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.

SALKANTAY TREK DAY 1: Ominous Beginnings

 

They told us 4:30 in the morning to be standing in the lobby of our hostal.  At exactly 5:05 the bell rang and the driver led us down to the van.  That is, exactly at 4:30, Latin time.  We picked up three others who were told the same thing: 4:30, sharp.  One of the girls asked what was the deal with the delay.  The driver replied, “Si, 4:30 to 5:00.”  I found that an ingeniuos answer.  It made me wonder if I could do that at my job.  The principal says, “Joe, you showed up halfway through first period!”  The answer: “Yeah, 7:30 to 8:30, so what?”

People that were under six foot tall slept on the three hour bus ride to the village with the trailhead so I was entertained by my book and the scenery, which thankfully was beautiful.  We arrived at our desayuno (breakfast) place and seventeen of us sat to eat bread, coffee, and coco leaf tea.  The two guides announced that they would break us up into two groups to make it easier.  The first group had five and naturally, the second group had twelve.  Even splits apparently.  To make it even more interesting we were joined with three Canadiens the following day pushing our group to fifteen.

We began our hike after our guide Raul’s unsuccessful search for a sleeping bag for the girl who was not provided with one despite numerous promises.  He was confident that we would “come across” one at the camp.  We asked him if he would offer his bag to her if she was without because it was going to be cold that night.  His reply: “No es mi problema.”  Of course, he’s just the guide.

The first day we walked along a dirt track for most of the day, often being passed by people who were bussing to the first campsite.  We gradually got to know one another as we walked.  Three hours into it we stopped for lunch on a nice overlook.  Lunch consisted of soup followed by pasta, but the highlight was the drink.  Raul announced that we would get jugo de fresa natural, natural strawberry juice.  I looked over our cook who was using a wooden spoon to  mix a pitcher of bright red fluid that could not have been mistaken for anytrhing but red Peruvian Kool Aid.  YGWYPF.

The afternoon hike involved a mellow climb along the dirt road in the direction of a large snow-capped peak.  Soon into the hike the Brazilians found a roadside stand that sold cervezas.  I’m not sure the Incas would have made it to Machu Picchu with 10 sol ($3) beers every two hours.  Maybe that’s why the Spaniards were successful in their defeat of the Incas and not the Brazilians.  Afterall, why leave the beach to conquer when there’s sun, sand, and beer by the sea?  And, yes I am aware that Brazil was not a country during the time of the Incas, but if they were…you know, they’d be safe from a Brazilian front.

We arrived just as darkness was descending upon the valley.  All of the other six to eight groups had their tents set up with their cooks already fixing dinner.  We actually beat our horses to the campsite.  Essentially, it was a group of tired two legged beings beating a group of four legged beings, which were carrying our tents, food, clothes, etc.  When the horses arrived our guides went about setting our tents with no apparent urgency.  They did this with the work philosophy of road construction:  it takes one man to work and two others to stand and chat.

With our tents set up eventually, Keith and I sat in our tent trying to keep warm.  At nine “deener” was announced.  We congregated into a tent to see two folding “tables” that would accommodate six.  Our group of twelve squeezed into the small chairs around the table and joked about how this would work.  I kicked off dinner by accidentally nudging the table sending a burning candle that was placed delicately into a large beer bottle in the middle of the table over nearly onto Keith.  For my pride’s sake I checked the sturdiness of the table and found that one of the legs was not even touching the ground and swung like a pendullum with contact.

Danny and I ate the pre-meal popcorn like starving animals and drank some of his cañazo, the Peruvian homemade drink for staying warm that tastes like it should be used to clean engines or strip paint.  Dinner was uneventful, which is generally a good thing on a YGWYPF tour.  The only action occured when a girl sitting across from me tipped the beer bottle candle over onto me as I was receiving hot water for tea sending an array of hot liquid onto my hands and arms.  Given the climate it was a welcome change.  Burning is a form of warmth.

The highlight of the evening was the light from the near full moon hitting the snow capped mountains which was breathtaking.  It was something that not Raul nor burning wax nor YGWYPF could take away–moonlight hitting snowpeaks is free.

MACHU PICCHU: The Salkantay Trek Intro and the Economics of “YGWYPF”

To get to the world famous Incan City of Machu Picchu there are many available options. The most well known, thus most expensive and hard to book is the famed Inca Trail, the trail used by the Incas during their short, but well documented reign.  This option requires prior thought and action, usually three months in advance which immediately eliminated it as a possibility for me.   In fact, if you show up in Cuzco now and try to book the Inca Trail you’ll be waiting for the next available opening in November.

There are a few alternatives, which the tour books tout due to the over-used and over-booked and over-trashed (so I’ve heard anyways) Inca Trail.  Based on word of mouth I chose the Salkantay trek, which is a five-day, four-night trek through and assortment of valleys surrounding Mt. Salkantay (20, 550 ft.).  Keith and I shopped around for prices in Cuzco and got everything from $160 to $420–for the same route.  I considered my traveling rule of “never go with the cheapest nor the most expensive”, since at both extremes there are drawbacks:  The high-end, posh crowd usually is not as fun as the backpacker crowd you get on the more budget trips and for me the group really makes it memorable.  On the other hand, going with the cheapest usually leaves you freezing or lost or hungry or pissed or most accurately, all of the above.

Yes, I considered my rule– and promptly ignored it.  Keith and I chose the $160 outift.  I was uneasy when I entered and the man held up his guide certificate smiling like a small child at show and tell who just stole his older brother’s best toy truck for the occasion.  Our logic was that they all go the same route so why pay another ten, twenty, thirty dollars for the same thing?  I mean thirty dollars is three nights accommodation or about 27 huge plates of food at a local food joint.  We signed and forked over the money.

Actually, in retrospect I’m not sure if I have ever really follwed my own rule.  See last summer’s partial debacle at the Galapagos.  I really should start following my own rule.

So, here is the basic outline:

The Game:  A five-day, four-night trek that ends up on Machu Pichhu, including food, shelter, transport, entrance to the park, etc.

The Players:  Three Canadiens, two Germans, a French couple, three Americans (myself included), and Englishman, three Brazilians (two of which were about knee-deep in beer for the duration), and even a Romanian!

The Fearless Leader:  Raul.  Raul was not the most popular guy on the trip and was perhaps the poster boy for the concept of “You Get What You Pay For”, which given it’s persistence through the trip will be from here on out shortened to the handy acronym: “YGWYPF”.

Raul led the trek with the passion and vigor of a child in his fourth consecutive day of standardized testing.  Soon after arrival he was thrust into responsibility mode when Kathy, one of the American girls had no sleeping bag even though the agency had promised that there would be one waiting for her.  Some camping trips do not require the aid of a sleeping bag but the first night we would stay at 11,000 feet and it is winter in Peru.  She complained to Raul, and he replied, “Es la agencia, no es mi problema.“  It’s the agency’s fault, not my problem.  Okay, enter YGWYPF.

To the trek…

ONE GRINGO STRANDED ON GRINGO ISLAND

Before any talk of Machu Picchu it is worth noting my current position in Peru–that of being stranded on the tiny tourist trap town at the base of Machu Picchu called Aguascalientes.  Last Friday night after dinner the only ATM machine in town ate my card and sucked it into the hopelssly locked up  gut of the Bamco CP.

Being Friday, the bank would not open again until Monday.  So as it goes I have been stuck in possibly the most expensive town in all of Peru.  My train ticket on Saturday was now useless so I booked a train ticket back to Cuzco on Monday, the plan being to get the card from the bank on Monday then grab the train.  Needless to say I bought the ticket with wobbly confidence.  Afterall, this is South America.  For all I know it could require the service of some ATM handyman who only rides in from Cuzco every fifth Wednesday on horseback and who really likes his commissions. 

Having limited funds I ate a local dinner last night at a sidewalkstand eating chicharrón, which is something from the pork family I believe and salad for two bucks.  A friendly local showed me a place to get a cheap but amazing smoothie, and surprisingly he even offered to pay for it.  Amazing, given this is gringoville and most tourists here use $20 bills as tissues.

Today as I walked around I noticed some armed guards by the bank with some other people milling about.  I asked the guards if there was someone inside and he said yes and they were fixing the machine.  When my card was initially sucked into the machine I thought about smashing the ATM, which would certainly get the things fixed right away (as well as myself fixed into some Peruvian prison).  In fact, my friend Danny from the Machu Picchu trek suggested that same method after the police toild us that it was a lost cause until Monday. 

“Then we’ll just smash the (expletive) out of the machine!  Then someone will come an fix it!” he exclaimed to the policia loudly.  The cop looked uneasy.  We left but decided against the destruction of the ATM.

I asked them to get the guy inside and eventually they did and he retrieved my card from a stack of about 25 other cards.  I tried to get cash out immediately only to have the same thing happen.  They retrieved my card and told me not to bother again.  I am still stranded until tomorrow but at least the card is in hand.

The revised plan now reads as such: train to Cuzco, get the rest of my stuff from my hostel there, catch a bus to Puno (six hours) where I will meet up with my traveling amigo Keith.  Of course, this all depends on there being no broken links in the chain, such as more bank/card problems, the expiration of the limited funds in the wallet, missed bus, earthquake etc. 

Gotta keep the faith.

CRUZ DE CONDORS: Shooting Birds in the Canyon

The majestic condor searches for a small child or goat to snag from the group of onlookers.

The final day of our Colca Canyon tour involved seeing a part of the canyon where condors soared around.  It was a beautiful sight.  There were about two hundred tourists gawking and shooting photos (myself included) so I am surprised the birds want anything to do with the place.  I haven’t ruled out the possibility that they are trained by the Peruvian government to fly around at the exact hour that Colca Canyon tours pass by.  The one pictured above flew at us with it’s huge wings extended and perched on the rockabout fifty feet away.

After seeing these birds I think it’s time for America to rethink our national bird situation.  These things would beat the ever-living crap out of an eagle and that is not good for our stellar reputation worldwide.  Either we adopt the condor or breed eagles to shoot lasers from their eyes and blow up terrosit caves.  This needs to be done soon.

Seeing this, you wouldn’t want to be whatever this thing eats.

To Burn Down a Travel Agency or Not To Burn Down a Travel Agency?

That was the question my traveling amigo Keith and I asked ourselves at about 5:45 AM when it was evident that our Machu Piccu trek coordinator was not picking us up for the five day journey.  They had told us: “Lobby of your hostel, 4:30 sharp because we need to catch a bus at exactly 5:00.”  So it goes.  Or so it went.

We decided to retire back to our rooms because the travel agency was not open.  We had heard that some companies, if they do not reach a desired number of people, will cancel the trip.  Being ready to do an ything at 4:30 AM is admirable for me in some respects, so to wake up and wait for nothing to show up, the result was a festering, probably unhealthy anger. 

The hostel night guy, who was sleeping in a sleeping bag on the floor awoke to let other people out to their respective tours.  He spoke little English but was hopeful for us.  He may not have understood terms like “kill” and “bastards” and “we should burn down their agency after wrecking the furniture”, but I’m confident that he understood our sentiments.

Soon after we had gone back to sleep there was a knock on the door and it was the night guy.  He told us that our travel agency coordinator was there and wanted a few words.  He then gestured with two hands extended to relax, “tranquilo, es bien, es bien“.  Apparently, he feared that we would unleash the fury on the agency guy and he’d be the only witness to the incident and probably the clean-up crew, as well. 

But, as it was the travel agent was very apologetic as he explained that there was trouble with the driver being sick and that we could go on our trek tomorrow and he even offered to pay for tonight’s hostel stay.  No blood, no fire–tranquilo indeed.  So, another day and night in Cuzco, which is not a bad deal.  Somehow I bet it doesn’t pay to toy with arson in Peru.

COLCA CANYON: Home of the Hardcore

Deep in the Peruvian backwoods lies Colca Canyon, which is noted for being twice as deep as the Grand Canyon.   Twelve of us embarked on a three day trek down, through, up and out of the canyon–for fifty dollars, including food, transport, lodging, and so on.  The group was a very fun band of English, American (myself) and a horde of Germans who were more than happy to see to it that I captured the German language perfectly in three days.  Right.

We were headed by Carlitos, whose real name is Carlos, but given his vertically challenged stature he is known as ‘Carlitos’.  By far the best tour guide I’ve had in five years of traveling, he made sure that everything was taken care of.   He is from nearby Arequipa and knows the area and culture very well, including the native language Quechue.

A five hour bus ride brought us to the rim of the canyon.  It was unlike other canyons I’ve visited.  For exaple, the Grand Canyon is very flat as you approach the rim, then it plummets far down to the Colorado River.  This Canyon did not have a proper flat rim.  The rim, or top oif the canyon was mountainous so there was not a defined rim.  So when you’re inside the canyon, instead of looking up and seeing the rim, you see the tops of huge mountains so it feel like you are very deep inside the canyon.

Naturally, we started hiking downward to the river.  This turned into a near jog for me because trying to stop my momentum going downhill was not an easy task.  I was called ‘fast’ for the first time in my life.  Thanks, German friends.  One tip we received from Carlitos was to stay on the mountain side of the trail when mules passed by because they enjoyed nudging tourists off the cliff if you stood cliffside.  I actually know some people from Maine who feel the same way about tourists and would do the same if given a cliff and chance.

There are small villages on the other side of the canyon, one of which we stayed in.  The side we trekked down was dry and arid as you can see in the picture.  The other however was lush due to the massive irrigation ssytem that dates back to Incan times that channels water all over the hillside.  Cactai were plentiful but there were also papaya and avocado trees.

The most impressvie part of the trip in many ways was the lifestyle of the locals.  They were infamous walkers, and given that there were no roads that was how you moved.  The whole loop was 22 km, involving two steep rises, and two steep descents.  The day after we departed they had a marathon through the canyon.  The best local time through the canyon is two and half hours, which is unbelievable.  The best gringo time was over five hours, and even that was moving at a good clip.  Carlitos told us that locals would even walk to places as far away as Cuzco, which he said would take them nine days, and for tourists: sixteen.  Most of the locals who passed us wore sandals, as well.

We stayed the first night one of the villages.  We were given a bed, a dinner of soup, chicken, potatoes and tea.  They even had hot showers.  I was going to go for it until I heard someone shriek in horror: they had run out of hot water.  No thanks.

Our digs for the first night.  The theme of the night: Why the hell is my ski jacket in North Jay, Maine?

Breakfast: Two pancakes wrapped around bananas and smothered in chocolate sauce.  I almost ended the trek right there and moved in.

Brushing my teeth with a view of the canyon.  I think that I will paint a picture of a canyon over my mirror at home so that I can brush my teeth with a view of the canyon every morning.

I am confident that if had played my high school ball in this part of Peru I would have scored somewhere in the neighborhood of 54, 370 points by my senior year.

The German Invasion at Colca Canyon.  Can you find the under cover American?

This is the oasis that we spent much of the second day before the steep ascent out of the mountain.  It was as good as it looks.

Carlitos:  Español for “Coolest tour guide”

We stayed the final night in a hostel in the village called Cobaconde, which sits atop the canyon.  We had a nice meal then spent the evening in the local tavern with music and dancing to everything from salsa to a Nirvana.  Seeing people from Peru, Belgium, Germany, the States and England head bang and slam to “Smells Like Teen Spirit” is an image I won’t soon forget.

The next day we headed for Cruz de Condor, which is the area of the canyon that huge condors soar.  There are some pictures on the way of that.

AREQUIPA: Love What You’ve Done With The Place

I arrived in Arequipa and instantly was impressed with the place.  Southern Peru is quite sparse and very arid with deserts and barren landscapes around.  Arequipa is nestled at the foot of the snow capped volcano El Misti (a nice little 19,000 footer) that my English buddy wants to hike once he acclimates.  Apparantñy, only roughly forty percent of the climbers make it to the top because of altitude sickness so they have to go back down.

Cathedrals and mountains, they love their cathedrals and mountains.

The food here is cheap even though it has a solid tourism industry-  The ‘3.00′ you see on the menu is equal to one Amerian dollar and the plate is heaping over.  Tallarin de Pollo is what I had, which was spaghetti and chicken with some onions and peppers.  Some other words there lomo is beef, arroz is rice, and chaufa means fried rice (usually served cwith chicken.

It is in Arequipa that most people arrange a trip to the Colca Canyon, as well as other outdoor actvities like rafting, mountain bking and hikeing treks.  The night life here is quite lively, driven by ïsco sours, which is the local drink.  We went out to a place that had a salsa band with a bit of a hip hop feel to them.  Very good music.  They then turned it over to a DJ who played everything from Latin hip’hop and pop songs to Nirvana and Snoop Dogg.  Music is never easy to predict in this place. Sitting here writing I just heard the song “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun.”  I think I need more sleep.

LUIS.

Pimp my llama.  Luis was quite friendly, but if you dressed this well you would be inclined to be in a good mood as well.

NAZCA LINES: Lines in the Dirt

A small airplane took me flying above the Nazca Lines, geoglyphs that were believed to be built between 200 BC and 700 AD.  The lines create hundreds of animals and creatures that span acres of land and are found in a widespread area over the Nazca desert.

I had to pay $70 for a plane because it was high season, which is a Peruvian fortune.  My taxi driver talked to some Brittish girls who payed $100, so whether or not the story was true I still felt better about my $70 ticket.  The ride was a half an hour and traveled over the biggest and most imortant lines.

Our pilot was a friendly guy who pointed out the lines in Spanish and English.  The trip is not for the weak stomached. I usually have little trouble with motion sickness but towards the end I felt a little dodgy.  Apparently, a girl behind me was not so lucky, but managed a very covert vomit into the barf bag without anyone noticing except for her boyfriend who told me about it once we had deplaned.  She was appreciative.

It was an exhilirating ride.  The pilot made sure that both sides got equal viewing of each creature, which could only be done by dipping the plane steeply into a turn in a tight loop.  Good times.

I will never be too short to be a pilot.  This guy reminds me of an older version of Ponch from the show CHiPs, but with a plane instead of a motocycle.

GOT SAND?: Huacachina Says “Yup”

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I spent a night in a small mirage town called Huacachina, about four hours south of Lima.  It surrounds a small lagoon laden with palm trees and tourist places.  It used to be a Peruvian getaway for locals and has now been saturated by gringos who come namely for the sand boarding and insanely wild dune buggy rides the locals offer.

Huacachina is next to a decent sized town named Ica and so a short taxi ride takes you up the main ”road” up a massive sand dune and then drops you into the town.  From that initial dune there are some forty miles of dune extending westward to the ocean. 

For twelve American dollars you get two hours of sand boarding and dune buggy insanity.  They strap you in as if you’re heading to the moon and soon into the initial ascent up the sune I saw why.  The driver flies up and over and down and around the dunes like a he’s being chased, which makes me wonder what the ride would be like if he actually was being chased.  Perhaps that ride could be arranged by the hostel for a few extra soles that I would gladly pay. 

The real fun ones were the huge dunes that the driver climbed almost all the way to the top then cut the wheel hard and like a roller coaster you scream down the dune to “safety”.  I wanted to sit in the front but a couple of kids (ages 8 and 11, probably) had already staked them out and I was not feeling like fighting with children over the front seat.  i gave up the front seat battle years ago when my brother finally went to college and was not there to vicously rip me from the front seat while laughing like a depraved maniac.

Between spells of crazy buggy riding we would stop atop a big dune where we could ride the sand boards.  The sand boards were similar to snow boards only in that the word ‘board’ is found in both items.  Essentially, they were planks of four foot long, inch-thick wood with velcro straps for your feet.  If the sand was packed down you could get going well but some areas were a bit soft which made turning a nightmare.  I found the sand to be a somewhat softer landing than snow (depnding on the snow, of course), certainly warmer and more arid, but the taste is far worse than snow.  For the record, I did not voluntarily eat sand but when the velcro gives way in the middle of a turn, the diet tends to be sand upon landing.

Huacachine had little night life when I was there, due possibly to the fact that most of the town is trying to shower the sand out of their hair, ears, nose, mouth, etc.

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At this point I have no idea just how deep into you ear sand can go.

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SEISMIC ALARM CLOCK: Welcome to Arequipa

On Tuesday morning at about 4:15 I was jolted out of bed from a dead sleep, which is no easy task.  It usually requires either a high powered fire hose or an earthquake.  In this case it was an earthquake.  The room started rumbling and the bunk bed started thumping on the floor.  I jumped up and went out onto the balcony to see the palm tree outside the room swaying slightly.  Dogs barked wildy, and a few neighbors came out onto the street.

Really, the previous paragraph is all I can do to dress this up.  It was not a big tremor for these parts.  The rumor was that it was 5.5, but that was word of mouth. The first thought I had as things shook was last year’s devastating earthquake in Pisco that ranked in the high sevens, seismically speaking.  I wasn’t about to hang out under a bunk bed to compare notes with the people of Pisco.

My real alarm was set for quarter of five to start a three day trekand needless to say it was not needed.  Fresh off my first earthquake experience I was not exactly ready to rest.  The following three days I spent on a trek in the nearby Colca Canyon, which is deeper than the Grand Canyon.  I have now arrived back in Arequipa and plan tomorrow to post up in this internet cafe (which has quite impressive internet quickness) and get caught up.  I have an overnight bus to Cusco (homebase for Machu Piccu) tomorrow night with an English dude from my canyon trek.  Good guy, another teacher– for good or ill.  Stay tuned.

PERUVIAN SIDENOTE

Just finished sleeping the sleep I did not sleep on the overnight bus here at my hostel.  One quick thing to remember when packing for a Peruvian or any Latin American vacation, aside from all the typical items you need (passport, money, books, clothes, etc.)  one thing to avoid when planning a trip here is being 6′4″.  No good at all for traveling purposes.

But now that I am rested it is off to the plaza here in Arequipa to secure a three day trip into Colca Canyon, which apparently is twice as deep as the Grand Canyon.  I will also assume that there will be twice a few slow moving RV’s with satellite dishes than are found at the Grand Canyon.  “I aint go nowhere without being able to tune into FOX News 24/7, so I can keep up with their ‘fair and balanced reporting.’”

NOTES FROM NAZCA: Waiting for the Overnight Bus

I’m sitting in an internet cafe in Nazca, Peru, or maybe it’s Nasca–something with an ´N’ and a ‘CA’.  In a couple hours I will board an overnight bus to Arequipa.  My camera battery died as I turned it on to add pictures so there will be no images, simply some random thoughts.

1.  Sony camera batteries are rubbish.

2.  I mean big time rubbish.  And I am now over it.

3.  If anyone ever says let’s go sandboarding in Huacachina, Peru, the answer should be to the effect of ‘yes’.

4.  If anyone asks you to take a deep breath of Lima’s fresh air, the answer needs to be ‘no’.

5.  I have now heard “I Got My Mind Set On You” by George Harrison and “Summer of 69′” by Bryan Adams on two consecutive days.  Apparently, Hell’s radio station comes in down here in Peru.  (I think “Summer of ‘69″ was by Bryan Adams, but then again it really doesn’t matter).

6.  The guy sitting next to me in the internet cafe is definitely looking at girls in bikinis and saying, “Mmmmmm” just loud enough to be heard.  Not sure how many more random thoughts I can post.

7.  I am still not used to the @ sign being achieved by conveniently pressing the ‘Alt’, ‘Ctrl’,and ‘2′ buttons simultaneously.  Still don’t know what a ‘ç’ is.  Someone tell me so that I can use it in a sentence- that would make me a good writer.  I wonder if I could slide it into my posts here.  “We paid two soles and took a crowded Ç into the city center” or “That tour guide was a real son of a Ç, and I don’t give tips to no sons of Çs!”

8.  I met an llama today.  His name was Luis.

9.  The movie on the bus today was “The Never Ending Story 2″, which begs the question: can we please pass a law prohibiting movie sequels on busses?  Give me the Godfather II if you want to give me a sequel.  For tonight’s bus I’m putting my money on “Honey I Shrunk the Kids Again IV–Damn Am I Stupid” If I am lucky it will be at top volume.

10.  I bought shades and a wristwatch for four dollars here today.  Beat that Cafe Rick’s.  And for anyone unfamiliar with Cafe Rick’s check out this picture of the Western Maine convenience store and it may become clear.

11.  I’m trying to figure out mentally what time 19:54 is and how that relates to my upcoming bus departure.

12.  People in Peru are remarkably friendly and smile often.

13.  Riding in one of the tiny Daewoo taxis makes you think about things, like “What the hell is this seatbelt (that the drivers insist you wear to avoid fines) going to do if we get into an accident?  The only other thing that I know that Daewoo makes are televisions, and these cars about the same size as an average teleivion.  Next time you feel brave try flying around the crowded streets of Lima in a 25″ television on wheels.

14.  One of the Daewood television drivers I rode in cranked Michael Jackson’s “Beat It” for me to combat homesickness.  Thank you, Señor, just like at home.

Okay, this has to be it for now.  More later whem I get some photos on here.

WALKING THE LIMA: Meandering and Shooting

I spent much of the day walking around Miraflores.  Miraflores is the touristy part of Lima, though not touristy like you might imagine what ‘touristy’ looks like in the States.  You don’t see families dressed in matching t-shirts walking awkwardly around gawking at all the weird, foreign imagery around them.  But it is also not the place where seeing a gringo walk by would be of any surprise.

I walked, drew in the sketchbook, took some photos, checked out an art market, bopped into a supermarket, tried to convince a t-shirt vendor that a medium shirt would not workfor my non-medium frame, and got filled up with a huge plate of food for roughly $2.50.  (According to a Brittish girl here at the hostel I am staying at, I got ripped off.  She says I could have gotten the same thing in Bolivia for under a dollar).  But really, anything cheaper than Cafe Rick’s in Wilton is cheap to me.

Here are some thoughts and images:

This is where ‘el presidente’ lives.  He was not seeing visitors when we were there.  Apparently, running Peru takes up any free time he would have to  mingle with tourists.  I wonder if he has his own version of Crawford, Texas where he can go fishing and fix fence posts and eat barbeque ribs when the going gets tough.

Peruvian kids wear out the DDR (Dance, Dance Revolution) game in an arcade.  I didn’t see any Guitar Hero but  didn’t look too hard.  My tolerance for hanging out in an arcade is remarkably low if you can believe it.

Like myself, these fish were amazed at how bustling the local supermercado was.  Some products are markedly cheaper, such as a big roasted chickens with fries for three dollars that would feed a family.  Red Bull, though wuld cost you over $2.50 for a small can.

I wandered into an art market filled with some cool original art.  I may swing back through when I get to Lima again at the end of the trip.  It was cool seeing Peruvian art that wasn’t just touristy images such as Machu Piccu or alpacas wearing Peruvian soccer jerseys.

SLEEPY LIMA: Don´t Cue Up The Cypress Hill Just Yet

This morning I arrived in Lima, Peru on an overnight flight from Miami.  I had never taken a plane that was supposed to take off at two in the morning but this one did.  One thing that I will never be famous for is my ability to sleep on an airplane and I ensured that fate on this flight.  The in-flight movie was “Into the Wild” and after that I watched the sun rise over South America which while beautiful was a lot more slow moving than the movie. 

I was expecting a circus atmosphere at the airport at eight in the morning when we arrived as is the norm for most of the Latin American airports i have flown into.  Generally, you can expect something similar to a trip to Wal-Mart the day after Thanksgiving and a Spanish speaking stock market.  People yelling, hugging, haggling, selling..and seemingly the loudest wins.  I now realize that Los Angeles rap group Cypress Hill must have hung out in the Mexico City ariport for inspiration for the song “Insane in the Brain” and quite possibly for much of the rest of their music catalog as well.

This morning was different though.  I got my bag, was ushered through customs and all that greeted me were groups of people looking for their family and friends not at all interested in what a tall sleepy gringo was doing there.  I wandered over to an ATM wondering where the taxi guys were.  Taxi guys come in all shapes and sizes and with all different levels of intensity.  Sometimes they will try to grab your bags for you,¨”Amigo, amigo thees way for taxi…”, sometimes they will even mention what hotel to check out, like a human Hotwire search (only with a tip expected). 

But this morning, an older gentleman sauntered over to me as I finished up with the ATM and said very sheepishly and politely, “¿Senor, necesias un taxi?”  Sir, do you need a taxi?  He didn’t even come with some line, or drop the ‘amigo’ bomb on me.  Just a nice taxi driver.  A half hour later I was checking into a hotel for some much needed sleep.

FOUR HARDCORE AUTHORS: And Why They’re Worth A Look (PART IV)

PART FOUR

HUNTER S. THOMPSON

“Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas”, “Hell’s Angels”, “Generation of Swine”, & “Rum Diaries”

At a friend’s place sometime after high school graduation someone put on the movie “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas” during a family get together. I was intrigued by Johnny Depp’s portrayal of this zany, crazy writer named Thompson. This is not to say that I wanted to drive 120 MPH through the desert on a head full of hallucinogens, by any means. But what struck me was that amid all the craziness here was this writer covering a motorcycle race in Las Vegas and it ends up being a book about finding the American Dream.  I knew I need to read the book as soon as possible.  And downhill it went from there…

I had a writing teacher in high school named Mr. Perry. He was a great teacher, but one I wished I’d had later in life when I was more committed to writing. One of his mantras was “No one gives a damn about the writer.” The idea behind the phrase being that people want interesting subject matter so keep the focus off yourself as the writer. Essentially, stay on point. That is advice well heeded for many contexts of writing.

No writer breaks that rule so thoroughly and as entertaining as Hunter S. Thompson. Regardless of the topic, his books and articles take on an adventurous, fast-living insanity that Dr.Thompson thrived on and maintained for years as a daily lifestyle. Whether he’s covering a Super Bowl or the fabulous Mint 400 motorcycle race in Vegas, rarely are the events themselves worth noting. Instead the reader is engrossed in what type of craziness Thompson conjures up amidst his coverage.

What I like about his work is that he put himself in his work so that you were interested both in the concept of his work as well as what he contributes to the action. My favorite book of his, that exemplifies this to a ‘T” is “Hells Angels”

What made Thompson fit into this category of hardcore writers is not his well documented drug appetite or his gun collection.  Though not as dangerous as some of Robert Young Pelton’s adventures becoming an honorary Hells Angel can’t be too far off. That is what Thompson became for most of 1966. He rode with them, partied with them, flipped his bike, and even got stomped by them and documented the whole thing from a perspective until then (and probably still) never witnessed by mainstream America.

Hell’s Angels is very genuine reporting of the notorious motor cycle gang. He does not paint them as sort completely misunderstood, lovely group of young men who just have a bad rap with the law. He tells it as it is; that Hell’s Angels is notorious for a reason and there are some hardened criminals within. But he also touches on the history of the group, the demographic of the group and their origins.

He was a master at covering not just an event, but the scene surrounding the event. He has done this with Super Bowls, the Kentucky Derby, and numerous political campaigns and in doing so he transcends simply physical observation, but ties these events into how it represents American culture, for better or worse.

Hunter S. Thompson and his brash, free-wheeling style of writing is missed since his death in 2005.  Appropriately, his ashes he were shot out of a canon on his property near Aspen, Colorado.