stories
a tale or two from the road and home
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DAYS 222 - 227: BOSNIA AND HERZEGOVINA
This is a big world. And traveling for a year translates into a lot of decision making. There is the big stuff - Where should we go? For how long? And all the details - How to get there? Where to stay? And of course, what to do? By the time you pull the trigger for one destination, it is time to start researching the next.
M O S T A R , B O S N I A
This is a big world. And traveling for a year translates into a lot of decision making. There is the big stuff - Where should we go? For how long? And all the details - How to get there? Where to stay? And of course, what to do? By the time you pull the trigger for one destination, it is time to start researching the next.
We’ve gotten pretty good over the year about managing all the decisions. I generally take lead on the logistics, like where to go and how to get there. If we relied on McKenzie for getting to the airport or bus station on time with both passports, I don't think we'd have found our way out of America yet. Likewise, if she relied on me to book lodging or to figure out what to see and do, we’d have stayed in a lot of terrible hotels, ate mostly Americanized food, and spent the entire year climbing.
We've learned to make hard choices, impacting which countries we ended up visiting, over a cup of coffee. And we have changed or added cities after 15-minute conversations with total strangers. But it always seems to work out in the end. I don't think either one of us would change any of our passport stamps.
Due to dwindling time, we nearly cut Bosnia and Herzegovina entirely out of our travels - which in hindsight would have been a terrible mistake. It ended up being one of our favorite places we've visited.
Bosnia is an epicenter of world history and has been strategically important going back hundreds of years to multiple great empires. It is where WWI ignited. Had its day under communism. Was occupied by Nazis and then liberated in WWII. It hosted a remarkable Winter Olympics. And all of this for a small country of fewer than 4 million people.
It is said that the capital city of Sarajevo is the place where the east meets the west. Where the people and religions of these worlds mix. Where synagogues, mosques, churches, and Orthodox cathedrals share the same city blocks. And trying to understand this small country's rich, diverse, and beyond complex past has taught us more about the world than any course in college ever did.
A walk down Sarajevo's Farhadija Street feels like walking along a real life timetable. You stroll past 16th century Ottoman Empire architecture, then through elaborately designed Austro-Hungarian buildings, and end up in a stretch of modern day skyscrapers. All of which are tucked inside a picturesque mountain valley that reminded us of Aspen or Vail. It’s absolutely beautiful.
Unfortunately, what Sarajevo is most known for back home is the horrific war headlines from the mid-90s. While much of the war damage has been rebuilt, there are still visible scars throughout the city - artillery spayed walls, grenade damage on sidewalks painted red, known as Bosnian Roses, and condemned buildings. Walking over a grenade scar in front of a market says a lot about the victims of this war - they were school teachers, neigbhors, elderly, children...who had become trapped in a city engulfed by war and had to do their best just to survive. It is impossible to begin to imagine the atrocities and the struggle that took place within Sarajevo and the greater region during this period.
We were lucky to have some Bosnian friends to help plan this part of the trip. They made we sure tried the best food and ate at the nicest restaurants. It was the first country visited where every single meal we had was amazing. Our friend’s cousin hosted us for a fun night out. We finished the evening at Sarajevo’s only craft brewery, where the master brewer upon learning that we were from Colorado wanted to know that his beer passed the international test. It did.
We also attended our first football match where security and anti-riot police outnumbered the fiercely fanatical fans that chanted, danced and set off occasional fireworks from the stands. We walked along an eery stretch of the 84’ Olympic bobsled track that served as artillery base during the war that now acts as graffiti artists’ natural canvas. And visited museums to attempt to piece together this country's complicated history.
We also traveled to Mostar, Bosnia's fifth largest city, where we enjoyed meals from the steep banks of the Neretva River. Watched bridge divers jump from a 16th-century old bridge that arches eighty feet above the emerald swirling river connecting two fortified towers and the town's old town. The same bridge was destroyed during the war but has since been rebuilt.
In short, we are sure glad that we didn’t cut Bosnia out of our travels. Sarajevo in particular will be one of my favorite cities. I loved the food. Enjoyed learning about its past and recent histories. It was very economical, friendly, and so welcoming.
-Brad
DAYS 204 - 221: GREECE
I’m pretty sure that if I didn’t love my mom so much I’d still be in Greece. Basking in the sun at some little cafe overlooking the ocean - perfectly content to never return…
I mean it’s a bit of a dream, really. A land of olive trees and ancient cities atop marble mountains. Beaches fit for mermaids and secret pirate coves. The home of Athena. Apollo. Poseidon and hisTrident. Achilles and his heel.
SANTORINI, GREECE
I’m pretty sure that if I didn’t love my mom so much I’d still be in Greece. Basking in the sun at some little cafe overlooking the ocean - perfectly content to never return…
I mean it’s a bit of a dream, really. A land of olive trees and ancient cities atop marble mountains. Beaches fit for mermaids and secret pirate coves. The home of Athena. Apollo. Poseidon and his Trident. Achilles and his heel.
We spent most of our time on islands. Naxos, Milos, Peros and Santorini - and they’re every bit as whimsical in person as they are in postcards. Tiny houses, the crispiest color white, sandwiched into cliffs overlooking the Mediterranean - a sea painted a shade of blue that’s all her own. One that smashes against turquoise and squishes with navy and bobs under bright orange buoys - and still manages to roll itself on shore transparent as a sheet of glass.
Life on the islands (at least in April) is slow and easy. Tall grasses sway in the breeze. Waves wallow around nearly abandoned beaches. Wildflowers gracefully dance through fields. There’s no sense of urgency, no evidence of hustle. Just a few fishermen hanging out on their boats, a few round bellied fellows smiling behind gyro stands, a few little old ladies in babushkas opening their second story windows to usher in the ocean air.
The people are absolutely wonderful. They go out of their way to smile and give you directions when you’re standing on a street corner looking lost. They excitedly invite you behind the counter for a lesson on how to make Greek coffee when they discover you’ve never had it before. They clap for you at climbing crags, and if you happen to be hiking up a trail next to a road, they’ll cheer you on from their car. When they spy you wandering around all the closed restaurants on a Sunday in search of dinner - they’ll invite you in and feed you the same spaghetti and meatballs that they had prepared for their family.
We filled our days biking up to gorgeous mountain views, losing each other in the winding cobblestone streets, getting drunk on sunsets so intense they seemed to light the sky on fire. Day after day we’d find ourselves alone, on a some new beach - so beautiful and different from the last, I would have to retreat from it backwards trying to absorb every second into my memory.
I honestly didn’t think I would walk away from this trip with a favorite place. They’ve all been so beautiful and different in their own ways. But for me, Greece totally takes the cake. Her beauty, at least in my opinion, completely beyond compare.
DAYS 183 - 204: MANCORA, PERU
I’ve wanted to learn to surf for like…ever…
When I graduated college my dad gave me a wad of cash and a hand-written note that said move to California, buy a board and pursue your dreams…or something along those lines.
And while I managed the move to California part, I never quite got the surfing bit down. It was so much more terrifying than it looked. If you made it past the onslaught of whitewater - there were the forty or fifty jacked up dudes getting all moody and territorial over waves - and then there was the nosediving, the crashing, the not knowing which way was up or down, the jagged rocks, the feeling like you were drowning, the bonked head, the scraped feet, the sinus cavity full of salt water, the hallelujah-I-made-it back-to-the-surface-gasp for air. Only to get crushed again by the second wave of the set rolling in. Enough to make you drag yourself to land sniffing and snorting - and totally un-psyched to go back.
M A N C O R A , P E R U - (OBVIOUSLY NOT EITHER ONE OF US)
I’ve wanted to learn to surf for like…ever…
When I graduated college my dad gave me a wad of cash and a hand-written note that said move to California, buy a board and pursue your dreams…or something along those lines.
And while I managed the move to California part, I never quite got the surfing bit down. It was so much more terrifying than it looked. If you made it past the onslaught of whitewater - there were the forty or fifty jacked up dudes getting all moody and territorial over waves - and then there was the nosediving, the crashing, the not knowing which way was up or down, the jagged rocks, the feeling like you were drowning, the bonked head, the scraped feet, the sinus cavity full of salt water, the hallelujah-I-made-it back-to-the-surface-gasp for air. Only to get crushed again by the second wave of the set rolling in. Enough to make you drag yourself to land sniffing and snorting - and totally un-psyched to go back.
In the three years I lived in California - I probably went three times.
So the dream sat stagnant. Placed in that “someday I’ll…” category. The one we all have for the things that we’d like to do, but never seem to have the time or energy or persistence to actually pull off. But then along came Brad. Who coincidentally enough - also thought it’d be a cool thing to learn. And so from day one of honeymoon planning - we knew we wanted to spend some time by the ocean.
Based on recommendations from friends, we picked the tiny Peruvian town of Mancora - a scrappy little beach spot from which Earnest Hemingway was supposedly inspired to write “The Old Man and the Sea.” Also home to “an excellent left-hander - with a two defined section” - whatever that meant.
We arrived during slow season and were able to talk this awesome little eco resort into renting us this killllllller apartment 5 minutes from the beach - seriously everything my sleep deprived, amenity-starved little heart had been fantasizing about and more - and settled ourselves in for the longest stint stay of our 365 days.
And the surfing? Oh it started out well enough. The first couple of days we took lessons with a pair of instructors. The kind of guys with dark disheveled hair who smiled a lot and never wore shoes - and who were constantly, very loudly, reminding me to get my hands “behind your boobies!!” And those first couple of days were totally awesome. Because instructors are kind of like the giant orange floaties of the surf world. A safety net of sorts. They watch out for you. Get you into position. Give you a push when you need it. And as a result, you catch a few waves and have a blast. And you start to build up this false confidence that maybe…just maybe…you can actually surf.
But then you have to turn in your safety net and get out there on your own. And it’s like getting fed to the wolves. The ocean, hellbent on reminding you what a newb you really are.
I’ve never tried to pick up a sport that is so unfriendly to beginners. Maybe it’s because most of the people in the water learned to swim before they could walk and have been popping up on boards since they were in diapers. Maybe they’ve forgotten how difficult it is to learn. Oooor maybe it’s just that they’re all a bunch of pricks. Either way - surfers aren’t all as zen-ed out and “peace-bro” as they claim to be. As a group - in whole - they’re nasty. Forget trying to smile and wave hello as they fly past you on their way to the lineup. One glance into their dagger eyes quickly reminds you that this is their stomping grounds. Their wave. And you better stay the hell out of their way.
So, being my wussy little unconfrontational self - I’d stick way far to the outside. Hoping to catch the scrap waves that once in a blue moon would head my way - not yet claimed by one of the locals. But even on the off chance that happened, there was all the other stuff you had to master…
In order to actually catch a wave, you pretty much need to be in exactly the right spot. At exactly the right time. With exactly the right speed. You need to be able to look out over the expanse of blue stretched out in front of you and read the energy pulsing itself towards the shore. To anticipate where it’s going to curl over. Paddle like hell to get there. Wedge yourself right into that nook. Paddle like hell some more. And then, you know…jump to your feet without the nose of your board shoving itself into the water in front of you, sucking the board under - the nose on your face following closely behind - your inner voice cursing and praying and hoping to god that your leash doesn’t snap the board back towards you at the very second you emerge to the surface.
I mean really, the whole experience is a total mind fuck. But we stuck to our guns. And for almost three weeks we dragged our sunburnt, battered bodies into the water twice a day. And a lot of days it was that…dragging. I constantly had to remind myself that I wanted this. That it was…“fun.”
When we weren’t surfing, we were mopping up the water draining out of our nostrils. Stretching our broken biceps. Comparing our bruised hips and cut up feet. In the morning we’d pour a cup of coffee and psych ourselves up to give give it another go. And again and again I would find myself zipping up my wetsuit, trudging into the water, trying to ignore the nasty glances from locals, paddling until my arms felt like they were going to fall off, missing most waves, getting frustrated - paddling some more.
And then - just as our time in Mancora was winding down - something wonderful happened. We started catching waves. Not a lot mind you. But enough to appreciate that feeling that makes it all worth it. That drop in your stomach as you descend down the face - that rush as you feel that energy behind you pushing you forward - that heart pumping, body tingling surge of 25 second joy that leaves you totally high - and makes you completely forget about the 32 missed waves and 7 nose plants you took prior.
I’m still a weenie surfer. I still take care to sit way far outside the lineup. I still expend most of my energy paddling to the wrong spot. I still occasionally find myself getting sucked under the roaring whitewater. But over those three weeks I started to feel just a little bit more confident that maybe I belong out there too - that it’s something I can go out and enjoy with the rest of em. And if nothing else I’ve mastered the art of peacefully bobbing on my board in the water. Enjoying the warm sunshine on my face. Watching the sun turn a late afternoon orange and the waves roll in.
Words can’t express how unimaginably thankful I am for this year. Among so many other things, it has given us time and space. To learn things we’ve always wanted to learn. To do things we’ve always wanted to do. The things that would have otherwise remained on the “someday I’ll..’ list. I hope surfing will always be a part of our lives. That we’ll continue to improve. To get better. To have fun. And I hope that even when this year is over, we’ll still carve out time to learn new things, pursue our dreams and make sure that “someday” list never gets too long.
Until next time,
Kenz
DAYS 155 - 160: POTOSI - BOLIVIA (PART TWO)
“Amigo, hold this.”
Immediately, I regretted stretching out my hand as our tour guide placed a charged stick of dynamite into my palm. The rest of the group backed away in disbelief. McKenzie stayed by my side long enough to take a picture before retreating herself. After lighting a “3-minute” fuse and jamming the stick into a hole in the wall, I hurried towards the others up the narrow mineshaft - our guide calmly taking his time behind me. About two and half minutes later a burst of the wind from the explosion echoed by us. This was not your typical mine tour.
P O T O S I , B O L I V I A
“Amigo, hold this.”
Immediately, I regretted stretching out my hand as our tour guide placed a charged stick of dynamite into my palm. The rest of the group backed away in disbelief. McKenzie stayed by my side long enough to take a picture before retreating herself. After lighting a “3-minute” fuse and jamming the stick into a hole in the wall, I hurried towards the others up the narrow mineshaft - our guide calmly taking his time behind me. About two and half minutes later a burst of the wind from the explosion echoed by us. This was not your typical mine tour.
Potosi, Bolivia is a charming town with a not so charming reality. At 13,500 feet in elevation, it is also one of the highest cities on earth. Over the past week, we had travelled over 2,000 miles north by bus, boat, air, and Jeep. We needed a break from the road, time to update our family with our whereabouts, and we were well overdue for a date with the laundromat. So we decided to stick around for a few days and spend some time exploring.
The town is built on Cerro Rico Mountain, which has a rich mining history dating back to the Spanish Empire in the 15th and 16th centuries. Most of the silver that it was originally known for has been all but gutted - but the mining for other minerals, such as Zinc, continues to this day in a very outdated and uncontrolled environment. The mountain is literally crumbling in on itself from overuse.
It is reported that an estimated 8 MILLION lives have been lost over the years in the bellies of the shafts, giving it the nickname “Man eating mountain.” However, with few better employment alternatives in the area, an estimated 15,000 miners, including children, still trudge into these conditions daily. The average lifespan of a miner in Potosi is 40. Miners that survive 25 years of horrible working conditions often die of a lung disease called silicosis from the inhalation of years of dust. It’s a struggle of a life with a very bleak outlook. A human labor disaster.
We started the tour by chewing coca leaves, drinking alcohol and pouring out an “offering” to “El Tio”, the devil god, to ask for safe passage through the active mine. These are rituals that all miners adhere to before entering. We then entered the main artery, a shaft about wide enough for a single shopping cart and so short enough that we had to crouch while walking. The light behind us disappeared after a couple hundred yards. There was barely any oxygen outside the mines at this altitude, but inside, there was far less. Walking was laborious, slow and unnerving.
We passed by, what seemed like hundreds of other tunnels - branching out from the main mineshaft. There were no signs or road crossings. These were even narrower and darker than the one we were in. It felt as if you were suffocating within a closed refrigerator one moment then locked in the backseat of car on a smoldering hot summer day with the windows up the next. All the while, you couldn’t help but think you were touring through one of the world’s largest graveyards.
The deeper we ventured into the mine, the more the tour group members fought to stay up front close to the guide, fearing a wrong turn would leave you left behind and lost in the maze of underground tunnels.
The scariest part was descending series of rickety ladders. All were dead vertical, many missing valuable rungs, and had protruding rusty nails that caught loose clothing. The ladders looked like they could barely hold one person let along a tour group. Kenzie and I gave each other a look of, “What the hell did we get ourselves into this time?” When we rock climb, we can see the ground. Here, the glimmer of our headlights dropped into a black abyss.
We passed a group of miners working, each of their faces stained with dirt and sweat. We gave them gifts that we bought at the miners village and in return they answered a few of our group's questions as they drank our juice and refilled their coca leaf bolos.
Thankfully, just as we both thought we couldn’t bear the claustrophobia any longer, our guide turned us around and started leading us through darkness, back up the ladders and towards the opening of the mine. Our eyes squinted tight as they desperately tried to adjust to the incoming light.
Back in town, we were quickly brought from our sobering encounter as Potosi started its preparations for Carnival, a multi-week celebration here similar to Mardi Gras. We we sprayed by foam by playful kids and sipped coffee as parades and music started to engulf the city. We enjoyed this side of the Potosi story much better. And were feeling a little extra blessed that our biggest worry that week was trying to find the next laundromat.
-Brad
DAYS 152 - 154: SAN PEDRO TO UYUNI - BOLIVIA (PART ONE)
McKenzie and I both took a pinch of coca leaves from a plastic bag handed back from our driver, Orlando, and stuffed them into the sides of our cheeks. The leaves, Orlando explained, helped prevent altitude sickness - (they’re also the same ones used to make cocaine). In a matter of one day we had gone from sea level to 16,500 feet. And after watching another guest get carried back to the Jeep and in rough shape, a hard sell wasn’t needed. It wasn’t as if we would be drug tested anytime soon.
S A L A R D E U Y U N I , B O L I V I A
McKenzie and I both took a pinch of coca leaves from a plastic bag handed back from our driver, Orlando, and stuffed them into the sides of our cheeks. The leaves, Orlando explained, helped prevent altitude sickness - (they’re also the same ones used to make cocaine). In a matter of one day we had gone from sea level to 16,500 feet. And after watching another guest get carried back to the Jeep and in rough shape, a hard sell wasn’t needed. It wasn’t as if we would be drug tested anytime soon.
We had crossed into Bolivia earlier that morning from a small outpost in northern Chile - just outside the city of San Pedro De Atacama. After being hassled for a bit at the Bolivian border, we had piled into a burly Toyota Land Cruiser and met Orlando, a stocky grizzled Bolivian that spoke only Spanish and who would be charting our course through the sea of high elevation gravel that stretched for miles in front of us.
Over the next three days, Orlando drove us, and two other couples, over 400 miles to Uyuni, Bolivia. We traveled on beaten down jeep paths, barely distinguishable from the open terrain - always ending up in some tiny village in the middle of nowhere. Hidden in between those villages however, were magnificent natural wonders and some of the most remote and amazing country we’ve ever experienced.
We passed reflections of perfectly snow capped volcanos in emerald lakes. We drove through the high alpine desert that inspired Salvador Dali. We dangled our legs off the rim of Bolivia’s grand canyon. Hiked through slot canyons to hidden lagoons. Peered over bubbling geysers. Stopped to chase grazing llamas and took pictures of flamingos feeding in red lakes. We ate lunches prepared by tiny Bolivian women in their dirt and brick walled homes, soaked in hot springs, and sipped cactus beers in a deserted rail yard town. Everyday was action-packed. The next sight better than the last. It felt like speed dating Bolivia’s most scenic attractions.
The highlight of the tour came on our third day when we woke up at 4am to watch the sun rise over the world’s largest salt flat, Salar De Unuyi. At over 4,000 square miles, the crystalized surface of the long since evaporated lake seemed to stretch forever. We watched in awe as the stark white sea in front of us cracked and glittered, illuminating itself in the morning glow. It was an environment more moon than earth - truly unlike anything we’ve ever seen.
Our tour finished in Uyuni. We said good bye to Orlando and our new friends and caught a local bus to Potosi. We didn’t know what to expect traveling into Bolivia, but it had definitely amazed us so far. And we were pretty excited to see what else it had in store.
-Brad
