Buenos Aires

Falcutad de Derecha, or the Law School

Our 'hood

Flor

They really like ham here

MALBA, the museum of Latin American art

Working Gator game days at the Alamo

Cafe Tortoni, the first cafe in Buenos Aires

Recoleta Park and Cemetery

Oktoberfest

The Argentine Oktoberfest takes place in Villa General Belgrano, a small German town outside the city of Cordoba. We drank a lot of beer. Other than that there isn't much about the weekend you need to know. Some pictures...

Oktoberfest ladies
L-R: Flor, Meredith, me, and Megan

The Wrist Fiasco

Things that are difficult to do with a cast: everything. It took a solid week for me to adjust to having a heavy, 70’s-style plaster cast on my arm. Even the simplest tasks became daunting chores. Getting dressed, riding the bus, opening doors, washing my hair – everything took longer. I kept all my shifts at the Alamo, and actually enjoyed working there more with a broken arm than I did without. All my coworkers were amazing about helping me with every aspect of the job, and the customers were nicer and less careless in their drunken stumbling around the bar. Though I hated wearing that God awful thing, I considered myself lucky. It happened to my left hand, it happened in the winter when I didn’t have to deal with the summer heat, and I was alive.

After six weeks, it was time for my now-flimsy cast to be changed. My friend Pachu agreed to take me to a free clinic at 5 in the morning to wait with me and translate anything I might not understand. After two different clinics and seven hours of waiting, we still hadn’t seen a doctor and I couldn’t take the wait anymore. Two days later, my friend Freddy went with me to a different free clinic. Once again, hours of waiting without success. Later the that week, I went to a different hospital and, for a small fee, saw a doctor within a few hours. According to my incredibly handsome doctor, the new x-rays showed that the Bolivian doctor hadn’t quite set my arm right and I would need surgery immediately. He sent me to buy a Velcro, removable cast to wear until I could find a surgeon.

As both a drama queen and a hypochondriac, saying the word “surgery” to me in a hospital is similar to screaming the word “bomb” in an airport. After convincing myself that they weren’t going to have to cut off my arm and that in no way would the end result to this be death, I bought my new cast and went home to call my parents. They always know how help me gain perspective on injuries that I’ve managed to drastically blow out of proportion.

Over the next month I visited – no exaggeration – six different doctors. Naturally, every one had a different opinion. One thought my arm still needed some time to heal followed immediately by physical therapy, while another thought surgery was not only necessary but should be done immediately, while most of the others had opinions somewhere in the middle. Every doctor gave their own little twist to make their opinion different from all the others.

My wonderful friend Paco was borderline restless in his efforts to convince me to go to his doctor. After five doctors and five opinions I was worn out. I still couldn’t turn my left hand face-up and knew that I had to get a final answer somewhere. So Paco and I went to see the man he believes to be the best hand and wrist specialist in the country. One last x-ray and the doctor said I was fine. I could get surgery if I wanted, but with physical therapy I would have full movement in my wrist within a few months. Perhaps it was because I wanted to believe him, but something about the way this doctor spoke made me feel like this was the final verdict. As I’d been racked with fear that I was going to have to leave Argentina due to surgery bills, I was relieved to the point of tears.

I have almost complete movement back in my wrist, though certain movements are still difficult. I haven’t been doing my physical therapy nearly as much as I should, so I write that lack of movement off as that. A physical therapist who comes into the Alamo every Saturday has taught me new stretches and says that my wrist is healing fine, just slowly.

This was, once again, an experience that helped me realize how lucky I am to have such amazing friends down here. Pachu woke up at dawn and sat in a dirty clinic for seven hours with me, without complaint, and we never even got to see a doctor. Freddy also took me a free clinic at 5 a.m., after a long shift at work, without success. As soon as Megan heard I might need surgery, she told her office about my situation. She and several of her co-workers spent roughly two hours setting up most of my doctor appointments, most of them free because the doctors were friends or family members of her co-workers. Paco was insistent that I get advice from someone he trusted and knew would give me an accurate diagnosis. He went with me and helped me stay calm when I started talking about going home. And, as always, Meredith was a saint. She helped me with the little day-to-day things that I couldn’t do on my own and tried to help me keep my dramatics to a minimum.

The wrist fiasco was long, expensive and miserable. But it made me realize how lucky I am… for more reasons than one.

Bolivia, pt. 4: Prison, Sucre & Home

Standing outside the San Pedro Prison in La Paz, it was hard to believe the stories about what is really going on inside. Unlike other prisons, the inmates of San Pedro have almost complete freedom with the exception that they cannot leave the grounds. They live in apartment-style cells with their wives and children, have restaurants, stores, and gaming areas. Eighty percent of the prisoners inside San Pedro prison were arrest for drug-related crimes, and the prison itself is a makeshift cocaine plant. We met several people along the way who had actually been inside the prison. Though illegal, tours are a huge source of income for many of the inmates and guards. Marching Powder is a novel by Rusty Young and former prisoner Thomas McFadden about the laws, community and workings of San Pedro Prison. We stood on the sidewalk, staring back at the menacing faces of the guards, and watched as women, holding the hands of small children clad in school uniforms, casually walked inside.

From there it was straight to the bus station. I slept through most of the overnight bus ride to Sucre. Meredith and I wanted to see as much of Bolivia as we could, so after dropping our bags at the hostel we started walking back toward the bus station to catch a bus to Potosi.

Ever the gentleman, Kevin carried his backpack and mine due to my handicap

Before I left for Buenos Aires my Mom gave me a piece of advice that I have taken with me every time I leave my house, be it in the direction of the grocery store or Bolivia. She said something to along the lines of, “You walk around that place with the bitchiest attitude you can muster. People don’t bother those who walk around with confidence.” Well, it’s kind of hard to walk around with a don’t-eff-with-me attitude when you’re in a cast and sling. Walking around Sucre looking for the bus station was one of the most unnerving experiences of the trip. Every person we asked for directions seemed to think it was in a different part of town. Sucre was smaller than La Paz, making the poverty somehow seem more conspicuous and drastic. Not somewhere I was keen on walking around.

We did find the bus station eventually and were about to hand over the money for our tickets when we noticed a big poster of Potosi. The town looked shabby, dirty and terrifying to me. I’m typically not one to turn down an opportunity to see or experience something new out of fear, but I knew that in the off chance that something should happen there would be very little I could do to defend myself. My gut was telling me that Potosi, as much as I wanted to see it, was a bad idea. Meredith agreed. We said our apologies to the women at the desk, put our money in our purses, and walked back outside to explore Sucre.

We found Kevin at the hostel and met up with Agata in the main plaza shortly thereafter. Sucre is nicknamed “the white city” and after spending a few minutes in town it’s not hard to see why: the majority of the buildings are white. Sucre stood in stark contrast to the hustle and bustle of La Paz. It was a nice change and suited our moods for the day. We walked around a few parks, had a small lunch on a European-style balcony in the main plaza, and saw as much as would could in the last afternoon we had left together.

Rocking my sling under a fake Eiffel Tower in Sucre

Kevin and Agata had to catch the early bus down to Uyuni, so Meredith and I said out goodbyes that night. On the way down to Uyuni the next day, they stopped in Potosi for a few hours and were almost robbed by a cab driver, a fake tourist and someone posing as a police officer. Luckily, both Agata and Kevin had heard about this kind of tactic to rob tourists and didn’t go for the bait. Turns out Meredith and I’s instincts were right on the money about Potosi, though.

Our flight to Santa Cruz didn’t leave until the late afternoon so we did the only thing we know how to do when in a beautiful city with time to kill: buy a couple liters of beer and head to the nearest park. This is one of our favorite Buenos Aires past times and, now, one of our favorite Bolivian ones as well. We sat on a bench in the main plaza for several hours passing beers back and forth, reminiscing on the trip and what was to come. Sitting there, donning my cast and sling, sipping on beer, I was suddenly overwhelmed by a desire to go home. And it took me a few seconds to realize as this feeling washed over me that for one of the first times I wasn’t thinking about Florida. For now, Buenos Aires is home and I couldn’t wait to get back here.

Bolivia, pt. 3: Meeting Death Road... Face First

After our snack break we got back on our bikes and started with the real deal. The road was rugged and narrow. Our first stop was “Death’s Corner,” where a dip in the mountain takes several feet off the already limited path. Standing on the edge of the cliff, looking across at all the mountains and down the edge of the cliff I felt so small. I was just one little person taking up an insignificant amount of space on this big and daunting mountain.

“There’s no coming back from that,” the person next to me said, also peering over the side. I nodded in reply, taking one last look down at the treetops. As I walked away I made a mental note to remember that I’m not invincible and to stay away from the edge.

Death Corner

During the next leg I started to feel the Bolivian sun’s intense heat, so at the next stop I shed my layers. As soon as we started riding again on the bumpy road I knew I had a problem. My elbow pads were now too loose and kept sliding down. I saw a turn a few feet ahead followed by a wider, straight bit of road. After the turn, going at a speed too fast for what I was about to attempt, I took my left hand and yanked up my right elbow pad. The force of the pull, in addition to the rattling from the gravel, caused me to lose control. In a panic I slammed my left hand back down, but instead of grabbing onto the handle I yanked the left brake – the front brake. Cue Kelly flipping headfirst over her handlebars and doing a somersault with the bike.

My first thought was, “Am I alive?” Once I realized I was okay and that nothing seemed to be seriously injured, I sat up to look for Meredith. I knew if she turned around and saw me on the ground she’d have a heart attack. People were stopping around me now and I kept repeating, “I’m okay, I’m okay.” The guide helped me stand up and Meredith was right in front of me saying things I can’t remember now. I had stood up too fast. My head felt light and everything was really bright. The guide started moving my hands and as soon as he grabbed my left wrist I felt the pain. Apparently, I’d instinctively put my left hand down to break my fall and had injured my wrist. He asked if I could hold the bike. I couldn’t. That’s when my worst nightmare became a reality: they put me in the van.

Meredith, Kevin and Agata stood outside the van as the other guide wrapped my wrist in gauze. I cracked a few jokes with her about my chronic clumsiness and downplayed the throbbing in my hand. I sent my friends away to catch up with the rest of the bikers, flashing a huge smile and reiterating a statement from earlier that if this was going to happen to anyone, it was going to be me. As soon as the guide was finished, she took off on her own bicycle leaving me alone with the van, the road, and a Bolivian driver that I begged to go as slowly as possible.

The van started moving. My chest felt heavy, my throat tight. The humor in the situation had completely evaporated and had been replaced with a fear so overpowering that it felt like it was choking me. Through my tears, I trained my eyes on a white plastic rosary dangling from the rear view mirror. I was literally sitting inside one of my worst fears, in the most extreme circumstances. When I ride the buses to work in Buenos Aires and there’s a sharp turn I hold onto the pole a little tighter. And here I was, in a van next to a cliff notorious for gobbling up vehicles on the regular.

An exact replica of the van I was in

It took the driver about five minutes and 20 requests to slow down for him to realize that my tears had nothing to do with my hand. He was compliant, going slower than I was on my bike, and tried his best to soothe me when I actually started whimpering as we came face-to-face with a truck. He veered toward the mountainside and stopped the van, letting the truck inch by on the cliffside. When we finally made it to the next stop, Agata took one look at my tear-stained face and asked if they’d given me medication for the pain. I shook my head and said, “I’m not getting back in that f---ing van.”

I tried to hold the bike, but couldn’t make a grip with my left hand. I told everyone it was probably just sprained. I believed it was sprained. It didn’t hurt that bad. Looking back, I know that my mind was too overwhelmed with the emotional aspect of what was going on to send the message to my body that it was injured. The guide said I had to ride in the van. I asked if I could walk. He said no. With a sick feeling in my stomach I climbed back into my personal hell chamber.

Not happy

Within moments we were driving through a town away from the cliffs and I immediately felt more at ease. That’s when the disappointment set in. I had been enjoying the bike ride. It was exhilarating, gorgeous, and one of those exclusive experiences that not many can claim. And I didn’t finish. The night before I’d been thinking about fate and how it’s amazing the way things always seem to work out. Everything happens for a reason and it could have been way worse for me. I’m alive. One of my friends put it into perspective by pointing out, “Not many people get to say they’ve done Death Road, but even fewer people get to say they’ve fallen off their bikes on Death Road and lived to tell the tale.”

Enjoying the scenery

When the ride was over, we sat beside a poolside oasis, taking in the beautiful views and sun. Meredith, my savior through the entire wrist debacle, helped me fix my plate and cut my food as we sat down to lunch. With my sugar and adrenaline levels back to normal the pain in my wrist hit me hard and fast. It wasn’t sprained. My hand was swollen, fingers already bruising. The guides gave me some more ibuprofen and recommended I see a doctor as soon as we got back to La Paz.

Something they don’t tell you on the brochure when you sign up for the ride – even if you don’t injure yourself you will endure Death Road in a vehicle. Everyone piled back in the vans and we headed back to La Paz via the North Yungas Road. Though still scary, this ride was less terrifying as I had people and conversation to distract me from reality. About 15 minutes into the ride, Meredith started feeling sick. She tried to hold it together, but had to ask the van to pull over a couple of times.

The ride back was long, quiet and miserable. With every bump, both Meredith and I let out a little groan. Agata and Kevin sat in front of us and tried to keep the mood light. After one particularly rough bump through which I couldn’t stifle a full-blown whimper, Kevin told me that I should be proud of myself. Apparently he’d been riding behind me and said it was “really quite a spectacular fall.” I had no response for that other than laughter. I didn’t need to come all the way to Bolivia to find out I was really good at falling. Just then the CD started playing a “spanglish” version of “Stand By Me” by Prince Royce. With Kevin starting us out by humming the baritone, we all started singing along. It seemed like a cheesy ending to a Lifetime movie, which is why I find the humor in it, but it was the perfect song at the most appropriate time.

When we got back to our hostel, Meredith helped me shower, dress, medicate, eat, and get into bed. I honestly don’t know how I ever would have made it through that day without her. The true measure of friendship is not how long you’ve known each other, how much time you spend together, or how many places you travel together. A true friend is there for you when you are at your worst, most pathetic, and most helpless points in your life. Meredith has always been there for me without question. Always. But even knowing that, I still felt overwhelmingly grateful and blessed to have a friend like her when she pulled my pajama shirt over my head, gently re-wrapped my bandages and tucked me into bed.

The next morning we found out about an English-speaking doctor a few blocks away. Meredith and I went there as soon as we were up, fed and ready. The x-rays showed a fracture in my wrist. The hand and wrist specialist showed me the fracture and explained that they were going to numb the area, reset it and give me a cast. This man, who looked more like one of the Lollipop Kids than a doctor, was going to be responsible for the future of my wrist. Super. Took him about 5 times to get the anesthesia in the right place. Even then I could feel the shooting pain when one nurse held my elbow and the other pulled my fingers, while a Bolivian Danny DeVito poked and prodded at my injury.

Waiting in the clinic with Mer

The cast

Within three hours we were outside, cast on, prescriptions in hand. We met up with Kevin and Agata at the hostel and all took an immediate trip to the pharmacy to stock up on some much needed pain meds. Despite the fact that I didn’t get to finish the Death Road ride, that I had to visit a Bolivian clinic, that I had to spend money I don’t really have, and that the hour after the clinic was - without question - the most excruciating pain I’ve ever been in, I would do the ride all over again in a second. It was that beautiful, that fun, and that amazing. I would recommend it to anyone. Just make sure your elbow pads fit.

Bolivia, pt. 2: Back in La Paz & Death Road

On our way back to La Paz we had to edit our itinerary. Our initial plan had taken us to Sucre immediately after Isla del Sol. We had big plans of traveling south to Sucre and stopping in Potosi, a small mining town, on our way to do a salt flats tour in Uyuni. However, due to some semi-violent strikes in Potosi we decided to hang out in La Paz for a few days until we knew if it was safe to travel in that direction. By staying even one night in La Paz Meredith and I weren’t going to make it to Uyuni, the part of the trip we had been looking forward to most. Naturally, we wanted to do something equally as epic in La Paz… like mountain bike Death Road for instance.

Meredith and I had read about the North Yungas Road, labeled the “world’s most dangerous road,” when researching our trip to Bolivia and immediately nixed it. Before the new, asphalt road was completed in 2006 Death Road was the only route connecting La Paz to the north of Bolivia. The road is no bigger than 10 feet wide and the smallest dropoff is 1,830 feet high. Appropriately nicknamed el Camino de la Muerta, or Death Road, the passage used to claim anywhere between 200 to 300 lives a year.

I have an intense, albeit irrational, fear of flipping over in buses and vans, and being anywhere near Death Road sounded about as enticing as being the head coach of the Florida Gators during the 2010 season (Urban Meyer resigned the day I wrote this and, yes, I’m bitter). But after talking to some people our first night in La Paz, Death Road not only stopped sounding scary, it started sounding awesome. By downplaying the danger component and using Meredith’s unparalleled ability to peer pressure anyone into anything, we managed to convince Agata and Kevin that the Death Road bike ride was something we absolutely couldn’t miss if we were going to be stuck in La Paz for an extra few days.

Death Road

The day before the ride was the least interesting of our trip, and exactly what we needed. After two amazing, yet action-packed days in Bolivia, a lazy day in La Paz seemed like a gift. The city can be summed up pretty concisely: crowded, chaotic, and colorful. Walking around, I was taking in one spectacle after another. Whether it was yet another 5-foot woman with a baby strapped to her back, or llama fetuses hanging from the stands of the street vendors (the fetuses are supposed to bring good luck in business and protection to the home) there was always something to interesting to see. We spent the afternoon shopping, exploring and admiring the city from a lookout point that offered a different perspective on La Paz.

Street Market

Indigenous woman eying some new skirts

Girls doing some shopping at a street market in La Paz
L-R: me, Meredith, and Agata
(Sidenote: headscarf was to prevent further sunburn on my scorched scalp)

From the lookout point I realized that, though it’s not obvious, La Paz is quite stunning. It’s easy to be blinded by the poverty and the pandemonium of the city. But when given the opportunity to step back the glaring beauty of this place makes it easier to remember the wonderful things that were seen, but overlooked.

Beautiful La Paz

Meredith and I

The group at Mirador Killi Killi overlooking La Paz
L-R: Agata, me, Meredith, and Kevin

Early Thursday morning the Vertigo Biking van pulled up in front of our hostel. After driving for an hour, we got a quick lesson about the bikes and how to ride them. As the guides handed out our pads and helmets they explained that the first part 25% of the ride was going to be on the new road, which is paved and has more traffic than Death Road.

Riding on the new road was invigorating. Everyone who’s ever ridden a bike will agree that the only reason you exert any energy to go uphill is to reap the super fun benefit of going downhill. Riding on the new road was downhill fun without having to do any uphill work. Before we made our first stop I was feeling comfortable on my bike and, instead of focusing so hard on not dying, I actually started to take in the awesome views around me. I felt blessed to be there, thrilled that it was more fun that I’d expected and amazed at the sights around me. It was, in a word, intoxicating.



Feeling confident after an hour of riding, we dismounted and climbed back in the van to be taken to the starting point of Death Road. There, the company provided us with snacks and nature provided us with restrooms. I was eager to start riding on the Yungas Road. Thus far the experience had been much more than any of us had expected. At one point I even went so far to say, “If this tour were to end right now, it’d still be worth every penny. This is incredible.” There’s a foreboding comment if I’ve ever heard one.

Bolivia, pt. 1: La Paz & Copacobana

I’m unable to distinguish whether our ten days in Bolivia really were as dramatic and exciting as I remember them, or if it was such a new and different experience that my mind is incapable of storing the memories any other way. I came back from Bolivia with eight full pages of notes, which is why it has taken me over three months to get around to writing about it. Eight pages of story-worthy notes can be overwhelming to sift through. I am going to try to tell only the most interesting and important stories. However, keep in mind that this was one of those trips that changed the way I see a lot of things in this world. Something that may seem mundane to you, brings back thoughts and feelings for me that simply can’t be put into words.

The day we left for Bolivia was an exciting and a sad one. We were looking forward to our adventures in a country that we had previously not even considered visiting, but it was also the day Damien moved back to France. The three of us shared a cab to the airport and spent the ride trying not to talk about how long it might be before we would see each other again. Meredith and I have said our final goodbyes to friends in our apartment, in restaurants and on street corners, but watching one of your closest friends head to his own gate at an airport, knowing the city you come back to will be a different one because he’s leaving, is by far the most heartbreaking place to see someone off. Just when I thought I might be strong enough to hold it together, Damien turned around and screamed “BOB SAGET!” through the airport. The tears started the same time as my laughter. The public demonstration of our inside joke was the perfect last image of Damien.

After more than four hours of travel, an expensive visa, and an official escort to our – waiting – plane, Meredith and I finally made it to La Paz. We grabbed a cab and sat in silence as we drove through the mountains, each lost in our own incompatible combination of utter exhaustion and wide-eyed curiosity. As our taxi took a turn around a mountain we caught our first glimpse of the city. The nighttime view was nothing short of breathtaking. Meredith turned to me smiling ear-to-ear and said, “Go Gators!” I looked down at La Paz and saw that it was illuminated by thousands of orange and blue lights. After a long and stressful day, this small association to home was exactly what we needed to finally relax.

The next morning we planned to wake up early and catch the first bus to Copacobana. However, as soon as I crawled down from the top bunk I realized that I wasn’t going anywhere. I felt nauseous, light headed and weak. The dramatic altitude change from Buenos Aires to La Paz was the first of many things that was going to change our plans. After sleeping for a few more hours, we bought two tickets for the early afternoon bus.

La Paz in the daylight was a totally different world. The sun revealed women in traditional dresses and hats, street lined with markets and mountainsides covered with houses. With an hour and a half to kill – just enough time to walk around without actually seeing anything – we headed across the street to the cemetery and church. The double doors to the simple, white church stood open, so we were surprised to walk in on a service. This church stood in stark contrast to the large, comfortable and luxurious churches I am accustomed to at home and in Bs As . Everything about the church was simple: the altar, the clothing of the congregation, the service. We quietly slid into the back row and listened for a while. Without any song or ceremony, the priest stepped down from the altar and the service was over. We watched as solemn faces stood in line, waiting to leave flowers or personal belongings at the altar next to photos of recently deceased loved ones. After saying our own prayers, we grabbed our packs, and headed back out into the sun. We walked through the cemetery and a street market before going back to wait for our bus.

La Paz

Woman in indigenous clothing

Street market

Reading the graves at the La Paz cemetery

On the bus for a few hours, off the bus and onto a ferry for ten minutes (watching our bus sail across the lake next to us), back on the bus for two more hours, and we made it to Copacobana by early evening. Still feeling the change in altitude, we found a hostel and took a quick tour of the small town. The city was small, quaint and colorful, but from what we saw it seemed more like a hub to get to Isla del Sol than anywhere you’d want to a significant amount of time. Granted, my judgment was probably clouded by my nausea and exhaustion. We grabbed a quick bite and were in bed earlier than I have been since I left the U.S.

Yes, that is our bus floating across Lake Titicaca

Copacobana

Copacobana

By day three my body had finally acclimated to the altitude. Feeling refreshed and rested, we headed to the beach to catch the early morning ferry to Isla del Sol. An hour and a half later we stood on the south side of the island looking up at a seemingly never-ending staircase being told our hostel is “arriba, 30-35 minutos.” Meredith and I learned a valuable lesson about over packing when backpacking during that grueling half hour – don’t do it. Using the astonishing views as an excuse to stop and gasp for air, we watched old women, young children and llamas pass us on the way up. But we made it... eventually.

After dropping our packs at the first opportunity and plummeting face-first onto our hostel beds, we made our afternoon game plan. Agata, Meredith’s friend from college, and her boyfriend Kevin were meeting us for the rest of our trip and were set to arrive at Isla del Sol on the afternoon ferry, giving us a few hours to explore before meeting them at the docks. We walked a few kilometers in the direction of an Incan resting house, looked at it for about five minutes and – ever the Floridians – found our way to the water.

Indigenous woman and Isla del Sol

Incan resting house

Incan resting house and Isla del Sol

Lake Titicaca

As the sun started going down, Agata, Kevin, Meredith and myself enjoyed dinner overlooking Lake Titicaca. We wanted to see as much of Isla del Sol as possible before heading back to La Paz the following evening and decided the best way to do this was to do the 3-kilometer hike to the other side of the island. If we got up at dawn, we could easily hike six kilometers, explore the north side, and be back in time for a long lunch before the catching the ferry.

The next morning, as the sun was just beginning to rise, Agata roused the group. I blindly put on the clothes I’d laid out the night before, lathered the sunscreen on my red and puffy face, and reluctantly started walking uphill toward the trail. We were taking pictures, laughing and chatting it up when, before we’d realized it, a few hours had passed and we were still walking in the same direction. We should have been able to knock out way more than three kilometers by now. Kevin, the only man and therefore the one we’d trusted with the navigational aspect of the hike, nonchalantly mentioned that we’d passed a fork in the road hours ago. He’d thought it’d be fun to take the 8-kilometer trail instead, making it a 16-km round-trip hike. Clearly, he'd forgotten to take into account that we didn’t have much food, only one bottle of water each, and were carrying our purses. Unprepared for a serious hike, much?

We continued walking, but the path never seemed to turn or end. Finally, Kevin climbed to the top of a mountain to see if the trail was on the other side. He shouted that it was and that we should go over the mountain to save time. Cursing Kevin’s name, we climbed to the top to find trees and a little town on the other side, but no trail. Still cursing Kevin’s name, we proceeded to climb down the mountain. My weak knees and clumsy demeanor made this downhill climb quite the treacherous experience. We passed through a schoolyard and crossed a beach before we found the trail again. Saw the trail from the top of the mountain, did you Kev? Laughing at the absurdity of the situation, we continued to walk, rationing our water, sunscreen and crackers amongst the group.

The never-ending trail.

Meredith, Agata and I climbing the tallest mountain in the world

North side of Isla del Sol

Five hours later we made it back to our hostel. Our unpreparedness aside, I enjoyed the hike. Meredith and I had fun joking about the various ways we could inflict pain on Kevin as soon as we caught up with him. Once I ate, stretched and rested for a bit, I was actually thankful that he forced us onto that adventure. I think the only person who might not have been grateful for the decision was Kevin. He probably thought he was taking us on a nice leisurely hike around a beautiful Bolivian island. Instead he spent five hours listening to Agata complaining that she was hungry, Meredith begging us to leave her there and let her die, and me screaming that my face was on fire and was going to explode. Punishment enough, I think.