If You Don't Like Where You Are ... Just Go Somewhere Else

I like Arequipa very, very, very much better than Arica.  It was a long travel day yesterday, and my bus got here about two hours later than it was supposed to, but I was so happy to get here that it didn't really matter.  Arequipa, in southern Peru, is in the midst of mountains and canyons (including at least two deeper than the Grand Canyon), and is a lovely, lively city which is actually HOT during the day.  I could walk around in a T-shirt and Tevas quite comfortably.

I caught the train from Arica at 9 a.m. yesterday -- there are two a day that make the two-hour trip to Tacna, just over the border in Peru.  Border crossing is extremely easy this way -- you get "stamped out" of Chile at the station in Arica, and "stamped in" to Peru at the station in Tacna.  It's not a long distance -- only 60 km or so -- but the train is an antique wooden one-car variety that chugs along at a leisurely pace.  It's a charming way to go, though, as long as you're not in a hurry, and I doubt I would have enjoyed a collectivo ride to Tacna as much.

From Tacna train station, I caught a taxi to the bus station and, forgetting I was now in Peru and was supposed to bargain for my taxi fare, paid well over the odds for the ride.  I probably made the taxi driver's day when I just paid what he asked, instead of trying to bargain him down; Chile and Argentina both have metered taxis so I'll have to get used to a different way of operating.

Taxis aren't the only difference.  The bus was much more comfortable than I expected -- a double-decker semi-cama almost as nice as an Argentine or Chilean one, instead of a chicken bus -- but they don't serve you on Peruvian buses, it seems.  Instead, people bearing all manner of drinks and snacks swarm aboard the bus every time it stops; one guy was even selling hot chicken dinners, carefully packaged in tinfoil trays.  I had a tasty empanada con pollo for the princely sum of 1.5 soles (about 50 cents).  (I have to change my Spanish pronounciation, though; I said "po-zho" for "chicken" like an Argentine instead of "poy-yo" like the rest of the Spanish speaking world.  I'll have people thoroughly baffled as to where I'm from if I walk around talking with an Argentine accent.)

My hostel -- the charmingly named "Home Sweet Home" -- is great, but oddly bereft of Australians.  They are the most common backpacker species everywhere else I've been in the world, but the only one here is my San Pedro buddy John, who just got here tonight on the bus from Arica.  Lots of Canadians, which is also unusual -- either we as a nation haven't embraced the whole backpacker culture, or we mostly choose to go to different parts of the world, because there haven't been many in South America. 

Main square of Arequipa

I'm off to the Colca Canyon tomorrow for a two-day trip (the one-day option left at 3 a.m., so I nixed that idea), and spend today wandering around Arequipa.  The main square and cathedral are breathtakingly lovely, built mostly of sillar, a white-ish volcanic stone that glowed softly in the hot sun.  The interior of the cathedral is light and airy, unless most cathedrals here which are heavy, dark, and Gothic; Arequipa`s is cream with white molding, remindering me strongly of a wedding cake but appealing nonetheless.

Iglesia de la Compania (yet another Jesuit church) is also stunning -- the original sacristy is completely covered, all over its walls and dome, with vivid, multi-coloured painting in a jungle motif with flowers and gaudy tropical birds.  Apparently the Jesuits did this because the missionaries would head out into the jungle from here to convert the locals, so the decoration would prepare and remind them of where they were going.  Who knew that strict 17-century Catholic priests could be so whimsical?

There is a gorgeous 400-year-old convent nearby, too, which I spent a couple of hours wandering around.  It`s a maze of tiny but comfortable-looking cells, airy open patios and narrow cobblestone streets that meanders over a few city blocks.  It was founded in the early 17th century but not opened to the public until 1970; the Dominican nuns kept the building firmly for themselves for a few centuries.  About 30 nuns of the order still live in cloistered quarters in the convent.

Even older religious traditions are on display as well, in the Museo Santuario at the Universidad Catolica de Santa Maria.  It`s devoted to the discovery of Incan child sacrifices unearthed at nearly 6,000 metres altitude on a nearby volcano, and has a wealth of detail about the Incan ritual and the objects obtained from the burial sites.  The Inca believed that the mountains were gods, and if their gods exhibited any signs of displeasure (such as an eruption) they would offer sacrifices as appeasement.  Children of noble blood were usually selected and carefully prepared for the ceremony; they were given sedative drinks before their death so (in theory) would not have suffered. 

Looking at the face of the mummy on display in the museum -- a 12-year-old girl sacrificed about 500 years ago and buried on top of the mountain -- I wasn`t so sure she died peacefully.  But is it any worse that the Inca did this in the name of their gods, than what the Spanish of the same time did in the name of theirs?  The Inquisition would have been happening in Europe at about the same time as this girl died, and it would be hard to make any argument that the Catholic Church was any more "civilized" in this endeavour.

I`m back in the hostel now, and I must go make dinner soon.  I only had coffee for an afternoon snack, at a place that looked suspiciously like Starbucks but was called the "Cuzco Coffee Company" (actually, I think it WAS Starbucks, cleverly disguised so no one will know they`re attempting to take over South America too.)  So I`m a little hungry -- but I have to remind myself how to cook quinoa first, though, since it`s been a while.  I was tired of rice and pasta, and it seemed appropriate to try the local grain, so I`ll give it a whirl.  I found broccoli again, too, so I`m jazzed.  (Funny, I never used to get excited about buying green vegetables in Toronto.)

Hope all`s well in your respective corners of the world.  I`ll let you know how the canyon is -- it`s supposed to be spectacular, and there`s one point called the Cruz del Condor where you can see the magnificent Andean birds in action.  Can`t wait!

If you´ve ever considered going to Arica ...

Don´t.

I´ve liked pretty much everywhere I´ve been this trip (some more than others, of course) ... until now.   I just arrived in Arica, Chile, this morning off an overnight semi-cama bus from San Pedro de Atacama this morning, so I´ve been here a grand total of about 8 hours now.  And I can´t stand it!

It´s ugly, grimy, and grey, and the weather is overcast and chilly so I can´t even take advantage of the beaches nearby.  It COULD be a nice city to hang out in for a while -- it´s got a great location on the Pacific coast, the climate is mild, and the pace is pretty laidback -- but it´s gone the tacky route for beach-front development and the results are not attractive.  Streets are crowded and I was hassled innumerable times in a three-block stretch to buy something, give them money, hire them as guides, whatever.  I´m already tired of it -- I actually ate in McDonald´s this afternoon (yes, I´m ashamed of myself) just because it was nearly empty and I could sit in peace and quiet.

I get out of here tomorrow, thank God.  Had I been more awake when I arrived at the bus station this morning, I might have decided to press onward to Arequipa, Peru immediately instead of stopping here for a night -- I had no particular desire to come to Arica, it just happens to be on the way.  But I was a zombie after that night bus ride and I wasn´t prepared to cope with border crossings in that state, so I opted to come into town, get a room (over-priced as it is, at least I have my own) and get some sleep before I cross into Peru. 

There´s a train that goes at 9 a.m. to Tacna just over the border, so I think I´m going to do that -- I haven´t been able to take many trains this trip (I think the only one was the Tren de la Costa to the Tigre suburb of Buenos Aires) so it would be a pleasant way to go.  Ticket sales open at 4 p.m. so I´m hoping they have some left for tomorrow morning´s train; otherwise it´s a collectivo across the border (sort of a shared taxi), or another night in Arica.  You can guess which I´ll probably choose if it comes to that!

Wish me luck ... about 17 more hours to endure in this godforsaken town.

Below Zero and Above 4,000 in the Atacama Desert

It's a warm, sunny afternoon in San Pedro de Atacama in Chile as I type this.  I'm lounging in a hammock on the hostel's patio, catching up on reading, writing in my journal, emails, and of course this blog.  My bus to Arica (also in Chile, near the Peruvian border) isn't till 8:45 tonight, so I have lots of time. 

No cushy cama buses this time, though -- one of my travelling companions of the last few days headed on to Arica yesterday and he sent me a message warning that there's no dinner and no blankets on the bus.  So I'll be stocking up on fruit and chocolate bars (the dinner of champions) and adding a few layers of clothes before I board the bus -- it gets awfully cold in this part of the world when the sun goes down.  But it's dramatically beautiful scenery, with mountains and desert and salt plains and vast open sky -- gorgeous to behold as long as you don't mind occasionally shivering uncontrollably.

It was actually below zero one morning, as we stood on the street at 4 a.m. waiting to be picked up for a sunrise geyser tour.  I'd had enough of freezing so had splurged on a warm NorthFace jacket with fleece the night before, and without it I might have died of exposure (or at least would have been very, very uncomfortable) -- so well worth the exorbitant price I paid.  (I don't even want to think about how much cheaper it would have been at home ... warmth was worth the extravagance.  I bought an alpaca sweater, too, but, while that will also help keep me warm, it was mostly just because I really liked it -- and it at least was cheap.)

But the geysers were very cool, as well as cold, although the sunrise wasn't much of anything.  It's not the largest geyser field in the world -- it doesn't begin to compare in scale to Yellowstone or Rotorua -- but it's the highest altitude one at 4,300 metres.  San Pedro is perched at about 2,400 metres above sea level, so it was quite a climb up to the plateau where we found the geysers.

I hit even higher altitudes yesterday, as I went up to the high altiplano at nearly 4,500.  There are some pristine, beautiful lakes -- tiny but lovely -- way up there, and wildlife abounds.  I saw many vicuna (related to the llama, but daintier and more graceful -- llamas are goofy, ungainly creatures) and even a desert fox, whose brown and gold colouring blended perfectly with the stunted bushes and grasses of the altiplano.  The villages way up high are a different world and time entirely -- life is much more primitive than the suphisticated south of Chile. 

Lower down in the plateau, in the vast Salar de Atacama (a salt plain), the ponds are filled with flamingoes -- the bright pink kind that I'm familiar with, and a couple of other species that are black and white.  They spend summers higher up in the mountains, but this time of year come down to the lower plains where it's a little warmer.

Further away from San Pedro, but also in the Salar, there's a small lake -- Laguna Cejar -- that's saltier than the Dead Sea (85% salt) and considerably colder.  I took the plunge anyway, just to see what it felt like to float effortlessly on top of the water; once I got over the initial shock of the cold water on the surface, it was actually quite relaxing, and the water under the surface was warm as it was fed by springs underground.  The only unpleasant part was getting changed out of our wet swimsuits afterwards -- Annie (one of my recent travelling companions) and I, as the only two girls who went in the water, ducked behind the bus to change as there was nowhere else to go.  Awkwardly changing underneath towels and sarongs, we managed to be pretty discreet -- to the dismay, I think, of the four bus drivers who were quite openly gawking at us as we changed.  (Please, boys, it's nothing you haven't seen before -- foreign women have all the same parts as locals.  Give us a break.)

So it's been a lovely few days, and I'm loathe to leave this mellow and chilled-out little town in the middle of nowhere.  I've even been able to have real coffee (not Nescafe) and real breakfast (not pastry with dulce de leche) here, and we discovered a cool little bar that serves a fine Chilean microbrewery beer called Austral Calafate, so it's been an enjoyable time.  But I'm going onward tonight, to Arica in the far north of Chile -- from there I might try to go directly to Arequipa, instead of spending the night in Arica.  But I'll decide once I get there.  My travel buddy John the Aussie went on to Arica yesterday, so has promised to report back on whether the town's worth a visit.

From Arequipa, I'll head into Cuzco and figure out the Machu Picchu thing -- hoping to hike, but I won't be too upset if it doesn't work out and I have to go by train instead (but I'd definitely come back and hike another time).  So far, I'm still coping well with altitude and have suffered no ill effects, so I'm hoping that continues in Peru.

I'll probably spend a few days more touring around southern Peru -- Puno on Lake Titicaca, maybe Nazca for the famous lines -- and might venture over the border into Bolivia as far as Copacabana on the lake (but not to La Paz).  From Cuzco, I think I'll fly to Quito, since I'll otherwise have to spend about 4 days straight on the bus -- potentially enjoyable on a pampered Argentine bus ride, but in Peru and Ecuador likely to be decidedly less comfortable.

Then a Galapagos tour from Quito, and some side trips in Ecuador as time permits ... then home for about the middle of July.  That sounded so far away when I started this trip, but it's sneaking up on me fast -- just a few weeks to go.  *sigh*

Oh, the Randomness ...

That's the best part about travel ... the random things that happen that you don't plan for, that turn out to be pretty cool.  If you've read some of my previous posts closely, dear reader, you may have gathered that I had become somewhat cranky and disillusioned with the whole travel extravaganza, and was almost ready to pack it all in and go home.   Well, I'm over that.  I feel like an entirely new person and I've been having FUN again with this travel thing. 

I came to San Pedro de Atacama on Friday, which I already told you (if you read my last post -- if not, keep up with the times!).  I met a couple of backpackers on the bus here from Salta -- Annie from New York and John the Aussie from "Melbun" -- and have been hanging out with them for the past few days.  (So, in travel terms, they've become my closest friends :) )  It's been really nice having people to plan things with -- whether that is drinks in the bar down the street, going on a day trip, or finding somewhere for dinner -- rather than sorting it all out on my own.

Oh, I don't mean that I never meet people or that I'm a total recluse on the road.  I'm not, by any stretch -- it's just the consistency of having the SAME people to hang around with for more than a day or two at a time that's novel.  Usually I'm moving on, or they're moving on, and it's a 24-hour friendship at best.  And it gets hard always saying goodbye to the good people I meet.

I went with John the Aussie tonight to our "local", a very cool little bar called La Cave that's just down the street from the hostel, to see him off in traditional Aussie fashion with a beer or two, before he went off to catch a night bus tonight.  As you do when travelling, we started chatting to the guy at the next table.  He turned out to be Adrian the Calgarian, originally in Chile for work (for an oil company, big surprise for an Albertan) but extending his trip for a couple of weeks for personal travel.

Adrian the Albertan (left) and John the Aussie

Adrian looked like the quintessential computer nerd (and was, by profession), but also turned out to be an avid rock climber, ice climber and extreme backcountry skier.  So we kept chatting after John left for his bus, and what was originally going to be a quiet night in the hostel reading my novel instead became a long conversation with a random Calgarian about the best huts in the Rockies for backcountry skiing and camping.  (Bow Lake wins as the Taj Mahal of backcountry huts, should you wish to know.)

It was just fun, in a strange and random way.   Chatting up strange Albertans in a bar is not how I usually spend my time -- I can't remember the last time I went to a bar in Toronto and started talking to any guy at the table next to me, just on a whim (much less an Albertan).  But it was good -- no pressure, no one trying to pick anyone up or flirt or anything, just a couple of people passing an evening together because they happened to wash up in the same bar in the same town at the same time in a foreign land.  That's all it was, all it will ever be ... but I liked it.

I like the Carol I am on the road better than I liked the Carol I'd become back home.  This Carol appears to be a lot more willing to engage with the world outside her comfort zone, live in the moment and enjoy it for what it is ... without over-analyzing it or taking any of it too seriously as Toronto Carol was prone to do. 

I just have to figure out how to bring this back with me when I become Toronto Carol again.  I have realized that I don`t have enough people in my life back home -- no, I don`t mean that exactly, I mean that I don`t make enough time for the people in my life back home and I haven't been willing enough to let new people in.  I had become closed off and insular and hid from the world in many ways, and I don`t want to turn into that person again.  I don`t necessarily need to make a habit of chatting up Albertans in random bars ... but I`d like to remain the person who doesn`t automatically say no to the possibility.

So remind me -- Toronto people especially -- that the other Carol needs to come back from the road with me.  I used to know her well -- the Carol who would seize the chance to go dancing at midnight instead of going to bed early, or try something new and laugh at failure instead of refusing to take the chance.  Or open her heart to the chance to make a new friend or to fall in love, instead of withdrawing from the rest of the world. 

She's still here; I caught a glimpse again tonight.  Just gotta keep her around more often.

Dark Side of the Moon

This is wild, wacky and beautiful country around here.  I just arrived in San Pedro de Atacama, Chile late this afternoon, and I feel like I've landed on another planet.  It's a tiny, dusty, frontier town in the middle of the Atacama desert -- the driest in the world -- that looks like the Wild, Wild West, gaucho style.  The sky now, at about 8:00 at night, is unbelievably dark and full of stars, as there is no other outpost of civilization for a hundred miles in any direction.  Calling San Pedro "civilization" is a bit of a stretch in itself -- I feel like I've landed on the edge of the world.

The bus ride from Salta is stunning, taking you high up through the mountains -- at the highest point, the road hits an altitude of about 4,500 metres.  This was too much for some of the passengers, who were nauseous, dizzy and close to fainting, but the bus crew came prepared with oxygen tanks and were able to avert any major health crises.  (Fortunately I was fine; this bodes well for a successful trip later to Machu Picchu if I can cope well with altitude!)

The landscape is lunar in places, particularly at the high altitudes.  You ascend up through the mountains from Salta through Jujuy and beyond, and eventually reach a immense plateau.  At first glance, you think that the ground is covered with snow, but on closer inspection you see that it's salt -- dry, cracked salt plains stretching in every direction, out to the mountains ringing the horizon. 

Then you eventually reach San Pedro, an outpost in the middle of the vast empty nothingness of the Atacama desert.  To the south is the Salar de Atacama, an enormous salt plain rivalled only by the Salar de Uyuni in Bolivia; there are brilliantly coloured lakes, geysers, hot springs and the Valley of the Moon in other directions.  The town itself has one main street, about six blocks long, and probably 4,000 residents (not counting tourists, who in high season probably double the numbers).  Stray dogs chase things blown in the wind down the dirt-packed streets, and fast, incomprehensible Chilean Spanish* flies at you from every direction, as the locals try to sell you a day trip, feed you at their restaurant, change your pesky Argentine pesos for fine Chilean ones, or load you up with an assortment of local handicrafts.

It's another world, really.  I've landed at a relaxed little hostel with hammocks swinging in its gorgeous central patio, in the company of a couple of backpackers I met on the bus.  We're thinking about heading back out to the little bar we discovered across the street (one of the backpackers is an Aussie, so beer is always on the agenda), and tomorrow we'll probably set out to discover some of the countryside. 

But right now, I just have to go get warm.  It's bloody freezing in the desert when the sun goes down!

*NOTE:  Chilean Spanish is another language.  It fell off the boat somewhere along the way when current South American speech was developing; it sounds nothing like the rest of the continent, or European Spanish.  It's unbelievably fast, slurred, and slangy, and words are invariably chopped off into short forms or twisted into something unrecognizable.  So I may have to give up on actually understanding anyone again until I get to Peru!

Above the Clouds in Northern Argentina

It`s hard to find anything wrong with scenery out the bus window that includes towering mountains, giant cacti, isolated farmhouses that look like life there hasn't changed in 100 years, and postcard-pretty colonial villages.  Throw in a crazily twisting mountain road that takes you up, up, up -- till you're looking down on those fluffy white clouds -- and it's pretty much perfect.

Up, up, up to 3,348 metres, to be precise.  That's how high you get on the trip from Salta to Cachi, a little town in the Calchaqui valley; the clouds were at about 2,000 metres.  It's only about a 150-kilometre trip, but most of it's through the mountains so takes a little longer than the same distance might, say, speeding down the 401.

The only sour note to the day was the fact that the temperature was actually below zero when I left at 7:30 in the morning, before the sun rose.  Fortunately it warmed up nicely by the afternoon so I didn't entirely freeze; I don't have the wardrobe for winter temperatures!  (I may have to break down and buy a jacket one day soon -- the fleece alone isn't quite cutting it.  I was going to rent in Cuzco for the hike to Machu Picchu, but I'm not sure I'll last that long.)

I realized part way through the day that this is my last full day in Argentina for this trip -- I'll be back at some point, but no idea when that might be.  I'm off to San Pedro de Atacama in Chile tomorrow, and from there will head north into Peru after a few days checking out the area; I think I'm giving up on the idea of the Bolivia salt flats as it's going to be just too complicated and time-consuming to get into Peru after that (since I refuse to go to La Paz).  Another trip ...

It's kind of sad, actually, to be leaving.  I really like Argentina, and the time I've spent here has only scratched the surface of what the country has to offer -- from rainforests and jungle, to windswept pampas, to vibrant urban life, to the long and lonely Ruta 40 that runs the length of the country, to fjords and beaches and raging rivers, to glaciers and mountains that nearly reach the sky, to prehistoric cave art and pre-Inca ruins and remnants of Spanish colonial life.  It's an interesting mix and I could easily spend the rest of the year here, getting to know all of its corners and byways.

But I'm thinking of this year more as an overview -- although I've travelled a lot, there's still so much of the world left to explore that I'll be spending the rest of my days doing just that!  (When work allows, anyway -- at some point I'm going to have to start earning a living again.)  I plan to be 75 and still travelling with a backpack; any other crotchety old women in the year 2044 are welcome to join me! 

It's impossible to see everything this year, as I keep trying to remind myself, but I can get a taste of some new places.  And for the ones I like -- such as Argentina -- I'll just have to figure out how and when to come back.

Anyway, I had a good last day in Argentina.  I was very sad to leave Cafayate, but I think I found what I needed from that little indulgence and am ready to go again.  Martha -- the owner of Hotel Killa, a.k.a. heaven on earth -- is charming and was very enthusiastic about helping me plan my next destination, and was convinced that I should go stay at a lovely hotel/spa in San Lorenzo near Salta.  I checked out the website, and it did look lovely -- but I will quickly go broke if I keep travelling that way!  So I chose a slightly different option for my final stint in Argentina, with a hostel in Salta for a couple of nights and a day trip to Cachi today.

Cachi is an adorably pretty little colonial town, with one main square and a handful of streets radiating from it.  The drive there is the real attraction, though -- you wind your way up through the mountains from Salta, and over to the valley where Cachi is nestled.  At one point on the trip, the gravel road ascends more than 1300 metres in less than 20 kilometres, doubling back on itself at least 200 times in a crazy circuitous route around the peaks.  There's not much of a guardrail, usually, and the bus driver didn't always slow down, much ... so it makes for an interesting ride when the road looks like this:

The crazy curve of the Cuesta del Obispo

Then you get to the top of the Cuesta del Obispo (the "Bishop's Way"), as the sinuous route is called, and the road changes:  straight as an arrow across the plateau, along the old Inca road for about 11 kilometres.  From there, it winds gently down into the valley and passes through even smaller towns than Cachi on the way.  Life looks very basic in these towns (aside from the giant satellite dishes on some tumbledown shacks), and it's probably not an easy place to live; but does that matter as much if you get to wake up to views of the Andes in your backyard?  It's gotta help, anyway.

Ah, well ...must head off to bed soon, as my bus leaves at the ungodly hour of 6:45 a.m. tomorrow.  I'm more of a morning person now than I was at work, but that's pushing it.  *SIGH*

It's Not Paranoia if They Really Are After You

I was thinking about this yesterday -- well, not "paranoia" exactly, but where exactly the line is drawn between good sense in trusting your instincts, and being overly cautious, seeing potential danger where none might exist.  I pretty much go with my gut; if something feels "off" or makes me uncomfortable, I don't do it or I get the hell out of wherever it is.  I like to think that, after 20 years of looking after myself and navigating big-city life, that my instincts are pretty reliable.

I'm fine with things that make other women I know nervous -- walking around downtown Toronto late at night, for example -- because I have enough experience to tell me that it'll be fine.  Hey, I used to live at the corner of Jarvis and Gerrard, right near the "hooker Harvey's", when I first moved to Toronto, and walked home many a night by myself with no incidents.  (Except for one night I was mistaken for a hooker myself and almost arrested, but it was the fault of my Hallowe'en costume and some unfortunate coincidences.  But that's another story.)   I can travel other strange cities with ease and without worrying; I remember going to Washington with my Jeansmarines women for the marathon and realizing just how much more seasoned a traveller I was than many of them.  Some of them were overwhelmed just by the task of getting on the Metro and I had to shepherd them through it.

I`m conscious when I'm travelling that a women alone is more vulnerable -- I hate it, but it's a reality any female backpacker has to live with -- so there are things I choose not to do by myself.  Sometimes this means passing up things that I want to do, and I wonder if I play it too safe sometimes -- am I missing out on experiences that could have been rewarding, am I worrying for no reason?  I was thinking about this yesterday, after I came back from my hike. 

I went southwest of Cafayate heading for the Rio Colorado, and from there I was going to carry on up the river to a waterfall about an hour and half upstream.  While I was still about two kilometres from the river, though, a man appeared out of a side trail and started walking along with me, on the other side of the road.  At first, it was fine -- he seemed nice enough, we chatted amiably and I enjoyed the chance to practice my Spanish.  I held up my end of the conversation pretty well, although once in a while what I had to say was dictated more by what words I know than what I actually wanted to say!

By the time we got to the river, though, it started to feel ... off.  I don't mean threatening, exactly, just that something didn't quite feel right.  His questions were getting much more personal -- how many boyfriends did I have in Canada?  Did I have any boyfriends in Argentina?  Where was I staying?  Was I staying alone?  Did I know anybody here?  Why didn`t my friends come hiking with me?

He urged me to carry on with him on the path to the waterfall.  "It's a short walk, just up ahead -- it will only take 10 minutes -- and it's very beautiful, you will love it," he insisted. 

I took a look at the narrow, overgrown path leading off into the woods.  I looked around and realized there was no one else for miles around.  I remembered that my guidebook had said it was at least an hour and a half to walk to the waterfall ... not ten minutes.

So I "suddenly" noticed how late it was getting and exclaimed that I had to get back to town to meet my husband.  (Fake husbands or boyfriends are very useful things to bring travelling.)  I was already going to be late and he would be worried if I was any later.  With a hasty good-bye, I started back down the road towards Cafayate, and I never did get to see the waterfall.

He didn't follow me.  So if he was really just a nice guy who only wanted to help out a tourist or who was only looking for conversation with an interesting foreigner, then I'm sorry for thinking ill of him.   (But, really, I couldn't stand up my imaginary husband, could I?)  However, if he wasn't actually a nice guy ... then it could've gone very, very wrong had I not turned around and walked away.

But that's the thing about trusting your instincts.  You won't ever know what would have happened if you hadn't listened to them, if you'd made a different choice.  You can't tell whether anything bad would've happened, or not, so you can't judge whether you're being sensible or overly paranoid.  But I figure that, if I do something contrary to what my instincts tell me, then I'm going to be uncomfortable and worried the whole time anyway -- so even if it turns out to have been perfectly safe, I won't really have enjoyed it.

I have a pretty good idea, now, of what's a good idea for me and what isn't, but I'm sure everyone's comfort level or sense of security is different.  Where do you draw that line?