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This video is taken while on a bus trip from the northern beaches down to Lima, Peru.  The trip should take 18 hours however about 11 hours into it I drowsily woke up to this scene.  We were eventually stuck in this 'middle of nowhere' spot for 9 hours (!!). This is just a few of the ridiculousness that went on. Eventually a road was built in the sand made of rocks and trash (from a trash truck that happened to be stuck).

Note: How close our bus is to the crash site. Scary...  

As I wrote below, my recent return to the US was quite the shock for which I was apparently not entirely prepared mentally.  Well it also managed to get me in some funny situations of "cultural differences."

As I said earlier, I came overly prepared to my flight and ended up having some left over food I had intended on eating on the plane.  Of this was a mandarine from Peru.  I've been coming into US customs since I was 4 years old so this process is not new for me.  If you've never flown into the US, it's usually a very daunting experience meant to make you feel as if you've done something wrong and they'll catch you -even though you haven't.  There are officers circling around giving the meanest "stink eye" looks to everyone that could seemingly have anything on their person (those damned dogs will get you, watch out!).  Well, usually there's a spot where you can last minute throw away any fruit or objects that you "mistakenly" brought over.

When I got into customs I remembered I still had that mandarine on me (big "NO NO" for the US customs) and I looked for a trash can for about 10 min, circling around the whole baggage claim area.  I wasn't getting the friendliest looks so I just went ahead through customs.  The man, without a hint of emotion in his voice, asked me if I had anything  to declare and I responded my usual "no" and then nonchalantly said "oh, but I have this mandarine that I'm trying to throw away, any idea where I can do that?"  All of a sudden his eyes lit up as if I had just told him his first born daughter was knocked up and responded with "a mandarine!? Oh, well step over this way!" and pointed me to the "other" line.  For those that don't know, this is the line you desperately pray you don't have to go into; it's the one filled with customs officers prying their latex covered hands into foreigners' bags, imposing the inquisition upon their every object they've attempted to bring to our holy country, and judging them every step of the way.  I've never actually experienced this line, but I've heard horror stories of being stuck there for hours, fined for thousands of dollars, and many many tears being shed.

Needless to say I was not excited.  I slowly meandered through the line doing the "customs walk of shame" as vivid images came to my head of my bag being torn apart as I'm in tears, being scolded for bringing certain articles that unbeknownst to me are illegal to bring from Peru ("but they're just ceramic coasters...oh, you don't need to smash them like that...come on man!"), and a wedding gift I brought wrapped getting smashed and torn to pieces.  I get to the check spot and the guy asks me what I have to declare and I tell him about the mandarine I'm trying to throw away.  He responds "oh, a mandarine" (apparently I'm missing something here...), he then grabs it from my hand, holds it up above his head, yells "MANDARINE, WE HAVE A MANDARINE" - at that moment I wished I could bury my head indefinitely into my shoulders. Some other official came and grabbed it and went to some computer.  I was left awkwardly standing there.  I asked the guy if I could just throw it away and he told me "nope, you have to declare a mandarine."  Apparently there USED TO BE trash cans where you could toss last minute fruit and produce, but NOT ANYMORE (lucky me).  Now everything has to be declared.  I stood there frantically envisioning me never being allowed to travel because of some red flag on my passport marking me as a "mandarine smuggler."  I would soon work the black market selling smuggled peruvian mandarines at insanely high prices, purchasing muscle, and creating a mafia-like monopoly of the mandarine business.  My thoughts were interrupted as he gave me my passport back and said I was all good, except he'd have to hold on to the mandarine.  I smiled, made a smart ass, sarcastic joke, and went on my merry way.

I have no idea what he hammered away on that computer or what my "passport permanent record" now reads.  I do know one thing for sure:  I am never taking a mandarine international again.

Recently I returned to CA from being a good 4.5 months in South America.  I had an intense case of reverse culture shock as soon as I stepped on that plane.

My parents managed to get me on Business Class with their miles and let me tell you, after getting used to busing it around everything, it felt like I stepped into a 10 star luxury resort (my new star system of course).  Of course I had no idea what I was getting myself into and packed a backpack full of snacks (fruit, a chicken salad, nuts, cliff bars, etc, etc) as if I were embarking in a 20 hour bus ride with nothing to eat but the occassional vendors that would wander onto the bus.   This was obviously unnecessary since I arrived at the airport with access to the VIP lounge (that offered unlimited appetizers and refreshments - obviously I pounded a few fantas...obviously.) and then basically anything I wanted once I passed that magnificent curtain that beholds the promise land.  I actually remember the exact moment I realized I "wasn't in Kansas anymore" and I was foolishly over prepared.  It was when the flight attendant (I had 4 waiting on me!) asked me if I wanted "a chicken sandwich or squash soup for my snack" (snack!?) and then handed me a giant card to fill out my breakfast options (options!?) that notably consisted of french press coffee, fresh fruit, yogurt, whole wheat bread (sweet jesus!), and how I wanted my eggs (NOT "if" but "how!!").  This was all, of course, after she had just brought my introductory champagne - I could definitely get used to this.

Appologies to all, but a recent last minute trip back to California for a wedding and what not for a couple of weeks has rendered my postings nonexistent.  New posts up soon, I promise.

This has definitely taken some getting used to for me. 

Sometimes when you get a check at a restaurant in Latin America the waiter (waitress) will just tell you the total or give you a blank bill with a figure (see below).


And after more than 4 months here and my many trips to South America, I still have no idea if/when tip is included - it still boggles my mind.  These "informative" checks are by no means helping me solve this mystery any time soon...

I'm a bit out of creativity for writing stories so I'm going to be a bit cheesy and post this poem that a friend introduced me that fits too perfectly...

Facing West From California's Shores

Facing west, from California's shores,
Inquiring, tireless, seeking what is yet unfound,
I, a child, very old, over waves, towards the house of maternity, the
land of migrations, look afar,
Look off the shores of my Western Sea—the circle almost circled;
For, starting westward from Hindustan, from the vales of Kashmere,
From Asia—from the north—from the God, the sage, and the hero,
From the south—from the flowery peninsulas, and the spice islands;
Long having wander'd since—round the earth having wander'd,
Now I face home again—very pleas'd and joyous;
(But where is what I started for, so long ago?
And why is it yet unfound?)

- Walt Whitman

--I second that, all of it.



The westbound shores I got to face this last weekend in Mancora, Peru (don't worry, I have a few tales from that trip):

Ha, I love this. So we were at my favorite bar in Quito, Finn McCool's - every now and then you have to find yourself in an Irish pub, it's like being home. Well, we got to talking to some Irish or English guy and he told us that we HAD to go to Bolivia. He really didn't give us much details except for the fact that it's cheap and it's the "Fíng wild west of South America, man!" He repeated that about 5 times to us.

I am yet to go to Bolivia, or figure out what that statement means. When I do, I'll be sure to let you all know.

Contrary to what the title suggests, this is not about some girl named "Maria." It is actually the word used in Costa Rica for taxi meters - you know, those things that legitimize the amount you're paying for travel, especially when you have no clue where you're going. Well the country should look into a massive "maria" restoration project because when we were there (about 3 years ago), they were all conveniently "broken."

One town especially was infamous for its "broken marias," Manuel Antonio. Even if the meter was connected and looked perfectly workable, it "would not work" - must be that gringo charm. Sometimes we would get the most absurd explanations and others there would just be the awkward silence. One even pulled a meter from his dash with wires dangling attempting to plug it in until we just told him to drive.

One of my friends who struggled with spanish a bit summed it all up perfectly one day returning from the bars after another broken maria argument (in the best spanish I've ever heard from him and perfectly conjugated): "Todas las marias en esta ciudad están rotas" (All the "marias" in this town are broken).

I've been vacationing up at the beach and haven't posted for a while and will not until Weds the earliest. Cheers all!

Folks, I am deadly serious when I tell you these facts about buses in Argentina. You may not believe me at first, but you'll eventually accept the truth.

Ok, these buses in Argentina have to be some of the greatest inventions I've ever seen. First of all, they're double deckers. Second, they have tv screens with movies. Third, some have seats that recline flat (180 degrees, kids!) with foot rests. As if all of this weren't posh enough for me (mind you it doesn't take much to impress me these days), they have servers with meals (warm ones too!). And now the kicker. Once they get you that steaming hot meal, they bring you wine. Yep. And if you're lucky a post meal cookie AND champagne. AND some of the times it's in real wine glasses and flutes (glass!). That's better service than you get at the IVY! How could this possibly get better you might ask...well it's all for FREE (well, included in your ticket) and refills are encouraged. Definitely makes those 20 - 30 hour rides A LOT more tolerable.

Needless to say, I plan to return to Argentina soon...by bus.

The phrase I despise hearing on a plane in South American. Why? Because at the sound of that seemingly innocent *ding*, utter pandemonium is about to break loose.



There is something about lines, waiting, or exiting through door that enervates people and makes them want to get through as quickly as possible. Well the process of getting off a plane is quite similar. Once that sound hits, every single person bolts off their seat as if there were snakes on that plane (sorry, couldn't help it...) and frantically searches for their bags and belongings. Of course not everything is within arm's length and sometimes people are forced to claw, push,or dive their way through to reach it as if it were their lost, wailing child. After this 5 minutes of mayhem, everyone of course just stands there waiting another 15 while everything is being prepped for our exit, clinging to their belongings like it's the Golden Ticket.

This is where I like to have fun sometimes. Once people start filing out and my turn comes up (I was that guy that patiently sat there reading or smirking during that mess) I usually jump at the opportunity that is my turn. I calmy stand up, block the aisle, slowly grab my belongings from the overhead container (obviously to be careful for any bags that may have shifted during the course of the flight), take my time at putting on my jacket (wouldn't want to catch a chill), check to see that I have everything, and head towards the door. As you can imagine, this evokes some frustration and annoyance. I've gotten the "perdon...perdon...perdon...etc," the (not so) subtle nudges for me to move, and even had a lady attempting to climb over a seat to get around me (no joke. And no, she didn't get around me - by the time she was close, I was done and already walking in front of her, ha!).

Aren't I fun to travel with??

This still gets me everytime.

Colombia, Ecuador, and Peru (no idea the stat on this, but I know it's huge) make up for a giant percentage of the coffee produced. Coffee plants are everywhere in these countries and they boast about how good their coffee is. But, you don't even know how many times I've sat down at a home with family, at a restaurant, or cafe and ordered a cup of café, only to be served a cup of hot water, a spoon, and a jar of Nescafé and sugar (yes, NESCAFE...).

It's sad, majority of coffee from these countries is exported and it's usually the best coffee that gets sent out of the country. What's left a lot of times isn't really that good. But for Christ's sake, it has to be better than NESCAFE!

This instant coffee phenomenon baffles me to this day. I loathe you NESCAFE, I really do.

*It should be noted that Peru has actually been the best at consistently serving good, REAL coffee majority of the time. I threw them in the mix because it has still happened and that instant stuff is everywhere.

LOATHE.

Here in South America I have developed a couple of aliases mainly because people here, like the US, have a hard time understanding my full name. Instead of the long drawn out mess of spelling in Spanish or pronouncing it over and over and over again, I've created some easier alternatives.

Andres Velasquez: Since it's obviously close to my name, this is my go to. It was developed from me saying my real name, and attempts (and butcherings) to pronounce it by the listeners.

Zaharias Kimball: Haha. Yep, he's out there. Middle name + the street you grew up on ... most of you know what that one is.

So now if any of you want to track me, you know how to continue the search once the trail gets cold for "Andreas."

The following are rules and procedures for haggling in South America drawn from my experiences.

*Note: Much of this is based on my experience in Ecuador, where I believe I have mastered the art there, but doesn’t necessarily always pertain to others in Latin American (ie. those crafty Colombians or damn non-haggling Argentinians!).

(1) NEVER, and I mean NEVER, take the first price given. Take this as an invitation to the ‘game.’ Shoot for some figure around half (depending on how legitimate the establishment looks – and yes, most places including stores haggle) and then let the games begin!

(2) Show absolutely no interest to the object you intend to purchase (no matter how perfect you may think it is). On the contrary, pretend as if it is some nasty, everyday product at Wal-Mart and you could do without it.
If you have someone else shopping with you (or you accompanying someone else), this is a great chance to tag team and boost your haggling chances, most won’t know what hit them (some see you kilometers away). Have your friend (or you, if you’re the spectator) show disdain for the object, a look of ‘over itness,’ and desire to leave real soon.

(3) Throw in some kind of joke or comment to lighten the mood or evoke pity. Some of my favorites: “If I don’t get these (insert warm clothing like gloves) I’ll be sooo cold! Can you have that on your conscience?” or “alpaca makes me feel like a baby again.” Be a bit weary of this though, remember some of the merchants you are dealing with are in much, much worse situations than you could ever be.

(4) Point out some kind of flaw in the object, no matter how minute. Some examples: a minor stain or mark, a loose string, unevenness, flaw in the pattern, one shoelace longer than the other, you’re not in love with the color, you only buy baby alpaca, it’s not quite furry enough, it has 3 llamas on it instead of 4, etc.

(5) Refer vaguely to some other merchant that has it for cheaper. The less details the better.
This is a great point to be “cute” and make a cheesy comment like “but I like your character better” or “your store feels pretty.”

(6) Make a final comment that means “this is it, it’s now or never ma’am/sir.” Here’s one that I use and it works too well (60% of the time it works every time): “come on, $---, so that I (we, he/she) can take it.” Simple, but it works.

(7) This final step is where the battle is won folks! When you’re no where satisfied and have been arguing a while, slowly put the object down, sigh as if you’re sorry for that person, say something along the lines of “I guess I’ll think about it and come around later,” and slowly WALK AWAY. About half the time they’ll stop you after a few steps and you have your price – the war is over, suckers!

(8) Then there’s times when you just have to bite the bullet. I absolutely despise this one. After a while of haggling over a dollar and nothing works, you just have to decide if it’s worth having a tennis racquet bashed on your pride and just buy the damn thing. You may even have to walk away and come back to buy it at the merchant’s price (and there’s no one to clean up that shame-filled mess).

Best of luck to you all.