Riding the Metro in Santiago, Chile

As many of you know, I work in public transit, and so I like to test out the transit systems of the cities we visit. However, since Josh isn’t that excited about transit for transit’s sake, we normally only ride when it’s time competitive with other ways of getting around. 

Santiago has an underground subway system, which I convinced Josh to try out. A friend from Seattle had given me a Bip! card — similar to Seattle’s ORCA card and San Francisco’s Clipper card. Based on what I saw online, the only way to pay for the Metro in Santiago these days is with a Bip! card so I was happy to arrive with one of our own. 

On the first day we tried to ride, I approached the kiosk machine to see if I could buy a second card, assuming we’d each need one. Although, the machine was Spanish-only, I was able to figure out that the machine was out of cards, so we got in the long line for the single customer service agent. 

My Spanish is pretty crummy, even after 6 weeks in Latin America. Once I got the agent to understand where we wanted to go, I handed over the card and she checked my balance. It was enough for our rides and she informed me I could tap twice to pay for both of us. 

Pleased with my ability to get by in Spanish, we headed to the turnstile, only to get an error message when I tapped the card. Apparently, it had been deactivated, likely because it had been a while since my friend used it. The security guard couldn’t get it to work and when she tried to fix it in another machine, that machine wouldn’t work either. That’s when I learned that the train wasn’t even going where we needed to go that day. Apparently the customer service agent didn’t think to tell us that. 

20 minutes after we arrived at the station, we abandoned the train and took an Uber to our brunch spot, just in time for our reservation!

The next day I convinced Josh to let me try the Metro again. This time we went to a different station, and had no wait to talk to the customer service agent. We bought two new Bip! cards and added fare for 2 rides each. Easy peasy.  We tapped our cards at the turnstile and were off on our way!

It was neat to see the info screens at the train station. There were some massive monitors above the tracks which showed the status of each route. And then there were smaller screens which showed arrival times for the next trains. All of which had ads, sometimes with ads only on the screen so we had to wait awhile to see info on the trains to cycle through.

The trains had a good amount of passengers and we stood. The seats were plastic/vinyl with what looked like slightly softer padded areas, still easy to wipe or spray clean. I much prefer washable surfaces to the fabric seats in our trains and buses in Seattle, although I know the harder seats are less comfortable for reine riders.

All in all, a good experience, even for someone with limited Spanish skills. Here are some photos from our adventure:

Our new transit fare cards which cost $1,500 pesos each (about $1.50), plus a fare of $750 each way ($0.75 USD).

Josh tapping his card to enter through the turnstile. Having turnstiles where you have to tap to enter makes fare evasion more difficult and there was a security guard standing nearby (not pictured) to answer questions and also enforce fare payment. 

Josh and I waiting for the train. 

The train!

Platform sign showing next stops and arrival times on the left and rotating ads on the right.

A sign over the exit showing arriving trains and status of each route.

Huge sign over the tracks with info on arrival times on each side and rotating ads in the middle. 

Large sign showing status of each route, along with an ad. This screen rotated through and played maybe every 2 minutes after a series of ads.

Partially full train.

The plastic/vinyl seat, briefly unoccupied.

Double doors to exit the platform, although no need to tap off since it is a flat fare system.

Flowers of the O Trek

Flowers are beautiful. They are also a reason to rest my weary feet and take a quick break on a long hike. Here are my favorites from the O Trek. I used National Geographic’s “Seek” app to identify these and a few stumped the app. I welcome your insights. 

Unknown aster/daisy family - chamomile?

Unknown aster/daisy family

No clue but pretty 

Mouse-ear chickweed

Unknown Cachrys 

Calafate berry

Red crowberry

Redclaws

Unknown aster/daisy family

Nassauvia dentata 

Calceolaria biflora

Unknown aster/daisy family

Prickly health

Unknown Bidibid

Redclaws

Purple foxglove 

Hardy fuchsia 

Chilean fire bush

Unknown aster/daisy family

Patagonia O Trek Recap

Hello friends! We just finished the 5th month of our sabbatical and I have only written one blog post. My apologies. I had meant to do this regularly and have totally let that slip away. But I am here today, thumb-typing on my iPhone mini while laying on a bed in a hotel room on a drizzly day in Punta Arenas, Chile. So that’s something, right?!

Three days ago we finished the longest backpacking trip of my life. We hiked more than 75 miles and climbed more than 15,000 ft over 8 days, camping at 7 different places along the way. We met lovely people from around the world: Italy, Australia, Canada, France, Ireland, Netherlands, and even the USA and Chile (our current locale). 

If you have heard of Patagonia, you have probably seen the quintessential vista of Los Torres and its beautiful lake. This is the first and/or last stop on most Torres del Paine National Park visits. It was the final destination on our circumnavigation of the park. 

Some highlights:

- Cresting John Gardner pass on Day 4 only to discover that the bank of clouds I saw spread across the horizon was actually Grey Glacier. And then getting to hike alongside the glacier for miles. Epic!

- Avoiding blisters, thanks to dorky toe socks and the super handy leukotape that Josh picked up in Seattle for me. 

- 7 bottles of $22 red wine, which we bought and drank together—one per day except for the 3rd day when none was for sale.

- Sunrise on Los Cuernos (the horns) on day 7, spied from the trail after starting our hike in the dark. I was eager to get moving because we had a long day ahead and I didn’t want to miss the cut-off time to hike to Los Torres, but Josh convinced me that we could spare 15 minutes to watch the sky change colors. It was totally worth it and we made it to Los Torres with 90 minutes to spare—or in my case, 90 minutes to draw and paint that stunning landscape.

- Watching the funny caracara bird prance around the campground at Dickson as we prepared to set out on day 3 of our trek. Its red face, high-and-tight hair cut, and serious expression made me laugh.

- Watching Andean condors soar above countless vistas, including on day 5 when a half dozen of them climbed in thermals above a ridge while we watched and wished we could join them in the sky.

- Sketching mountains and painting glaciers with my sketchbook hidden in a dry bag to keep it safe and functional on drizzly day 6 at Mirador Francis. I impressed myself with my creativity on this setup!

- Surviving 3 (or 4?) suspension bridges and countless of other un-reinforced wooden bridges, boardwalks, slick and muddy planks, and rocky stream crossings.

- Several pretty rainbows including a couple leaping forth out of the glacier, giving me a reason to appreciate rain. 

Bottom line, I’m delighted that the feet I broke this month 10 years ago on our last sabbatical could carry me and my 25-30 lb pack across so many miles and mountain passes, enabling me to experience this incredible place with my beloved.

And here are some photos:

Starting the O Trek in the rain. 

Boardwalk between Seron and Dickson

The view towards Dickson glacier.

One serious Caracara bird. 

Painting by the mountains next to Dickson glacier. 

Hike up to Gardner Pass. 

Grey Glacier.

Josh starting one of the suspension bridges. 

Our greenish-white tent squeezed in amongst the premium tents at Grey. 

Rainbow on our hike to Paine Grande. 

Sunrise at Paine Grande. 

The beach and Los Cuernos (the horns).

Sunrise on Los Cuernos. 

Painting at Los Torres (the towers).

A completely unnecessary “bridge” on the hike to Los Torres. 

Enjoying our final bottle of white at the end of the O Trek. 

Welcome to our Sabbatical Round 2

We are off on an adventure! Nearly 10 years ago, we took our first sabbatical. We travelled mostly overseas, exploring South Africa and Oceania, Thailand, and the US Southwest. We flew our paragliders, scuba dived in the Great Barrier Reef, and hiked, backpacked and kayaked all over. We spent time with friends and family, and really enjoyed ourselves.

This sabbatical we plan to mostly be in the USA, at least for the first year. Over the last two years, we have been hard at work converting a 4WD Sprinter van into a camper van, complete with all the essentials and some luxuries too. 

Here’s our rough itinerary:

• November/December 2023:  mostly California, including Santa Barbara, the Bay Area, Joshua Tree, Death Valley, eastern Sierras, and Redding.
• January 2024: Josh paragliding in Thailand; Michelle birding in Arizona; some time in Seattle.
• February - mid-March 2024: Argentina, Chile, Patagonia backpacking, hiking, and more. (Traveling by airplane, not campervan)
• Mid-March thru early Fall 2024: driving the van to Arizona; rafting the Grand Canyon; exploring the Southwest, Colorado, Wyoming, Montana, up into Banff and Jasper National Parks; drive to Alaska and adventure galore. With short trips away from the van to go rafting with Josh’s family, attend Michelle’s college girls reunion, and take in the Watershed Country Music Festival at the Gorge.
• Beyond Fall: TBD.

Along the way, we hope to spent time with friends and family. We welcome company and would love to share adventures with you. 

Michelle endeavors to keep this blog roughly up to date, and plans to share recaps of our adventures and also refinements of our itinerary. We will gladly accept your tips for places to visit and restaurants to dine at, and we hope to see you out on the road!

Cheers,

Michelle & Josh

Invisible in Morocco

The air feels cool on my pale skin as I emerge from the second class car into the first class one for which I've paid $17US to travel 300km from Casablanca to Fez on this Saturday in March. I take my place in cabin 5, alone except for a Moroccan man seated across from me at the window. He wears a charcoal business suit and a maroon and white checked shirt with the top button undone. His shiny black leather shoes are mere inches from mine, and he is wearing a wool coat despite the heat prickling my neck.

“Bonjour,” he says. “Bonjer,” I reply in my poor excuse for a French accent. He notices me stumble and asks, “are you from America?’

“Yes,” I admit. I tell him it's my first time in Morocco and he tells me I’ll be safe here, there is nothing to worry about. I try to respond in a way that makes him believe that I believe him, but I doubt I'm convincing. I haven't yet gotten comfortable in this foreign land, a solo woman traveller who can't speak either of the two local languages.

Outside our window, an orange trees laden with bright fruit trundle by. A lone woman herds her sheep. I spot cows munching grass and a brown horse smaller than the ones back home. I sit quietly, trying not to call attention to myself.

At the next stop another man, this one with a blue scarf and brown striped necktie, joins our cabin taking a seat beside the door, as far away from me as is possible. The train moves smoothly on its track, silent except for the loud and fast conversation between these two Moroccan men who have never met before. I wonder what they are talking about. Me? The American president? Local politics or something else? In Rabat the man in the checked shirt will depart, leaving me in a cabin with people who don't return my poorly pronounced greetings.

Later I learn that it is a game, to not see anyone. Like on the bus at home, except that here I'm seeing everything.

I see the man in the suit and blue wool scarf praying quietly in his seat. His mouth moves soundlessly with the words of Allah, fingers clicking to a rhythm I don't understand. Head nodding, he holds his arms bent at a 90-degree angle to his body, fingers outstretched, moving as if by memory, down, up, down up, down up.

Beside him, a Moroccan mother dressed in long-sleeve layers and an ornate gold necklace stares at her iPhone, seemingly oblivious to the man prostrating himself mere inches away, separated by gender and a woven armrest. And then as suddenly as it started, the man stops praying and resumes his statuesque posture. The woman continues as if nothing happened.

At the next stop, I see the younger woman with a headscarf who glances at the numbers above our seats as she hefts her silver bullet roller bag into the overhead rack. Seat 54 is marked on her ticket. It's the middle seat, next to mine. The one under which a lady in red jammed a black zippered duffel bag, too large for the cavity. She motions to the rest of us—her cabin mates—asking who the bag belongs to. A teenage girl with uncovered curly black hair and high heels explains in Darija that the bag belongs to a lady who is no longer in the cabin. The new woman struggles to push the protruding bag more fully under the seat, then gives up and solemnly sits askew for the next 2.5 hours without complaint.

I almost offer to wrest the bag free and stash it in the luggage compartment above, but the silence of my cabin mates, coupled with my whiteness and inability to speak either French or Darija keep me quiet.

And so I turn my attention back to the window, to the groves of olive trees and peach stucco buildings outside the glass. To the many towns I won't have time to visit. And to my watercolors, and the art I am making while the man in the blue scarf and brown striped tie pretends not to watch me.

 

Home Scary Home

Nine Americans were murdered in a church in Charleston, South Carolina this week because a racist white man had a gun and the privilege to use it. This country that I call home makes me sick. And it makes me scared. Not so much for myself, as I am draped in the security of white skin. But for my friends around the world. Fellow travelers who might someday wish to visit the United States and tour its majestic national parks and grand cities.

"I'm afraid to go to the US. People are always getting shot there," the woman next to me on the plane said. We were enroute from China to New Zealand last December and after ten hours of sitting silently side-by-side we finally started up a conversation over breakfast. I learned that her name is Agnes. She is a mother of six --three sons and three daughters--and was headed to Auckland for her son's wedding.

Agnes is the perfect example of everything American news gets wrong. She is a magistrate from Nigeria. Her husband served as the ambassador to South Korea and they'd lived in Seoul for three years. She speaks English with a beautiful accent and carries herself like a queen--a thought that made me chuckle as I remembered the emails from alleged Nigerian princes who cannot spell. As I starred at my free airplane breakfast, she lamented its inadequacy. "We eat big meals in Africa," she told me. I offered her my bread roll and yogurt, which she happily devoured.

We talked about the misconceptions people have of different places. No matter how many places I travel, I continue to be surprised by the unconscious stereotypes I hold. Agnes shared in my frustration. "CNN is always giving negative reports of Nigeria," she explained. "Is that why it exists?" she asked, genuinely bewildered by the misrepresentation of her homeland in western media.

And yet, she was terrfied to visit the US, convinced she would be shot. I told her that as a black woman, the chance she'd be shot by our police was probably less than if she'd been a young man. She nodded knowingly. But the Charleston shooting this week has once again proved me wrong. Beautiful black women and men dressed in their Sunday best are also gunned down in the US. Agnes would not be safe here. In fact, I would be safer in Nigeria than she would be in my home country. And that makes me angry.

As we prepared to exit the aircraft in New Zealand, she asked a tall young man to help get her suitcase down from the overhead bin. "He reminds me of my son," she said. "Except my son is black and he is white," she added. They had the same physical build and were about the same age. It surprised me when she said that though. Growing up in the US, it never occurred to me that two people with different skin colors might have more in common than not. But the more I travel, the more I see the truth of this. Like the little brown girl I met in Nepal whose spunk and laughter reminded me of my niece. And the black man who treated me like his younger sister even though we'd just met.

Before Agnes walked off the plane, we exchanged email addresses--both @gmail.com. She invited me and Josh to visit her in Nigeria and I asked her to get in touch if she ever comes to the USA. And then she opened her black rolling suitcase and pulled out a handmade bead bracelet for me from Nigeria. No matter how far I will travel, I am grateful to have met Agnes and I hope to see her again. But after the recent massacre here, I think it will have to be in Nigeria because I am scared of what would happen if Agnes came to the US.

An Empty Desert Lake

The valley was green and brown, with signs proclaiming drought as we drove through California's Central Valley. Over the grapevine with the engine whining we crossed into Southern California where a controversy over water rights has raged for decades. As we turned east, chasing the distant lights of Las Vegas, pastel pink and periwinkle mountains rose out of the desert foreshadowing the beauty we were to find at Lake Mead.

We'd been warned not to visit Lake Mead this year. Water levels are at an all-time low, the lowest since the Hoover Dam was constructed and Lake Mead was formed by flooding the valley now hidden in its shifting waters. But we persisted, eager to get our sailing Hobie Cat kayak onto water. We envisioned sailing into tight canyons and seeing the southwest rock layers up close and personal.

Our boat, the Queen Bee, followed that yellow line from Temple Bar past The Temple, a large rock outcropping, through the somewhat narrow Virgin Canyon before coming to rest at a lovely sandbar just outside Hualapai Bay.

What we found was a massive lake, rimmed with colorful rocks showing the many levels the lake has rested at and then receded from over the years. The water lines resemble rings on a dirty bathtub, with invasive zebra mussel colonies hanging on for dear life twenty and more feet above the lake's surface. The tight twisty fingers we looked forward to floating in were dried up and instead looked like canyons rising out of the lake.

Enjoying the mesas and pretty clouds on a sunny day from the comfort of our boat.

In our three days on the lake, we saw just three other boaters, all in power boats speeding along in a hurry to get somewhere, I don't know where. One boat was piloted by a gentleman we'd met at Temple Bar when we were simultaneously launching our watercraft. He'd motored out into the lake to find us and make sure we were okay. We assured him we'd brought plenty of provisions and were self-sufficient, perhaps even better equipped than those back in the tiny outpost we'd left.

Our two nights of backcountry kayak-camping were superb. After sailing We set our camp up on a sheltered beach with lovely 360-degree views. Between our 4-man tent, our outdoor rug, our camp chairs and table set, our sun shelter and our doorstep swimming beach, it was like a private palace in the desert.

After sweeping aside some rocks and smoothing out the sand, we had a lovely foundation for our indoor/outdoor, sun-shaded, pop-up, backcountry cabin.

Our only visitors, apart from the concerned stranger, was a curious duck that swam by each evening. The first night as I lay comfy in our tent reading a novel, I heard an animal noise in the distance. It sounded like a howling coyote at first and I was very excited. Then the noise shifted to that of a donkey (wild burros are common at Lake Mead), before eventually revealing it's true source--a couple of lost cows calling out in anguish.

The sunset from our campsite was peaceful and placid, like we were the only people on the planet.

Our final sail started off with light winds and ended with gusts and water waves so strong that my entire cockpit filled up with water. The boat became a floating bathtub and I opted to sit on the trampolines and laugh like a hyena while the cold water pelted me and Josh sailed us back to dry land. It was an epic ending to our incredible adventure on Lake Mead.