PATAGONIA---

Here I come!!

El fin--el ultimo fin de semana en Santiago de Chile para me.

It's almost over and it's so bittersweet.

I have one final on Wednesday and then my study abroad program in Santiago is over. While I begin to pack away my clothes, it's difficult to fathom the finality of it. Three years of college planning for this adventure. As I reflect, I believe my Chilean experience was exactly perfect, full of adventure, traveling, new friends, many wonderful moments, and of course, Spanish language learning. Cachai?

This weekend was the perfect cap to it all. Last minute a few friends and I decided to board the bus and head to a beach near the port city of Valpo. One more gypsy weekend, as we call our frugal camping/beach lifestyle. The beach was beautiful, rugged and even rewarded us with a night skyline view of Vina del Mar, the adjacent beach resort town to Valpo. It was cloudy and a little chilly for a December day in the southern hemisphere, but we enjoyed looking at the chilly water and talking together one last time before all of our lives change dramatically again.

Wednesday, after my final, Joe, Lena and I are heading down to the deep south for Patagonia, then, Buenos Aires for Christmas. I can't wait, but right now I'm trying to soak up these last few days in Santiago before my final South American adventure begins.

SAN PEDRO de ATACAMA...

..was so great it deserved all caps.

Thanksgiving came and went. Living in Santiago, if I wasn't an American, I would have no idea that the past Thursday had any significance up north. Nevertheless, a few friends and I celebrated in a mix of American and Chilean spirit with fresh salmon from the Mercado Central, mashed potatoes with a land mine of garlic, salad with homemade dressing and Chile's famously delicious Camernere red wine. It was satisfying and more than filling, just like a traditional Thanksgiving feast.

Five hours later, the four of us taxied it to the airport for the Norte grande of Chile, onward to San Pedro, famous for being the driest place in the world. Some places have never recorded rainfall, the parts that do receive rain are sprinkled with H2O two to three days a year each summer. A million years ago, however, a large river carved caves and rock formations that question the human mind of what is normal. The Valley of the Moon, el Valle del Luna, is the perfect example. While walking through the high arching red rock craters, one, inevidently, feels on another world. Hence the name. Today, however, some rivers still exist. Including el rio de San Pedro where my friends and I biked to. After an hour and a half of biking in the dry, red wasteland, the trickling river seemed an imaginary oasis. Upon example of the French couple that led us in the direction of it, we rubbed our arms and legs with the mud to cool off. Before leaving, we spread out our food for a delicious picnic lunch. In the extreme heat of the afternoon, we biked back to town and onward to the Valley of the Moon, where we suffered the harsh wind of the dessert in the absence of anything--vegetation, buildings, elevation of any kind. Seven miles later and an hour before sunset, we arrived, exhausted. Large, loaded tour buses blew past us, as we walked the remaining half mile to the large valley. The pact we made, if we were going to spend the money to travel to San Pedro, was that we would not do a tour, despite the belief of many that to enjoy San Pedro, you must do a tour. The tourist town of San Pedro is lined with tour companies offering everything from sandboarding, geyser tours, horsetrekking to flamengo spotting. We prevailed by biking, walking and arranging transport via a resident at our campsite, although admittedly we smelled and looked quite disgusting after the four days of no showering and weathering the elements of dust, mud, sweat and salt without air-conditioning of any kind. As a result, this led to a special kind of satisfaction, especially while those in the tour buses looked down upon us as we biked by the moonlight from the sunset in the valley.

To round out our San Pedro weekend, we also floated in salt lagoons. A curiosity indeed. The crystal blue lagoons contain enough salt that the water makes one impossibly buoyant. Even bobbing like a pencil is difficult. If you don't resist it, the salt mixture forces your feet up to the surface within seconds. By arriving to the lagoons apart from a tour, we will allowed to stay after sunset and watch wild flamengos fly overhead in the sky and watch one of the most beautiful sunsets over the towering volcanoes. It was beautiful and frugal.

Urug-why?

Joe, Nidhi (our Aussie friend from Santiago's journalism network) and I jumped the Andes and flew to the Atlantic, landing in Montevideo, Uruguay for a long weekend stay.

Uruguay is a small country, roughly the size of North Dakota, with approx. an equal population size. What makes Uruguay unique? Not much, I gathered, in all honesty. Although some could say bobbing matte gourds in the hands of all those wandering the streets, that, and the pride of winning futbol's first World Cup in 1930, according to my backpacker source of Lonely Planet.

I found meat, remote beaches, ostrich farms, and a small, indescript population of people. Neither loud, rapid speakers like Chileans, nor slow-speaking, amable people like Peruvians, or bubbly Argentines. Uruguay, for now, will be stamped with a big question mark, I have determined.

In a nutshell, our trio biked throughout most of the capitol city of Montevideo. Its pearl is the golden white sand coast that hugs the city's curves. The ocean water, however, slaps the clean beauty with a contrasting dirty puke brown. I didn't dare step my toes in its contaminants, although I'm sure I would have been fine. After all, I did soak in Lima's trash strewn Pacific coast.

After the toast of sun during our three hour bike ride on our beach cruisers, we arrived at Uruguay's flagship market, the Mercado del Puerto. Hidden within this atmospheric mercado are a string of restaurants serving meat with meat, toped with a great meat sauce, seriously. We devulged with a meat medley of steak, chicken, intestines, mystery meat, and even blood sausage (which I secretly enjoyed--this thought still grosses me out), all toped with a grilled red pepper to balance our overflowing meat pot. We sat next to the grill and I could feel my body swelling as we chewed our tender carcasses.

At an early 5:30 a.m. wake up call, we boarded the bus to Punto Lobes (incorrect, I forget the exact name) and slugged five hours by Uruguayan cattle, sheep, and ostrich (?) farms to arrive at the country's most remote and rural beach town. The village consisted of a few decaying restaurants and many abandoned buildings. I found it quite strange and perculiar. To be cont.

Well hello again.

The past 24 hours have been quite interesting, well, really it was just five minutes within that time span that expresses that.

After a power-packed workout at Andres Bello, including an air-boxing class with Chile's Billie Banks and a 30 minute cycling session, I was exhausted and half-way to my apartment on my walk home when the incident occurred. I was probably stressing about today's looming mid-term, listening to music on my ipod, when a street thief came running from behind unexpectedly and snatched my ipod. I, however, was not about to have that, no matter how tired I was. I screamed, what you could compare to a bloody murder horror scene, "Oh NO, not my ipod," and then took off after the runner. He darted past the bus stop, but in the shuffle, I realized that my ipod had been tossed, or at least I was hoping. I turned around, deciding it wasn't worth the effort to chase him, crossing my fingers with hope that I was right about the toss. I looked back with disappointment, if it had dropped, the area in question was covered with Chilean boys. Oh no, my ipod, I thought. But in a strike of good fortune, three chilean boys approached me with my ipod in hand. "Cuidado," they said. Be careful. Then they asked,"Were you scared?" I clutched my chest, "yes," not realizing until that moment how silly my move had been, but my ipod and I were safe. I chucked to myself. So, so silly. Just like a Chilean once told weeks ago, "In this country, someone is always watching you. You need to be careful." Although I think I would change that description to staring for better accuracy. On the rest of that walk home, I noticed every eye's gaze.

Word to wise.

Start from the bottom and work your way up to follow the sequence, otherwise you may be quite confused.

The end.

But onward we trudged to the boat on our lake tour. Lago Titikaka is the worldest's highest lake and splits its boundaries between Bolivia and Peru. I only saw the Peruvian side, but the crystal, sublime blue of the lake created lasting impressions in my mind for the hours we relaxed in the sun on the top of our cruiser. I attempted to redeem my sleep-deprived body with cat naps on the top deck.

The first island was a floating reed isla, comprised of 43 individual floating communities, this place puzzled me. It was incredibly touristy and quite fake, in my opinion. I'm still searching for the most appropriate description of it. Disneyland? Still, I enjoyed it. We danced, we doned "typical" island costumes, and snapped "hello, i'm on a floating reed island pictures." I bought a porcelin fish bowl I was particularly fond of, until it broke in various pieces, hours later.

Four hours of chugging on the sea, we arrived at our homestay island, a desolate place inhabitated by 4,000 people, almost all descendents of the Incans. Most of the older generation speaks only Quecha (sp?), the official language of the Incans, however, the younger generation is taught in Spanish in the island's elementary and high school.

Allison, my roommate, however, was unfortunately suffering from altitude sickness and slept away most of the day. I too fell asleep early, around 8, but before, I enjoyed one of the most spectacular sunsets with the rich, creamy blend of colors reflecting over the lake atop the highest point of the hilly island. I could feel the steep ascent as I climbed, the altitude luckily only affected me in the sense of shortness of breath while I trekked the Incan stone steps. I still arrived first to the top, before any of my other 20 boat mates.

After a 6 a.m. breakfast of a crep-like pancake and nescafe powder, we visited our final island, a previous prison for Peru's criminals. After the end of that reign, the island's residents now live tax-free for compensation, although officially it only acted as a prison for four years. We ate trout fresh from the lake and slurped sopa (soup) con quinoa (a Peruvian grain I have become quite fond of).

The next 25 hours involved the transition between Puno and Lima. Lonely Planet told me it would take 19 hours, it's not exciting realizing that while en route you have an additional six hours, but we survived. I even crocheted a red headband with my time and added a pound of grease to my hair, also I don't think I've smelled that gross since....hmmmmmmm. I don't think I can finish that.

Lima was like a large light at the end of a mainly dessert and sea filled ride of shacks and very poor, rural villages. Despite Lima's shining gloss, Peru is still a third-world country and that ride showed me evidence of that.

After a much-needed shower, we walked around Lima's centro historico district and visited the city's nearby beach in Miraflores. I jumped in the salty and quite dirty sea water. I pulled a bird feather off my body as I exited the sludge and soaked up the heat of the sun of the rock shoreline. But I'm not sick, despite gulping an accidental mouth full of water, luckily. My roommate, Joe, however, is feeling the effects of Peruvian cuisine with an upset stomach still.

In the morning we finished our trip with the perfect goodbye to Lima and Peru by paragliding over the sea and Lima's tall skyscrapers. It was magical and I felt like I was flying. Ah, I love Peru.

Cont. from below.

However, in Peru in general, I have never felt unsafe, just dirty and a little curious about particular procedures. For example, our bus ride involved switching buses at 4:30 a.m. in a sketch, unnamed town. To add to the confusion, I was still sleepy-eyed, but the blur remains in my memory. Young children and babies were shuffling around. We ran off the bus, back on, back off, and seconds later, we were 80% sure we were on the correct bus headed to Puno. This one smelled significant grades worse, but I tried to sleep it off, I failed.

We arrived in Puno at 6 a.m. and crazed from another restless night. A few blocks from the bus station, we attracted some Peruvian hostel owners near the train tracks. Peruvians love to hustle. We should have known then that we were in the ghetto of Puno, but we followed the man in a daze. Without question he agreed to rent us a room for an hour of sleep and another pan (bread) and marmalade desayuno (breakfast.) Later we discovered when we returned from our island tour of Lago Titikaka that the place is known for its one hour rentals, but different reasons than ours. The giggly couple that rented a room after us signified this to us. As did the two couples following the first pair. Awesome.

It's all part of the Peru experience.

Cont.

Cont. from below.

I couldn't resist the hats and a few other crafts. So, I'll be buying another duffle in Argentina for my return because I'll have no other way to transport my swag back home. Peru is alive with colors--some of the most vivid yellows and pinks I've ever seen.

After the first market, we arrived at a llama, alpaca, vicuna farm, or in my opinion, tourist wool camp. Still, I enjoyed snapping fotos and feeding the extra eager fine wool machines. We finally visited our first ruin, the name of which I forgot, shortly after. I was in awe. It was so large and expansive. The perfectly formed rows of agriculture steps balanced nicely with the rich blue sky speckled with a few clouds--that was until the rain came, but in the moment, I didn't mind it at all. I think it created a nice overtone to the mystery and wonder of the Incan empire and its wake it left behind.

Hours later, after another ruin site, another market, lunch and trying, what I must point out, Alpaca meat, which really tastes and looks like a beef steak, the sun set and we loaded the train for Aguas Calientes via Peru Rail. If you had to name the worst touristy town in South America, Aguas Calientes would steal the bag without a contest, but it's a requirement to stay there the night before if you want to the catch the first bus ride up to Machu Picchu at 6 in the early a.m. I wanted to beat the rush, so we did with a 4:30 a.m. wake up call. Augh.

With mist surrounding the mountains on the ride up, I was sleepy, but electrified with anticipation for the wonder of Machu Picchu. Just as many say, this is a place of mystery that cannot be captured by camera, but rather experienced through its spiritual vibes. Whether an Incan prison or another village high in the mountains, the ruin is awe-inspiring and much larger than I imaged in my mind. Llamas roam the grassy the courtyards of yesteryear and cameras permanently affixed to people's faces outnumber public restrooms, which is zero, unfortunately I learned.

The highlight was the hike up Waynu Picchu, a steep and somewhat precarious climb up the neighboring mountain. At the top, you are rewarded with vistas of the site that put the expanse of its creation in a whole new perspective. One I hope I never forget, nor the feeling of tranquility I felt up on top.

After observing and walking around the ruins for six+ hours, I hiked down the dusty trail to Aguas Calientes for our train ride back to Cusco and onward to Puno, via a sketchy Peruvian night bus. Cont...

The Roundup.

Where to start?

I arrived to Peru in a blur. We left Santiago for Lima on a red-eye, just like the way we returned. I spent my first few hours in Peru in the Lima aiport--in purgatory hell, as I like to call. Really though, I just slept in Starbuck's, consumed some McDonald's ice cream, and even snagged a cheap, but crappy Peruvian massage.

From there, we caught another flight directly to Cusco, the gateway to Machu Picchu and the beginning of our epic journey. We arrived low on sleep, but hungry for adventure. After a nap and some cocoa tea in our quaint hostel, we wandered the steep, stone steps for info on the Sacred Valley and of course, the greatest Incan wonder of all, Machu Picchu. We haggled for hours, but finally arranged our business. Peruvians speak much slower than Chileans, thankfully, so negotiating a student group discount was much easier, although still never as cheap as we want it!

In the night we wandered upon a town parade. It was curious, indeed. We watched weird birds, children with lamps in the shape of stars, bumblebees and spongebob square pants(!), native instruments sounded and costumed women danced. I munched on food from the street, choosing Tamales and Potatoes slopped with an indescript sauce, I should have gotten the meat pairing, but I was a little cautious of its effects.

Day 2 brought us bright and early to the Sacred Valley. The land area encompassing many of the Incan's vast ruins, including Machu Picchu, however, the last is not included in the S.V. tour. That is reserved for an entire day of admiring.

The S.V. is beautiful, but touristy. Along our visit, we stopped at various markets to shop Indian crafts--including scarves made of alpaca wool, Incan trinkets, bags, blankets, murals, hats, hats, gloves, and more hats. Continued in the next post...

Te Amo Peru. (I love you, Peru)

SOOOOOOOO many pictures but I'll try to upload as many as blogger will let me.

10,000 + 2.

Joe and I ran Nike's Santiago 10k today. Registration closed before I had the chance to sign up, but I ran it anyway. I didn't get a t-shirt, as I wanted, but I did get a sweet medal and an overflowing armful of fruit.

I've run a handful of road races, but this one was special because the support of the crowd was so overwhelming. If someone started walking, you could bet that someone else would be cheering "Vamos" to get you going again.

The entertainment after was quite comical, a Michael Jackson imposer, green men, and a nike model dance party. A good way to start a Sunday. Now, homework, Peru planning, and resume critiquing. I'm going to need some coffee. (One more week until I get my french press!)

Dreams.

Everyday my roommate tries to convince me that I should delay my life. "Stay in Chile with me, please!" I always shake my head and tell her my newest plan, but, after long weekends spent in the constant natural beauty of Chile; it doesn't seem that absurd, really. My holiday weekend in Pucon is a perfect example of this, I've never felt such a natural high from Nature's beauty. It was an indescribable serenity and I mean that in the least corny way possible.

Oh, Pucon. Where do I begin?

In a rough explanation about the four days, we did canyoning, hot springs, mountain biking and hydrospeeding--imagine plastic boogie boards in class III+ rapids--an activity, I later discovered is illegal in the U.S. for its safety concerns--Lena experienced this first hand by suffering a swollen, black eye after plunging in the first rapid.

By the end of the bus ride home, I felt a change. Well, more of a self-reassuring. I felt relaxed and for the first time, really stress-free. I've always carried so much stress on my shoulders, generally worrying about things out of my control. But sitting in my seat, half-sleeping, I could still feel the smile on my face from the bliss of Pucon and the natural wonder of the world.

I'm always thinking about my next chapter. It wouldn't be an exaggeration to say that every week Ingrid gets a new message about my next scheme, but after Pucon, I feel more assured that there's path I'm supposed to take and it'll work itself out naturally--I just need to pause and enjoy this journey now. As a Chilean told me my first night in Santiago, "Today is today, tomorrow is tomorrow."

Just a few pictures for now.

Pucon Love.

Camping in the Andes.

Since I planned my semester in Chile, I've been dreaming of camping in Patagonia, I didn't do that this weekend, but at times, it felt quite close, with snow pelting me, trekking in several feet of snow, and crossing raging rivers. The Andes pose a beauty that is awe-inspiring and unreal, especially when at times you can gawk at the sky and see the mountains encircling you, all 360 degrees. My roommates and a few other girls from the USAC program took the bus to the Cajon de Maipu region, which is near Banos Morales and only an addictional hour of switchbacks up the mountain pass to Argentina.

Step 1 of riding the bus to the National Park entrance of El Morado was like riding the janky wooden rollercoaster, the Outlaw, at Iowa's Adventureland theme park. The last hour, my stomach was doing flip flops as the road turned to a dust gravel mix on winding mountain roads. I hope in three weeks my stomach will be better trained for Peru, I have 20 continuous hours to survive.

Step 2, we found out that despite Chile's Lonely Planet guide, the Cajon de Maipu internet site, and Santiago's tourism office, there is no camping near the mythical lake--or at least there hasn't been for the past two consecutive years according to Luis, our new amigo and the conaf officer in charge at the national park. Consistent snow cover surrounding the lake has ended all hiker's lofty plans of lake side camping. From below the trail, it looked fine to me, but just a 10 minute trek up the cliff, more than a foot of snow blanketed the hillside and the trail we had been following.

However for a man that has lived in relative isolation in the mountain foothills for 25 years, Luis exhibited the general mountain man friendliness and let us camp whenever we chose, as long as it wasn't in the snow, next to the lake, he insisted. We found a field, scattered with loose rocks, and somewhat of a wind block to call home for the night. Of course, five minutes after attempting to pitch my tent with my roomies, the pole broke--the metal bent like plastic. We struggled for the next hour to retain a tent like shape, but the caterpillar form of the tent was not cooperating, especially with the mountain gusts and blows. It looked more like a sagging, dying worm than a full breasted caterpillar, but it protected us for the night. Although I'm not sure if I want to pack this tent with me for Patagonia now...

Step 3, hiking. With a drastic change of plans from our original itinerary, we embarked for the lake route on Sunday instead. The trek was more a staggering climb of sinking in the deep snow, water and thorny bushes, than an easy hike as Lonely Planet said, but the views of the mountain faces were more than worth the effort. I don't think I've been surrounded with as much natural beauty as when I'm in the Andes, I don't think I'll ever tire of it.

Back on solid ground sans snow, we killed time with Chilean wine and Luis. I'm still not sure how this happened or came about, but Luis brought out his rifle and shot out round in the direction of the Andes. The shot rang in the quiet mountain air for at least five seconds. We just laughed. Study abroad offers you of the most interesting experiences sometimes. We thanked Luis for his hospitality and crossed the raging mountain river one last time, back to Santiago, where it still mystifies me that you can still see these great mountain giants that offer so much life and beauty.

LLUVIA de hamburguesas.

(It's cloudy with a chance of meatballs, in other words)

I had my first movie theatre experience in Chile this past week. It was a very American experience, except I didn't understand exactly what was going on during the cheesy, in my opinion, cartoon. The Spanish was a bit too fast for me, but from the laughing of the audience and exaggerated expressions of Mr. Spiky Meatballhead, I understood it enough.

The weekend of wine and Mr. Hugo.

Mate. Malbec. Bikes. Mountains. Snow. Rafting. Real Coffee. Street Bizzares. Gelato. Carne. Friends.

A mi me encanta Argentina. (I love...)

Argentina and Chile probably share more border crossing than any two other countries. Living in the shadow of the Andes in Santiago, I decided to take advantage of that this past weekend. However, despite the proximity of Little Chile (its name, as I've been told the wine capitol of Argentina is known as by Chileans) Mendoza is a full work day's distance away. The reward, however, of spending additional hours in transit is sublime and breathtaking with vistas of the Andes that one will never forget.

But, after a surprisingly short (in my perspective) 8 1/2 hour bus ride, we arrived in the smiling sun (flag) country of Argentina. We were greeted at the bus stop with badgering vendors and darkness. Our night (or rather day) was just about to truly begin... after a month of living in South America, I can now say that I have adjusted to the late night lifestyle. After sunrise at 8:00 a.m. we finally rested our bodies for a few hours until we woke up for our true intent of coming to Mendoza. Bike riding around the hundreds of vineyards that encircle Medoza. 80% of Argentina's wine is produced in Mendoza. We rode out of the city to the Maipu region. While Mendoza may disappointinly have a Wal-Mart, the small pueblos that populate the Maipu area, certainly do not. The character of the dusty towns is vibrant with mom and pop shops and more vineyards than I ever saw in California's Mapa Valley, although it may not be as green and developed.

The cab dropped us off at Mr. Hugo's bike shop where we were handed a map and a red bicycle. We stirred, sniffed and slurped our way through more wine than should be considered a "tasting," I am certain. It was the last vineyard, a six mile ride from the center that we found the perfect vineyard with an even more impressive asado (bbq). If Iowa is known for its corn, Argentina is known for its steak and mate. That day I had both and I couldn't have been happier to be a carnavore with a caffeine addiction.

With the sun shining and stained wine teeth, the seven of us gringos were happy, full and content. None of us expected then that in 12 hours, a few inches of snow would blanket the valley that receives rain only five days a year and we would be in wet suits rafting a class III whitewater river, (only be kicked out 3o minutes later because of the intense cold.) With frozen hair and numb hands, we declared ourselves hardcore and vowed then to return again, later, when it's much, more warmer. Another perfect(*) day in Argentina that ended with endless sips of mate shared with new and old friends.

Two places at once.

Into the Andes.

After you cross the Chilean government security in the high Andes, you enter no man's land. It's neither Chile nor Argentina, just sheer mountain beauty and a random, abandoned ski lift.

IC in Santiago.

Sometimes home is never too far away.

In the Barrio Bellavista neighborhood last night, after a more than amazing dinner of homemade pasta, fresh shellfish, top-rated vino and oh-so-good dessert, my roomies and I continued with our dinner guests to the Revolver promotion party two blocks away. Revolver is the online English language zine for Santiago's arts, culture and music scene. An hour before the quaque (Chile's national dance) competition began, I met a fellow Iowan, hailing from Iowa City. He's been living in Santiago for five years now, his time has included a stint at Santiago's English language newspaper, The Santiago Times. We talked briefly about journalism, the glory of Iowa City, and the Picador (?). Actually his first question was this, you're from Iowa City, do you go to the Picador? I suppose in some people's opinions, whether or not you go there is a clear indicator of one's character. That being said, I'm still not really sure what that says about me in the first minute of meeting. However, I think my attempt at dancing the quaque, a two-step foot pounding, cat-chasing-the-mouse, with a flailing scarf dance, from what I observed, said much, much more. I'm not sure if the Chilean that told Joe, my roommate, and I, "Son fantastico, really!!" was being truthful or playing an awful joke on our rough imitation.

Netherless, it's always nice to have reminders of home, especially now that I've officially been living in Santiago for a month! How times flies...

Bikes, rust, and the Pacific.

Joe, Lena and I rode the long bus to the south, along the coast, for the Independence holiday. Don't judge the bikes, they were free from the hostel.

Surfing in the winter with a penguina.

Despite the blossoming purple, pink, and white flowers in Santiago's streets, in the Southern hemisphere, it's still winter here.

That, however, won't stop me from jumping in the Pacific and attempting to learn to surf, especially when I was in Pichilemu. An international surfing spot and one of Chile's finest locations of tube-producing waves.

In a smattering of Spanish and English, Joe, Lena, and I, the terrible trio, (we're still searching for a proper name), struggled through our surfing lesson. But in our thick second skin wetsuits, we looked more like floundering sea lions, than graceful surfers in the foamy sea. I managed, in a miraculous feat, to stand three times on my board, although each lasted mere seconds. I'm not sure if a blink of an eye or my standing presence on the board was longer. Netherless, in my mind, it counted.

As did the penguin, Lena and I spotted swimming in the sea three arm lengths away from us. I noticed it earlier and found the bird curious, but due to the numbing feeling of my body and the throbbing feeling in my head, from my board bopping me from a wipeout, I cast the bird out of my mind. I've never seen a penguin in its natural habitat, so naturally I never thought it would be bobbing in sea next to me. Without surprise, our surfer instructor confirmed its presence, a penguina, of course.