. They did not, but tried to sell me some dry-looking bread twists. I declined, although I regretted my decision later when I got to Ciudad del Este and couldn’t find anywhere to eat. Fifteen minutes after they’d boarded, the women got off the bus, crossed the highway, and boarded the next bus going west. They spend the day shuttling back and forth on the same stretch of highway selling bread.

When my seatmate Sandra learned I was traveling alone and had not made reservations at a hotel in Ciudad del Este, she was horrified.

“You can’t wander around this city,” she gasped. “They’ll cut your throat!” She told me firmly that her friend who was picking her up would drop me off at a place. “He’s the chief of detectives,” she confided. “He’ll find you a good deal.”

We arrived in Ciudad del Este at 6:30 p.m. It was already dark. Simon, Sandra’s friend, drove me to the hotel that I picked out of my trusty South American Handbook. According to the book, this place cost only seven dollars. The book was wrong. They wanted twenty-five. I asked Simon if we could try somewhere else. We went to four different hotels; none were in my price range. Simon used his influence as chief of detectives and got me a room for fifteen, which I still thought was way too expensive but I wasn’t in a position to argue.

I went up to my room, which overlooked the noisy street. Fortunately, the street sound was drowned out by the rattle of the air conditioner, which worked, but only at icy cold level. I was hungry, but there was no restaurant in the hotel and we didn’t seem to be in the kind of neighborhood where one could walk around alone at night. Thoroughly depressed and convinced I was going to run out of money before the month was out, I washed my dress in the sink, took a sleeping pill, stuffed earplugs in my ears, and went to bed.

I was almost asleep when I heard someone knocking at my door. “Goldie!” I heard someone calling. I was confused: I knew no one in this godforsaken city. I tried to ignore the sound, figuring someone was mistaken, but the knocking persisted. I pulled the plugs out of my ears and put my ear to the door.

“Who is it?” I asked suspiciously.

“It’s Sandra!” I opened the door and there were Sandra and Simon, holding a bag exuding a tantalizing aroma.

“We thought you might be hungry so we brought you a sandwich,” they explained. I was so hungry that I broke my rule against eating meat in Latin America. While I tried to tug my nightshirt a little further down my thighs, Sandra chatted and Simon inspected my room, checking in the wardrobe and behind the drapes, for smugglers or thieves or something. Every now and then, he whispered something into his walkie-talky. Finally satisfied, he stopped searching and made me write down his phone number, where, he assured me, I could reach him day or night.

“He never sleeps!” Sandra chimed merrily.

The next morning, I awoke at the crack of dawn and set out in search of another hostel. By 7:30 a.m., I’d been to every so-called budget hostel in my Handbook and found all of them to be expensive. I finally found a place for ten dollars. (Finding places to stay consumed an enormous amount of my time until I figured out how to use the telephone and make reservations. This practice worked fine until I got to Central America, when the Handbook’s and my standards diverged widely. What the Handbook called “modest and clean” I called “a grimy, flea-ridden, mildewed hellhole.”)

Most of my energies were spent dodging vendors. Ciudad del Este is the Sam’s Wholesale of Latin America. Paraguayans told me that it was second only to Hong Kong in some kind of rating (black market, I think). Whatever it is, almost everyone goes there to sell and the rest go there to buy. By 7:00 a.m., the sidewalks are packed so thick you have to walk in the street. Some of the items to be found: clothes, shoes, tools, storage racks, toys, yogurt, barbecue, soda, beer (Labatt Blue and Iron City were particularly popular), Pringles Potato chips (go figure), Swiss Mill beauty products, watches, puppies, electronics -- whatever.

I saw more black people in two minutes in Paraguay than I did in two years in Chile. Ciudad del Este is right across the bridge from Iguassú, Brazil, so the Brazilians walk over to shop. The rumors about the way Brazilian women dress are true. (The accompanying rumors about the level of perfection of their bodies are not.) There must be a phrase to describe the state between “naked” and “scantily-clad.” Whatever it is, that’s what they were. Understandable, though -- it was 98 underwater degrees.

I hadn’t eaten breakfast yet. I’d been hoping to run across a bakery selling sopa Paraguaya, but hadn’t seen any. But lining the sidewalk before the bridge were vendors with big ice chests in front of them. I stopped at one and bought a big container of yogurt. I come from a country where we eat yogurt with a spoon, but I noticed everyone else sticking straws into their cartons. When in Rome. I followed suit and discovered that the yogurt was almost liquid and impossibly sweet. But it was that or starve later and I was learning I didn’t like to be hungry, so prophylactic eating was important.

I pushed through the masses -- all coming toward me (did they know something I didn’t? Why wasn’t anyone else going to Brazil?) -- across the bridge to Brazil and tried to find my way to the bus station. But I couldn’t understand anyone! How can a language that looks so much like Spanish not sound a thing like it? I would ask a question and the listener would nod thoughtfully, obviously understanding me, then rattle off a reply that would leave me mystified. I followed the directions they pointed and after consulting a dozen people and pointing at my map, got to the bus for the Falls.

In which I meet some Paraguay Peace Corps volunteers

I changed to the hostel where the Paraguay Peace Corps volunteers stay and met several volunteers there. Marcia worked in a small town where she lived in half of an old schoolhouse and shared a latrine with 50 other people. There was no electricity or running water. A volunteer in the Health Education program told me she did far more than teach hygiene. “I’m not a doctor,” she said, “but I play one in the Peace Corps.” A nurse volunteer told me she did everything medically necessary except dental work and abortions.

Les was a beekeeper. In his late thirties, he had that rugged outdoor look complete with mustache and a muscled, hairy chest over which lay a handmade leather vest. He was busy sewing on a pair of moccasins that he was making from buckskin that he’d tanned himself. I asked about beekeeping.

“In Paraguay, they’re crazy for honey. But labeling laws don’t exist, so you’re never sure what you’re getting. I’ve formed an association of women in my region and I’m teaching them about beekeeping and marketing. We’ve standardized the hives and developed a marketing plan. I designed a label for the bottles and make the ladies sterilize the bottles before they fill them with honey. I have a few customers here in Asunción. They know my honey is good and every time I come here, they beg me for as many bottles as they can get. We can’t meet demand.”

He stopped to bite off a thread, then continued. “I finish with Peace Corps in a few months, but I’m going to stay here. I calculate that we can gross fifteen to twenty thousand dollars next year selling honey and queens. I’ll spend part of the year here, then go to Alaska in the summers.

“I like it here,” he said. “I don’t care if I’m not in the States.” Then he grabbed the remote for the big-screen TV and changed to ESPN.

Drew’s giardia
My friend Drew had been a volunteer in Paraguay and had contacted giardia, an intestinal disease that gives you horrible gas that smells like sulfur and uncontrollable diarrhea. He told me the story.

“I’d had giardia for a while and was at the point where I couldn’t distinguish between farting and crapping. Either way, I couldn’t help it.”

“I was in Asunción for a meeting with my boss, the head of the Paraguayan Forest Service. Instead of my usual volunteer clothes, I was wearing my suit. We were sitting in the Forest Service office. They had those plastic chairs, thank God.”

“All of a sudden, I felt something. ‘Don Pedro,’ I said. ‘Do you have any toilet paper?’”

“Don Pedro looked at me funny and said, ‘Drew, you know we don’t have the money for toilet paper here at the Forest Service. We’ve always just had old newspapers.’”

“I said, ‘Well, that’s too bad, because I just shit in my pants.’ And I got up and left and walked the three blocks back to my pensión, my suit soaked with diarrhea. It was the most embarrassing moment of my life. To this day, they tell that story at the Forest Service.”

In which I change money in Asuncion

I’d arrived in Asunción on a Saturday and wasn’t able to change money. By Sunday night, I’d used the few dollars I’d changed at the border. Monday morning, I went downtown to change money. The banks weren’t open yet, but money changers -- readily identified by the calculators and handfuls of cash they clutched -- congregated on the sidewalk. One approached me. “You want to change money?” he asked.

“Yes, please,” I answered. “Just five dollars until the bank opens.”

“Fine. I’ll give you five thousand guaraní.”

“But the official rate is two thousand guaraní per dollar!” I protested.

He shrugged. “That’s the rate I’ll give you. Take it or leave it.”

“I’ll leave it,” I said, and walked away. I had only an hour to kill until the bank opened.

I sat in a restaurant drinking peach juice. (“No ice cubes, please” I had to tell the waitress. God knows how the water supply was in this country.) I heard a din from across the street. A group of men in business suits were setting off firecrackers and hoisting signs. “What’s going on?” I asked the waitress.

“Oh, they’re bankers,” she explained dismissively. “They’re mad about something that Argentina has done in the Mercosur. They do this almost every Monday.”

I watched them shout and bang drums and set off firecrackers while I sipped my peach juice, the only thing I had enough money to buy. When the currency exchange opened, I went in and waited in the various lines required of one who wants to change traveler’s checks for cash. There was the fill-out-the-paperwork line, the wait-for-your-passport-to-be-photocopied line, the get-your-receipt line, and the get-your-money line.

By the time I’d been stamped and approved and gotten my money, which I had requested in 150 US dollars and 50 dollars worth of guaranís, I was too tired to notice that a mild swindle had been performed upon me: rather than give me my dollars directly, they had converted my 200 dollars of traveler’s checks into guaranís and then converted the guaranís back to dollars, causing me to lose on the conversion. (Just in case this high finance is too complicated: there is usually a difference in the buy and sell rates for US dollars. In this case, I paid one dollar per 2000 guaraní then had to pay 2250 guaraní per dollar.) There wasn’t that much difference between the street changers and the office changers.

I took the bus to the Peace Corps office. As soon as I sat, a woman in a uniform with a clipboard approached me and asked to see my ticket. She was the bus auditor, verifying that the bus driver had given me a ticket for my fare instead of just pocketing the money for himself. The bus lines in Chile had the same practice, but I didn’t see it happen anywhere else during my trip, leading me to think that either the bus drivers in other countries are more honest or that the idea of audit hasn’t occurred to the authorities there yet. In any case, I learned that it wasn’t a good idea to crumple up the ticket and stick it in my pocket, although playing stupid foreigner got me out of trouble the first time.

The Asunción Peace Corps office was nice, with a huge paperback library. After talking to the nurse there, who told me I didn’t need to take chloroquine at all for where I was traveling, I loaded up with about a dozen books, having decided after the bus trip in Argentina that it was worth the extra weight to have something to entertain me. I was pleased to see that someone shared my tastes: I found a Sue Grafton, a Nelson DeMille, and a Sara Paretsky that I hadn’t read yet. I was saved from having to read The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, which I had found at the pensión in Argentina. It looked good to have it along, but wasn’t exactly light bus reading. My strategy was to lay it carelessly on the seat next to me (on the rare occasions when that seat was unoccupied) to spark conversation with any intellectual English-speaking man who might come my way. In the meantime, I would be buried in another murder mystery, trying to outguess Kinsey Millhone.

In which I arrive in Asuncion

Asunción is hot and humid and dirty and on Sunday, everything, including places where one might buy food, is closed. This is the place where I started -- involuntarily -- my Latin American diet. It’s too hard to find food and too hot to eat it even when it can be found. (One Peace Corps volunteer here lost 70 pounds in her two years. She hated the food.) It’s so muggy that everyone, from schoolgirls to blue-suited businessmen, carries thermoses full of iced maté -- a South American tea -- with them. Even the bus drivers have their Igloos set next to the gear shifts. Every time they stop, they sip maté through silver straws.

I found a pensión near downtown. It was owned and run by some wayward Mennonites whose four tow-headed children spent the day shouting in German, kicking soccer balls against the walls, and watching television. My room was on the second of the five floors, all connected by a Byzantine system of rooftops and stairs emerging from strange places. To get to my room, I had to go through the Mennonite’s living room, climb the stairs past one of the bathrooms, cross the rooftop where they sat in the evening, then go up another flight of stairs that ascended precariously from the patio with no railings at the sides. The first time I climbed the stairs, I realized if I tried to keep my backpack on, I would fall if I leaned just a little out of balance.

I wanted to sleep late but couldn’t. The sun was up by 5:30 and children were playing in the courtyard beneath my window by six. I thought I would have hours to kill before I could do any of my errands downtown, but realized quickly that everyone is up at that hour of the day. Stores are open by seven, although the majority of business seems to take place in the streets and on the buses. In just one bus ride (signs on the bus implore “Please no smoking or spitting”), I saw vendors hawking candy, cough drops, lottery tickets, apples, bananas, razor blades, soda, juice, newspapers, gym bags, bread, toothbrushes, ice cream, and cookies.

Paraguayan Spanish is clear and easy to understand (as opposed to, say -- Chilean Spanish, widely regarded as being the worst in the world). The Paraguayans don’t even bother with those verb stem changes that other countries regard as an essential part of Spanish grammar. “Prueba 7-Up” became “Proba 7-Up.” My only problem was that most Paraguayans also speak Guaraní and would slip into it without warning, leaving me stranded.

I couldn’t find much to like about Asunción except that it has a big Korean neighborhood, which I found it by accident walking around. Koreans had settled in Paraguay after the U.S. had changed the immigration laws. It was easier to get into the U.S. as a Paraguayan than as a Korean for a while. But then the law was changed again and the Koreans were stuck in Paraguay. The little grocery on the corner sold wonderful homemade vegetarian sushi.

I was bored bored bored my first day in town. I spent Sunday wandering through the tourist market and reading my book. I did find a great bargain at the market: a fabulous leather daypack -- lined! - for only $30. A saleslady from whom I did not buy anything told me jealously, “That’s horse leather. It’ll go black within three months. Horse leather does that. Just you wait.” (I spent the month of November watching the pack anxiously, but her threats were idle. It stayed its beautiful tan.)

The streets were deserted: Latins spend Sunday afternoons with their families and no stores are open. I finally found a little grocery store where I bought some yogurt, crackers and a big bottle of water. I took them to the rooftop of the pensión, where there was a breeze, and watched the sun set over the smog of the city. I was in bed by eight. No wonder I was able to get up by six every morning when I was in Paraguay.

In which I have another bus ride from hell

The next morning I was well enough to leave Salta. Jeff had left the day before for Bolivia. I was now on my own.

I traipsed down to the bus station and bought a ticket on the ironically-named Veloz del Norte. I hadn’t recovered enough to realize that the ticket agent was lying when he assured me that yes, the bus did have air conditioning. I thought I was being so savvy to know to ask that question. Ha. I was no match for nefarious ticket agents working on commission. My guidebook said that the trip to Formosa (on the border with Paraguay) took twelve hours. The ticket agent told me it took twenty-one. I was not thrilled but decided that the guidebook must have a typo. I bought a newspaper, a bottle of water and a bag of crackers and climbed on the bus.

At 8:00 a.m., it didn’t matter much that the air conditioning wasn’t turned on (I assumed that’s why it wasn’t working) but the day got hot quickly. I tried to open my window and discovered it was jammed shut. Opening it wouldn’t have made much difference, considering we were puttering along at 15 mph, with a passenger pickup thrown in every 20 minutes. Once we left the paved road, we slowed further. On a road made of sand and full of potholes, you can’t go very fast.

By now it was really hot -- around 95 degrees -- and the seat next to me had been filled by a middle-aged, pot-bellied, toothless man who bought a beer at every stop. At first I was amazed at the apparent size of his bladder, but then realized that despite the two liters of water I had consumed in the past three hours, I had no bathroom needs. I was sweating everything out. (Good thing, too. The toilet on the bus could not be locked from the inside. With all the jolting the bus was doing, the door flew open at will.)

When we stopped for driver breaks, everyone climbed slowly out of the bus. We jostled listlessly for the few shady spots to be found and stood still, hoping for a stray breeze. But the air never moved. The sun blazed and dried the flat, empty terrain even more. There were no signs of vegetable life. Everything was brown and dusty.

Eight hours into the trip, I mustered the energy to confront the bus driver. “Hey,” I said. “Why don’t you turn on the air conditioning?”

“There is no air conditioning on this bus,” he sniffed.

“Yes, there is,” I insisted. “I asked the ticket seller.”

The driver looked at me as if I were crazy. “Why would he tell you that?” he asked. “This is servicio común. Everyone knows there is no air conditioning on servicio común.”

“Well, I didn’t know that,” I argued. “And I asked specifically.”

“There is no air conditioning,” he told me flatly, then turned away. Highly annoyed but lethargic, I dragged myself back to my seat and dug out my ticket. On the ticket was printed “aire condicionado.” Triumphantly, I returned to the driver and waved the ticket in his face. Unfortunately, we still didn’t get any air conditioning.

The trip dragged on. My seat partner continued to drink and I envied him his inebriation. A slow drunk might not be such a bad way to suffer through this trip.

At hour 12, the boy two seats ahead of me started to play with a squealing toy gun, waving it around and making horrible noises with it. I looked around in disbelief at the other passengers as they failed to exhibit the appropriate amount (that is, any) of annoyance with the child. His parents did nothing to stop him. Desperation forced me to take matters into my own hands. I stood, leaned forward, and waited for him to turn my way. When he did, I snatched the gun away and sat. “HEY!” he protested. I was unmoved. I’m sure that the other passengers must have been applauding me, the Savior of the Peace, in their minds.

I heard English behind me. I turned and saw a couple who were obviously American. They were talking about Chile and I could bear to eavesdrop no longer; I had to throw in my two cents.

“Are you a Peace Corps volunteer?” they asked.

“Yes,” I answered. “How did you know?” I was really surprised.

“Because we’ve been traveling in South America for two months and the only Americans we’ve seen -- and there have been hardly any -- have been Peace Corps volunteers.”

I was relieved it wasn’t something about my clothes that had given me away. Don’t all South American women wear khaki skirts and tennis shoes? (I found what they said to be true as I traveled. Europeans, Israelis, Japanese and Australians come to South America, but Americans don’t. I didn’t start to see American tourists until I got to Costa Rica.)

At hour 14, after someone had thrown up two seats behind me and the attendant refused to clean it up, I met Lars, a Danish nurse who was on his way to Brazil. He regaled me with his tales of Brazil: he’d been robbed at knife point there by a gang of small boys who’d left him nothing but his underwear.

Then he gave me the depressing news. “Did you know,” he confided, “that there is a tourist class bus with air conditioning and videos that makes this trip in only 12 hours?” Just what I wanted to hear.

All I want to do is sleep,” I told him.

"I have some good sleeping pills!” he volunteered. I took the pills, which didn’t help me to sleep (I was distracted when a rod cracked loose from the ceiling and fell onto my seatmate) but did help me not to care so much about my sweaty, dusty discomfort.

Twenty-three and a half hours after we left Salta, we arrived in Formosa. I immediately boarded a bus to Asunción, the capital of Paraguay, and arrived at the border three hours later. The Argentine authorities inspected my passport, then handed it to some Paraguayans.

“Do I have to show my passport on the Paraguay side now?” I asked.

“No,” the Paraguayan soldier answered me. “We check them over here because we don’t have any computers. Argentina lets us use theirs.”

In which I get chloroquine poisoning

Now that the farmers had left, there was more room at the hostel and we’d graduated to better quarters. Jeff went out in search of entertainment and I fell asleep early after taking the 500 mg of the chloroquine I’d been prescribed to prevent malaria. The next morning, I got up early for a tour of a nearby canyon. I took another 500 mg of chloroquine, as the Chilean pharmacist had told me.

It wasn’t until my tour van was too far out of town to turn back that I started to feel sick. The driver was waving his cigarette in my face and chattering away merrily in Spanish to the three Italians and the one Japanese (none of whom spoke Spanish) sitting behind me. The right side of my head went numb. I couldn’t focus and when I tried, I became dizzy and nauseated. My skin was clammy and I felt weak.. I asked the driver if he minded not smoking. He did have the window cracked open, he replied indignantly.

We left the paved road and jolted onto a dirt road. I felt worse. Our frequent stops to see rock formations didn’t help. The driver was quite concerned that we see the many forms visible in the rocks, waving his cigarette in the direction of yet more boulders as he explained helpfully, “That’s the rock that looks like a ship.” Or a rabbit. Or a frog. (And just in case you were really not with it, there were signs near the road telling you the same thing.) The old Argentine couple, the three Italians and the Japanese clambered dutifully out of the van each time to capture the Kodak moments of piles of rocks in the desert while I leaned my forehead against the dash and tried to keep from vomiting.

I suffered this way until late afternoon when we returned to Salta. I had to pay for my room so went downstairs to talk to the dueño. He decided this was a good time to show me his registration notebooks of all the travelers who had stayed at his hostel over the past ten years. Each name, nationality, and passport number was noted in his flowing, careful script. Each time he came across an American, he would ask if I knew the person. I tried to explain politely that I wasn’t feeling well. His wife ran into the room. “Are you sick?” she asked (somewhat hopefully, I thought).

I explained that I had taken the chloroquine and that it had left me feeling ill. The wife said, “You need to rest!”

I agreed and tried to leave, but the dueño launched into a speech about how it was important to take chloroquine and how when he was working construction in his youth that he wouldn’t give his men their paychecks until they had taken their weekly chloroquine pills. “Sometimes,” he said, “they would put the pills under their tongues and only pretend to swallow them! But I learned to make them swallow them for real!” I wondered how he made them swallow but didn’t want to encourage conversation.

Well, I was having to take two pills a day, I told him.

“Two tablets a day!” he exclaimed. “But you only should take one tablet a week!”

But that’s what the pharmacist had told me, I replied. He said I should take 1000 milligrams a day for four days.

“But if you take that much, you’ll get sick!” he said.

“You need to rest!” exclaimed the wife again.

“Yes,” he agreed. “You need to rest!” Then he launched into another discourse about how the Chilean pharmacist had no idea what he was talking about and did they even have malaria in Chile? I started to edge away and he started to speak more loudly. His wife jumped in every now and then to agree with him and to interject an admonishment that what I needed now was to rest. I finally just leaned against the wall and laid my head back in surrender.

In which I take the cowhide to the post office and become part of a conspiracy

The cowhide weighed three and a half kilos -- too heavy to carry in my backpack. We took it to the post office and I asked how much it would cost to mail it to the U.S.

“Twenty-five dollars,” the clerk told me.

“That’s rather expensive!” I said. I decided I could carry it for a while.

“It’s the government!” the clerk said. “Did you know they are talking about privatizing the post office?”

Well, no, we didn’t.

“How many post offices in first world countries are privatized?” he asked. He put his index finger under his eye, the Latin sign for “Beware.” “You watch! There’s something strange going on here.” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “I think Carlos Menem wants to make the post office private so he and his buddies can send drugs through the mail without worrying about postal inspectors!”

In which Doris wants me to sell her old clothes

Primo told me that Doris wants to ship her winter clothes - her more than seven years' old winter clothes - up here for me to sell.

Because there is no market for winter clothes where she lives. And you have to take them to the dry cleaners, first.

Bless her heart, based on my eBay scan, there does not seem to be much of a market, period, for old Oleg Cassini or Valerie Stevens clothes. Especially the kind worn by older ladies.

ADDED

Let me expand on this.

Explain to me why I should schlep someone else's old clothes across town trying to find a consignment shop that will take them when that person does nothing but criticize me (to Primo) while complaining (to Primo) that she has been "reaching out" to me, which does not mean actually contacting me to try to develop a relationship but instead apparently means nothing more than saying to Primo that she is "reaching out."

What is in it for me to try to sell these clothes? Do I get a cut? Do I get gratitude and an apology for the crummy way she's treated me?

I doubt it.

Even if I were to get a cut, I don't think I could be laughing my way to the bank.

Yes, you knew the tackiness was coming.

I have seen how Doris dresses.

It would be one thing if she had a closet full of DVF wrap-around dresses, which go for a few hundred dollars on eBay. Or if she had Chanel suits. Or anyone else super famous.

Nobody comes to mind because haute couture is not within my reach and really, I don't care. Go all Devil Wears Prada on me about how the choices the designers make filter down to my ratty acrylic blue sweater. Blah blah blah. Whatever. I know what looks good on me. I know quality because I used to sew my own clothes. I could never in a million years afford haute couture so I don't care. It's just not my thing. Fine for other people, but I just don't care.

That said, I do know tacky clothing and bad taste when I see it.

If the outfit that Doris wore to our wedding is any indication of her taste in dressy clothes - all I have ever seen her in otherwise is t-shirts, capris, and sandals - then I am positive that there is no secondary market for her clothes.

She moved her winter clothes from the frozen north to Florida over seven years ago.

I don't know why she did that. They had no intention of moving back north.

Now, finally, she is realizing that perhaps she should clear those clothes out of her guest closet, where they reside above the paper bag full of old newspapers that they also paid someone to move to Florida? Now, she is realizing that?

Now, she wants to sell those clothes.

Correction. She wants to ship them to me and for me to sell them for her.

And what do I get out of this?

Nothing. I get nada, bupkus, zippo.

Yes, I am cranky.

In which I buy a cowhide I could have bought in San Antonio for less money

We’d had a boring morning trying to find food in Salta. The farmers had left so the scenery at the hostel was not so great. The Handbook mentioned a great tourist market, so Jeff and I decided to check it out.

I wasn’t impressed with the very expensive wood carvings and twice-as-expensive-as-in-Bolivia Bolivian imports. We were leaving, just minding our own business when I walked past a black and white cowhide (I think it was a Holstein) stretched across a rack. I kept walking, but within a few steps, realized I had to turn back. Something about the hide haunted and drew me. Visions of my weekend house at the ranch flashed into my mind. I saw the rug lying on the hardwood floor in front of the fireplace with me and Mr. Right sitting on it -- naked -- drinking a nice red wine (well, you wouldn’t drink white in those circumstances, would you?).

Jeff walked up and admired it with me. But what would I really do with a cowhide, I asked him? He agreed that it was not really a necessity of life and we started to walk away. Then I decided I should at least know how much it cost so I would know how virtuous I was being in turning it down.

I found the saleslady and asked the price. One hundred twenty-five dollars. That decided me. I couldn’t spend all that money, I told her.

She paused thoughtfully. “It’s $125 for most people,” she said. “But I haven’t sold anything all day. For you, I make it $110.”

No, I didn’t need a black and white cowhide, I told her firmly and crossed my arms.

She looked at me shrewdly then looked over her shoulder before stepping closer to me. She was no novice to this game, I could tell. “One hundred dollars,” she whispered.

I bit my lip. I wavered. Jeff’s gaze swung back to me. “No, no, I just can’t,” I said regretfully.
She moved in for the kill. With a sigh of deep sacrifice, she said, “Ninety dollars,” and looked at me expectantly.

Jeff sucked in his breath. The ball was in my court. How would I respond to this challenge?
I considered the offer. Suddenly, the dynamic of the game shifted dramatically. Jeff decided he was a player. He hurled down the gauntlet and said, “If you don’t buy it, I will.”

Did I have any choice? Really, there was nothing to do but go into the back room where lifted up my skirt, unzipped my money belt, and counted the money out. I was now the owner of a cowhide.

In which we get to see almost-naked Argentine farmers emerging from the shower

When we arrived in Salta, we went to a hostel where Jeff had stayed the year before. It was full, but Jeff persisted and the owner agreed to let us stay in the spare room. The French ambassador had once stayed in this very room, he told us. It was the room under the stairs -- the area used for storing the vacuum cleaner in American homes. About 18" of crawl space surrounded an iron bunk bed that reached almost to the ceiling. Actually, better to say that the ceiling reached down to the bed. I couldn’t stand up straight in the room and I am not tall. I had to walk around the bed away from the door to be able to close the door. “Door” is probably an exaggeration. It was a frame with some screening nailed to it. The screen was peppered with holes -- one conveniently located next to the handle so you could open the locked door from the outside.

The bathrooms were upstairs and weren’t too bad. The shower was not set apart from the rest of the bathroom; instead, it consisted of a showed head placed on the wall across from the toilet (a setup I was to find throughout most of the continent). When the shower was on, the spray drenched the toilet seat and the sink. The manager had thoughtfully provided a nail on which to hang one’s clothes and a squeegee mop to wipe down the walls and the floor, but he hadn’t quite figured out where to keep the toilet paper so it wouldn’t get drenched.

The hostel was tranquil in the afternoon, but later in the evening, the other guests returned -- 15 farmers on a convention. Argentine farmers are young and handsome. But they are also boisterous and wouldn’t squeegee the water off the floors in the bathrooms and left whiskers in the sink. I was in line for the shower and had to sit in the patio watching one after the other of them emerge bare-chested and dripping from the bathrooms, holding their shampoo in one hand and their towels at their waists with the other. It was hell. (See: Chapter One: In Which I See Argentine Men, Who Are Amongst the Handsomest in the World, Probably Because They Are of Italian Descent.)

I didn’t appreciate them so much when they returned drunk from their night out at two in the morning and then left again before dawn. I was tired from having spent the previous night on the bus, but couldn’t sleep well in our cell. Jeff and I compared notes on the farmers. He’d actually had the temerity to speak to one of them; but I’d not been so bold. Two mosquitoes buzzed around my ear all night. A mosquito coil burned in the corner, but was ineffective against the huge holes in the screen door. The lack of rest probably contributed to my totally irrational purchase the next day.

In which I travel through Argentina with Jeff

I had several chores to handle in Santiago, among them being mailing to the US the statue Monica had given me. I was relieved to learn months later that of all the boxes I shipped from Chile to the US, that was the only one that was lost.

My friend Jeff and I were going to travel together through Argentina. We’d arranged to meet Sunday morning at the East Terminal in Santiago. No one was there to see me off, but a friend of Jeff’s made me take several photos of the two of them together next to the bus.

We started the six-hour trip to Mendoza. I didn’t expect Argentina to be much different from Chile, but I was surprised. Just the change in the terrain was dramatic. On the Chilean side of the Andes, the land was green and lush with row upon row of grapevines stretching into the distance. The Argentine side was dry and rocky, with streaks of copper and sulfur and iron running through the mountains. Dry riverbeds ran alongside the highway and a few stunted trees dotted the landscape.

The border itself was high in the mountains and freezing cold. The customs building was a huge hangar without heat. We had to get off the bus and run through the snow and slush to get inside the building where we waited for the customs agents to finish their cigarettes and inspect our luggage. The bags had been removed from the hold of the bus and set on long tables by a man who later came to us with a paper cup with which he collected tips for doing something we had neither requested nor wanted and could have done ourselves. The agents had coats but we passengers had to stand there in our Santiago-appropriate spring clothes and stamp our feet and clap our hands for warmth while we waited. The two agents and their dog stared intently at our faces and poked through a few bags. I don’t know what we would have been smuggling from Chile to Argentina: Chilean grapes? Washing machines?

Closer to Mendoza, I noticed something I’d never seen in Chile: picnickers. They lined the highway. Argentine families had loaded their cars with card tables and baskets of food and were sitting by the side of the road eating their roast chickens and drinking wine. A few men fished in the sluggish stream.

Mendoza was a beautiful city, but too expensive. It was not yet tourist season so we thought we could negotiate a deal at the hostel, but the dueño had other ideas. (He was of the “I only have to sell one ten-thousand dollar piece of gum” school of thought.) We were the only customers he had and he still wouldn’t give us a discount. Not only that, but his wife got upset because we wanted to take two showers each for just a one night stay. (One upon arrival in the evening and one in the morning. Not too much to ask in a rational universe.)

Jeff and I -- both of whom have tastes that run to men -- would have liked to have stayed longer and watched the contestants for the international youth handball tournament -- tall, strapping young men, but at ten dollars a night apiece for the hostel and six dollars for lunch, it wasn’t in the budget.

We spent one day in Mendoza and then took the overnight bus to Salta. Here, we were able to negotiate. Jeff noticed that there was an oversupply of bus lines and an undersupply of passengers and got the ticket agent to knock ten dollars off the ticket price. And I’d thought his going counter to counter asking prices while I had the enviable job of guarding the luggage was just a big waste of time.

We prepared for the sixteen-hour ride by buying wine, yogurt and crackers. Our bus left at 8:00 p.m. Three hours and a box of wine later, we were in the perfect state of mind to enjoy the movie Bird on a Wire, which the attendant thoughtfully provided. We would have been in an even better mood except every time we hit a bump in the road, we spilled a little wine. Good thing the bus was almost empty and we could have our choice of seats.

We saw only the first twenty minutes of the movie before we stopped for supper -- included in the fare -- at a restaurant (which looked like it used to be a gas station) in the middle of the desert. A fire crackled in an outdoor grill and two skinny dogs circled it hopefully. The restaurant looked like a dive but it served excellent barbecued chicken. I took this as a good omen about the trip, but then awoke the next morning to discover the bus attendant was serving only disgusting sweet biscuits for breakfast. Then he put on the second movie. It was horrible. Dennis Weaver was driving down a lonely western highway and a trucker started to follow him. The whole movie is Dennis’ voiced-over thoughts and panic and the trucker looming behind. I wasn’t interested in watching but there was no escape.

The lovely countryside was not to be, either. Argentines seem to consider “side of the road” synonymous with “dump.” Plastic bags, milk bottles, and cans covered the ground. I even saw a dead horse bloating in the sun. Someone had thrown up a few seats back and I discovered a huge hole in the seat of my only pair of pants (which I happened to be wearing). We’d left the nice part of Argentina.

In which my second trek across South America begins

My trip began the night I left Temuco, the city in southern Chile where I’d been a Peace Corps volunteer for two years. I’d envisioned scores of friends and well-wishers waving good-bye to me from the platform as the train pulled away, but only my counterpart Monica and her husband stood shivering in the cold August night. I’d waited until just before the train was to leave to board; even so, Monica ran inside the coach to give me one last good-bye, then waved madly as the train finally rolled out.

I held the going away present she’d given me. It was a carving of a Mapuche woman offering her breast to what appeared to be a child of at least three years. Even though I’d spent two years working with the Mapuches, I’d never quite become accustomed to the casualness with which the women breastfed their children or the age to which they did it: it was not uncommon to see three-years-old children walk up to their mothers, unbutton their shirts, and suck. I’d thought that I’d be able to avoid such culturally-different sights once I’d left Chile, but now I had a statue to remind me constantly.

I put the statue on top of my backpack and leaned back in my seat. Chilean trains are wonderfully plush. The sleeper cars have wide padded velvet seats that fold out into beds. Unlike the buses, which have loudspeaker systems that carry music to the willing and unwilling alike, the trains are quiet. The only noise is the soothing clack of the wheels on the track. The only disconcerting part of the ride is the jerky lateral motion to which you are subjected when you sleep in the top (a.k.a. “cheap”) bed. It’s impossible to lie on your side because your body does not have enough points of contact with mattress to stay put. Fortunately, drugs such as Valium are not under prescription in Chile.

I tried to read my book (one of the many I’d packed in to my backpack -- the right book was so important to a traveler’s image), but the lights flickered too much and I finally gave up. I asked the porter to make up my bed and tried to sleep, but visions of my trip marched through my head. I had it all planned: Not only would I meet the perfect man -- intelligent, witty, and single, but I would also land the perfect job by accident. On the train to Cuzco, I would find myself sitting next to another American, who, unbeknownst to me, would be a partner at Highly Prestigious International Consulting Firm. He would ask what I’d been doing with the Peace Corps and I would tell him modestly of my tremendous accomplishments with Casa de la Mujer Mapuche. He would say, “You know, we really need someone with your intelligence, creativity, and language ability at HPIF. Could you come to work for us as soon as you return to the U.S.? We’ll pay you one hundred thousand dollars a year.” I would demur and say I would need to think it over and he would thrust his card at me and say, “We’d give you two months of annual vacation as well! And dental!”

I was also sure that I would run into James Spader, the thinking woman’s sexy actor. (At the time, Kenneth Brannaugh was still with Emma Thompson, so he was off limits.) He would be making a movie in Bolivia and I would meet him at a café, where he would tell me that their business manager had been struck with severe giardia and they were desperate for a Spanish-speaking business person to handle things on the set. He would offer me tons of money to work for a short time, then would ask me to be his girlfriend.

It would be tough to work it all in, given that my ten-year college reunion was only three months away and in Texas, but I would manage. (I was determined to attend my reunion. I’d been going to the gym for three hours a day for six months in anticipation of seeing a former boyfriend. He would look upon my well toned body -- I had managed to make my thighs bigger by lifting weights, but besides that, I looked OK -- and regret the day he’d decided his life was complete without me.)

Eight hours later, I awoke and found myself still in Chile, with neither a job nor a boyfriend. I got dressed and climbed down from the bunk. Not all of the bottom beds had been made up and restored to their chair states yet; the only available seat was across from a stocky man with long, curly hair and a long, curly beard. He stared at me intently, then asked, “Are you German?”
I was used to this question. Chileans usually assumed non-Latins were Germans, not Americans, maybe because Chile has a large German immigrant population. I have blonde hair -- well, light brown but as soon as I’m in the sun for a while it’s blonde -- and blue eyes.

“No,” I answered. “I’m from the United States.” I’d learned quickly in Chile that I could not call myself “American.” Chileans would retort that they, too, were Americans, as were the Argentines and Bolivians and everyone else on the continent. I would try to explain that in English, the only word we have is “American” -- that there is no way to say “United Statesian” as there is in Spanish, but never had much success.

“No, no, no,” he said impatiently. “Your ancestors. Are they German?”

“Well, some of them. How did you know?”

“I’m a geneticist. You have blue eyes. They’re recessive, you know.”

Yes, I knew that.

He pulled out a newsletter. “I’m the president of the World Society of Alternative Medicine. I’m going to Santiago to give a press conference.” He leaned forward. “I’ve found a cure for AIDS!”
“That’s good news!” I said as I drew away from him. I know a night in a train without access to a shower hadn’t exactly left me smelling like a bed of roses, but he had emerged from bed smelling like he’d been working in the garden for a month without deodorant. And I at least had figured out that it was possible to brush one’s teeth in the train bathroom.

“You know, ‘AIDS’ is the wrong name. It should be called ‘IIDs’ for ‘Inherited Immune Disorder.’ It’s actually a genetic disease that can be cured by treatment with amino acids. I have a one hundred percent success rate curing people with AIDS.”

“If it’s a hereditary disease, why has it just shown up now?” I asked.

“But it has been here before! Only it was called by other names!” He lowered his voice and spoke darkly. “What do you think bubonic plague and smallpox really were?”

I murmured politely and looked out the window, watching the vineyards and the mountains slip away and trying to figure out how long before we arrived in Santiago and I escaped his overwhelming body odor.

He continued enthusiastically. “My special medicine -- these amino acids -- cures rheumatism, tumors, and menstrual cramps. Drugs are what make people sick! Why do you think they’re called ‘antibodies?’

“AIDS is just a big hoax by the drug companies. My medicine makes super-humans! I have ten children and not one of them has ever been immunized. And not one of them has ever been sick!”

I challenged him. “Not all medical treatment is drugs. What about operations? Would you operate for, say, a burst appendix?”

He answered solemnly. “I wouldn’t have to. My appendix would never burst.”

In which we go hungry on the train from Cuzco to Puno

From Cuzco, Kelly and I took a ten-hour train ride through the altiplano (the high plains) to Puno, which was at the time (this was 1994, I think I mentioned), the epicenter of the Peruvian terrorist movement. Had the internet been around and had our parents had any information whatsoever on what was going on with the Sendero Luminoso (the Shining Path), they would have been panicking at the idea of their daughters traveling alone in the area. Their two blonde, definitely not from there daughters.

In other parts of South America, Kelly and I could blend. In Santiago, in certain neighborhoods, and in other cities, if we didn't open our mouths, nobody would know we weren't from there. Chile is an immigrant country. The main feeder countries are England, France and Germany. Don't quote me on that - I'm basing that statement on my remembered observations. There are a lot of green-eye blondes in Chile. There are cities where, in the early 90s, you would hear as much German as you did Spanish.

But in rural Peru, populated by Aymara and Quechua (again, don't quote me - I could do some research, but I'm lazy - these are just the groups I remember as living in that area), we did not blend. They were dark skinned and dark haired. Kelly and I were not. The women wear brightly-colored sweaters on top and several full skirts at once. The bottom layer is usually a crinoline and the top layer is made of brightly-colored pillowcase satin with three or four horizontal pleats sewn about three inches above the hem. On top of this is a giant apron behind which they tuck their hands, their nursing babies, and their money. They wear their hair long in two braids that fall down their backs and are tied together at the bottom with ribbons. On their heads they wear bowler hats. From the back, all you see are these plump multicolored figures with dark vertical lines dividing their backs.

I don't think they wear underpants, because when they need to go potty, they just drift out into the field, stop, pull their skirts out, and hover. Then they stand and come back. Done. It's actually a good system. There are no trees around. No materials for making paper. You work with the environment you have. Don't fight it.

Kelly was wearing white, which by now was beige. Yes, she had indeed packed only white clothes.

I was wearing black. I had traveled before. She had not. We did not blend.

This was when the Sendero Luminoso was killing foreigners. We didn't know about it. We weren't paying attention to such things. Not that it would have been so easy to get the information. We had our weekly Newsweek, but who knows what they were reporting? I flipped straight to the movies and gossip section when I got my mail.

Now that I look for hard data, I see that they had murdered 16 foreigners from 1989 to the time we took our trip. We probably would have said, "Oh, we'll take our chances."

So we were on the train. It was beautiful countryside. High in the mountains with that beautiful clear yellow mountain light. The sky is the most amazing blue. I still remember it, almost 20 years later. Nothing but blue skies and golden meadows. And very poor people, of course. When there is no manufacturing, when there is nothing to do but subsistence farming and even that is limited to potatoes, there is not much opportunity for wealth creation. The weather is crummy up there: cold and windy. Even the children's skin is already starting to turn to leather. But the countryside is gorgeous.

We had reserved seats, but the Quechua who boarded, sacks of potatoes, chickens, and babies in tow, packed themselves in the aisles. There was hardly enough room for the food vendors to pass through. Yet they did, with candies, cookies, tangerines, bananas, empanadas, bread, hardboiled eggs, fried trout served with sides of salad and boiled potatoes, and a large, newspaper-wrapped package that opened to reveal an entire side of roast mutton that the seller hacked at with a cleaver.

I looked hungrily at the fish and the mutton, but Kelly claimed that you couldn't pay her enough to eat that stuff - that it all probably carried cholera and typhus. Don't laugh. People still get those diseases. So I peeled another tangerine - fruit you can peel is usually safe no matter what - and gazed wistfully across the aisle at the people who were eating the trout with no apparent ill effects.

We arrive in Puno, a pit of a city, and left the next morning by bus for La Paz, one of Bolivia's two capitals. Once again, we were the victims of Peruvian petty taxation. Upon arrival in Copacobana, the bus attendant walked the aisle to collect an admission fee. I asked if going into Copacobana was optional. No, he told me. It was obligatory. Apparently, nobody had thought to include this fee in the bus ticket price.

The same oversight occurred when we had to cross Lake Titicaca. (Stop laughing. That's really what it's called.) We were ordered off the bus and onto the ferries run by the Bolivian Navy, motto: "Toward the Sea." It seems that Bolivia, a landlocked country, one of two in South America, the other being Paraguay -

wait. Now I have to check to make sure that I am correct about that because there is no better way to drive traffic and get comments online than to make a mistake. And yes, I am correct. OK, back to the story.

has never given up hope that the decision of the 1878 War of the Pacific with Chile will be reversed and Bolivia will get northern Chile back. Kind of like Mexico demanding the return of Texas. Wow. That Latin America history class in college sure didn't go to waste, did it? And yet I am unemployed! Can you believe it? I can't, either!

At first I thought how nice that we didn't have to stay on the bus for the crossing, but then I realize that once again, they were extorting money from us. We had to pay our own ferry fares.

We finally got to La Paz without incurring further expense. La Paz, as far as I could tell, is a distinctly unremarkable city, although I didn't see the entire place. It's dry and dirty without parks or any green spaces. (Again, I didn't see all of it. I didn't get into the nice neighborhoods. I am assuming there are nice neighborhoods.) Bolivia, besides being known the world over for the quality of its cocaine, is the poorest (or was, at the time) country in South America and it showed. There didn't seem to be much money devoted to infrastructure or public services, especially sanitation. If you've ever been in the stairwell of a parking garage on the east coast, you know what I'm talking about. The entire city reeks.

As far as the minor things - food, for instance, La Paz was also backwards. The restaurants were not very good and were also expensive. We got really excited when we saw a Denny's. You may scoff once you've spent a year in a place where you cannot afford to eat in the good restaurants, where they oversalt the food in the inexpensive restaurants, and where they slaughter sheep behind your office and leave the butchered meat hanging on the banister for two days, but our hopes were dashed when a Bolivia Peace Corps volunteer told us the food was really bad there. I went to a market and found some anemic-looking turnips, then peeled them with my Swiss army knife, and ate them raw.

The one advantage La Paz has is great shopping. I was especially happy to be traveling with Kelly at this point. She is an extremely efficient shopper and is the fastest charger in the West. My Mastercard almost broke in half, but what was I supposed to do in a place where I could buy handknit alpaca sweaters for $30 and handwoven alpaca rugs and blankets for $20? Really, I had no choice.

The rugs and blankets were a good investment. I still have them.

The sweaters, not so much. There are only so many sweaters you can wear. And, as it turns out, there are no bright green sweaters that I want to wear. If only I had realized it at the time. Or sweaters with jolly happy scenes knit into them that make me look like a kindergarten teacher. What was I thinking? Where were Stacy and Clinton when I needed them?

Oh, the perils of vacation sweater shopping.

We learn from our shopping mistakes, don't we?

And then we find new shopping mistakes to make, and yes, I'm talking to you, cute orange wedge shoes that felt just fine at the fancy consignment sale at the JCC last year but turned into a vise when I wore them to dinner. How many times must we make the same shoe mistake over and over? How many, I ask you? They never stretch. They never stretch.

We had to return to Chile. It was either two hours in a plane or $100 more for shopping. Twenty three hours in a bus it was.

At 5:30 p.m., we were at the bus station, sleeping pills, snacks, and Walkman - we could share the earphones between us - in hand. Rugs, blankets and sweaters dragging behind us to be stowed below.

In the first hour of the ride, we congratulated ourselves for saving so much money by taking the bus. We ate all the food we'd brought, but drank none of the water because we took immediate notice of the fact that the bus company had decided to maximize ticket revenues by installing two seats where the toilet normally would have been. In the second hour, we had to stop reading our magazines because it got dark and there were no reading lights on the bus. (Kelly's boyfriend mailed Glamour to her every month.) (Yes, we were in Peace Corps lite.) We talked about food and wondered what the Quechua women next to us were drinking from their hip flask.

"Water!" they shrieked when I asked them. Then they collapsed into a fit of giggles.

Their giggling did not distract us from our serious debate about whether Michael from thirtysomething was a brooding hunk or just a jerk. As I reflect on it now, I have to go with jerk. My tolerance for not-niceness has plummeted to zero these days.

In the third hour, we stopped for a 20-minute dinner break that lasted 70 minutes. While Kelly and I were tapping our feet and pointing at our watches, she nudged me and asked if that man drinking a liter of beer was our driver.

In the fourth hour, we discovered why he was drinking: he needed to be relaxed to drive over the road that has just ceased to be paved and was rocky and rough. At the time, there were not many paved roads in Bolivia. I remember going over some of the mountain roads - unpaved, narrow, hairpin turns - closing my eyes and thinking, I'll bet there are no atheists on this bus right now.

The jolting didn't distract us as we tried to sleep because we were too preoccupied with being cold and wishing we had our blankets from the luggage hold. In the morning, we discovered ice on the ceiling of the bus. It was about then that we started think it might have been worth the extra $100 to fly.

In the 22nd hour, after we had crossed the Chilean border, where we had to get off the bus, show our passports, be sniffed by German shepherds, have our luggage sniffed by German shepherds, and wait in a very, very long line - the entire process took over an hour, we stopped for lunch. Two Bolivian men sat by us and proceeded to interrogate us about our ages and marital status. When we informed them that we were 28 and 30, they nodded and told us politely that we were very well preserved for our ages.

We thought so, considering that the hip-flask-toting Quechua women ten years younger than us looked like leather.

They were far more concerned when they learned we were unmarried. "You're missed the train," they told us. "Now you'll have to be tias. Haven't you met any Chilean men?"

When we told them that Chilean men were just a bit machista for our tastes, they mused that we hadn't met any Bolivian men yet and that such an encounter could change the course of our lives. For the better, one would assume.

After having heard this sort of thing for a year now (although most people were polite when they learned I was a spinster and would change the subject to the weather), I was fed up. I asked, "Is it possible that I don't like men?"

Their jaws dropped. Their eyebrows flew up. They stared.

Finally, one of them turned to the other and said, "This soup is really good, isn't it?"

They left us alone after that.

We got back to La Serena, where Kelly lived. An American friend of hers whose husband worked at a gold mine (literally and I mean that literally) was out of town, but had left the house keys for Kelly so we could stay there. The house had all the major appliances: washer and dryer (at my house in Temuco, I washed, or that is, my cleaning lady washed my clothes by hand in the bathtub), microwave, TV with cable, VCR, and a CD player with a huge collection of CDs. Every evening, we sat in front of the picture window that overlooked the ocean and watched the sun set while we sipped gin and tonics, listened to KC and the Sunshine Band's Greatest Hits, and waited for our clothes to machine dry. That was a vacation.

In which Sly really does criticize how I eat bacon

I am going through some old emails and found this one from Primo. Remember the Bad Bacon Eater episode? He had forwarded me an email from Sly and Doris:

I was also put off by the obsessive way she ate her bacon, which I considered more than weird. If, in company, one doesn't want to eat what is served, either refuse it or don't eat it. What she did was kind of an insult to me.

Then they went on with some more great parental observations:

I guess I will have to remind you that you are THE LIGHT of ourlives. Your sister is dead, and the pain doesn't diminish much with time.

Your stepbrothers, despite the caring we tried to exhibit during their upbringing with [their mother and stepfather], have proven to be grave disappointments in multiple ways. Your new love has two siblings,which should be of some comfort to her and her mother and a potential "extended family" for you.

I encourage you to cultivate Ted's family tie because, without his bullshit, he seems to have a keen mind. We will never be able to understand Jack because he simply doesn't communicate with anyone.

[Ted's wife] is also a very complex and interesting person--her sense of entitlement seems to have come from her upbringing as a diplomat's daughter in households that always had servants and "uppity" social circles.