BIKING THE DEATH ROAD: Bolivia’s Winding Plunge

When shopping around for mountain bike trek companies who will take you down something called the Death Road, a one-lane dirt tract used for two-way traffic that drops 10,000 feet in about forty miles, getting a ‘good deal’ or a ‘discount’ isn’t the priority. Some things in life merit paying top dollar. I didn’t want a cheap bike tour when the trek follows one of the most notoriously dangerous roads in the world.

To be fair, there are far more dangerous routes to bike in the world, probably more dangerous roads to drive as well, such as any road leading away from a NASCAR race. But the trek was one thing we had to do before leaving Bolivia.

Heading out of La Paz to the northeast the road reaches it’s apex (also the starting point of the trek) about an hour out of the capital at over 10,000 feet elevation. After departing from the bus we were at the starting point for about an hour which was spent doling out bikes and equipment and receiving our safety pep talk. As I took a warm-up spin around I noticed the entrance to the Death Road bend off sharply around a corner down the hill. Up on the hill above lay about a dozen crosses of varying size, stern reminders of why it is called the Death Road. Back in 1999, when my brother did the same trip (only then it was done in a minivan because the road was at the time busier) he said that they were losing an average of two buses a month over the cliff on the road.

Actually, as of a couple years ago they built a ’safer’ alternate road across the valley that, instead of hugging the cliffs and winding back and forth was built much wider and with bridges spanning across the mountain outcrops which eliminated much of the wild corners. Millions of dollars later, with traffic preferring the new road they have now found that many of the bridges and spans are not very stable and are sinking. So, for many people it’s back to the old road.

A religious cross salesman would make a killing (no pun intended) hanging around by the Death Road. And given that cars, trucks, and buses go in both directions on this road and that the new diversion road is collapsing sales should remain steady.

The pep talk was delivered by our guide. Though he was a bit of a show-off he was good at keeping people humble, telling stories of the various people who started the bike trip but never completed the bike trip for various reasons. We were told not to avoid use of only the front brakes because you’ll end up over the handle bars like a Finnish girl did a few weeks prior who is now toothless. And we were not to use only our back brakes and skid because we’d end up like the American dude who did that and slammed into the cliff breaking both legs, trip over. We needed to dismount off the bike on the right side so we don’t dismount and stumble off the cliff and die like a French girl did recently. And surprisingly, we were discouraged from riding down the trail next to a friend videotaping him because we could accidentally hit each other and drive off the cliff like two guys did in April. Game over.

He told us that since it was Saturday that we would encounter our first drunk Bolivian driver within the first hour. He continued by saying that Bolivia is the poorest nation in South America and only has access to a couple medical helicopters. He then showed us that his cell phone had no reception and that would remain constant throughout the trip. So basically, don’t mess up. It was a scare tactic designed to keep egos in check because aside from bad luck the only real danger was going beyond one’s means.

The first part of the trek (22km) would be on actually rather smooth pavement.  It then would give way to the notorious dirt track which we would ride for the remaining 42 km. The latter part is the section of the trek that people get themselves into trouble. When I say trouble I mean crashing or going over the vertical cliffs, which could be very troubling.

We were delayed briefly by a Bolivian road crew repairing the road. The operation consisted of a flatbed truck with two guys tossing a pile of rocks onto a washout . We had to talk Keith down from trying to jump the truck. He cruised the Death Road with the intensity of a hungry wolf on speed.

The dilemma during the trip in my opinion was avoiding the urge to gawk at the stunning scenery while keeping your bike on the road. Arriving at the beginning of the dirt part of the road we were privy to another ‘pep talk’ , this one with more death stories and reminders just how little the Bolivian health care system has to offer.

Interestingly, the road in most places has room for one vehicle with two tracks where tires have packed the dirt down. Given the number of sharp corners, crazy (and possibly drunk) drivers, and steep drops we were instructed to keep our bikes in the tire tracks on the outside, or the side nearest the free-fall. This was to prevent a head-on collision with vehicles coming around the sharp corners that would arise from riding on the inside of the road. Being on the outside gives people a few extra seconds to react (and realize that they would be badly injured soon), as opposed to the sudden surprise and impact of hitting a car by riding on the inside.

The trip included seventeen breaks, which initially sounded excessive. But the breaks, besides offering a rest were also a good time to get the wild history of the road. Such as the place where the guide pointed to a decent sized discolored spot on the cliff. “See that spot? Last fall a minivan hit that and caromed over the cliff, hence the crosses.” It’s kind of chilling being at that same spot where such a tragic event occurred. But, it wouldn’t be called the death Road if it were a walk in the park.

We wrapped up the trek in the afternoon at a ranch/zoo/hostel type place that had monkeys and parrots hanging around. We were fed an all you can eat spaghetti feed and a complimentary cerveza. We also were shown pictures from our trip that one of the guides were taking during the trip. The monkeys stole the show as their main mission is securing both watched and unwatched tourist food. I was eating some pasta when a monkey posted up in a chair to my left and helped himself to a girls unfinished food. As other people shooed him away (I was busy filming him) he snagged a piece of garlic bread and retired to his tree with howls and drooping swings of his lanky arms from branch to branch.

The ride home we took a big van up the same Death Road that we had descended earlier. I opened a window explaining to the guide that it would be easier to bail out if things went south. He reminded me that our driver was excellent and had driven the road hundreds of times. I’m also positive that some of those people now represented as crosses on the side of the road had driven it hundreds of times as well.

We stopped at one point to observe a large green cargo truck far down the cliff across the way,mangled and overgrown with bushes and trees. That truck’s unfortunate story started with the driver being too drunk to drive any further so he handed the wheel over to his 15 year old nephew (or maybe son) who not surprisingly lost control of the truck sending it over the edge, along with 22 people who were in the back of the truck.

Our van headed back to La Paz as night fell. We survived the Death Road. Top to bottom. Just like all but two bikers have so far this year.

LA PAZ THROUGH THE LENS

La Paz was adorned with Bolivia’s colors for the whole time I was there, possibly in conjunction with the upcoming election but also quite possibly a permanent fixture.  They are very nationalistic people.  Soon after I took this photo I pointed the camera in the direction of some oranges that were in front of a blue wall making for a nice shot.  The vendor who was selling the fruit yelled something at me and when I looked up there she was looking very unimpressed with me.  She thought I was taking a picture of her and all I really wanted to shoot was her fruit.  Don’t flatter yourself, senora.

Not only was she telling me not shoot pictures she even grabbed an orange and held it over her head ready to throw it at me.  “Actually, while your sales pitch and customer service are outstanding I think I will buy my oranges from the next vendor, but thanks anyway.”

A little slice of home.  I was surprised to see this Sugarloaf sticker in the window of the travel agency at my hotel.  It was the only sticker from the States in the window, which had stickers from all over the globe.  Sugarloafers think it’s annoying having all the people from Massachusetts on the slope, wait until they start coming in from Bolivia for the weekend.  You better hope they ski better than they drive.

I’ve smelled nicer markets than this one.

Lots of Jesus gear in La Paz. I can’t get over how the Lord is depicted in different ways. Here on this blanket his image looks like an excerpt from some 1974 high school year book. Class of 74′ever, man!

Row, row, row your bus…Instead of a bridge across this narrow strait of Lake Titicaca we vacated the bus and took a small passenger boat across while our bus was ferried across separately.  Initially, we thought that they would row the buses across the whole way and that that job would replace the woman selling fish at the market as Bolivia’s most undesirable job. But thankfully the barges had motors as well so the rowers just need to push them off shore a ways.  Sorry fish lady.

I couldn’t figure this one out.  Traffic zebras.  And I saw multiple traffic zebras so it is officially a ‘thing they do in La Paz’ and not an isolated incident.  My question is:  Drivers in La Paz don’t really obey the traffic laws, so why do they obey a person in a zebra suit?

Driving in La Paz, though I never did it, seems to be a bit of an adventure.  For instance, in traffic circles (rotaries, roundabouts, whatever you call them) cars pulling into the circle have right of way, not the cars already in the circle.  Have fun with that.

LA SPAZ: Bolivia’s Stratospheric Gem

La Paz, Bolivia greeted us in the late afternoon, during rush hour. There were twelve of us packed into a colectivo bound for the Bolivian capital from Copacabana on the shores of Lake Titicaca, about a three hour trek. Seven of us in the van were friends looking to hang out together in La Paz. We all had tour books but were growing tired of the absolutely shite accommodation reviews that the books offered. We decided that we would just wing it. Mistake numero uno.

The colectivo dropped us in a rather nondescript place somewhere in the city. It was not a bus terminal nor did it have any distinguishing features, simply another hectic street corner in a frenetic city.. The taxi driver had no idea where we wanted to go because we had no idea where we wanted to go. Luckily, a gringo approached and told us to head to Plaza San Francisco because that was the tourist nerve center of the city where most of the hotels were based.

We piled into two taxis. Mistake numero dos. Immediately, we got into a loud, honk-laden log jam of traffic due to a protest that was blocking the main street through that part of town. The taxi driver said he knew a better way–a short cut. Thirty minutes later we told him to drop us off and we’d take it from there. We later realized that we got out of the taxi about two blocks from where we initially were mired in traffic (nice short cut) and when we hailed the cab we were only four short blocks from Plaza San Francisco. Welcome to La Spaz.

By nightfall we had settled into a hotel. Two of our group defected to another place and were never seen again (by us, anyway). We stayed in the fabulous Milton Hotel. The floors were dark parquet throughout the place and the walls were covered in maroon colored pleather. They were going for the “stuck in design hell” look.

Keith was happy as a clam, though. Private room, scalding hot water, cable TV, free breakfast and internet, great view–all for one hundred bolivianos ($15 US)! He was not shy about his admiration about the place.

La Paz would be a very busy place. Lots to offer. We knew we would bike the world’s most dangerous road–a day long trip that starts out in La Paz. We knew there was a witches market. There was the most unique prison in the world which offers visitors a tour of the prison led by the inmates, not the guards. There were no guards.

So much to do, so little time. And I have learned that it really doesn’t matter how long your trip is. I thought five weeks was too little time to do my itinerary (and I still do), and have assumed in the past that if I had more time, like the people traveling for five, eight, or twelve months that I could then see everything comfortably. But the truth is those people I have met traveling who had multiple months and up to a year still felt rushed and they were missing some points of interest because of time constraints. One of the golden rules of traveling is no matter the time frame of a trip there is always too much to see and not enough time to see it. Except maybe in Oklahoma. You don’t need much time at all for Oklahoma. You really don’t.

La Paz is a fascinating place. At just under 12,000 feet elevation it is the highest capital city in the world. It has the highest major airport. Highest professional soccer stadium (Bolivia, no matter how good or bad their team runs circles around opponents in La Paz–even the Brazilians). The highest golf course in the world is in la Paz and we found out is closed on Mondays which was unfortunate since blocked out time to golf and we hailed a cab to the course –on a Monday.

Walking along the crowded sidewalks and vendor stands and riding in cabs around the city it seems to be a constantly bustling atmosphere. Bolivia at the moment is a country divided politically. During my brief stay the city was rife with political activism as there was an upcoming election. The very left leaning presidente Evo Morales, who is very popular with many Bolivians, namely the poor and working class, is trying to push through a “si” vote for a new Bolivian constitution. A “no” vote would turn it down. But he also has very passionate enemies, especially in the department of Santa Cruz, where there is a strong succession movement ongoing.

I tried to gather some insight to the issues but it wasn’t easy to get both perspectives since most all of La Paz supports Morales. He is the first indigenous leader of Bolivia and has taken stands against the United States because of their persistence in eradicating the coca leaf, which while being the raw material for cocaine, has also been used for centuries by natives for medicines, teas, and diet supplements years before it was used to make cocaine.

The image of the revolutionary guru Che Guevara is rampant in Bolivia. People actually know who he is, unlike the people who win a Che Guevara pocket knife at the Farmington Fair thinking it’s Bob Marley.

Given my US and A passport I figured Morales wouldn’t be extending any invites for mate de coca tea to talk politics anytime soon. He is an amigo of Hugo Chavez, the very controversial dictator of Venezuela. I especially liked the billboard of Morales embracing an older indigenous woman who’s hugging him like the old ladies used to bear hug and molest Bob Barker on the “Price is Right”. She was kissing him on the cheek. He is looking up at the camera with an expression that say: “Okay, did you get the picture? Can I stop this now? Get my presidential shower and bathrobe ready, please.”

The witches market is another draw. I had imagined a eerie market hidden in some mysterious alley with cauldrons and cat’s eyes and other assorted novelties. Essentially, it looked just like a tourist market, but with tables full of stone figureens and of course the big draw, according to the guide books: llama fetuses. Amazingly, it is true each stall has a variety of llama fetuses in a variety of stages of development. The idea being that if you bury it under your house it brings good luck to the house. I suppose it is easier to do that than buy a Feng Shui book and stress out because the love seat in your reading nook is not facing the closest west facing hill out your window, meaning you will never prosper in life.

If it weren’t for Bogota, Colombia the city of La Paz would be my favorite South American city.  Breathtaking views, thin air, good food, unique landmarks, all of which are ingredients of a great city.

ISLA DEL SOL: Sol Got Soul

We boarded a boat to Isla Del Sol, birthplace of the Incan Sun God on the southern end of Lake Titicaca at eight in the morning.  Keith and I noticed places available on the top deck where a few people were crunched together on two opposing benches.  The first boat was full already and featured some French guy frustrated, loud and heatedly asking the two boatmen if the boats were arriving at the same terminals on the island because he had some friends on the other boat.

They assured him that they would arrive together.

The boats launched, actually three boats side by side.  Our boat was equipped with two outboard motors but only one of them was running so we set out at snails pace to the open lake.  We passed the Bolivian Navy post which provided a good laugh. The only water frontage that Bolivia possesses is the lake and though immense it seemed funny that it would require a naval corps for protection.  A young guy in a sailor outfit stood on the shore as we cruised by slowly.  The poor kid looked like he was in an outfit that some touristy Maine seafood restaurant makes an awkward teenager wear to greet and sit the guests.

The Bolivian Navy.  I’m going to gamble that Nebraska would have a stronger navy than Bolivia.

We struck up conversation with the people on board near us to find two Danish girls, a Scottish guy and an English couple.  We laughed about our sluggish craft which apparently was not going to arrive with the other vessels.  The other two boats slowly got smaller until they were small blips on the horizon and finally gone from visibility.

As we realized that the other boats would arrive the Scottish guy, Chris, laughed at how angry the French guy would be when he realized how much later we would be than the first boats.  It was Chris the angry Frenchman was trying to meet at the island.  Apparently, on the bus the night before the French guy had arranged a friendship with Chris that included sharing accommodation and arranging a prompt seven AM breakfast that would even include eggs for them before the boat launch.

The French guy’s alarm went off an hour before breakfast and he was up gathering stuff and getting ready.  When Chris didn’t immediately stir, the French guy scolded him: “Get up you lazee German!” (confusing his Scottish accent for German–a telling indication that over his own talking he didn’t listen to a thing that Chris was saying at any given time).  Chris arrived ‘late’ to breakfast and to the chagrin of the French guy was too late for ‘zee eggs’.  “Maybe if you had gotten up earlier you would have time for zee eggs, but no.”

We laughed at the imagined sight of the unraveled French guy on the dock frantically scolding the oblivious boatmen.  “You say zee boats come all together!  Where zee hell are they? We will miss zee eggs for lunch now!”

Eventually, we arrived at the north end of the island with no trace of the punctual Frenchman.  We grabbed a quick bite then set off on a 17 km hike to the south end of the island where we would stay overnight and catch the morning boat back to the mainland.

The hike was rather mellow but constantly beautiful.  As we gained altitude we got an idea just how large the lake is and the air was warm but the 12, 500 ft. elevation prevented true heat from hindering the hike.  The water was an amazingly rich blue on all sides.

The funny part of the trip was the constant prying from locals for us to purchase ‘official’ tickets to the island attractions.  Our hostel owners told us not to give money to anyone except for the boat tickets or maybe food vendors.  We were warned that some people pretend to be ticket sellers for some extra spending money.  The first attempt came as we crossed the beginning of ther path by a beach.  He was a large jolly man who was all smiles and he told us that we need tickets.  We kept walking saying ‘no gracias’.  When he saw that we were not fooled he nodded and waved us on with a smile.

One lad, who was at the first ruins wanted ten bolivianos and even had tickets to offer from a pad of tickets.  Professional.  We politely declined, and he was much more adamant than the previous guy even following us a bit.  When we left the ruins he did the same without luck.  The third attempt the guy asked us at the top of a large hill that was most likely the high point of the island.  Just beyond his futile attempt we took a ten minute rest and chatted.  We saw a guy hiking on his own walk by us looking suspiciously down at a ticket he’d just bought as he passed us.

“Damn,” said Chris mocking the hiker, “Fourth ticket of the day! I’m starting to think that these tickets are not official.”

The trail followed the ridge of the long island and we headed south until by late afternoon we came to a village filled with donkeys, chickens, hostels and restaurants.  Keith being the well prepared dude he is had checked the internet before for a place to stay from other travel blogs.  He noted one that was tucked behind an internet place but lacked a sign. With some wandering we found it to be a nice, even modern looking place with room for our group of seven.  We got our own rooms, double beds, bathrooms for six dollars.  The lady passed around the registry for us to sign.  Being the first signee I added a column called ‘profesion’ to satisfy my new craving.  I wrote ‘sign painter‘ in hopes that they would put two and two together and hire me to make a sign for the well put together and hospitable place to push forward the business.

The night consisted of freezing, eating pizza, having a few cervezas, and a rousing card game.  We played the game s#*thead for hours laughing and giving each other crap like we were friends from childhood .  Afterwards it was a good, warm sleep in a relatively comfortable bed which is as much as anyone can ask for six dollars on an island in Bolivia.

CROSSING INTO BOLIVIA: Americano= Dinero

I knew my arrival at the Bolivian border would set me back one hundred dollars as of March 1st per the ruling of the very left-sided Bolivian presidente Evo Morales.  Morales established the same requirements that the States imposes on Bolivians entering the country–an expensive visa as well as proof of yellow fever shots and sometimes even proof of travel plans exiting the country (i.e. plane/bus ticket).

To be fair, I have no problem with Bolivia doing the same thing the States does to visitors because it’s a reciprocal procedure.  Morales is not a fan of the States either and is buddies with the Venezuelan president Hugo Chavez who usually tiptoes along about three inches south of the sanity line.  I didn’t expect to be invited into the presidential palace for tea.

I was a responsible tourist from the get go.  In Puno, just on the north end of Lake Titicaca in Peru I went to the hospital for my inyecion de fiebre amarillo (yellow fever shot).  It was done in five minutes, the only unsettling moment being when they disposed of the needle afterwards into a 2 liter water bottle filled with other dirty needles.  But it only cost 3 soles (1 US$) compared to the $75-$100 other less adventurous/smarter travelers spent back home for the same shot.  I even got a small yellow card with my name on it as proof.

I took a bus from Puno (Spanish for friggin freezing) to the Bolivian border which was a three hour ride along the lakeside which offered beautiful panoramic views of the lake and the distant whitecap peaks beyond.  I befriended a guy from Utah sitting beside me who had no idea about the border requirements for Americans.  There conveniently being no ATMs at the border he was glad that he had enough American dollars tucked into his socks in case of emergency.  He had no yellow fever shot proof.

We got our stamps on the Peru side, which took about five minutes of smiles and gracias’s.  Then we walked up the hill and into the Bolivian side.  Things were immediately colder and less efficient.  There were two tables: one for Americans (the money table) and one for everyone else.  I looked at a poster on the wall listing the countries that Bolivia required visas to enter.  Next to the USA the official $100 on the poster was crossed out with a black marker and $135 was written in its place.  Sounds like some border officials were going out for drinks that night.

The styrofoam cooler is where my yellow fever shot originated.  The water bottle on the right is where it ended up.  In South America the Peruvian health care system is second only to Paraguay and Paraguay is nowhere near first.

Luckily I took out an extra $40 to cover any extra ‘official’ charges such as these.  I paid with a smile, gave him my passport and my cherished yellow fever card thinking all was jolly and fine.  He told me that it was impossible to enter Bolivia without a photocopy of the yellow fever card.  The card itself was not the proof he was looking for: he wanted a piece of paper with a copy of the real thing to keep things official. I went across the street and used a copy machine and returned triumphantly.  He gave me a small sticker slightly larger than a postage stamp that served as my visa.

My American friend went to pay with two fifties and a couple twenties.  The guard looked suspiciously at one of the fifties then tossed it onto the table and shook his head no.  Not taking the wrinkled fifty.  He then had to pay the remainder in the local currency of Bolivianos, completely wiping out his Boliviano supply, which was an issue because the closest ATM was found in La Paz, three hours away.  Then the man was asked him for his yellow fever card.  When he couldn’t produce one the guard asked for five dollars.  It is so crucial that you get a yellow fever shot for Bolivia that you can just throw five dollars on the table instead.

I waited for my friend to finish his paperwork and as I went back inside to see how he was doing, another guard who apparently did not recognize me told me to head to the Americano table to pay for my visa.  I told him I had already paid so he brought me over to the table where the original guard looked at me as though he’d never seen me before.  Once I showed him the visa sticker that he gave me five minutes prior he nodded solemnly.

I’m not sure it is even possible to spend $135 in Bolivia in ten days.  I felt bad for this Amercian couple on our bus who were flying out of La Paz just two days later and they needed to pay the $135 regardless.  Welcome to Bolivia. Thanks for being an Americano.

The Bolivian customs building.  Window on the left: Bienvenidos a Bolivia!  Window on the right: One hundred and thirty five crisp dollars on the table. Viva Morales!

PROFESÍON: Anything But Teacher or Student

It angers me in a way that it took me five summers of travel to figure this mindless tidbit out, but I have finally seen the light.  On just about every registry that travelers sign, whether it’s for a hostel or a national park or a border crossing it asks for your profession.  There’s passport number, nationality, where you are coming from, age and usually your profession.

With only minor lapses the list under profession looks like student or teacher, scrawled in hundred of different handwriting styles. I always filled it out like a robot: teacher, teacher, teacher.  Keith showed me the light.

In a convent in Arequipa (which is quite a way for me to start a sentence I realize) the registry asks for that golden question: ¿Profesíon?  I filled it out like normal but Keith told me to look again at what he wrote.  i wandered over to the large book posted on a podium like some holy tract ready to ascend into heaven.  There next to Keith Entwistle, England, passport number, pirate. 

I nearly fell over laughing at the prospect of some nun poring over the names and countries and professions each night to find that a pirate from England visited the holy site.  An overwhelming sense of freedom overcame me as I traveled from that point on.  Why be a teacher when I could just as easily be an astronaut or a heavy metal drummer?

That sealed the deal.  In the past three weeks I have been a cowboy, a juggler, country music singer, tennis pro, and a rare star-fish collector.  At the Bolivian border they now know me as Joe McLaughlin, Kite maker & refurbisher.  The freedom is exhilirating.

Of course, there are some professions to avoid, especially around borders such as small-arms dealer, Coke salesman (I’m referring to the soft drink but the humor would be lost on most Bolivian authorities), spy, assassin, revolutionary leader, militant communist or in the case of entering Alabama, liberal.

According to the bus I will ride to Lima, Peru tomorrow I am lion tamer.  Life is too short to be a teacher/student but it is also too short for me to learn the art of taming lions or becoming a country singer so all i really need is a pen and an opportunity.

SOME PLACE CALLED MACHU PICCHU

 

At three in the morning we woke up to set off for Machu Picchu.  We wanted to be there not only for sunriise but also it time to make the list of the first four hundred people that are allowed to climb Wachu Pichhui, which is the large spire of rock that rises over the ruins of Machu Picchu.  Raul had told us that since we were so eager to arrive that breakfast could be pushed up to 3:30 so that we would be sure to arrive on time.

We arrived at just after 3:30 and the breakfast place was dark.  By 3:45 someone opened the place and the breakfast producition was in it’s most minute infancy when we left for the ruins at 4:00 AM.  Right, forty minutes.  We hiked in the dark save for the bright full moon that was overhead.  The hike up was surpirsingly hot– heat being a foreign concept thus far on this trip.

We arrived with about twenty people seated on the steps in front of the ranger station.  At six we were let in.  We made a bee line for the line for Wachu Picchu taking pictures and soaking it in along the way.  I especially liked the llamas-for-tourist-photo setup as we walked into the ruins. 

In line for the hike we were treated to a full moon on one horizon and a rising sun on the other.  Standing in line we took turns heading off to take photos with our frineds saving our sacred places in the growing line. 

At seven the line started to move and after signing the guest book we started the arduous uphill hike up Wachu Picchu.  The sun rose thankfully on the opposing side of the rock keeping us in shade as the temperature warmed.  The climb was steep.  Some of the sections required the aid of a chain railing.  Towards the top we reached numerous perches that the Incas designed for tourist photo opportunities.

At the top we were offered a great bird’s eye view of Machu Picchu which was completely unlike the traditional perspectives of the place that you can see below.  From here I feel that the experience is better told in images. While the first, second and all thereafter impressions were stunning I think the photos say it best:

Morning scene at Machu Picchu

View from the top of Wachu Picchu, which was a ceremonial place for the Incas given it’s close proximity to heaven compared to the city below.

Heights were not an issue for the Incas at least not for the ones who climbed up this peak and if heights were an issue their fears were never documented for obvious reasons.

The immensity of the city becomes clear when you wander about the labyrinth of it’s walls and rooms.  The terraces were for agricultural purposes and not seating for touring bands such as Def Leopard and Van Halen as we pondered.  Though imagine, just for a second if such a historical relic such as Machu Picchu were in New Jersey? You’d be digging your VH 1978 t-shirts out and booking your tickets.

Looking at the cliffs surrounding the site it is easy to see why it took a while to find Machu Picchu.

Some people look like tourists.  Other people really look like tourists.  The one with her head turned apparently lost the clown nose that accompay those hats somewhere on the ground.

My camera does it, they’re just a bunch of rocks, so why not go black and white for a few?

This is the stock variety photo of Machu Picchu taken from the caretakers hut.  It is this perspective that is shot millions of time each year and yet it still felt special.

SALKANTAY TREK DAY 4: Flat but Hopeful Hike

Day four was rather anti-climatic, though no less scenic and pleasant.  The day began with a three hour hike to the lunch place, the site of a hydoelectric dam, creatively called Hidroelectrica.  From there we walked along train tracks to the town Aguacalientes, at the base of Machu Picchu.  The good news was that the tracks were flat and the bad news was that we were walking along train tracks.  Walking the railroad ties were favorable to the sharp chop rock around the tracks but were so unevenly spaced it made walking a conscious effort, which it should never be.

The scenery was nice and the tracks paralleled a river.  Looking up at times you could make out the walls of some structures of Machu Picchu.  The tracks ran in a horseshoe shape around the site, though the ruins were some five hundred meters above the tracks at all times.

As the sun disappeared behind the cliffs in the valley we settled into our hostel in Aguascalientes.  Having a bed, though in reality it was a “bed” was an amazing luxury after a few nights in a tent.  The only downside was the view from our window, which included among some of the neighboring metal roof tops, some old dirty sneakers and a small dead dog-like animal one building over.  We did have fun making up scenarios for how the dogesque thing ended up dead on the roof.  Sounds like some screwed up new version of the board game Clue.  It was Keith on the roof with the poison dog food.

So yeah, very little night life here.

Somehwhere up there is Machu Picchu.  Though no one (apart from the Incas) thought that anything was up there until 1911.

SALKANTAY TREK DAY 3: Chilled Out, Riverside

Camp on the third morning was much more pleasant than the previous morning temperature wise.  We knew as we led off on the trail after breakfast that our day would end in the magical two words: hot springs.  In a stark contrast to the previous day’s jaunt this one would lead along the river that cuts through the valley.  There would be some minor ups and downs but there would be no elevation gain as we hiked down river.

The French Canadiens and myself got better acquainted as they professed their love for the New England Patriots.  We made plans to catch a football game at Quebec’s Laval University this fall as they are one of the best Canadien college football teams.  One confusing aspect of traveling for me is the term ‘football’.  I generally refer to soccer as football since the rest of the world calls it ‘football’ , but of course then you have the Aussies and South Africans and the UK who also have football as we would call rugby.  But then there’s a difference between rugby and Austrailian rules football.  I really wish more countries were into baseball.

Peruvian bridge.  You should see it when they run busses over this.

Keith and I walked the nice riverside path, eventually catching up to Danny at the end of the trail.  He had time to take a dip and hand wash his hiking clothes in waiting.  We were bussed to a very interesting camp spot.  We pulled into a sizeable yard with a concrete building that seemed to be a small hotel.  We pitched our tents and layed in the grass waiting for lunch (forty minutes).  It was a lively place with two small girls, a puppy and even a miniature monkey that was kept as a pet.  The thing was spastic climbing over people and tents and anything that could possibly be climbed upon.

After lunch we set off for the hot springs.  We packed into a small camper van and passed around some cañaizo to make sure we were plenty warm.  We spent four hours in the springs.  It was a developed spring which means they resembled huge swimming pools but with an earth floors.  There was a mild pool and a hot pool.  In between was a waterfall of freezing water that was amazing to stand under between visits to the hot pool.

The minature monkey acted erratic at times.  Thoses times being all the times. 

The two young girls at the campsite played the ol’ Peruvian children’s fun game: Strangle the Puppy.

We rejoiced in the fact that our normal 5:00 wake up was pushed back to 8:00 the next morning.  The night wound down with dinner and a good laugh with the Keith and myself, the Brazilians, and the French guy named Julien who was very good at taking constant ribbing from the Brazilians.  I found that one of the Brazilians is a life long Celtics fan so we bored the table with talk of this weird game called basketball.  Apparently, even though it involves a net and a ball, since there is no involvement of feet others could not understand our fascination with the sport.

SALKANTAY TREK DAY 2: Getting Up There

We awoke the following morning to a nice sunrise and brisk mountain air.  Breakfast was the typical bread, butter, jam, coffee, tea affair that ia atarting to make me dream of a good ole’ “Front Porch Cafe” breakfast in Dixfield, Maine.  (If there is one reason to go to Dixfield or Maine or even the States if you are from elsewhere that reason is the “Front Porch Cafe”).  Without the beer bottle candle centerpiece breakfast felt much more safe.  We did not need any additional hardships on day two because the nature would provide the challenge.

We would ascend to 15,000 feet at the base of Salkantay after four hours of uphill hiking and then another four hours down to our camp.  I was glad to be hiking with Keith because he showed us an invaluable high altitude method of hiking called: going slow.  He has trekked in many places in the world and he told me that by his fifth trip to the Himalyas he realized that walking in slow motion uphill in high altitude prevented much of the exhaustion that occurs with high altitude hiking.  Basically, once you get out of breath from exertion and achieve oxygen debt there is no way to get it back, without a significant rest.  That is why some people will hike quickly but take a break every 50 meters or so.  The idea behind going in slow motion is to take less breaks because you don’t need them, but the bonus comes in never being out of breath or too exhausted to fully appreciate the scenery around.

Many people passed us on the way up the pass.  Many. Muchos.  But we were among the first ten to arrive at the pass out of more than a hundred people.  True, it was not a race, but aside from a handful of people who were not feeling well, we were going the slowest and still got there near the front of the pack–and without the huffing and puffing and exhaustion that others were facing.

One exception to the “slow-motion” method was Danny, our Romanian friend who absolutely scorched the trail, but I’m still wondering if he is even human.  He was waiting for us for an hour, probably wondering why they hadn’t created a beer stand at the top for the first arrivals. 

The group at the pass.

From there it was a consistent descending trail that eventually poured out into a wide expanse of high altitude grassland with a series of streams winding through.  That was where lunch was supposed to be.  Danny, Keith and I made it down first amid great conversation about traveling in India and Southeast Asia.  Keith is full of good stories about roaming around in those parts and seems to be a master at achieving time to do so creating perfect gaps between jobs with compensation:  “Sounds great, I would like this job.  But I cannot start for six weeks, you understand.  Gotta get stuff sorted, you know.”  Amazing.  Hence the reason he is here in South America the first place.

We waited for lunch in a field near a small dwelling with a family of pigs and horses milling around.  Raul told us lunch would being in forty minutes, which became a bit of a joke amongst the group because any time expectancy was offered as ‘forty minutes’.  “Deener”, forty minutes.  “Thee Lonch,” forty minutes. 

“Hey Raul, I’m going to the friggin moon and back.”

“Ah, si. forty minutes.”

The clouds and mist roled in as we descended from the high mountain pass.  Some groups had lunch waiting for them.  Other people paid $160 for their tour…

Danny found plenty of time to sleep off his swift arrival at the mountain pass before lunch.  Afterall, we had to wait “foorty-meenutes” for lunch. (Hour and a half, in English)

So, an hour and a half later we gathered at the table.  Lunch was soup, rice, and beef and apparently they had run out of the fresh strawberry Peruvian Kool Aid.  The only memorable part of lunch came when I saw an old lady reach down for a golf ball sized rock.  She muttered something in angry Quechua (native language) and as she took a few steps I saw the source of her dispair.  Mama pig had thrust her snout into the backpack of one of the trekkers in our group.  She hurled the rock at the pig hitting it squarely in the hip sending it awkwardly running off squealing.  Another rock was tossed for good measure but the pig had had enough.  It made off with some dates from the bag but it didn’t even eat those.  That is not good publicity for dates–that not even a starving Peruvian pig would eat them.

The problem that the late lunch created was that now the four hour hike down to camp would end much later than the ensuing sunset.  Raul told us that we had two alternatives:  Hike four hours to the original camp using headlamps.  Or hiking three hours to a closer camp before the sunset.  Most of us were keen on getting to the further camp because we knew the next day would include hot springs and we did not want to miss valuable hot spring time in transit.  But we also knew some people were quite tired from the uphill hike earlier.

Danny and I set out downhill with Keith a bit ahead of us and after about forty minutes of hiking we came across a pit-stop campsite where the sun was still shining and the only people were a group of Americans having a drink stop.  We hurried by figuring that we just wanted to get to the first camp and have a nice long break waiting for the others.

We descended to the point where the air was warm and moist, as opposed ot the dry, arid air of the mountain pass that morning.  The vegetation grew dense and in about and hour and twenty minutes from the lunch site we arrived at camp.  A camp, but not the camp.  We asked a local man if this was Camp Andreas, the proposed first meeting spot and he pointed stiffly uphill and said “Arriba”, or quite simply, “up”.  Damn, we thought.  That first camp only forty minutes into the afternon hike was our original meeting place and we passed it by over an hour.  We had made it to the origignal camp that was supposed to take four hours.

The prospect of hiking uphill was not an option so we waited.  Then we waited more.  Then Keith showed up.  He explained that he stopped for a piss at the first camping spot and in passing we didn’t see him.  So, little by little our group arrived in all sort of fatigued states.  The Brazilians arrvied and naturally that led to a round of celebatory cervezas to laugh about the miscommunication. 

As other groups drifted to sleep our group ate dinner.  Many in the group seemed not to be hungry so Keith, Danny and I jostled for position sitting next to the people who we knew would not finish their meals.  We were afterall, in the wild.  The moon rose filling the steep valley with light.  it was much warmer than the previous night so sleep found us easily after a good day of hiking.