Okay, three new stories from my Inca trail hike. Yes, that was weeks ago. I am trying to catch up. Unfortunately the internet connection here is ridiculously slow so uploading the pictures has been a chore. I hope to have the pics to go along with the stories up tomorrow. Sorry for the wait. Use your imagination until then. I also plan to have the final story from that trip, and a couple of more since, posted tomorrow. I am trying to take advantage of having a laptop at the house.
As for the current situation, Tarija has been very relaxing. During the day. At night I am usually out until the sun comes up. It`s exhausting. Bars, clubs, late dinners. This family knows how to party. They also love their wine. I am trying to keep up with all the toasts. I can`t. Tonight I have to get a full night`s rest because the next 48 hours will be non-stop partying for new years and grandpa`s birthday.
Sunday, December 30, 2007
The Gringo Killer and Excellent Views of…..Clouds
On the third day I was feeling really good. No symptoms of altitude sickness. In fact, I was feeling so good I decided to change into a clean pair of underwear. With no showers along the way, I felt no need to change them before now.
The third day is the longest. We were told it has the best views and the most ruins. Unfortunately we were also in the beginning of the rainy season and those views were obstructed by clouds all along the trail.
We set off from camp at 6:30am and hiked uphill for an hour. It was a grueling start to the day. Although clouds were everywhere, the view of the Andes during the first hour was incredible and it was hard to keep my eyes on the path. When we reached the first Inca ruins of the day, the round ruins of Runkuracay, everyone was ready for a break. From these ruins the view of the valley below is sweeping. Or so we were told. All we could see were clouds and fog.
After our disappointing view we continued up another 45 minutes until we reached the trail’s second highest peak. All that climbing before 9am. But for the rest of the day it was all downhill on original Inca steps: the Gringo Killers.
We came to the ruins of Sayacmarca after descending a tight Inca staircase built along the side of a cliff. The name of the ruins means “Inaccessible Town” and it was clear why. Apart from the trail that led into it on one side, it was surrounded on the other three by sheer cliffs. With two other groups arriving at the same time and rain starting to fall, walking into the ruins was tricky. But once we were inside the ruins we got a chance to rest as we listened to a lecture on different aspects of Inca engineering. Why trapezoid windows were used, which buildings used the best stone work and why others didn’t, and why the Incas built in such inaccessible places.
From there we made our way down into the cloud forest. Raincoats were pulled out of backpacks and a bit more caution was used as the rain picked up and we started descending Inca stairs. We made our way slowly down the Gringo Killer. We couldn’t see the impressive views but the cloud forest itself provided plenty to look at. One of the American girls was having a tough time with the stairs; her knees and ankles were flaring up and she was leaning heavily on her walking sticks. I slowed down to walk with her and the older guy. As she went down some of the trickier stairs, I held her backpack in case she slipped. Though it was me that that was slipping most often. Slowing down gave me a chance to take in the trail and the surroundings. The forest was full of orchids and other flowers. Those colors were a nice addition to the solid green of the Andes. Even the original Inca stairs, hundreds of them, were impressive to look at. At one point we had to pass through an Inca tunnel carved into the rock. It was nice to stroll leasurely instead of barrelling down the path.
Finally, later in the afternoon and quite wet, we found ourselves in front of a huge terraced set of ruins. Our guide walked with the three of us down through the ruins explaining that the Incas were masters of agriculture and used the terraces to grow different plants and foods and different altitudes. The site, I`m sure, would have been much more impressive were we able to see it all at once. But with all the clouds and fog we basically saw whatever portion we were standing in. Still, it was one of the biggest sites we had seen so far.
Around 4:45 we arrived at our final camp grounds. This was luxury. There were showers (okay, not luxury, but running water from a tap was nice to see again), a small "club house" and beer. Cold beer. When I discovered the showers were hot, I paid the few dollars and washed the Inca trail off me. I got dressed in the clean clothes I had been saving for the last day. I smelled good again. Or at least I didn`t smell bad. Then I found everyone in the club house downing cold beers. It only took one grande to set me straight.
Dinner was served around 7pm. Our final dinner was topped off with the porters presenting us with a cake and congratulating us for making it this far. They all came in the dining tent and sang us a traditional song. We, in turn, thanked them for all their hard work and for clapping each time we finished the day`s hike.
And then we went back for more beer. Seriously, nothing is finer than a cold beer after hiking for three days. We stayed in the club house until 10pm, the latest we had stayed up thus far. We played more card games, we got a little tipsy, we enjoyed the fact that most of us were clean again. And then, running through the rain, we went back to our tents, excited for what was to come the next morning: Machu Picchu.
The third day is the longest. We were told it has the best views and the most ruins. Unfortunately we were also in the beginning of the rainy season and those views were obstructed by clouds all along the trail.
We set off from camp at 6:30am and hiked uphill for an hour. It was a grueling start to the day. Although clouds were everywhere, the view of the Andes during the first hour was incredible and it was hard to keep my eyes on the path. When we reached the first Inca ruins of the day, the round ruins of Runkuracay, everyone was ready for a break. From these ruins the view of the valley below is sweeping. Or so we were told. All we could see were clouds and fog.
After our disappointing view we continued up another 45 minutes until we reached the trail’s second highest peak. All that climbing before 9am. But for the rest of the day it was all downhill on original Inca steps: the Gringo Killers.
We came to the ruins of Sayacmarca after descending a tight Inca staircase built along the side of a cliff. The name of the ruins means “Inaccessible Town” and it was clear why. Apart from the trail that led into it on one side, it was surrounded on the other three by sheer cliffs. With two other groups arriving at the same time and rain starting to fall, walking into the ruins was tricky. But once we were inside the ruins we got a chance to rest as we listened to a lecture on different aspects of Inca engineering. Why trapezoid windows were used, which buildings used the best stone work and why others didn’t, and why the Incas built in such inaccessible places.
From there we made our way down into the cloud forest. Raincoats were pulled out of backpacks and a bit more caution was used as the rain picked up and we started descending Inca stairs. We made our way slowly down the Gringo Killer. We couldn’t see the impressive views but the cloud forest itself provided plenty to look at. One of the American girls was having a tough time with the stairs; her knees and ankles were flaring up and she was leaning heavily on her walking sticks. I slowed down to walk with her and the older guy. As she went down some of the trickier stairs, I held her backpack in case she slipped. Though it was me that that was slipping most often. Slowing down gave me a chance to take in the trail and the surroundings. The forest was full of orchids and other flowers. Those colors were a nice addition to the solid green of the Andes. Even the original Inca stairs, hundreds of them, were impressive to look at. At one point we had to pass through an Inca tunnel carved into the rock. It was nice to stroll leasurely instead of barrelling down the path.
Finally, later in the afternoon and quite wet, we found ourselves in front of a huge terraced set of ruins. Our guide walked with the three of us down through the ruins explaining that the Incas were masters of agriculture and used the terraces to grow different plants and foods and different altitudes. The site, I`m sure, would have been much more impressive were we able to see it all at once. But with all the clouds and fog we basically saw whatever portion we were standing in. Still, it was one of the biggest sites we had seen so far.
Around 4:45 we arrived at our final camp grounds. This was luxury. There were showers (okay, not luxury, but running water from a tap was nice to see again), a small "club house" and beer. Cold beer. When I discovered the showers were hot, I paid the few dollars and washed the Inca trail off me. I got dressed in the clean clothes I had been saving for the last day. I smelled good again. Or at least I didn`t smell bad. Then I found everyone in the club house downing cold beers. It only took one grande to set me straight.
Dinner was served around 7pm. Our final dinner was topped off with the porters presenting us with a cake and congratulating us for making it this far. They all came in the dining tent and sang us a traditional song. We, in turn, thanked them for all their hard work and for clapping each time we finished the day`s hike.
And then we went back for more beer. Seriously, nothing is finer than a cold beer after hiking for three days. We stayed in the club house until 10pm, the latest we had stayed up thus far. We played more card games, we got a little tipsy, we enjoyed the fact that most of us were clean again. And then, running through the rain, we went back to our tents, excited for what was to come the next morning: Machu Picchu.
Dead Woman’s Pass Kicked My Ass
The second day of the Inca trail is notoriously known as the hardest day. The morning is spent climbing to the highest point of the trail, Dead Woman’s Pass, at 12,600 feet. And it is a steep climb. No one was looking forward to the climb.
The guide came to each of our tents at 5:30am, along with a porter carrying a tray of coca tea, to wake us up. We all groggily made our way to the dining tent for breakfast. Most everyone agreed they slept well. Though one girl did say she went to the bathrooms in the middle of the night and they were crawling with tarantulas. The bathrooms were disgusting and I felt badly for the girls who had to squat. The smell alone was enough to make us get our business done quickly. I caught one of the American girls vomiting shortly after exiting – the smell being too much for her.
I had gone to a pharmacy in Cuzco and bought what I thought was altitude medicine for the trek. The pharmacist didn’t speak English and I tired to describe what I wanted as best I could in Spanish. What she gave me seemed odd, and studying it later, I decided it was meant to go in the mouth between the lower lip and gums. I tasted a corner of it and found it very bitter, but thought nothing more of it at the time. Now, on the second day of the trail, I decided to try one before we started our hike in order to offset any coming symptoms. But first I asked my guide how to take it. After looking at it, he gave me a puzzled look and asked what I was using the medication for again. I explained I bought it at a pharmacy to alleviate altitude sickness. He grinned broadly, took it from me, and shouted something in Spanish to some of the porters, who started to laugh. He then informed me I had bought lip balm. Clearly my Spanish is not getting any better. He felt badly about making fun of me and gave me two real altitude sickness pills. The porters continued to point and laugh.
At 6:30am we started our hike. We were immediately hit with a grueling uphill climb. People had the option of hiring locals from the tiny village to carry their packs to the next destination and three of the girls did just this. The steep climb was tough even for the locals. They seemed to stop and rest just as often as we did. I was doing much better today, generally staying near the front of our group as we plugged uphill through the cloud forest. My heart was beating fast but I was able to keep my breathing steady as long as I didn’t stop to rest very often. Even when the group stopped for the longer breaks, I decided not to stay put for too long. It was always difficult to get going again.
The hike through the woods was beautiful. The trail followed a stream most of the time and there were little waterfalls along the way. There was also a dog that seemed to belong to one of the hired locals walking the trail. He was bounding along the trail with no sign of exertion. I hated that dog.
Finally we made it through the forest and into a clearing. The trail seemed to go straight up. And it got tougher. I was now starting to breath really heavy with each step. I kept pushing on, trying to keep pace with one of the girls from Holland several feet in front of me. Occasionally I would take a quick stop to catch my breath. But never for too long. The longer I stopped the harder it was to get going again. I eventually came to what I thought was a peak – not the peak, but hopefully close to it. Two French dudes were resting there. We nodded in quiet agreement at the difficulty of the trail. As I walked around them and the peak, I discovered I was nowhere close to the peak. Dead Woman’s Pass was much further up. I whimpered.
On I went. I caught up with a few others from the group. We urged each other on. The peak never seemed to get any closer, but the trail seemed to get increasingly tougher. Our guide had warned us that the last twenty minutes would be the toughest. He wasn’t lying. I struggled, pausing every few minutes to catch my breath. At the peak I could see other trekkers watching us climb. It didn’t help. I cursed them in my head, smug in their sense of completion.
And then I climbed the last step. I had made it to the top, to Dead Woman’s Pass. Where is a rock to sit on? Screw it, I dropped to the ground. And watched the others struggle up the last 20 minutes, knowing they were silently cursing me.
Eventually everyone made it to the top. We congratulated one another and took a group picture. The hardest part of the trek was behind us. Then the guide informed us that the third day is called the Gringo Killer, even though it is all down hill. Actually that is why it is called the Gringo Killer: the steep steps going downhill are really tough on the knees. Awesome.
No matter. The legs could suffer now. My lungs no longer had to. The rest of the day’s trail was downhill to the next campsite. Straight downhill. I walked it mostly alone. Others had rushed on after the group picture as I stayed back and took in the view. It was a nice walk down. Quiet. A time for reflection. Though I mainly just reflected on the blister forming on my little toe.
Early in the afternoon I arrived at our campsite to more clapping. I waved appreciatively and picked a tent to pass out in. Thirty minutes later I was woken up for lunch, but I wasn’t very hungry. I ate a bit of the soup and excused myself to head back to the tent where I slept for two and a half hours.
Dinner was preceded and followed by more card games. Everyone seemed jovial at having put Dead Woman’s Pass behind them. Even the light rain didn’t seem to dampen the high spirit of the evening. We stayed up talking a bit later this night. And when I finally went to bed, I fell asleep immediately. The Gringo Killer was up ahead, but I wasn’t worried. I had conquered Dead Woman’s Pass. And with it, the fear of not finishing the trail.
The guide came to each of our tents at 5:30am, along with a porter carrying a tray of coca tea, to wake us up. We all groggily made our way to the dining tent for breakfast. Most everyone agreed they slept well. Though one girl did say she went to the bathrooms in the middle of the night and they were crawling with tarantulas. The bathrooms were disgusting and I felt badly for the girls who had to squat. The smell alone was enough to make us get our business done quickly. I caught one of the American girls vomiting shortly after exiting – the smell being too much for her.
I had gone to a pharmacy in Cuzco and bought what I thought was altitude medicine for the trek. The pharmacist didn’t speak English and I tired to describe what I wanted as best I could in Spanish. What she gave me seemed odd, and studying it later, I decided it was meant to go in the mouth between the lower lip and gums. I tasted a corner of it and found it very bitter, but thought nothing more of it at the time. Now, on the second day of the trail, I decided to try one before we started our hike in order to offset any coming symptoms. But first I asked my guide how to take it. After looking at it, he gave me a puzzled look and asked what I was using the medication for again. I explained I bought it at a pharmacy to alleviate altitude sickness. He grinned broadly, took it from me, and shouted something in Spanish to some of the porters, who started to laugh. He then informed me I had bought lip balm. Clearly my Spanish is not getting any better. He felt badly about making fun of me and gave me two real altitude sickness pills. The porters continued to point and laugh.
At 6:30am we started our hike. We were immediately hit with a grueling uphill climb. People had the option of hiring locals from the tiny village to carry their packs to the next destination and three of the girls did just this. The steep climb was tough even for the locals. They seemed to stop and rest just as often as we did. I was doing much better today, generally staying near the front of our group as we plugged uphill through the cloud forest. My heart was beating fast but I was able to keep my breathing steady as long as I didn’t stop to rest very often. Even when the group stopped for the longer breaks, I decided not to stay put for too long. It was always difficult to get going again.
The hike through the woods was beautiful. The trail followed a stream most of the time and there were little waterfalls along the way. There was also a dog that seemed to belong to one of the hired locals walking the trail. He was bounding along the trail with no sign of exertion. I hated that dog.
Finally we made it through the forest and into a clearing. The trail seemed to go straight up. And it got tougher. I was now starting to breath really heavy with each step. I kept pushing on, trying to keep pace with one of the girls from Holland several feet in front of me. Occasionally I would take a quick stop to catch my breath. But never for too long. The longer I stopped the harder it was to get going again. I eventually came to what I thought was a peak – not the peak, but hopefully close to it. Two French dudes were resting there. We nodded in quiet agreement at the difficulty of the trail. As I walked around them and the peak, I discovered I was nowhere close to the peak. Dead Woman’s Pass was much further up. I whimpered.
On I went. I caught up with a few others from the group. We urged each other on. The peak never seemed to get any closer, but the trail seemed to get increasingly tougher. Our guide had warned us that the last twenty minutes would be the toughest. He wasn’t lying. I struggled, pausing every few minutes to catch my breath. At the peak I could see other trekkers watching us climb. It didn’t help. I cursed them in my head, smug in their sense of completion.
And then I climbed the last step. I had made it to the top, to Dead Woman’s Pass. Where is a rock to sit on? Screw it, I dropped to the ground. And watched the others struggle up the last 20 minutes, knowing they were silently cursing me.
Eventually everyone made it to the top. We congratulated one another and took a group picture. The hardest part of the trek was behind us. Then the guide informed us that the third day is called the Gringo Killer, even though it is all down hill. Actually that is why it is called the Gringo Killer: the steep steps going downhill are really tough on the knees. Awesome.
No matter. The legs could suffer now. My lungs no longer had to. The rest of the day’s trail was downhill to the next campsite. Straight downhill. I walked it mostly alone. Others had rushed on after the group picture as I stayed back and took in the view. It was a nice walk down. Quiet. A time for reflection. Though I mainly just reflected on the blister forming on my little toe.
Early in the afternoon I arrived at our campsite to more clapping. I waved appreciatively and picked a tent to pass out in. Thirty minutes later I was woken up for lunch, but I wasn’t very hungry. I ate a bit of the soup and excused myself to head back to the tent where I slept for two and a half hours.
Dinner was preceded and followed by more card games. Everyone seemed jovial at having put Dead Woman’s Pass behind them. Even the light rain didn’t seem to dampen the high spirit of the evening. We stayed up talking a bit later this night. And when I finally went to bed, I fell asleep immediately. The Gringo Killer was up ahead, but I wasn’t worried. I had conquered Dead Woman’s Pass. And with it, the fear of not finishing the trail.
Conquering the Inca Trail to Machu Picchu (Just Barely)
I purposefully arrived in Cuzco four days before my Inca trail hike to Machu Picchu to have plenty of time to acclimatize. I had read that the hardest part of the hike was the altitude and that it is best to arrive at least a couple days early so the body can adjust.
But the night before my hike I was still getting winded just walking up the stairs to my hostel. I attempted to walk up and down those stairs several times to get used to the exertion. But midway through the second attempt I was breathing so heavily and my heart pounding so fiercely that I had to pause for 10 minutes just to make it back to the hostel and call it quits. I was growing increasingly worried about doing the trek. How could I possibly make it through the 26 miles that reach an altitude almost twice that of Cuzco’s if I couldn’t even climb the stairs leading to my hostel? The two all-night drinking outings sure weren’t helping matters.
Monday morning I woke to my watch alarm at 5:15. I had packed everything up for the trip the previous night, and so I needed only to collect everything quietly in my dorm room of nine other sleeping bodies and head down to the hostel entrance where the trekking company would pick me up. There were several others waiting at the entrance, most leaving for the Inca trail as well. All looked to be in great shape. I quietly prayed the bus picking us up would stop at a gloriously over-priced, luxury hotel where a few obese Americans were waiting to join our group. I needed some one to keep pace with.
Those obese Americans never materialized. Though we did pick up five other Americans – five girlfriends doing the trek together – they all seemed to be in pretty good health. Sigh.
The bus drove to the small town of Ollantaytambo where we would stop for breakfast before driving on the trail head. Along the way we stopped, seemingly in the middle of nowhere, to pick up our 22 porters. They were all vibrantly full of energy. I tried guessing which ones would be selected to carry me back to town when I could no longer push on. As soon as the bus arrived in town, local vendors swarmed us. We were mobbed as we tried to make our way to the restaurant for breakfast. People were selling wide-brimmed hats, walking sticks with little indigenous weaved handgrips, coca leaves, and, of course, water. Always water. We all pushed through the disappointed vendors on to the restaurant, completely missing the huge Inca fortress perched on the hill above. I would see this when I returned on my Sacred Valley tour later in the week.
Breakfast was rushed, but gave us our first chance to meet each other. There were five architects from Ireland, all around my age. They would prove to be the most fun of the group (the Irish always are). Two girls were from Holland, both young students. Both were much taller than me. One guy, an Indian from Singapore, was a college professor and also the oldest of the group at around 40. He would be sharing my tent during the trek. Two girls were from England, both on their sixth month of a two-year jaunt around the world. And there were the five American girls, all friends or relatives of each other, from Chicago, Seattle, and L.A., and all in their 30s. All would prove entertaining in their own way along the trail.
After breakfast the bus took us to the trail head where we were again mobbed by local vendors selling the same things as in the village. They had more luck this time as people went through their bags and discovered they were lacking several crucial items. I debated getting the wide-brimmed hat, but decided against it once I saw what it looked like on one of the other guys. My UNC baseball cap would do.
Finally, we noticed all the porters had already departed and our guide announced it was time for us to do the same. After a group picture at the trail head marker, we moved on to passport check and our guide paid our trail fees. They even had a stamp for our passports. Now every country’s immigration control will know I did the Inca trail. This was also the first time anyone from our group, including the Americans, had seen the new U.S. passport (compliments of me). There were several ooohs and aaahs. And jokes. It’s so patriotic.
On we moved across the Vilcanota River and up a fairly steep trail. The views were breath-takingly stunning; walking through the Andes was going to be a treat in itself. We followed the trail along the river, high enough now to look down at it and out over the mountains. In the distance was the snow-capped peak of Veronica Mountain at 17580 feet, which reminded some one of the story of three British climbers who trekked the Andes without a guide – one getting hurt so badly he was almost left for dead. I tried my best not to think about it any further.
My heart was beating pretty quickly, but my breathing was steady. I could even almost hold a two-sided conversation about college basketball and world soccer teams. Though, admittedly, the conversation was mostly one-sided as I concentrated on breathing. But over all I was doing much better than expected.
After some time we came to our first Inca ruins: the Inca hillfort of Huillca Raccay. Not all that impressive. But from here we could see the huge Inca ruins of Llactapata in the valley below. Apparently used as an agricultural station to supply Machu Picchu, Llactapata was comprised of over 100 buildings and houses for workers and soldiers. It was an amazing site from high above the valley. And it was also our first chance for a solid rest as our guide described what we were looking at. I needed it. We had just done a long, steep climb and I was exhausted. I had watched incredulously as porters practically jogged past me carrying five times the weight of my own bag. And most were doing it wearing simple sandals made of old tires.
When it was time to start moving again, we were finally going downhill. But I suddenly had a severe and pounding headache. And my stomach was churning. The altitude was taking a toll. I kept moving along the trail, but talked very little even as the rest of the group seemed to be doing fine. We eventually stopped, not a moment too soon, at a site for lunch. The porters already had everything set up when we arrived. A large tent with tables and stools was the center point – lunch was soup followed by a chicken and rice dish and tea. I was just expecting to have sandwiches while sitting on the grass. But my headache was too intense and I had no appetite. I quietly got up from the table and went out to lie down in the grass. I started to go over different scenarios in my head of how I would be taken back to the trail head.
Apparently one of the American gals had just arrived in Peru the day before and the altitude was kicking her butt too. She was lying out in the grass as well. Another American gal walked over and, noticing how bad I looked, offered some maximum strength Tylenol. Now normally I am opposed to taking any kind of medication, no matter how badly I feel. I am kinda silly that way. I took three.
Twenty minutes later I was practically bouncing down the trail.
That afternoon at 3:30 we arrived at the tiny village of Wayllabamba where we were camping for the night. Again, the porters had everything set up when we arrived. And as we made our way towards the campsite, the porters, all lined up, welcomed us with applause for completing our first day. We all dropped in an open space near the tents and took in the views of the mountains in the distance and the ducks, chickens, and donkeys walking (and waddling) around us. Wayllabamba was a farming village after all.
There was a woman selling Cokes and Gatorades and different chocolate bars. Everyone was a customer. At tea time (yes, we had tea time) in the large dining tent our guide taught us card games. We played until it was time for dinner. Then we played some more. Around 8:30 when the guide suggested we go to sleep, no one argued. The sky was clear and full of more stars than seemed possible. I was tempted to sleep out under them. But the guide, at just that moment, mentioned the need to take a flashlight to the bathroom in order to look for tarantulas before popping a squat. Into my tent I went. I had no problem falling asleep after my first day on the Inca trail.
But the night before my hike I was still getting winded just walking up the stairs to my hostel. I attempted to walk up and down those stairs several times to get used to the exertion. But midway through the second attempt I was breathing so heavily and my heart pounding so fiercely that I had to pause for 10 minutes just to make it back to the hostel and call it quits. I was growing increasingly worried about doing the trek. How could I possibly make it through the 26 miles that reach an altitude almost twice that of Cuzco’s if I couldn’t even climb the stairs leading to my hostel? The two all-night drinking outings sure weren’t helping matters.
Monday morning I woke to my watch alarm at 5:15. I had packed everything up for the trip the previous night, and so I needed only to collect everything quietly in my dorm room of nine other sleeping bodies and head down to the hostel entrance where the trekking company would pick me up. There were several others waiting at the entrance, most leaving for the Inca trail as well. All looked to be in great shape. I quietly prayed the bus picking us up would stop at a gloriously over-priced, luxury hotel where a few obese Americans were waiting to join our group. I needed some one to keep pace with.
Those obese Americans never materialized. Though we did pick up five other Americans – five girlfriends doing the trek together – they all seemed to be in pretty good health. Sigh.
The bus drove to the small town of Ollantaytambo where we would stop for breakfast before driving on the trail head. Along the way we stopped, seemingly in the middle of nowhere, to pick up our 22 porters. They were all vibrantly full of energy. I tried guessing which ones would be selected to carry me back to town when I could no longer push on. As soon as the bus arrived in town, local vendors swarmed us. We were mobbed as we tried to make our way to the restaurant for breakfast. People were selling wide-brimmed hats, walking sticks with little indigenous weaved handgrips, coca leaves, and, of course, water. Always water. We all pushed through the disappointed vendors on to the restaurant, completely missing the huge Inca fortress perched on the hill above. I would see this when I returned on my Sacred Valley tour later in the week.
Breakfast was rushed, but gave us our first chance to meet each other. There were five architects from Ireland, all around my age. They would prove to be the most fun of the group (the Irish always are). Two girls were from Holland, both young students. Both were much taller than me. One guy, an Indian from Singapore, was a college professor and also the oldest of the group at around 40. He would be sharing my tent during the trek. Two girls were from England, both on their sixth month of a two-year jaunt around the world. And there were the five American girls, all friends or relatives of each other, from Chicago, Seattle, and L.A., and all in their 30s. All would prove entertaining in their own way along the trail.
After breakfast the bus took us to the trail head where we were again mobbed by local vendors selling the same things as in the village. They had more luck this time as people went through their bags and discovered they were lacking several crucial items. I debated getting the wide-brimmed hat, but decided against it once I saw what it looked like on one of the other guys. My UNC baseball cap would do.
Finally, we noticed all the porters had already departed and our guide announced it was time for us to do the same. After a group picture at the trail head marker, we moved on to passport check and our guide paid our trail fees. They even had a stamp for our passports. Now every country’s immigration control will know I did the Inca trail. This was also the first time anyone from our group, including the Americans, had seen the new U.S. passport (compliments of me). There were several ooohs and aaahs. And jokes. It’s so patriotic.
On we moved across the Vilcanota River and up a fairly steep trail. The views were breath-takingly stunning; walking through the Andes was going to be a treat in itself. We followed the trail along the river, high enough now to look down at it and out over the mountains. In the distance was the snow-capped peak of Veronica Mountain at 17580 feet, which reminded some one of the story of three British climbers who trekked the Andes without a guide – one getting hurt so badly he was almost left for dead. I tried my best not to think about it any further.
My heart was beating pretty quickly, but my breathing was steady. I could even almost hold a two-sided conversation about college basketball and world soccer teams. Though, admittedly, the conversation was mostly one-sided as I concentrated on breathing. But over all I was doing much better than expected.
After some time we came to our first Inca ruins: the Inca hillfort of Huillca Raccay. Not all that impressive. But from here we could see the huge Inca ruins of Llactapata in the valley below. Apparently used as an agricultural station to supply Machu Picchu, Llactapata was comprised of over 100 buildings and houses for workers and soldiers. It was an amazing site from high above the valley. And it was also our first chance for a solid rest as our guide described what we were looking at. I needed it. We had just done a long, steep climb and I was exhausted. I had watched incredulously as porters practically jogged past me carrying five times the weight of my own bag. And most were doing it wearing simple sandals made of old tires.
When it was time to start moving again, we were finally going downhill. But I suddenly had a severe and pounding headache. And my stomach was churning. The altitude was taking a toll. I kept moving along the trail, but talked very little even as the rest of the group seemed to be doing fine. We eventually stopped, not a moment too soon, at a site for lunch. The porters already had everything set up when we arrived. A large tent with tables and stools was the center point – lunch was soup followed by a chicken and rice dish and tea. I was just expecting to have sandwiches while sitting on the grass. But my headache was too intense and I had no appetite. I quietly got up from the table and went out to lie down in the grass. I started to go over different scenarios in my head of how I would be taken back to the trail head.
Apparently one of the American gals had just arrived in Peru the day before and the altitude was kicking her butt too. She was lying out in the grass as well. Another American gal walked over and, noticing how bad I looked, offered some maximum strength Tylenol. Now normally I am opposed to taking any kind of medication, no matter how badly I feel. I am kinda silly that way. I took three.
Twenty minutes later I was practically bouncing down the trail.
That afternoon at 3:30 we arrived at the tiny village of Wayllabamba where we were camping for the night. Again, the porters had everything set up when we arrived. And as we made our way towards the campsite, the porters, all lined up, welcomed us with applause for completing our first day. We all dropped in an open space near the tents and took in the views of the mountains in the distance and the ducks, chickens, and donkeys walking (and waddling) around us. Wayllabamba was a farming village after all.
There was a woman selling Cokes and Gatorades and different chocolate bars. Everyone was a customer. At tea time (yes, we had tea time) in the large dining tent our guide taught us card games. We played until it was time for dinner. Then we played some more. Around 8:30 when the guide suggested we go to sleep, no one argued. The sky was clear and full of more stars than seemed possible. I was tempted to sleep out under them. But the guide, at just that moment, mentioned the need to take a flashlight to the bathroom in order to look for tarantulas before popping a squat. Into my tent I went. I had no problem falling asleep after my first day on the Inca trail.
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
Now Where Was I?
When I left off last, I think I was recovering from a night out in Cusco. The day after recovering from that night out, I decided to sign up for a couple of tours in order to say I did something productive in Cusco.
After an early breakfast at the party hostal, I went to the tour office they had on site to see what was offered. I wanted to see the Sacred Valley (several Inca ruins sites) and so I signed up for that tour for Sunday, the day before the Inca trail to Machu Picchu. Figured it would get me ready for the the big site. As the guy at the tour desk was filling out the paper work for that tour, I noticed another tour that took people around the city. There was one leaving that day at 1:30pm. Sounded like a good way to get an overview of what was around me, so I signed up for that as well. The guy told me to head to the main tour agency office in town and a bus would pick me up just before 1:30.
I walked into town and did a little site-seeing on my own, still feeling guilty for wasting the day before. Around noon I stopped at a restaurant hoping to get some of the chicken I swore I heard Peru was famous for. I got chicken, but it wasn`t worthy of being famous.
Just before 1:30 I walked over to the tour agency. It was closed for the afternoon siesta. Not knowing exactly how to pick up my tour, I just sat on the front steps in hopes the bus would pull up. 10 minutes later it did.
Turned out not to be so much a tour of the city, as a tour of some of the oldest parts of the Cusco area. Our first stop was the Inca Temple of the Sun. Or what was left of it. The Spanished destroyed it and a new religious building was placed on top of the foundation. Most of the tour centered around what was left of that foundatation. The place was mobbed with tourists that all seemed to have arrived with a tour group. We had to wait in line to see everything. And the local venders were well aware of the tourist haven possibilities. Local vendors were everywhere, selling everything. You could even get your pic with little indigenous kids in costumes, holding little lambs. The whole thing didn`t end quickly enough.
Next we moved on to the large church in the city`s center plaza. The highlight of this tour was being told it was the third largest church in the Americas. Not sure if that is true. But the church also held a crucified Jesus that was apparently brought out years ago when Cusco was suffering continuous earthquakes. The crucifix was paraded out in the main square to much fan fare and the earthquakes ceased. Now the "Earthquake Jesus" has a special place in the church. Sorry, no photography was allowed.
Next it was time to tour the nearby Inca sites. The first, pronounced sexy woman, was interesting and I think everyone dug being able to walk around it and see the views of Cusco just below (see discriptions of the sites on my picutre site). Also, taking pics with some costumed indigenous women and their llamas was a highlight. But this was also about the point that I had time to start chatting up other people on my tour. There were two gals from the States: one from Chicago and the other from DC. We got to talking and I discovered the one worked at the Newseum. Then I met two girls from Hong Kong; both had gone to school in L.A. And finally I met a guy from L.A. and another from Brazil.
Since the next two sites weren`t nearly as interesting and we were all seeming to suffer the effects of the altitude, conversing really took off (as the sites were seemingly ignored). Even more so when we were dropped off at a souvenir shop (not on the agenda, but always expected - guide`s gotta make a commision somehow).
As the bus brought us back to Cusco, talk moved to what to do that night. I hadn`t showered all day and was eager to get back to the hostal to at least drop off my backpack (which carried all the things suggested may be needed - but weren`t). But people were hungry now and didn`t want to wait for the one guy who was staying way back up on the hill. So I offered to do dinner and then bid an early good-night. The guy from L.A. and the other from Brazil had discovered a great restaurant the previous night and were eager to go back. We all followed them as they led us down street after street, at times the same streets multiple times. After killing 40 minutes and not finding the restaurant (they said the streets looked different at night), we decided to just follow one of the many guys selling various menus on the street. The restaurant was empty. But they had alpaca (like llama) and coca tea on the menu and I had tried neither to this point. And so I ordered both. Coca tea is suggested to alliviate the effects of altitude (yes, it´s the same plant cocaine comes from). And alpaca, well, it doesn`t do anything for you. But it tastes good and is supposidly low in cholesterol. I enjoyed both. And felt healthier for eating both.
Afterwards, everyone was ready to call it a night. But suddenly I wanted a beer. It might have had something to do with wanting to avoid the huge party that was going on at my hostal that night. Either way, the guy from L.A. was up for a drink too. And so he and I (still unbathed and carrying my bookbag) headed to Norton Rat`s; a dive bar on the plaza. The place was pretty busy. Apparently that day was their 10th anniversary and they were giving out prizes. The prizes turned out to be little trinkets the bar had received for free from their alcohol vendors, but it kept the crowd entertained. And it kept the bar fly busy calling out numbers and handing out prizes instead of making an ass of himself in other ways. I got a key chain from some English brewery. It disappeared a short time later.
As the night went on, and the fourth pint of the strongest English ale I have ever downed was poured, I realized heading back for a shower was not in my immediate future. The guy from L.A. and I had challenged two British blokes to billiards and were losing horribly. But it opened up conversation. By 1am I found myself sitting at the bar discussing how the British elite military was still a force to be reckoned with and how the naval incident with Iran earlier this year was not a custard pie in the face of a once mighty lion. I said it was. The older Brit agreed. The younger Brit, with "State of Love & Trust" tattooed across his chest (he liked Pearl Jam a little too much), disagreed. I changed the subject to music to keep things civil. I few positive comments about Pearl Jam kept people smiling.
Two hours later I was back in the same dance club I had spent an entire night in two days previous. Drinks were poured and consumed regularly. The dance floor was spared my moves this time. But the bartender and two Dutch guys were not spared my thoughts on American pop culture. Fortunately they had equally negative thoughts and that kept this discussion civil as well. Finally, I decided I had had enough and it was time to get home and sleep before my Sacred Valley tour at 8:30am. I headed for the door and when I opened it I found a bright, sunny morning. My watch read 7:30am. There is something about Cusco and staying out way too late. I think it`s the altitude.
I stumbled to the stairs just around the block from the club, right on the main plaza. The plaza was full of people setting up something big; maybe a morning festival. I had no idea. I sat down for a bit to investigate. And to stop the plaza from spinning. And suddenly I was being serenaded by a vagabond from Argentina with an old guitar. Ahhhh Cusco. I gave him a few Soles and found a taxi to take me to my hostal. At 8am I passed out in my bed, clothes, shoes and all. At 1:30 in the afternoon I woke up to realize I had missed my Sacred Valley tour.
Something about the altitude in Cusco really knocks me out. The Sacred Valley would have to wait until after Machu Picchu.
After an early breakfast at the party hostal, I went to the tour office they had on site to see what was offered. I wanted to see the Sacred Valley (several Inca ruins sites) and so I signed up for that tour for Sunday, the day before the Inca trail to Machu Picchu. Figured it would get me ready for the the big site. As the guy at the tour desk was filling out the paper work for that tour, I noticed another tour that took people around the city. There was one leaving that day at 1:30pm. Sounded like a good way to get an overview of what was around me, so I signed up for that as well. The guy told me to head to the main tour agency office in town and a bus would pick me up just before 1:30.
I walked into town and did a little site-seeing on my own, still feeling guilty for wasting the day before. Around noon I stopped at a restaurant hoping to get some of the chicken I swore I heard Peru was famous for. I got chicken, but it wasn`t worthy of being famous.
Just before 1:30 I walked over to the tour agency. It was closed for the afternoon siesta. Not knowing exactly how to pick up my tour, I just sat on the front steps in hopes the bus would pull up. 10 minutes later it did.
Turned out not to be so much a tour of the city, as a tour of some of the oldest parts of the Cusco area. Our first stop was the Inca Temple of the Sun. Or what was left of it. The Spanished destroyed it and a new religious building was placed on top of the foundation. Most of the tour centered around what was left of that foundatation. The place was mobbed with tourists that all seemed to have arrived with a tour group. We had to wait in line to see everything. And the local venders were well aware of the tourist haven possibilities. Local vendors were everywhere, selling everything. You could even get your pic with little indigenous kids in costumes, holding little lambs. The whole thing didn`t end quickly enough.
Next we moved on to the large church in the city`s center plaza. The highlight of this tour was being told it was the third largest church in the Americas. Not sure if that is true. But the church also held a crucified Jesus that was apparently brought out years ago when Cusco was suffering continuous earthquakes. The crucifix was paraded out in the main square to much fan fare and the earthquakes ceased. Now the "Earthquake Jesus" has a special place in the church. Sorry, no photography was allowed.
Next it was time to tour the nearby Inca sites. The first, pronounced sexy woman, was interesting and I think everyone dug being able to walk around it and see the views of Cusco just below (see discriptions of the sites on my picutre site). Also, taking pics with some costumed indigenous women and their llamas was a highlight. But this was also about the point that I had time to start chatting up other people on my tour. There were two gals from the States: one from Chicago and the other from DC. We got to talking and I discovered the one worked at the Newseum. Then I met two girls from Hong Kong; both had gone to school in L.A. And finally I met a guy from L.A. and another from Brazil.
Since the next two sites weren`t nearly as interesting and we were all seeming to suffer the effects of the altitude, conversing really took off (as the sites were seemingly ignored). Even more so when we were dropped off at a souvenir shop (not on the agenda, but always expected - guide`s gotta make a commision somehow).
As the bus brought us back to Cusco, talk moved to what to do that night. I hadn`t showered all day and was eager to get back to the hostal to at least drop off my backpack (which carried all the things suggested may be needed - but weren`t). But people were hungry now and didn`t want to wait for the one guy who was staying way back up on the hill. So I offered to do dinner and then bid an early good-night. The guy from L.A. and the other from Brazil had discovered a great restaurant the previous night and were eager to go back. We all followed them as they led us down street after street, at times the same streets multiple times. After killing 40 minutes and not finding the restaurant (they said the streets looked different at night), we decided to just follow one of the many guys selling various menus on the street. The restaurant was empty. But they had alpaca (like llama) and coca tea on the menu and I had tried neither to this point. And so I ordered both. Coca tea is suggested to alliviate the effects of altitude (yes, it´s the same plant cocaine comes from). And alpaca, well, it doesn`t do anything for you. But it tastes good and is supposidly low in cholesterol. I enjoyed both. And felt healthier for eating both.
Afterwards, everyone was ready to call it a night. But suddenly I wanted a beer. It might have had something to do with wanting to avoid the huge party that was going on at my hostal that night. Either way, the guy from L.A. was up for a drink too. And so he and I (still unbathed and carrying my bookbag) headed to Norton Rat`s; a dive bar on the plaza. The place was pretty busy. Apparently that day was their 10th anniversary and they were giving out prizes. The prizes turned out to be little trinkets the bar had received for free from their alcohol vendors, but it kept the crowd entertained. And it kept the bar fly busy calling out numbers and handing out prizes instead of making an ass of himself in other ways. I got a key chain from some English brewery. It disappeared a short time later.
As the night went on, and the fourth pint of the strongest English ale I have ever downed was poured, I realized heading back for a shower was not in my immediate future. The guy from L.A. and I had challenged two British blokes to billiards and were losing horribly. But it opened up conversation. By 1am I found myself sitting at the bar discussing how the British elite military was still a force to be reckoned with and how the naval incident with Iran earlier this year was not a custard pie in the face of a once mighty lion. I said it was. The older Brit agreed. The younger Brit, with "State of Love & Trust" tattooed across his chest (he liked Pearl Jam a little too much), disagreed. I changed the subject to music to keep things civil. I few positive comments about Pearl Jam kept people smiling.
Two hours later I was back in the same dance club I had spent an entire night in two days previous. Drinks were poured and consumed regularly. The dance floor was spared my moves this time. But the bartender and two Dutch guys were not spared my thoughts on American pop culture. Fortunately they had equally negative thoughts and that kept this discussion civil as well. Finally, I decided I had had enough and it was time to get home and sleep before my Sacred Valley tour at 8:30am. I headed for the door and when I opened it I found a bright, sunny morning. My watch read 7:30am. There is something about Cusco and staying out way too late. I think it`s the altitude.
I stumbled to the stairs just around the block from the club, right on the main plaza. The plaza was full of people setting up something big; maybe a morning festival. I had no idea. I sat down for a bit to investigate. And to stop the plaza from spinning. And suddenly I was being serenaded by a vagabond from Argentina with an old guitar. Ahhhh Cusco. I gave him a few Soles and found a taxi to take me to my hostal. At 8am I passed out in my bed, clothes, shoes and all. At 1:30 in the afternoon I woke up to realize I had missed my Sacred Valley tour.
Something about the altitude in Cusco really knocks me out. The Sacred Valley would have to wait until after Machu Picchu.
Monday, December 24, 2007
A Traditional Christmas
It´s Christmas eve and I am about to hop on a plane from La Paz, Bolivia to Tarija to spend the holidays with my coworker´s family. I am extremely greatful for this opportunity. Otherwise I would be spending my first Christmas away from home alone.
In light of this I want to take a minute to remember what my traditional Christmas is like with my family in NC...
Christmas eve is usually spent with me running around buying last minute gifts - gifts I have put lots of thought into, but just haven´t had time to purchase. Seriously. Around 5 or 6pm, dinner is served. My grandmother makes a large batch of potato soup for everyone. But I hate potatoes. So every year, this kind soul makes one small batch of chili for yours truly. We eat, we chat, we disperse an hour later. Usually I will head to my grandfather´s shed and watch whatever he´s watching while we smoke cigars. This is a sacred spot. Kids are kept at bay. The women in my family usually avoid the shed as well. And thus tv watching, chatting, and smoking is thoroughly enjoyed in solitude. Around 10:30pm, I return to my parent´s house where my mom and aunt are sitting on the floor of the living room surrounded by dozens of rolls of wrapping paper, more presents than are necessary for three Christmas holidays, and a large tub of potato chips and home-made dip. They wrap presents until 2 or 3am. My dad and uncle attempt to watch a movie in the same room. Both pass out within an hour. As do I.
On Christmas day, I am woken up by my mom and the dog (who is sporting a red ribbon on her collar in honor of the holiday) and told to get to work on my annual Christmas task: making fresh-squeezed orange juice from two large bags of oranges on a relic of a juice maker. The chore is a tradition and I enjoy keeping busy while my nieces and nephew parade around the house eagerly anticipating all the presents coming their way. But the machine is old and loud. And it vibrates so much I am shakey until 2pm. But the results please everyone. Afterwards I dive into the home made banana bread and eat several slices before anyone else can gt close.
Cousins and other aunts and uncles are told to arrive late in the morning so that the grandkids can enjoy opening some of their gifts before the house gets too full. They always arrive early. And the living room is full as presents are handed out, balled-up wrapping paper is tossed at whomever is closest to the large trash bag, and the dog paces to any space that opens up among the chaos.
When the unwrapping is complete, I hide in my room with my presents to do inventory and avoid the kids. Then I take a nap. The kids are usually still around when I wake up, so I take one of the three nice cigars given to me, my father, and my grandfather for Christmas, and head back to my grandfather`s shed and start smoking.
Dinner is around 4:30pm. A large ham and a collection of other foods has been laid out in the dining room. I am eager to get to my grandmother`s pecan pie and scarf down dinner. Then I have a ridiculously large piece of the pie. The rest of the night is usually spent back at my grandfather`s shed.
This year my parents moved just before Christmas. I have been told there wasn`t even time to buy a real tree. Sounds like if I had to pick a Christmas to miss, this was the one.
In light of this I want to take a minute to remember what my traditional Christmas is like with my family in NC...
Christmas eve is usually spent with me running around buying last minute gifts - gifts I have put lots of thought into, but just haven´t had time to purchase. Seriously. Around 5 or 6pm, dinner is served. My grandmother makes a large batch of potato soup for everyone. But I hate potatoes. So every year, this kind soul makes one small batch of chili for yours truly. We eat, we chat, we disperse an hour later. Usually I will head to my grandfather´s shed and watch whatever he´s watching while we smoke cigars. This is a sacred spot. Kids are kept at bay. The women in my family usually avoid the shed as well. And thus tv watching, chatting, and smoking is thoroughly enjoyed in solitude. Around 10:30pm, I return to my parent´s house where my mom and aunt are sitting on the floor of the living room surrounded by dozens of rolls of wrapping paper, more presents than are necessary for three Christmas holidays, and a large tub of potato chips and home-made dip. They wrap presents until 2 or 3am. My dad and uncle attempt to watch a movie in the same room. Both pass out within an hour. As do I.
On Christmas day, I am woken up by my mom and the dog (who is sporting a red ribbon on her collar in honor of the holiday) and told to get to work on my annual Christmas task: making fresh-squeezed orange juice from two large bags of oranges on a relic of a juice maker. The chore is a tradition and I enjoy keeping busy while my nieces and nephew parade around the house eagerly anticipating all the presents coming their way. But the machine is old and loud. And it vibrates so much I am shakey until 2pm. But the results please everyone. Afterwards I dive into the home made banana bread and eat several slices before anyone else can gt close.
Cousins and other aunts and uncles are told to arrive late in the morning so that the grandkids can enjoy opening some of their gifts before the house gets too full. They always arrive early. And the living room is full as presents are handed out, balled-up wrapping paper is tossed at whomever is closest to the large trash bag, and the dog paces to any space that opens up among the chaos.
When the unwrapping is complete, I hide in my room with my presents to do inventory and avoid the kids. Then I take a nap. The kids are usually still around when I wake up, so I take one of the three nice cigars given to me, my father, and my grandfather for Christmas, and head back to my grandfather`s shed and start smoking.
Dinner is around 4:30pm. A large ham and a collection of other foods has been laid out in the dining room. I am eager to get to my grandmother`s pecan pie and scarf down dinner. Then I have a ridiculously large piece of the pie. The rest of the night is usually spent back at my grandfather`s shed.
This year my parents moved just before Christmas. I have been told there wasn`t even time to buy a real tree. Sounds like if I had to pick a Christmas to miss, this was the one.
Friday, December 21, 2007
Rushing To Christmas
Hello all, I really wanted to get the Machu Picchu pics posted and finish the stories up to at least Colca Canyon by now. But things have been moving really quickly, and so have I.
Tomorrow I am leaving first thing in the morning to try and cross over to Bolivia (I have all my necessary paper work laid out and ready for the visa). We plan to see Isle del Sol (on Titicaca) tomorrow afternoon and maybe stay the night. Then Sunday I make my way to La Paz where I may have time to post some things before meeting my coworker at the airport on xmas eve to fly to his family`s place in southern Bolivia. Rush, rush, rush.
If not, Marry Christmas!
Tomorrow I am leaving first thing in the morning to try and cross over to Bolivia (I have all my necessary paper work laid out and ready for the visa). We plan to see Isle del Sol (on Titicaca) tomorrow afternoon and maybe stay the night. Then Sunday I make my way to La Paz where I may have time to post some things before meeting my coworker at the airport on xmas eve to fly to his family`s place in southern Bolivia. Rush, rush, rush.
If not, Marry Christmas!
Easy
Just went to the Bolivian consulate here in Puno, Peru. The man there was really nice and extremely patient with my Spanish. He showed me everything I would need and said it could all be handled at the border on Sunday. I have almost everything needed; just need an invitation from my coworker`s family to show that I am staying with them. No problem.
Hopefully the fellows at the border crossing are just as helpful.
Hopefully the fellows at the border crossing are just as helpful.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
More Random Thoughts
It was just brought to my attention that the icecream truck tune the garbage trucks here in Peru make as they back up is Fur Elise by Beethoven. Sad.
Peru has a severe lack of toilet seats.
Two words most often heard when walking through any market: Hola Amigo
Word most often heard when exiting a bus at a tourist point: Agua
When being sociable or friendly on a bus by offering some of your food to others, offer only what you want to give. People will not take a "piece" of anything. They take whatever is in front of them.
Peruvian women wear their wedding ring on their right hand. Not the left.
An entire study could be done on the various Christian icons placed randomly inside buses in South America.
Peru is known to have great ceviche. I have yet to try any (except the soy dish early on). I have had plenty of Chinese food here though.
Christmas is in 5 days. I won`t be at home with my family for the first time in 30 years. And it is supposed to be 85 degrees where I am staying for Christmas.
I have yet to have anything stolen during my travels. I have, however, lost several things:
My jacket (amazingly, recovered at the tiny airport two days later)
My glasses (in a taxi)
My shoes (forgot to pack them at 5am before the Inca trail hike)
My pocket knife (at airport security in Lima - don`t worry wehmann, it was the smaller one I bought before your gift)
The bag for my rain jacket (some where along the Inca tail)
A pair of underwear (a casualty of laundry service in Cusco)
And I am not even at the half-way mark. I almost left behind my small pack this morning at a view point before one of the Dutch in the group grabbed it and brought it to me. That would have added my iPod, two cameras, and passport to the list.
Peru has a severe lack of toilet seats.
Two words most often heard when walking through any market: Hola Amigo
Word most often heard when exiting a bus at a tourist point: Agua
When being sociable or friendly on a bus by offering some of your food to others, offer only what you want to give. People will not take a "piece" of anything. They take whatever is in front of them.
Peruvian women wear their wedding ring on their right hand. Not the left.
An entire study could be done on the various Christian icons placed randomly inside buses in South America.
Peru is known to have great ceviche. I have yet to try any (except the soy dish early on). I have had plenty of Chinese food here though.
Christmas is in 5 days. I won`t be at home with my family for the first time in 30 years. And it is supposed to be 85 degrees where I am staying for Christmas.
I have yet to have anything stolen during my travels. I have, however, lost several things:
My jacket (amazingly, recovered at the tiny airport two days later)
My glasses (in a taxi)
My shoes (forgot to pack them at 5am before the Inca trail hike)
My pocket knife (at airport security in Lima - don`t worry wehmann, it was the smaller one I bought before your gift)
The bag for my rain jacket (some where along the Inca tail)
A pair of underwear (a casualty of laundry service in Cusco)
And I am not even at the half-way mark. I almost left behind my small pack this morning at a view point before one of the Dutch in the group grabbed it and brought it to me. That would have added my iPod, two cameras, and passport to the list.
I`ll Take the Physical Challenge
So I am in Puno, Pero. I made it. But it was quite a test. The hike into Colca Canyon (which our guide said was reestablished as the deepest canyon in the world last year) was easy. Into Colca Canyon. The hike out was tougher than the Inca trail. It was really tough. There were four of us: me and three Dutch (one gal, two guys). The Dutch gal finally had to call it quits and ride a passing mule the last fifth of the way up. The three guys were determined to make it, but cussing up a storm when we saw seven other backpackers who had rented mules instead of hiking up too. Then, instead of doing drinking games to celebrate like we planned the night before, we passed out at 7:50pm.
The trip to Puno was a bit more trying. When I told the tour company manager I needed to get to Puno by today, he said the guide could have me dropped off at a police check point when the others were returning. There I could have the police flag down a bus going the opposite direction. Easy enough. So this morning instead of doing the thermal baths with the other three, I asked if I could do the bus drop off thing a bit early. I wanted to get to Puno to see about my Visa to Bolivia. The guide said it was no problem and he put me on a bus and told the driver to let me know when we got to the check point. The driver did. I got off in the middle-of-no-where, Peru. I found the check point cop and told him the situation (as best I could in my ever-worsening spanish) and he informed me that because of Christmas most buses would be full. Awesome. He waved down bus after bus and asked if there was room. 45 minutes later he found one. I asked again if he was sure it was going to Puno. He nodded and waved me on.
An hour later I decided to ask the fellow beside me if the bus went to Puno. He said it did not. I asked again in case my spanish didn`t work the way I wanted it to. He repeated that the bus did not go to Puno. I asked where it went, he mentioned some name I didn`t recognize, and I had a mini-freakout. At the next bus stop I got off and asked the baggage handler where the bus was going. He mentioned the same name. I told him I needed to get to Puno. He gave me a look that said "good luck with that" and went on taking out people`s luggage. I asked what I should do. He said the destination city had collectivos that go to Puno for about 80 cents. Collectivos are cars that take several people with a common destination to that place once the car is full. There are also larger vans that do the same thing.
Once we arrived at this city, I hopped off and looked completely confused. This kid who was in a military academy in Lima, but coming home for the holidays, took pity on me and helped me find one of these vans. He was going to same way. I thanked him over and over. Then we chatted in spanish for a bit while we waited on the van to fill up.
I finally arrived here in Puno just before 5pm and took a bike taxi to the consulate. The guy peddling looked far too old to be doing so and I almost jumped out and told him to sit while I peddled. But we got to the consulate (or close enough to have two police officers walk me there) at 4:55. The consulate closed at 2pm.
Guess I am going tomorrow morning. But at least I am here. But damn do my legs ache.
The trip to Puno was a bit more trying. When I told the tour company manager I needed to get to Puno by today, he said the guide could have me dropped off at a police check point when the others were returning. There I could have the police flag down a bus going the opposite direction. Easy enough. So this morning instead of doing the thermal baths with the other three, I asked if I could do the bus drop off thing a bit early. I wanted to get to Puno to see about my Visa to Bolivia. The guide said it was no problem and he put me on a bus and told the driver to let me know when we got to the check point. The driver did. I got off in the middle-of-no-where, Peru. I found the check point cop and told him the situation (as best I could in my ever-worsening spanish) and he informed me that because of Christmas most buses would be full. Awesome. He waved down bus after bus and asked if there was room. 45 minutes later he found one. I asked again if he was sure it was going to Puno. He nodded and waved me on.
An hour later I decided to ask the fellow beside me if the bus went to Puno. He said it did not. I asked again in case my spanish didn`t work the way I wanted it to. He repeated that the bus did not go to Puno. I asked where it went, he mentioned some name I didn`t recognize, and I had a mini-freakout. At the next bus stop I got off and asked the baggage handler where the bus was going. He mentioned the same name. I told him I needed to get to Puno. He gave me a look that said "good luck with that" and went on taking out people`s luggage. I asked what I should do. He said the destination city had collectivos that go to Puno for about 80 cents. Collectivos are cars that take several people with a common destination to that place once the car is full. There are also larger vans that do the same thing.
Once we arrived at this city, I hopped off and looked completely confused. This kid who was in a military academy in Lima, but coming home for the holidays, took pity on me and helped me find one of these vans. He was going to same way. I thanked him over and over. Then we chatted in spanish for a bit while we waited on the van to fill up.
I finally arrived here in Puno just before 5pm and took a bike taxi to the consulate. The guy peddling looked far too old to be doing so and I almost jumped out and told him to sit while I peddled. But we got to the consulate (or close enough to have two police officers walk me there) at 4:55. The consulate closed at 2pm.
Guess I am going tomorrow morning. But at least I am here. But damn do my legs ache.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
