Lake Titicaca

Coming back from Machu Picchu, I had a bus ticket in my pocket to head to the Bolivian side of Lake Titicaca that night. The lake is 1/2 in Perú and 1/2 in Bolivia, and I was getting too short on time not to overnight myself towards my next destination.

As I was hanging out the window making googley-eyes at the moon, one of the train stewards started up a conversation with me. After ten minutes of chatting, whenever I would submit to pulling my ears back in to hear his questions, he decided to give me a postcard depicting the most famous parts of Perú complete with a note on the back about how beautiful he thought I was. It was very sweet, but I was perplexed by the undeserved attention that is paid to Caucasian women down here. In situations where it becomes radically obvious to me how much people in this part of the world have internalized American/European standards of beauty, I get terribly uncomfortable. I guess it’s the same everywhere, really. Just as men in the U.S. lust after magazine images that they almost never encounter in their day to day lives, men here lust after television images of women that are also part of a fairytale world. I still struggle, though, with huge discomfort, when young women in reception at hotels tell me all the men will love me because my eyes are the color of a movie-star’s, or when the train steward writes me a letter because he thinks I’m pretty, or when men walking by me on the street make comments ranging from, “Thank the heavens for your beauty” to slimy, gross, hissing noises. It feels so wrong to be treated a certain way because of my outward appearance. At least I am lucky enough to be on the positive side of the dichotomy where people are whistling instead of sneering at me for being born with a certain color of skin/hair/eyes. I should remember how lucky I am to feel uncomfortable instead of hated for looking a certain way.

*sigh* and so… back to the Machu Picchu return, I guess.

Because my time in Cuzco before my Bolivian departure was really limited, and I needed to make sure I wasn’t going to end up stranded without a dime, I decided to hop off the train about an hour outside the city and take a local bus back to the center of town. I got dropped off at the Plaza and made my way to the only bank that would accept my card. As I approached I noticed a homeless man who had set up shop right next to the withdrawl centers and got that sinking feeling that always accompanies my interactions with people assailing you for a handout. If I had a choice, I would have come back later, but my bus was set to roll out of the station in just under an hour. I cringed as he stood right behind me watching me enter my pin number and selecting my amount for withdrawl. I thought sadly about how he has probably never even had a bank account, much less $200 to take out and squander on bus tickets, entrance fees, hotel rooms, and food. One of the most challenging parts of travelling for me is dealing with the emotional guilt that surfaces in the moments when my privilege is harshly contrasted with other’s disadvantages I’ve never been forced to face. I snapped my cash and card from the machine and set off taking four foot strides down the sidewalk towards the plaza.

I bought a grocery store dinner (this is a good way to go if you’re in the market of spending as little as possible) and went to check my email before leaving town. Right outside the bus station, I found a few run-down restaurants offering chicken, rice, fries, and soup for three soles. That’s about a dollar out of my pocketbook, so I decided I’d save the yogurt and roasted corn from the grocery store for the bus. A million flies buzzed around the restaurant full of working class folks catching a meal at the end of the day. I crossed my fingers for my digestive system and dug in to my soup, then my main course. It was greasier than I expected, so with time running short on my bus departure, I bagged the remainder up for the dogs begging scraps outside and high-tailed it to the station.

I trudged up and down the departure platform six times scanning for the name of my company on the side of the bus. It was getting dangerously close to departure time, and I was getting the sinking feeling that I had missed a crucial detail somewhere in the process. I finally asked an official-looking man if he knew which stall my bus departed from, and he told me the slip I was holding wasn’t even a ticket, just a voucher. So, I ran back inside to the counter where I had purchased it. The same young woman was there. She had told me the day previous to “regresar aquí” (return here) at least thirty minutes before it was time to leave. I thought “here” meant the station, and I had complied as far as that went, but “here” actually meant the ticket counter. Apparently the company was just in the business of serving as an intermediary for Peruvian and Bolivian bus companies. She snatched up my voucher and went sprinting to a ticket window down the hall where she bought my ticket for the first leg of my journey with the money I had already paid her. She came back waving a slip of paper with a company name that I HAD spotted on a bus outside, and apologized for the confusion. Already I was wondering what I was going to do when I had to change buses in Puno. The ticket was paid all the way to Copacabana, but I had no idea how I was going to figure out which company had been paid by my company to take me on to the border. I couldn’t get any answer out of her that I could understand, so I just thanked her and dashed out to the waiting bus.

The guy I sat next to wanted to hang his garment bag from the curtain cord of the window, which meant it would hang in my face the whole ride. I was a little annoyed, but decided to focus on the positive. I asked him what was in the bag and he told me it was his work uniform. Turns out he works for Perú Rail, the company that charges tourists an obscene amount of money to ride four hours to Machu Picchu. I told him how the company was swindling tourists, and he was shocked to hear the price difference was that much. He said for a local, the ride up was a little less than $3 dollars. WOW. I asked him what he thought about tourists, since he spent most of his days interacting with them. He said the French and the Italians seem to be the worst as far as tacky, ignorant tourists go. He told me about his separation with his wife, his little girl, and we talked about relationships that go awry because the individuals involved are so young when they get together and realize they want nothing to do with it after they get all their growing-up out of the way. Strange how many times I hear this, “wish I would have” from people in failed relationships. Why does it happen like that so often?

Right before we arrived in Puno, my new friend invited me to the train station to have breakfast with him, if I had time before my next bus departed. I thanked him, but none of the offices were open to confirm the time and company of the next leg of my journey, so I opted to hang around the bus station. I slept on our bus, along with about half the other passengers who were waiting for daylight. I heard rumors of 6:00 a.m. departures for Bolivia, so I set my alarm and got some shut-eye. I awoke to the sun rising over Lake Titicaca, which looked like something you’d see on a Discovery Channel special about a mystic, ancient place. Awesome!

For thirty minutes I wandered around the station asking office attendants, other passengers, vendors, and baggage handlers about my voucher situation. No one seemed to have any answers. I was pretty sure I was going to have to figure out another way to Bolivia. I went back out to the bus where the mechanic was crawling out of his bed inside the luggage compartment. He directed me to PanAmerica, ironically named because it doesn’t serve a single destination on the Pan American highway. They wrote me up a ticket and I found a spot of sunshine on the sidewalk to wait out the arrival of our bus.

Only six of us got on the bus before it departed, all tourists. Then, we stopped somewhere in the middle of town to pick up more passengers (or so I thought). Turns out it’s a despicable waste of fuel to take six people 180 miles in a 56 passenger bus, so suddenly we were crammed into a colectivo with a bunch of other folks headed to the border. I sat smashed in the back seat between the window where the sun was relentlessly scorching my arm and a really swell local guy. The seats were so tight that my knees couldn’t fit in front of me, so my neighbor graciously shared his space. He was full of trivia about the area, telling me about what the different towns were known for as we passed through them and pointing out all the different industries on Lake Titicaca.

The lake itself is absolutely incredible, and indeed the reason I had chosen my particular destination. I was headed to Copacababa, Bolivia, on the shore of the lake and the closest town with boat departures to the Island of the Sun where the Incan Sun God was born. Lake Titicaca is “the world’s highest navigable lake” whatever that means. It’s huge, covering about 5,700 square miles at an elevation of 12,606 ft. The color of the water, though, is what draws people from miles around and keeps even the locals, who see it everyday, in awe of its beauty. The water is the most piercing color of blue that simply can’t be captured in photos. I got my first glimpse at sunrise in the Puno bus station, but I first glanced the striking blue color from the colectivo window later that morning. Amazing!

We arrived in Copacabana early afternoon, and I befriended another solo female traveller… Caroline from Wales. She was really sweet, and had just been ditched by her travelling companion who had no interest in seeing Bolivia, was meeting up with a lady-friend in Peru, and knew the Spanish she had been counting on travelling with. We found a hostel for dirt-cheap, and I took the ever-coveted shower. Once again, electric, and “agua caliente” was definitely agua chilly. BRRRR. Not to mention that the faucet handles were located OUTSIDE the bathroom in the courtyard. Where`s the logic there? When I was done, I just had to let the water run until I had dried off and dressed. A nap was immediately to follow, as I had seen far too many days with far too little sleep.

After I woke up, we set out to explore the town and get some vegetables to go with the pasta dinner we had agreed upon cooking that night. People are definitely less friendly here, half the time ignoring greetings completely. Is this a change in culture? Numbness due to too much tourism? A result of the political climate? Whatever it is, I don`t like it. It`s a bummer to feel unwelcome. Anyway, both of us were hoping for a little computer time, and we found the only internet place in town. Turns out they charge two arms and half a leg per hour, so we spent a few precious moments checking email before heading back to the hostel. And actually, the guy running the place ended up making me a deal. I had a bunch of coins in my pockets that would only pay half the fee, but he was in need of “monedas,” so he just took all the change I had and called it good. Awesome!

On the way home, I swung by one of many bus agencies to inquire about a ticket on to La Paz for the following day (or maybe the next). Turns out the Bolivian protests I had heard about had also shut down the roads, and no tickets were being sold at the time. I shrugged in response and  acquiesced   knowing I would have to wait at least another day to find out what fate had in store for me. I checked at one other agency, where the ticket seller warned me that Copacabana (in the event that I needed to back-track through Perù) might be shut-down by road blocks the following day as well, but I wasn`t about to give up going to the Island of the Sun on a hunch! Bolivians everywhere are protesting because the corrupt government had sold the locals’ mineral rights right out from underneath them to transnational corporations (mostly from the U.S.). Locals are now demanding that the exploitation ceases and that national resources be nationalized. Doesn`t sound like I`ll be getting through Bolivia any time soon!

Caroline and I had decided we were going to climb the local hill for sunset, so we set out with an hour or so to spare. Thinking she knew the way, I trudged along beside her until we stopped abruptly in front of the entrance to the army base. “I wonder if the path was back there?” she says. A smile crossed my face and I started to laugh as I realized I had it all wrong. I chatted with the gate guard, and he directed us up a path so steep I knew I was just going to have to roll back down. The trail kept right along a fence with all sorts of threatening signs posted by the military. I was almost afraid to even use it as a handrail for fear of being shot by some trigger-happy young soldier. Silly, I know. We made the top in less than 20 minutes, and sat chatting as the sun sunk lower in the sky. We had so much in common! It was great! We talked forever about cultural problems, relationships, school, jobs and life`s big questions. Huge hummingbirds zoomed around us to get at the purple lupine until finally the sun touched the lake and slowly immersed itself. We used the last of the day`s light in the rapidly cooling evening to get back down the hill and to the kitchen to put together our pasta dinner.

Making dinner in a bare-bones kitchen was a fun challenge. The gas stove (two burners only) was hooked up to a propane bottle mounted underneath the counter, and the knobs didn`t have any markings. We thought for sure we were going to blow ourselves up, but we managed to get some water on to boil. Next, we  tackled  the cans of tomato paste. It didn`t matter how much hacking we did with Caroline`s Swiss Army knife, the lid wasn`t going to budge. Finally, the manager of the hostel happened by and helped us with his personal can opener.  Alleluia!  Twenty minutes later, the sauce was bubbling, complete with chopped tomatoes and fried onions, but the water still hadn`t boiled. Funny, especially, I thought, because we were at such a high altitude. Isn`t water supposed to boil sooner? We waited it out and finally got the vigorous boil we`d been anticipating. Dinner wasn`t quite delectable, but it wasn`t all bad, either, and certainly cheaper than eating out!

After we finished the dishes, it was only 8:30, but with the freezing temperatures of the high-elevation night rapidly descending, our beds sounded most appealing.  On the way, we talked about media services and how Clear Channel keeps American television biased. Our early lights-out brought the sleep I had been missing for the past week! We had agreed on getting up early enough to be at the docks at seven to miss the tourist crowds, as suggested by the guide book. Imagine our disappointment when, at 7:30, a guy at the docks told us we had no choice but to go on the tourist boats the left at 8:30. Slightly disheartened, Caroline suggested we search out some early-morning hot chocolate while we waited. I didn`t get a single “buenos dias” in response to my greetings anywhere we went. I really hope it`s the climate provoked by the protests, because otherwise, Bolvians are REALLY unfriendly. At least in Copacabana, that is. It seemed that the locals were taking the political problems more seriously than anything I`ve ever seen in the U.S. Even the captains of our boat had a small radio that they hovered around catching every little piece of news they could.

We went back down to the docks after our warm drinks and boarded the top level (exposed!) of the tourist boat. The view on the two hour long cruise to the island was amazing, even though my toes felt like they were going to freeze off the whole time. The mountains on the north side of the lake are magnificent… giant grey/blue/purple peaks capped in silvery white snow fields. Gorgeous! Since the lake was at 14,000 ft. I could barely fathom the probable height of the snow-capped peaks looming across the water.

Caroline and I thought we had escaped the awful “herded animal” feeling you get from being in a tourist group, but the locals have it set up so that, group or not, you still get herded around. As a result, when our boat landed, we were directed to an office where we were supposed to pay to see the islands ruins and museum. We weren`t all that interested in either, being as we had both seen plenty of ruins and were tired of museums. We said we had to go to the bathroom, and just followed the herds of folks who had already paid. The first stretch of trail wound up around a cliff where we could see the entire bay in all it`s green/blue glory. The water looked just like it does in all those postcards and movies about tropical paradise. It`s so clear that you can see deep into the water as the emerald green slowly fades to a sapphire that continues across the entire lake. Sandstone of all different colors, red, white, purple, brown, orange, tan, yellow was the dominate characteristic along the trail leading from one end of the island to the other. Beautiful!

As I suspected, within five minutes of hiking, we came to a junction where a local was waiting to check our tickets that we were supposed to purchase at the museum. Also as I suspected, if you didn`t want to see the ruins, you didn`t need a ticket, counter to what had been implied back at the bay. We seized the opportunity to break away from the other tourists and set off up the hill toward the south end of the island leaving all the chattering voices behind us. We hiked in silence for the better part of an hour before stopping to snack and converse. We saw a group of brits crest a hill in the distance, which immediately inspired us to press onward. We came to an archway made of wood, a surprise because it`s a resource that`s rather scarce on the island. Due to the temperatures, the growing season supports little more than sagebrush-like plants on the majority of the island. A man waiting at the arch asked to see our tickets from the north side of the island. Two different tribes live on the Isla del Sol, each claiming ownership to half the island, which means tourist have to pay two different groups of people to get from one side to the other. This guy wanted double what the last group had asked, and they didn`t have a museum OR ruins! I`m not complaining about having to pay, but the price they were asking to walk half a mile down to the shore was as much as a one-way boat ride out to the island! Jeez! Having no choice, reluctantly paid the fee before getting lost in the relatively small village. Finally, having asked one little girl, and one woman for directions, we found ourselves standing among a small collection of pigs and goats on a terrace. A group of women, generations deep, happened along and pointed us down the least obvious path. We finally arrived at the port with 45 minutes to spare, and spent the rest of our time sunning ourselves on the boardwalk. The air was cold, but the sun was hot and felt great on my bare arms.

The boat ride back (we opted for the lower, sheltered deck this time) seemed to take forever. Caroline and I had agreed to eat dinner out and try the local fare, so I practically drooled with hunger and the shore teased us relentlessly. My game plan was to eat dinner, then take a colectivo to the border, cross, and hopefully arrive in Puno in time to get a bus to the Perù/Chile border. I`ve given up on getting through Bolivia. I think I`ll waste more time waiting. I might as well just go around and maybe at least still have a chance to see some new things.

We went directly to a recommended  restaurant  when we finally landed. After looking over the menu and finding that they served my beloved pesto pasta, my resolve to try something local quickly melted. How could I pass up pesto pasta!? When our plates arrived at the table, I regretted my boring decision, but c`est la vie! As we took our seats on the patio, I noticed a man at the table next to us with his nose in a book. Having been there plenty of times before, I confirmed that he was eating alone and invited him to join us. He gladly accepted and proceeded to fill our ears with plenty of stories. Andy, from Australia, an “attitude consultant” or some such nonsense. He was entertaining, though!

As we watched the sun set during dinner, I changed my mind about making the border that night. I could just see myself, the only gringo for miles, getting stopped at some protest-road block with nowhere to go and no one who cared in the least that I have a flight to catch in Buenos Aires in a week and a half (probably fueled by Bolivian resources made dirt cheap by the corrupt government  benefiting  me and the corporations, but not Bolivians… who knows?). A colectivo driver, looking to be about 15, warned me that protests were probably going to start that night and encouraged me to get to the border pronto, but he wanted to charge me 8x`s the usual fare. I decided to hedge my bets and keep my fingers crossed for the morning. If worse comes to worst, the border is only 15 kilometers. I`ll just walk!

Machu Picchu – the lost Inca city

Today was definitely one of the most  ethereal  days of my life. Nearly everyone knows Machu Picchu, whether they are aware of it or not. The picturesque ruins are some of the most famous in the world, but until I crested the hill that affords the arresting postcard perfect view, I didn`t understand the magic, draw, and energy of this place where one of the world`s most advanced civilizations once thrived.

My alarm went off at 4:45, and I promptly began praying for hot water as I turned the knob of the electric shower. After five minutes shivering next to the stream of water that was clearly not planning on getting warmer, I gave up and started packing instead, even though very sweaty and dirty visions of myself later in the day danced through my head. Heidi and Dimitri had lost their alarm, so I gave them their 5 a.m. wake up as requested.

Our tickets told us to be at the station at 5:45, so we set out on foot twenty minutes before hand. All of us had purchased the cheaper “Backpacker Train” tickets, a savings of $40. We quickly discovered that the rich people get to go first anyway, so being early was relatively pointless. After much waiting, we were finally allowed to board the cheaper train. The only differences in the trains seemed to be the overhead windows, which ours lacked, and the leg room. On the pricey rail car, the seats don`t face each other, so you don`t have to knock knees with your neighbors.

Fifteen  minutes  late, our engine shifted into gear and started the slow ascent up out of the bowl of the city. We switch-backed very slowly up to the rim of the canyon past some of the poorest, most trashed neighborhoods I`ve ever seen tucked precariously against the side of the hill. The train raised some eyebrows as it came to a stop each time before proceeding onto the next upward leg. Finally we had crested the lip of the canyon and were headed across the chilly plains. I felt very much at home as I watched cattle munching in the golden fields while the miles rolled by.

The food cart came down the aisle, and Dimitri, Heidi, and I were all very disgruntled to learn that our $65 dollar tickets did not come with meals. What a rip off! Even $4 bus tickets usually come with a snack at least! Grrr. I was super hungry, but since I was leaving Peru that night, of course I had calculated down to the last dollar and was afraid to buy anything until I had paid my bus fare up to Machu Picchu and my entrance fee. So, I stuck to the roasted corn I had bought the night before and my last Clif bar.

As I talked to Heidi and Dimitri about their plans, I once again realized how incredibly fast I was moving compared to others. To get to Machu Picchu, you either have to hike four to five days or take the train from Cuzco. If you take the train, the last stop is in Aguas Calientes, the city closest to ruins. From there, you take a 30-minute bus up a series of endless switchbacks to the ticket office. Because of my speed-of-light travelling, I had failed to realize that it was possible to arrive in Aguas Calientes one day and visit Machu Picchu the next. Next time I go there, if I don`t get to hike in, I at least want to do it like that.

After about two hours of reading/sleeping/chatting on the train, the scenery started to morph from grassy plains to dry coniferous forests, much like those around Devil`s Tower. Mountains began to rise up around us, and I glanced out the window where one of the most majestic glaciers I`ve ever seen caught my eye. Counter to how I have known glaciers before, these conquered the mountain from the top down until the mountain dropped away, a sheer cliff. There, the powerful sheet of blue ice came to an abrupt halt and just loomed, in mid-air it seemed, over the valley. Incredible! Dimitri tells me they’re called hanging glaciers.

I assumed, since Machu Picchu was high up in the mountains, that the vegetation would become more sparse as we approached. Imagine my surprise, then, as the pine trees slowly gave way to a jungle-like landscape with thick vines twisting in and out of all the deciduous leaves. We followed a beautiful blue-green river towards our destination, and the even ground started to grow into the ragged, wedge shaped, sharp peaks that are so abundant there. The jungle vegetation, I would later learn, could be attributed to the clouds which seem to perpetually cling to the mountain-sides and valleys providing moisture. Finally I am seeing a cloud forest and can call it by name!

The train pulled in to the beautiful Aguas Calientes right around 10:30. I said a hurried goodbye to Heidi and Dimitri and did my best to be the first in line to buy a ticket up. I only had until 2:30 that afternoon, so I was going to make the most of it. I got a ticket, behind only a few people, and hustled to the bus. I was thinking about nabbing the front seat next to the driver when a man from the back took action and slid into it. 🙁 As we wound up the mountain, I noticed the tiny narrow steps leading up from Aguas Calientes and counted my blessings as far as not having to walk up to the entrance. There was no way I would have had time to trudge up from the bottom of the valley.

When we arrived, I was immediately struck by the sense of space that people from different nations have. An asian tour group swarmed around me like I didn`t exist in the process of getting off the bus, and just tonight at the grocery store, I was amazed that no one waited their turn. Everyone just pushed and cut off the person in front of them without any regard to what`s fair or whose turn it is. Maybe this surprises me because I come from a place where there`s plenty for everyone, so you don`t have to bowl over the person in front of you to get what you want.

Both the bus ticket to the top and the entrance fee were $2 bucks more than I expected, so I was glad I hadn`t bought food on the train. After checking my backpack into the free luggage storage, I read the Machu Picchu (Quechuan for “Old Mountain”) section in my guide book one more time before heading up. I chose the path that leads you to a view point above the ruins for my first look. It was just like all the gorgeous photos depicted, but being there in 3D with the razor-like, forest-covered mountains exploding skyward all around me made my head spin. It is so gorgeous. I felt ghosts all around me as I began to explore. The landscaping, vegetation, and llama herds are all intact, and water still runs through the canals of the city and terrace irrigation systems. It was as if the inhabitants of the city heard us coming and all ran to hide.

The classic Machu Picchu photo

The classic Machu Picchu photo

I suppose to preserve the integrity of the sight, there are no information signs posted to explain the different parts of the ruins, so I followed the path recommended in my Lonely Planet. Between the information offered up by my book and the speeches I listened to from the back side of tour groups, I learned so many awesome things about the civilization that once inhabited these buildings, still intact save for the wooden parts that have no choice but to rot away after a few hundred years. After touring the top half of the sight, I arrived at the climbing registration shack for Huayna Picchu, the peak that rises like an axe blade in the background of all the classic snapshots (see photo). It takes an hour up, I`m told, and a little less down. Even though my time was limited, I couldn`t imagine being there and not climbing up the gorgeous peak, so I eagerly signed on and started down the trail.

The smell of the forest reminded me of the mountains back home, and in places where the jungle grew thick, a pungent earthy smell permeated the air. The path quickly narrowed as it dropped down onto the razor-like spine of the mountain and turned from packed dirt to an ancient, three-foot wide, narrow Incan staircase. I felt my face start to flush that hell-fire red color that always accompanies even the slightest of my physical exertions as I jumped from step to step. On one side of the trail, a cliff plunged several thousand feet to the bottom of the valley, and on the other the mountain raced straight up to the sky, which kept my heart pounding in my throat, just like it would anyone who has a healthy respect for heights. Clinging to the rope and wire handrails bolted into the cliffside, I thanked the heavens for my youth as I squeaked past folks on the trail ahead of me. I laughed at the dread I had earlier associated with climbing the steps up from Aguas Calientes.

After a 50-minute grueling battle for the top, my lungs and throat burning from the altitude and my heart pumping twice as hard to circulate my oxygen-deprived blood, I reached the tiny staircase that carries hikers up the old terraced fields. A platform to my right overlooked the valley and Machu Picchu, so I stopped to catch my breath and take it all in. I found a tiny path that led around the back side of the mountain top and followed it to its end to escape the crowds. It ended in a cliff, where I plunked down and dangled my feet into the giant chasm of the valley. The beauty of the place is so breathtaking that you could just stare and stare, and I did, trying to wrap my mind around the fact that I was really there.

The view from the top of Huayna Picchu

The view from the top of Huayna Picchu

I cooled off, and after 30 minutes of enjoying the view, I got my picture taken in front of my newly-chosen favorite peak and began my descent to explore the other half of Machu Picchu. On the way down, I was even more thankful for the handrails bolted into the wall. The steps are so steep (1 ft. wide and 1 ft. tall the whole way up and down) that you could hardly make it down without the cable running along the wall. Forty minutes and I was signing out and trekking toward the residential and “prision” sector of the ruins. Everywhere I went, the houses, gardens, alleyways, you name it, I could see and feel it come to life around me. I could imagine pots and fires on the shelves in houses. I could see kids playing on the second story of the houses where the stones of the walls fit so meticulously that they`ll probably still be standing 1,000 years from now. I could even imagine what my life would have been like if I had been part of this amazing civilization.

As my departure time approached, I worked my way back through the maze of buildings until I reached the cluster of individuals whose knees and canes don`t allow them to venture too far from the entrance. I caught the next bus down to Aguas Calientes to wait for my train departure, and arrived at the bottom nearly penniless. I realized then that next town I was heading to was too small to have an ATM, and despite all my budget planning, I was going to have to make another withdrawl in Cuzco so I`d have some currency to change at the border. I whiled away my wait-time figuring out how much money I would need to get me back to Buenos Aires and onto the plane so I wouldn`t keep getting slapped with the $5 per withdrawl fee that Wells Fargo charges.

On the train ride back, I was still reeling from the day. As the sun went down, the full moon rose blazing in the sky. The countryside was carpeted in an unearthly glow, and I stood with my head hanging out a window at the back of the car, staring and remembering other nights like this when I`ve had to pull off the road and stop to appreciate the moon. With all the pine trees flashing past, I felt like I was back in Wyoming around Keyhole and Devil’s Tower. I couldn`t keep the smile off my face and we slowly swayed and rumbled away from the magical Machu Picchu back towards Cuzco.

Cuzco – ancient city

There was an old rusty thumbtack in my peanuts! Ack! I bought a whole load of them, and just scooped a handful from the bottom of the barrel only to crunch down on sharp metal. Once again, glad for the tetanus shot!

I have to say that Cuzco, Peru is by far the most beautiful city in South America (at least that I have seen thus far). It almost beats San Fransisco, my all-time favorite metropolis! It’s built in a tiny valley, almost small enough to earn the canyon appellation. It’s also the oldest continuously occupied city on the continent! A very small area (ten city blocks at the most) constitutes the bottom of the bowl before narrow city streets begin to climb steeply up towards the rim of the valley. The old cobblestone passageways are much too small for cars meaning that the geographical demographic distribution is the opposite of what you’d find in the states. When everyone has to walk home, a view from the top is not at all desirable! The result: as you climb up the stones slick with years of wear and tear, houses give way to worn and tattered buildings which eventually give way to huts made of mud-bricks at the height of the city limits. It’s incredible! The main plaza at the bottom of the bowl is one of the most beautiful, surrounded by cathedrals built over the top of buildings from the Inca era. The Incan architecture was so advanced and meticulous (see photo) that their foundations, unaltered, are effortlessly holding up modern buildings several stories high!

Incan foundations were so advanced - they're still in use today!

Incan foundations were so advanced – they’re still in use today!

Arriving in Cuzco was amazing. When I got on the bus in Ica, I traded my seat partner for the window seat, so I had an ideal view. The man I sat next to was really nice, and kept me well informed about names of places and landforms we were passing. The ride was supposed to be 15 hours long, most of it sleeping in the dark, but I woke up at sunrise with five hours to go and couldn’t bear to miss seeing the beautiful hills, valleys, terraces, mountains, and rivers out my window. About an hour outside Cuzco, the construction  villain  struck again. A bridge was being built, and the road was only open for twenty minutes at a time every few hours. We had just missed the last time slot by about 20 minutes, so we sat in the humid heat for two hours waiting for the track hoe and crew to work their magic. When we finally arrived in Cuzco, we were four hours later than had been promised, and the sun was already heading for the western horizon.

the cathedral in Cuzco is beautiful!

the cathedral in Cuzco is beautiful!

My first order of business was to head directly to the train station to buy my tickets to Machu Picchu. You have to go by rail to get there, tickets are available only at the station, and they sell like ice cream on the hottest summer day. I was hoping I’d get tickets for the next day, but I couldn’t be so lucky. The taxi, correctly assuming that I would have no idea how far the train station was from the bus depot, overcharged me. (jerk!) I walked into the itty bitty rail office, took a number (they really do that here!) and found myself among a crowd of some thirty individuals waiting expectantly on benches. A young couple from Alaska arrived about the same time I did, so we struck up a conversation while we watched the folks behind the help desks stand around chatting. I could only stand being ignored for about 10 minutes before I excused myself to ask what the hell was going on. A very nice young woman explained to me that the office staff was out to lunch, would return in forty minutes, and tickets could be purchased at that time. Fifty minutes later, $65 dollar train tickets in hand (!!!), Heidi, Dimitri, and I shared a taxi back into town. It was Friday, and Sunday had been the earliest departure available. That left me with a day to burn in Cuzco, but after I laid eyes on the plaza, I wasn’t complaining!

Heidi and Dimitri (the couple from Alaska) had found a place to stay in the bottom of the bowl (no trekking up to your hostel every evening) for $8 a night. That’s awfully pricey for my budget, but I decided to stay there, at least for that night, so I’d have people to eat dinner with. The Alaskans took off shopping while I partook in a long-awaited shower (lukewarm! agua caliente my arse!) and then set off to climb one of the city streets in search of an early evening snack. I had some of the best home-made chips and guacamole along with a Cusqueña (the local beer). To my surprise, partly because I’m a light-weight and mostly because of the elevation (11,000ft.), I was borderline borracha (drunk) as I left the restaurant. The Alaskans had Sunday tickets for Machu Picchu as well, so we had agreed to check out the club scene together that evening. I rubbed my pocket-full of change, anticipating a very cheap night of drinking and dancing.

Because we hadn’t set a time to meet up, I hung around the hotel courtyard for awhile hoping to bump into Heidi and Dimitri before the dinner hour. By 7:30, I was bored of my book and my stomach was roaring, so I headed for a pub that promised television and probably other solo tourists. I ordered up some fries and beer (the dark version this time) and asked two fellows occupying opposite ends of a table for six if I could join the crew. Both had their noses buried in books, and had no problem sharing the space. John, a forty-something accountant from Canada (originally London) and captain of the nerd squad, eagerly introduced himself and explained that he was in Cuzco on business. He was a head field accountant for a mining company, so we talked mines for awhile before he awkwardly challenged me to a game of pool. This guy was hilarious! I felt bad for him, because he seemed so radically uncomfortable the whole time, but it was endless amusement for me! He had even less luck and talent than I do when it comes to billiards, so our game drug on for near thirty minutes. He walked me back to my side of the plaza after our game, said a strange goodbye, and then promptly face planted as I turned to walk away. I stifled my laughter at his classic move, and helped him dust himself off before we headed our separate ways.

No sign of Heidi and Dimitri back at the hotel, combined with the liter of beer in my system made me feel more like turning in for the night than heading to the clubs. I discovered there was no lamp in my room, and couldn’t bear to read myself to sleep via the pasty flourescent tube, so I made the executive “lights out” decision. Ten minutes later, the Alaskans came knocking and were relieved to find that I also didn’t really feel like going out anymore. They were prepared to endure a drink or two, but had survived a long day and were also looking forward to bedtime. I set my alarm to get up an hour before check out to go in search of cheaper lodgings and snuggled into my comfy bed.

The following morning, just as the sun was rising over the lip of the bowl and gracing the city streets with its presence, I went from hotel to hotel finding nothing cheaper than $25. I realized what a deal I was getting from my current lodging and felt guilty for trying to save $1 when most people here can’t even afford to stay in a cheap hotel.

Dimitri was at the breakfast table when I got back. The cafetería was located immediately outside my door, making my room seem entirely out of place and more likely to be a pantry. We chatted over breakfast and agreed to dinner out together that night. The shower water hadn’t gotten any warmer, so I opted out and headed for an internet café. This trip has been a blessing as far as being able to communicate with people. When I have an entire day to kill and no money to go sightseeing, the next best thing is to spend all day journaling, e-mailing, and reading in plazas. After sending off some long-awaited e-mails, I doubled back to a little park full of fountains I had passed on my way to the cafe. I sat reading in the sunshine for a few hours until a post-card selling kid wouldn’t quit pestering me. Usually a “no gracias” will fend off most vendors. However, the persistent ones, usually kids age 10-15, introduce themselves, ask you questions about yourself, and keep asking you to buy. This particular boy kept touching my clothes and pawing my pockets, even after I told him to keep his hands off. Eventually, I had to get up and walk away.

I had planned on hiking up a hill that overlooked the city, and so continued up the steep street until I found myself at a beautiful cathedral overlooking the city with a cute view of the plaza. I decided to get a few more chapters under my belt before heading for the top. The street curving away from the church’s courtyard and up the hill led me to the base of a set of stairs where a ticket office made sure you had paid your $15 tourist ticket. I later found out a set of ruins made its home on top of the ridge. I opted to walk the road that wound around the hill instead of paying for the straight-up ascent. After enduring more cat calls and horn beeps than I thought I could stand (I was the only pedestrian on the road), I came across two women and a herd of llamas also headed for the top. To my chagrin, another ticket checking office awaited at the toe of the final ascent, so I tried to follow the llama herd up a path that cut left into the scrub a few hundred feet before the office. To no avail, a woman from the office spotted me and came running down the road to tell me I couldn’t go that way. Shut down. Damn! I had come all this way, and now my inability/unwillingness to submit to the pricey ticket was going to send me away empty handed. Ack!

I trudged all the way back down the road enduring more cat calls and horn blasts, mulling over my misfortune. I broke out my map of the town when I got back to the church courtyard and found a book exchange where I might be able to trade off the novel I had finished and been packing around for the past few days. It was several blocks out of my way, but would be worth having some new reading material. After descending almost to the bottom of the bowl and then climbing halfway back out of it, I found the front door to the establishment. I walked upstairs and inquired about the book exchange where the woman at the desk curtly informed me that it was for customers only. Well! Jeez! Strike number two. If she hadn’t been so snobby, I might have indulged in a coffee and swapped my book, but I wasn’t about to do her any favors. With rejection trying to settle itself into my bones, I headed back towards my hotel to work out plans for an onward ticket to Bolivia after I get back from Machu Picchu tomorrow.

I checked with ticket agencies on the way home, all offering hugely inflated prices on bus tickets for my next destination. I finally decided it would just be cheaper to take a taxi to the bus station and back and buy directly from the agency. I got a pretty good deal and arrived back at the hotel just as Heidi and Dimitri did. We walked up the local “gringo alley” in search of dinner where waiters and waitresses hassle you incessantly trying to acquire your patronage. We decided on a place where the sidewalk caller was a little less persistent and had offered us two free glasses of wine each if we ate there. I learned over a dinner of garlic bread, avacado salad, and beef cubes over rice, that Heidi and Dimitri are both pilots for a small airline company in Anchorage, and enjoy several vacations a year as a result of their free flight benefits. Awesome! Heidi had been at it since she was 17, and Dimitri had just gotten licensed three years previous, shortly before they met.

After dinner, we went in search of a free pool table at one of the pubs where the 2 for 1 happy hour was well under way. I couldn’t resist my coveted gin and tonic, and was soon well on my way. We played several games on a rickety, un-level, old table, enjoyed some greasy fries and burgers, and I traded my novel for a new one over the course of our hours spent there. By the time we made it back to the hotel, we weren’t looking forward to our 5:45 a.m. Machu Picchu train departure.

Fat Penguins!!!

This has been one loooong day!

When the incessant beeping of my travel alarm woke me up at 6:30, I was immediately glad I had indulged in a shower the day before. More sleep is ALWAYS better. I enjoyed my snoozes before cramming everything into my pack to be stored behind the reception desk while I was out enjoying the island.

The same man who had plagued me with unrelenting questions about myself the night before was still attending the desk in the lobby. He brightened when I entered the room and my heart sunk at trying to make phony conversation this early in the morning. He insisted that I wait inside for the tour to come and pick me up until I finally lied and said it departed from the agency. I crossed my fingers hoping that he wouldn`t check-up on me via the window near the desk.

The tour bus was one of the least interesting I`ve seen down here; straight-backed, school bus seats in brown with very little leg room. I made my way to the back where the seats sit a few inches higher. On our thirty minute journey to Paracas (the departure bay), we passed several offshore rigs and several fish food factories which made me endlessly thankful to only have endured the smell of burning coal in connection with my work history. I couldn`t even imagine spending a lifetime reeking of fish. The guide told us that the offshore rigs were natural gas wells, or something of the sort, and all of it was being piped to Mexico, the U.S., and Canada. Where do Peruvians get their natural gas, then?

We arrived in Paracas and were immediately consumed by the permeating fish-smell and the chaos of several disorganized tour agencies. Pelicans, tamed by constant contact with humans took the strip of beach by storm to catch the small fish tossed from local hands in hopes of tips from tourists. I`ve seen plenty of pelicans before, but I`ve never been close enough to see the unmatched texture of their expandable pouch beneath their bill. And they are such large birds! Incredible! I was mid-sentence in my book when I heard my name called and was herded back onto a bus and hauled off down the road.

I found myself among several new faces, and the person in charge of our group seemed to be constantly changing. Our numbers multiplied and divided many times as we passed through several buildings and finally arrived at the dock where a jet boat meant for 40 awaited. I dumped myself into a seat and introduced myself to Cliff from Philadelphia (originally Atlanta). For the first time in weeks, I was blessed with the company of someone who appreciates the sharp cynicism that often comes pouring out of my mouth. Sarcasm is definitely my element, and I love when I can make people laugh. We had in common our experiences with crew (he`s a professional in training) and journeys to Mardi Gras. He made the trip worth every penny!

The trip out to the island was an adventure in itself for me. I am such a water baby. And how!? Growing up in the semi-desert of Wyoming, who would have thunk? However, I found myself flashing back to childhood memories of boat rides across Keyhole Resivoir, gleeful with the wind in my hair and my hand plunged into the water alongside the boat where the wake was being born.

When we got close enough to the island to make out it`s inhabitants, I realized I had failed to acknowledge one crucial detail about this whole excursion. Isla Ballestas is known both for it`s abundant wildlife (especially birds) and the corresponding guano industry that results. Guano, if you are unfamiliar with the term, is the more elegant word for bird poo (also used in reference to bats). Turns out it makes a fantastic fertilizer. The part I failed to foresee is the not-so-fantastic smell. UGH! My delight was momentarily quelled.

The geography of the island was, in itself, a sight to behold. Sandstone continuously carved by the sea left caves and grooves awash with a multitude of colors. All different species of birds swarmed the island, as thick as carpet in places. And, to my very pleasant surprise, PENGUINS waddled around on the beaches. I have always wanted to see penguins in the wild, not to mention that Nate and I have an ongoing joke about them, so I was pretty well ecstatic at first sighting. I always thought I`d have to venture towards Antarctica to get a glance at the odd birds, but here they were! Half way around the island, sea lions played on beaches and struggled up out of the sea onto rocks. They used their flippers just like hands and feet! It was so cool! Along with crabs clinging like starfish to the seaside cliffs, we also go to see the home of the three rangers who are the keepers of the island. Yet another job I am endlessly thankful not to be stuck with. I can`t even imagine breathing drying guano all day long.

The return journey brought more childhood memories (Dad, can we go to Keyhole next time I come home?) and my first sight of seagulls getting their own food instead of bumming off the beach leavings. They dive into the water just like Osprey! It was so cool to watch them cannon-ball into the ocean again and again as we cruised across the waves of the sea.

Back on shore there was more chaos as they  separated  us into groups of those who would continue on the afternoon tour, and those who were headed back to Pisco. I had gracefully bowed out of the afternoon portion, recognizing it as merely a way to burn time and an excuse to charge more money.

When I arrived back in town, I headed straight for the laundromat. The señora there was very clear about pick-up time. If I didn`t get my clothes by 12:30 (it was 11:45) they would be closed for siesta until 5 p.m. As I approached the establishment, I noted an awkward-looking fellow who had planted himself right in front of the entry way. As I tried to skirt around him, I realized that he was guarding the door. Just then, the señora pulled up in a three-wheeled taxi (see photo) and told me in rapid Spanish to come back later. When I responded with a confused look, they just kept begging me to please come back later. The door-guard promised me they wouldn`t be closed, so I  reluctantly  searched out some lunch.

Determined to try to local fare, I stepped into a restaurant and went through each offering with the waitress. Even if you can translate the name of the dish, it rarely provides any clue as to the ingredients. I decided on some kind of meat with rice and the local potato (they`re different everywhere!), and was chowing down on some of the most delicious food when suddenly a group of thirty men poured into the restaurant. They seemed to own the place as they helped themselves to drinks and baskets of bread. I wish I had the guts to strike up conversation with a table of them, but nagging thoughts of my clothes stuck for five hours inside the locked laundromat doors nudged me towards the exit.

Back at the laundromat, the señora hadn`t returned, but the doors were still open. I sat trying to read my book while simultaneously tuning out the American heavy-metal blaring from speakers in the back room. Ten pages and 30 minutes later, irritation started to fester as I wiggled and tapped my fingers. Suddenly another three-wheeled taxi pulled up, and out jumped a young woman, bag in hand. I unwrapped the yellow plastic to take inventory as she explained that their electricity had gone out leaving them without a dryer. I dug in my pockets for my seven soles as I tried to fend off her profuse apologies and headed back to the hostel lobby to pack my bag.

Finally the conversation monger in reception had been replaced by a very pleasant young woman who was delighted for the momentary boredom-cure I provided. I packed my newly cleaned clothes into my backpack as she shuffled through my photos, and then got her advice on how to get from town to the highway, and then from there to Cuzco. I added her advice to the plethora I`d already collected, and headed for the local transportation hub. Like the woman at the hostel, one of the guys yelling out destinations was drinking some kind of pop/soda. They had both been sucking it out of a straw plunged into a plastic bag, like the kind you`d use to bring a goldfish home from the store. Strange. I mounted the steps of a “God loves you” bus, and waited for it to fill. Since I had never really gotten a straight answer about where to get off the bus, I was super alert as we rattled down the road. The most consistent response I had gotten was “San Clemente,” but I had a hard time believing the intersection at the PanAmerican had a name. When I thought I was in the right place, I just asked if we were at the highway, and jumped off after getting a positive confirmation.

I had been under the impression that I could wait at the intersection and hitch a bus in the afternoon that was headed to Cuzco. However, after my Nazca experience, I realized that many bsses will pick you up, and many won`t. Wanting to save money, but wanting even more to be guaranteed a seat on a bus, I wandered into one of the only bus offices. After much muddy conversation with the young woman behind the counter, I discovered that I would have to go to Ica, two hours away, to get on the bus, even if I purchased my ticket at the intersection. Because people find it annoying, buses that go long distances stop as little as possible. So, I declined her ticket offer hoping to find something cheaper in Ica, and headed to the other side of the highway to hail the next set of wheels headed that way. I waited mere seconds before an Ica-bound bus saved me from the scorching desert heat.

Upon arrival in Ica, I sweated my way from station to station to find the lowest bidder and finally settled on Flores. Ticket in hand and backpack behind the counter, I headed for the center of town to  replenish  my rations, check out the churches and pretty plazas, and get my daily dose of internet. Cuzco, here I come!

Sand Trapped Brain Fry

I think I’ve got a perma-case of Jello brain. Seriously. Actually, I feel the haze slowly lifting, but it’s been awhile. Almost a week, actually. With any luck, normalcy will soon be knocking at my door. I think a huge contributing factor is that I’ve been unexpectedly travelling across this vast expanse of desert (see photo) that apparently encompasses a huge chunk of South America. Hey. And it’s at the same latitude as the Sahara. Go figure. It’s definitely messing with my mind. Every time I wake up, I feel like I’m still on the set of some  bizarre  movie. It’s like the way the scenery used to repeat itself in old films.

the week-long view from the bus window (atacama desert)

the week-long view from the bus window (atacama desert)

When we got back from the Colca Canyon/Condor tour, I wanted nothing more than to bury my head in a pillow and let my mind go blank for eternity. Unfortunately for me, I had enlisted the ticket-booking services of my hotel pre-departure. My $55 soles worth of bus ticket was waiting for me at the front desk, leaving me no choice but to dive headlong into the next leg of my journey. It’s probably better. I’ll get the same brain rest on the bus sleeping: it’s just getting to the bus that’s the challenge. If I was with someone else, it might be more relaxing to stay put. Alone, however, I can’t do anything to make my brain feel any better, and I’d make a terrible new friend, so why not keep moving?

A dinner of Snicker’s bar (oh, for shame!) and chunk of bread I bought off a vendor on the corner accompanied me to the bus station. The taxi driver wouldn’t have said a single word to me if I hadn’t asked him about seat belt laws while he was strapping in.

The ride to Nazca was relatively uneventful. My backpack wouldn’t fit under the seat like it usually does, so I had to sit with my knees against my chin most of the way. The woman I sat next to and her travelling companion were really funny. The younger one complained as a man sat down next to her, “Jeez. I always have to sit next to a guy!” Definitely within earshot of the man settling into the window seat. Polite comes in very different shades down here.

I’m finding out, as I’m thumbing through my guide book, that this trip couldn’t have been timed any better. Not that it really was timed. I’m hitting all the seasons just right everywhere I go. In the south, I missed the summer crowds but made it before the winter rains and snows. In the north, I missed the rainy season and am just beating the winter crowds. Awesome!

Also awesome was the dinner on the bus. Usually I just pick through the “airplane-food-like” offerings and nibble whatever looks most nutritious/tolerable. But the food was amazing this time! Some kind of pineapple, chicken, sweet and sour rice business. Not to mention, I slept fantastically. Almost too well. They had to physically shake me away when we got to Nazca. Good thing they were looking out for me, or I would have woken up in Lima!

It was at this point (my arrival in Nazca) that things took a turn for the… well, less preferable. They said ten hours minimum for the ride, which meant we should arrive in Nazca at 5 am. My plan was just to hunker down in the bus station and wait for the sun to come up. But as I fumbled for my glasses and my alarm clock (my only time-piece), I swear I read 3:25 on the display. No way. Couldn’t be. Yup. It is. I had been so exicted about arriving early morning and not having to get a hostel. As such, I firmly resolved that I would still wait it out, even though it meant two extra hours at the station. “The station” it turned out, was actually just a little office with a bunch of plastic lawn chairs, a desk, and television.

The young woman working the nightshift, Maribel, was super nice and really funny. I was asking her about bus schedules for Cuzco, since I would have to return to Nazca to go east. She walked me around to all the different agencies and helped me get info. In our travels about the area, it struck me how forward people are about appearances here and in Mexico. At one station, the counter wasn`t being attended, but Maribel knew who was supposed to be there. “Gordito!” she yells. “Venga!” Translation? “Hey little fattie! Get over here!” I explained to her how funny I thought that was, because it would be so offensive in the states. Do people here have a healthier body image?

Speaking of healthy, by the time I arrived in Nazca, I had pretty much run myself out of food. I dozed a little in the station between the poundings on the window by the folks trying to lure me to a hostel or sell me tours of the Nazca lines. The Nazca lines were what I had come to see, but I wasn`t about to take a tour. The “lines” are actually several giant figures of various things (monkey, lizard, tree, hands) made from removing lava rock from the surface of the desert and exposing the lighter colored sand underneath. No one is entirely sure how they got there, but due to their immense proportion (some several kilometers in length and width!), they`re a huge draw card for the area. The lines are best seen from the air, a plane ride that costs about $1 a minute and lasts for half an hour. There is also a viewing platform out in the middle of the desert that allows you to see three figures. It costs $0.30. That`s my kind of tour! I thought if I learned about the lines first, just seeing a few examples would satisfy me and keep my pocketbook in check.

As soon as the sun came up, I was itching to feed myself and build up my knowledge base about the lines. Being this close to the equator, though, means that the sun comes up awfully early, even in the winter. From 6 – 7:30, I wiggled in my seat anxious for things to open so I could get moving. Maribel offered to watch my backpack while I ran around town, so I was able to set off without the usual weight on my shoulders. I`ve become accustomed to creating my own tour by visiting agencies as a potential customer, where-upon they give you all the maps and info you need to be able to do it yourself. Score! Worked again. I found a shop a few blocks away that had internet to serve all my research needs, and then asked a street sweeper where I should eat breakfast. I`ve found that if you ask someone from the working class for food suggestions, they`ll generally direct you somewhere with fantastic food for bottom dollar prices. If you ask a shop-owner or a police officer, they`ll usually send you to a place they think best represents their community, which means top dollar items. As I ate my scrambled eggs with toast, jelly, butter, and coffee, I savored the rare moment of being the only gringo in sight. The coffee here is served really strangely. It sits in a container on the table right alongside the salt and pepper. I actually mistook it for  balsamic  vinegar, complete with cork. When the waitress brought me a steaming hot cup of water, she felt compelled to push the  balsamic  vinegar  towards me in response to my confused look. Turns out the liquid in permanent residence on the table is like espresso to the power of ten. You just pour in a tablespoon or so and you`ve got a fantastic cup of coffee.

Belly full, I went back to the station to pick up my pack and catch a local bus out into the desert. I have to say that I really LOVE the way transportation is done here. I lament the fact that we don`t really have anything similar in the U.S. If you want to go anywhere here, all you have to do is find out the location of the transportation hub. Then, you just stand around waiting for drivers and fare collectors to yell out the name of your destination. You can go by car, van, truck, or bus, depending on how much you want to pay. When you hear your destination, you can haggle over the price a bit and give your business to the lowest bidder. Everyone is vying for passengers, and they have some HILARIOUS tactics to pull folks out of the woodwork. I heard my  destination  called and saw the bus closet to the vendor start to pull away. I nodded my head as I hurried toward him, and settled into my seat with a sigh of relief and my pockets $0.60 lighter. Thank god I made it! We started to pull forward. Then stopped. Then the driver revved the engine and started yelling out the  destination  again. Funny! They never intended to leave. Empty seats mean lost money. They just want to scare up as many people as quickly as possible. So, I sat sweating in the heat for ten more minutes, amused as grandmothers, teenagers, and families trickled onto the bus. Finally, one of the engine revs was real and we jetted forward, packed like sardines and rattling down the PanAmerican Highway.

The sun burned through the window onto my arms and face as we passed mile after mile of vast nothingness. No sign of life. They say the Nazca lines are hundreds of years old, and have survived mainly due to the fact that not even the wind inhabits this bleak environment. Suddenly the ticket collector approached me with, “Mirador?” (the viewing stand). Befuddled, I nodded, wondering why he would think anything had changed in the past twenty minutes. Understanding slowly washed over as he motioned toward the front of the bus. They don`t like to waste time down here, and I recollected that buses rarely come to a complete stop, both getting off and on. He wanted me to get ready to jump! One problem. Here we are where I can see for miles, and where exactly is this watchtower? Why, hidden behind the driver`s shoulder, of course. I said a sheepish thank you, having subtly accused them of trying to dump me in the middle of nowhere, and crossed the deserted highway to the very out-of-place pile of scrap metal.

Three locals sat at the base of the tower behind tables full of local handicrafts, and one woman was hunkered down in a weird cement building (no fourth wall) directly beneath the tower. I paid my $0.30 to climb up, and was greeted with one of the most peculiar sights. Out of all the figures (26 in all), three can be seen from the tower, and only two in their entirety. While quite compelling, I was immediately content with my decision not to take a $30, 30 minute flight. I was shocked to see that the PanAmerican Highway had been built right through the middle of one of the figures! And just as the figures have been preserved over several hundred years, so had the lines left from the equipment used to construct the road. Not to mention other lines that weren`t part of the figures randomly etched across the desert-scape.

view of nazca lines from the mirador

view of nazca lines from the mirador

After two or three minutes of lingering alone at the top, I was joined by a young woman, probably 15 or 16. We exchanged a few words and I realized she was selling postcards and other tower memorabilia. I declined the offer, but we got to talking. She explained that she had made the enterprising decision to turn herself into a guide for the tower. She had several bits of information in Spanish, and asked me to help her translate them into English. I was delighted! Not only did I get to learn quite a bit of information about the lines and the tower that otherwise would have escaped my attention entirely, but I made a new friend! I let her know that I needed to hitch a bus to Pisco, and she turned out to be entirely helpful in this endeavor. Silly me, I assumed I could just flag down whatever came my way. She, however, could tell the difference between local buses, tour buses, taxis, and long distance buses.

While we were hanging out at the top, a car-load of mostly gringos dressed in slacks, button downs, and ties pulled up. We watched them approach the foot of the tower, looking much like little ants from our perspective, and I was shocked to hear Janet (the guide) comment that they were probably Mormons. Right she was, I found out, as they arrived at the platform, “Elder Jones, Smith, Jenson, etc.” name tags intact. I introduced myself and had them take a photo of us. I have to admit I have certain stereotypes about Mormons even though I am acquainted and/or friends with several individuals who claim ownership to the faith and don`t fit the mold. So, because I automatically assumed that they would all be radically religious and probably too chaste to talk to a woman, I was a bit bewildered and overwhelmed by their enthusiastic interest in me. I felt like I was the star quarterback being interviewed by the press as they swarmed around me firing question after question in my direction. All of them were anxious to hear about what I had done, where I was going, what I did for school/work back in the states, etc., and they were shocked to hear that I was travelling alone. (This only seems to surprise Americans and some South America men. Why?) When it was time for them to head back down the highway, I felt like the president as they all lined up for a farewell. The fact that none of them felt compelled to mention anything about my handshake left me smiling. Almost unfailingly, men will comment on my firm grip, not bothering to hide their surprise. It never ceases to annoy me. Why am I always guilty of being fragile until proven innocent!? ARGH!

Five minutes post-departure, I finally managed to flag down an Ormeño bus, after two failed attempts (a tour bus, and a long distance). I ascended into the sweltering heat that takes up permanent residence on a desert bus without air-conditioning and settled in for the four hour ride. Two hours down the road, my bladder was cursing the lack of toilet facilities. As the bus slowed to stop at the outer limit of a construction zone, I realized I hadn`t crossed the threshold of a bathroom door in well over 5 hours. Great. Just great. Is it worse to have to pee and be sweating bullets, or to be freezing? I concluded hot was better. When you`re cold, doesn`t your body reflexively want to get rid of the useless liquids (read: urine) that it has to waste energy keeping warm but can`t use? I was still lost in thought about the physics of evolutionary biology when the bus lurched into motion.

We arrived in Ica, two hours from my ultimate destination (Pisco) and seemed to be making an official stop. However, with buses down here, you just never know. For this reason, I almost never get off. And if I do, I don`t go far, because I can pretty much guarantee you that driver will shift into first faster than a newly licensed teenager as soon as the ignition turns over. No matter. By this time, I had to go so bad my back teeth were floating. I tried to make the driver promise me five minutes before I attempted to run cross-legged to the bathroom. Frantic with thoughts of all my belongings heading for Pisco without me, I barely finished pulling up my pants before I was back out the door. Plenty of locals stared at the strange gringa zipping and buttoning her trousers as she ran back through the station. Just as I suspected, the bus was ready to pull away without me, shifting into gear as I sprinted across the parking lot. I flashed the driver a smile as I leaped onto the stairs and landed grace-lessly in my seat for the final two hours to Pisco.

My guide book had warned that Pisco was located too far from the PanAmerican highway for the busses to stop in town. Indeed, most just dump you at the turn off. Between the PanAmerican and Pisco, you have to fend for yourself, both coming and going. Therefore, I was hardly surprised when we stopped alongside a few shacks and the bus steward announced, “Pisco, Pisco!” I gathered my backpack and food sack and headed toward many of the VW-type vans I have come to know as public transportation. For ten cents, they would cart me into the city. I piled in with a bunch of locals (I just LOVE the few and far between gringo-free zones!) and tried to learn the layout of the city from the map in my book. Once I got my bearings in the main plaza, I searched out a recommended hostel and came face to face with a huge man dressed in a Hawaiian shirt. There was no end to his cheeriness as he showed me the rooms and bathrooms available. He reminded me of Moon Pie, this guy I worked with on the blasting crew at the coal mine.

As for the rest of Pisco`s citizens, they weren`t near as smiley as the hostel receptionist. In fact, people almost seem to leer here. I sought out a laundromat and tour information before I headed back to a long-awaited shower (had it really been five days!?). The tour I was looking to join was a boat adventure to the Isla Ballestas, often referred to as the Galapagos of the poor, since the wildlife isn`t quite as unique or abundant on the island. I found a place that wasn`t trying to charge an arm and a leg and booked a seat on the 7:15 a.m. departure.

Back at the hostel, I was once again faced with a shower sans curtain. I think it says a lot about the financial status of the area when shower curtains are a luxury. The shower was electric, a moronic irony if you really think about it. I`m constantly afraid of getting electrocuted as I turn them on and off, and they are never comfortable. They may tell you “agua caliente (hot water)” but they always turn out to be agua warm, IF you`re lucky. I`ve recently discovered that my electrocution musings aren`t silly in the least. I`ve heard tales of electric showers catching fire and also shocking a guy mid-wash. Yikes!

After I was clean, I searched out the cheapest dinner possible, which turned out to be roasted corn kernel (not popped!), raisins, and graham crackers. It really makes me appreciate the times in my life when food was just automatic.

Right next door to the hostel, there was an internet shop, but no computers available. I pulled out my journal as I waited my turn. I was to find out later that evening that this place seemed to be the best deal in town. Usually the queue (the British word for “line”) was at least three long. I spent a healthy portion of the evening enjoying my cheap internet and catching up with journal entries. Tomorrow I will get to see my first wild penguin! I hope they`re chubby!

Condors Take Flight

Gave up a shower this morning in the name of sleep. Heat is a luxury here, saved only for water and not for hotel rooms. Getting my body wet in the name of cleanliness sounded like one of the worst ideas possible at 5:30 a.m., 10,000 ft, winter approaching. Besides, “clean” is entirely relative.

After the usual bread and coffee breakfast, we took off for the land of condors. Millie asked me to sit next to her in the front seat so she wouldn’t have to endure the wrath of Marcus two days in a row. I readily agreed. Soon we were ten miles closer to the canyon’s greatest depths and the condors. Along the way we came upon a woman hauling a bundle of reeds the size of the front end of my car on her back and shoulders. How she managed to carry it was a miracle in itself. I can’t even fathom how she got it up there.

We made several obligatory stops in the villages that dotted the mountain road as a preface to the canyon. It was really sad. Tourism at its worst for sure. In one place, a little boy in native garb with his baby alpaca in tow was immediately at the door of the van. “Take a picture! Take a picture!” A man with a domesticated eagle on a rope(wings not clipped) stood offering the same opportunity. The villagers were lined up on display. The tourists exploiting the villagers for pure entertainment and photos to show back home and the villagers exploiting tourists for money to buy CD’s and things they see the tourists bring with them. Sad.

Before we reached the best condor viewing point, we passed through a 400 m (1320 ft.) tunnel that made me feel like I was on the Magic School Bus. Of course the tunnel wasn’t lit at all, so we plunged into the cave with our mediocre headlights. Seeing the exit brought a new meaning to “light at the end of the tunnel.”

The terraces that we saw during our canyon approach made the sightings of the day previous seem like child’s play. Hundreds and thousands of feet up on steep canyon walls were small fields of corn, potatoes and beans, crops that had found a home continuously in this exact place for more than a thousand years. Amazing. I felt so honored to be able to walk among and feel such a part of all this history.

Our arrival to the condor viewing platforms was anti-climatic, to say the least. Hundreds of tourists swarmed the cliff ledges covered in cement and rock walls. The first condor I spotted was far enough away that I didn’t get the impression of a bird with a 10 ft. wingspan weighing 30 pounds. I was however, amazed by the depth of the canyon which seemed to plummet eternally down. I wish I remembered the Grand Canyon better. When I saw it as a young girl, all I remember is thinking, “After all the warnings to stay away from the edge, it must be that a kid could probably fall in just for looking.”

I got my first breath-taking glance at the monstrosity that is the Andean condor when a swoosh above my head tore my gaze 9,842 feet from the floor of the canyon to the sky directly above my head. I felt like I had been zapped back in time to the Jurassic period when mosquitoes were the size of birds, and dragonflies were two feet long. Color me impressed. Satisfied with my fifteen minutes of condor watching, and hungrily eyeing the apparently deserted trail that skirted the cliff side off into the distance, I noted the 45 minutes left before scheduled departure and rocketed away from the masses. I am still befuddled at the complete lack of people not even 1/4 of a mile away from the hub. Seven minutes down the trail and I had the whole place to myself, and then some. As I trekked onward, I thought about how sad it is that so many people fail to appreciate and therefore fail to relish in their good fortune. It seemed like most the people on the viewing platforms were just there to check off item #63 on their “things to see” lists before moving on. Scurry to the viewpoint nearest the van door, snap a photo to show back home, and head back to town. Never mind the gorgeous purple lupine growing everywhere. Never mind the unique orange alpine flowers or the neon green birds. Never mind the robin-sized hummingbirds flitting about. How can you be in a place like that and not be completely in awe of the incredible and fortunate advantages you have in life? Just then I crested a hill on the trail and came face to face with a bull who looked like he wasn’t even going to think twice about knocking me off my soap box with his horns. I stopped dead in the trail, fight or flight adrenaline doing the rapid fire thing in my brain. I thought about Millie all warning us to be careful around the bulls in these parts as we hiked the trail yesterday afternoon. No more than seven feet between me and the unwelcoming, ground-pawing guy with the spikes. I figured I could probably disappear right back over that hill crest within five seconds if I was lucky. Two steps backward and I turned to quicken my pace and slow my heartbeat. Probably not a close call, but I wasn’t about to stick around to find out for sure.

A quintessential moment in the canyon - a condor takes flight

A quintessential moment in the canyon – a condor takes flight

I arrived at the van just as the group collecting had commenced; perfect timing. We stopped during our return to Arequipa to hike. I busted ahead of the group and got to spend time hanging out with our driver all by myself. He was awesome and introduced me to cactus fruit. One was like a kiwi and really sour, and the other (off a prickly pear, or “tuna”) was really sweet and bright red. Our driver was such a cool guy. He also told me all about the politics of the region and alerted me to the fact that the canyon had been closed up until two days ago because of protests. First the volcano, now this! I hope my luck doesn’t run out any time soon!

As the group loaded up in the van for the last leg of our journey back to town, Brett commented on the high quality tires. First I noted the Goodyear brand before I realized he was throwing around a little sarcasm regarding the tread. Actually, there was no tread. I chuckled to myself as I climbed in the seat right above the tire.

When we got back to town, we were once again herded as a group into a pre-arranged restaurant. Personally, I was getting sick of the “okay, now it’s time to spend your money at this venue/in this town.” I said so to Brett, and he and I ditched the group to share a much cheaper meal that we could eat in the plaza in the center of town. We met up with the group to return to Arequipa. The drive back was really rough. We drove on the shoulder of the road almost the whole way, because the asphalt was toast. We also passed a frozen waterfall, which was gorgeous. I had a great time because I got to talk to Millie the whole way back. We talked about the differences between our countries and how hard it is to get a visa to the U.S., no matter who you are. It was so rewarding to be able to interact with someone who wasn’t a tourist!

Am looking forward to my next few days when I won’t have to be immersed in other tourists!

Tactless, Terrible Tourists

ARGH!! I’m at this internet café in Perú right now. About 1/2 an hour into this entry (so about 1/2 way finished) suddenly the entire shop goes black. Great. Just frickin great. And of course I hadn’t saved anything. I groped for my purse in the dark lest it somehow be heisted in all the pandemonium that I was expecting to ensue. Instead, we all just sat there in the dark as they rooted around the shop with candles searching for the breaker. Here goes my second attempt to recount the events of May 16th.

Today was the beginning of a two-day, one-night tour to Colca Canyon, the second deepest in the world and home of Andean condors (one of the largest living birds). I’d have to say, all things considered, this venture comes out in the red at the finish line. Definitely more bad things than good. The good can still be appreciated, but I found myself disappointed far more often than delighted.

The problem? Other tourists. I’m not saying that being a tourist is necessarily a bad thing (as that would make me a total hypocrite), but I firmly believe those who are privileged enough to travel should hold themselves to a respectful and responsible standard of behavior. Many tourists aspire to such a standard; I meet them in hostels all the time. However, the kind of people you find on pre-programmed and primped tours are not generally the enlightened and respectful types whose company I much prefer. As such, I spent two days witnessing some of the most appalling and destructive tourism that I’ve ever seen.

Day one, I got up early to get my last of the week’s three showers. Breakfast at the hostel was amazing. Ham and cheese omlette with “arequipan” (a type of bread made in the city) and coffee (again!). I’m really lamenting my downward spiral into a coffee addiction. People down here look at you like you’re crazy when you turn down “café” in the morning. To avoid the stares of horror and disbelief, I’ve taken to giving in to all the offers. And I have to admit it’s growing on me. Argh!

During breakfast, I had a little chat with Marcus (the older British guy) and a young Australian couple. Got my hopes up about spending the day with the Aussies only to be shot down ten minutes later when our guide arrived with room for only Marcus and I. I had been soaking up sunlight on the roof patio enjoying my last moments of stillness before hitting the road to the canyon. I decided that Marcus really wasn’t all bad; really just your typical tourist. A truck driver for a grocery chain, he was on a three week “holiday” (as they call it). We followed the guide down to the standard transportation, chock full of passengers. The slightest touch of anxiety worked its way into my bloodstream as I realized my pack, essentially everything I own, would be riding on top of the vehicle. Problem? Uhmm… I hope not. Worries are as follows:
1) How well attached is my bag going to be when we flying across the landscape of potholes we’re sure to encounter on our journey?
2) Is the sun pounding down on my luggage going to wreak havoc on the three disposable cameras waiting to be developed? What about the film waiting to be shot?
3) If it rains, literally all of my material possessions will be soaked. Clothes, copies of documents, books, food. Not the biggest worry, but a nail-biter for sure.
Ahem. I am happy to report nothing came of items one and three. We’ll see about #2 after I pay a visit to Costco in Eugene.

We stopped several times for photo ops before we all got to stretch our legs in the first village we came to (immediately preceding the beginning of our four hour dirt road travels). It was here that I got to know Brett, the only other lone traveller in our group (besides Marcus). Five Italians, two French, Marcus, Brett, driver, guide, and me! Brett and I were equally uninterested in patronizing the sandwich/tea shop and opted for a walk down to the river. The cliffs of the arid high plain were absolutely gorgeous. We had a great chat about our similar life situations (i.e. travelling in spite of the accompanying lack of security that touring necessitates). He had given up his home and his job as a construction project manager in the middle of London’s Heathrow Airport project. We talked about how strange we both think it is that so few people believe they are capable of doing the exact same thing. Quite refreshing. True to his New Zealand nature, Brett decided he’d go for a cup of tea, so I camped myself out on the van’s roof rack against the stack of luggage and cracked my new book.

Down the road after tea-time, we had our first alpaca sighting. They are much like llamas, but smaller and better for eating, I’m told. They’ve got 1/2 the fatty/c  cholesterol  business that comes with beef and taste great. All the alpacas were actually in some kind of combo livestock herd with sheep and llamas being nudged down the roadside to some unknown destination.

As we passed through the pampa, we got to see several of the birds for which the reserve was created, including the basket-ball sized booby that I spotted on the return trip from the geysers in Chile. The “pampa” is basically high desert marsh. The only solid ground to stand on are tuffets of spongy moss that sink several inches when you step onto them. My parents described something similar when they went on a fishing trip in Canada several years ago. Perhaps it is the same?

I felt my lungs begin the high-elevation struggle as we slowly wound our way towards “the highest point” that our guide, Millie, had been talking about all day. 4,910 meters. 16,203 feet to us American types. I’m pretty sure it’s the highest I’ve ever been. Being at that kind of elevation makes you want to hold very very still. On the way up, Millie had been describing a popular local and tourist activity to partake in once we arrived. From the view point, three volcanoes, gods to the Andean people, stand proud in the background. You choose your god, make a wish, collect a pile of rocks, and build her or him a tribute of worship. It was uncanny all the cairns rising up like  stalagmites  from the earth. At one point, after scurrying up the hill towards a point of interest, I found myself ridiculously out of breath. I mentioned this to Brett as we fell into step, expecting sympathy. Instead, he put my physical experience into perspective for me by pointing out that we had only reached the half-way point for Mt. Everest. And to think I’d had lollipop dreams of climbing it all through high-school.

Having spent only ten minutes in El Punto Alto, Millie herded us back into the van to begin our descent into the mouth of the Colca valley. We arrived in Chivay, our “base camp,” where I got to try my first alpaca steak. Just as legend has it, it’s delicious. And, as promised, doesn’t even begin to resemble the slimy fattiness of beef steak. Yum! As we ate, I listened to Marcus proliferate stereotype after stereotype concerning just about any group of people he could get his hands on: Germans, Australians, Peruvians, Canadians, even Italians (remember there were five sitting not 16 inches away). This was to be the beginning of the flood of ignorance and self-importance that would follow me throughout the tour.

When our bellies were full, we checked into our hotel. I had prepared for a bare-bones venue because of the shockingly low price-tag on the tour, but instead found cozy rooms with enough blankets to warm a herd of elephants. This is one of those moments when I get to feeling guilty about all the damn privilege I have. The tour was $60 Peruvian dollars, and included twelve hours of transportation, an English speaking-guide,  accommodation   breakfast on day two, and a guided day hike upon our arrival to the valley. No way even $60 American dollars would get you something like that in the U.S. And to top it all off, $60 Peruvian dollars (called soles [soul-lace]) is a mere $18.50 to my pocket book. I get to feeling like such an ass. How unfair that it can be so easy for me to take advantage of something like this, whereas so many of the world’s people would be spending anywhere from a week’s pay to a year’s savings to do the exact same thing. What makes me so special? Not one damn thing. Ugh.

Brett and I spent our 30 minute group-break walking around town after lunch. It was so refreshing to finally find myself in the company of someone who seemed to be travelling  responsibly  as opposed to the entirely selfish self-importance that I cringe to find in so many tourists. It had been weeks since my last thought-provoking, intelligent conversation with another traveller, and the first time I’d met anyone as passionate as I was about responsible tourism. I was thrilled.

Back at the hotel, Millie was rallying the troops for our afternoon exploration into the hills around the village where terraces built for pre-Incan farming were still in use. It was so incredible to walk among such a timeless piece of the past. As we scurried along the loose hillside trail, we passed all sorts of cacti and flowers. Millie pointed out a cactus parasite and explained about the different agricultural offerings being produced right before our very eyes. As we rounded the next bend in the trail, two native girls, probably six and ten, came into view. Both were in traditional garb and had a host of beans, corn, barley, etc. to demonstrate the commodities produced by the valley. Both girls were shy, which made it  particularly  strange to find them there on the trail. Millie picked through their supply holding up each item for us to see. The cake-taker was this: our guide started talking about traditional dress and before I knew it was absolutely pawing the girls’ clothing as she searched for examples of the painstaking embroidery used by the native group. It was like the girls weren’t even people, but just little statues put here on the trail for tourists to oooh and ahhhh and take pictures of. Brett and I agreed later that it was nearly sickening. I don’t know why people can’t see how humiliating it could be to make your living being the poked and prodded novelty on display for whomever finds it appropriate to barge on in to your world and do whatever they damn well please. Personally, I’ve only ever had one experience like this, but it was enough to know that I would hate it.

Tangent: when I was a sea-kayaking guide on Yellowstone Lake, I had to return to the launch alone one day to retrieve the medicine of a tourist with a heart condition. As I paddled quickly past West Thumb Geyser Basin, I heard voices float down to the lake from the trails no more than 50 feet away. Among other phrases of exclamation, I heard, “Mom! Look! What’s that!” I glanced toward shore only to find that “that” was yours truly in a sea kayak. I was so stunned that I almost stopped paddling as three different groups of at least 20 tourists total hurried for their cameras to capture the supposed Kodak moment. It felt so strange to have people treat me like I was one of the park animals or an  erupting  geyser put on this earth for their amusement. I can only begin to imagine what it would be like to live with that every single day of your life and how drastically it could change your existence. End tangent.

Once we got back to the van after our “Let’s take pictures of all the novel natives” session, we headed for the hot springs. On the way there, Brett and I talked about  similar  revelations we’ve had as a result of travelling. We had similar conclusions reached through different experiences. For me, I was already aware of the gross inequality that festers in the world. But being aware of it and witnessing it first-hand in contrast to your very privileged life are two completely different things. One of my many reasons for coming here was to put myself in this situation, to show myself how terribly small my problems are. It makes the rest of my life seem so easy compared to the challenges forced down the throats of the rest of the world’s people. Brett’s recounted his similar experience after a conversation with his guide on Mt. Kilamangaro. The guide, thirty-something, wanted very badly to marry his girlfriend, but her father didn’t approve because the man didn’t own a goat. Brett said, “here I am toiling over whether or not to marry my Danish girlfriend and therefore forever choose an existence between London, New Zealand, and Denmark, and this man can’t execute the decision to marry the woman he loves.” Heavy, heavy, heavy. I will try and get down off my soap-box now, as I’m sure my sensationalist writing about adventures is far more entertaining than me ranting about the moral issues currently twisting their way through my days. On with the novel.

Once we got to the hotsprings, I changed my mind about paying the $3 (US dollars) to dive in. Basically, they were glorified swimming pools. It would have been nice to soak in the warm water, but due to my ignorance that accompanied my first stages of budget planning, I’m down to pinching pennies. I didn’t know how much bus tickets would cost, so I chose to think of them as a “splurge” expense in my budget. Little did I know I would be splurging to the tune of $80/week. I reworked my budget as soon as I realized how out of control it was, but I was already $160 too late. And I am realizing as I type that for most of you reading this, maybe that’s not a lot of money. For a young woman still reeking of her university education whose only goal is to stay as far away from a cubicle as possible, it’s a lot of money. I’d be hard-pressed to spend that much in a month in the states. I’m definitely learning a few lessons, though. And realizing even more about my privilege. #1, if you can’t estimate an expense, err on the side of caution. #2, I am very lucky to have led a life where I could just buy more food if a meal didn’t fill me up. When I first arrived, Jared was talking about getting himself down to two meals a day to save money. I thought, (food-lover that I am) that’s crazy! Food is the last thing I would give up to save money. Well, I’m down to bottom of the barrel. For the first time in my life, instead of asking myself, “what am I hungry for?” the question has become, “can I wait a little longer to eat?” At the point-of-sale, I find myself stretching every cent I can, opting often for more filling, less nutritious foods. It’s definitely a lesson in living, and I am so thankful that I’m not faced with this kind of existence in any permanent sort of way.

Ack. Sorry. Anyway, so no hot springs for me. I opted for journaling down by the river in the moonlight and watching the big dipper rise (upside down!) on the horizon. Buenas Noches!

Finding sanity in the white city

Finally, after checking into the Hotel Caminante Class in Arequipa, I got the shower I had been waiting for. I think, on average, I get about four showers per week. 4.5 if I’m lucky! Suddenly I appreciate hot cascading water like never before. Because I’d spent the previous three days flinging myself north, north, north through Chile and Perú, I was aching for some non-bus station food.

I ventured towards the main plaza. As soon as I set foot on the sidewalks surrounding the square, I was inundated with offer after offer for breakfast. Every single restaurant on the stretch had a waitress standing outside trying to drag tourists up to the terrace. After ineffectually trying to deflect the offers, I finally gave into scrambled eggs, toast, and coffee at a table overlooking the plaza.

Since I had so recently crossed the border, my pockets were still devoid of the almighty dollar. However, I still needed to go through the budget planning routine before I could allow myself to swipe my card at the ATM. I sat for over an hour watching the parades(something very official going on – everyone dressed in business clothes), working out a route, and estimating cost of activities in Perú. When I arrived at the bank, I was disappointed to see that the machine wasn’t indoors like almost all are. Deep breath, and go.

After reading Lonely Planet’s suggestion that you take at least two ATM cards, lest one be swallowed up by a machine, I now have this fear that my only source of cash flow is going to leave me high and dry unexpectedly. Who has more than one ATM card? I punched OK after going through the  rigmarole   and to my horror, the machine started beeping like mad. “Oh, #@&%!” I thought. “This is how I’ll meet my end. Standing here on Avenida Santa Clarita on a Sunday in Perú. Just great.” No message appeared on the screen, so I just started hitting “cancel” like mad. I think an angel from the beautiful cathedral down the street must have passed my way, as the machine miraculously spit my card out. Strike one. I  hoisted  my guide book out of its holster searching for bank number two. Do or die! Thankfully, my relationship with this machine was all sorts of mundane and I was back in the black before my heart rate could return to normal.

As far as the planning bit goes, I’m really starting to get the hang of this. Because I’m going at a really fast pace compared to other tourists I meet, the lessons that all travellers have to learn have been coming at me at the speed of light. I’ve definitely been learning from the fatalities, so to speak. I’m glad I’ve finally arrived at this point; getting here has been awfully challenging. I appreciate all the benefits I get from being challenged (this, after all, is one of the main reasons I decided to come here in the first place), but sometimes it’s just so damn nice when life will just hand you the glass of lemonade instead.

Arequipa, the city itself, definitely has its own unique flavor. I reached a relieving revelation here. Walking down the street sometimes is a chore in itself because of all the cat calls and horn honking that it provokes. The horn honking especially gets on my nerves… I think a  remnant  of my childhood bicycling days. Well, I got so fed up that I finally turned to stare at one of the honkers and found myself eye-to-eye with a taxi driver. For all of three seconds I thought he was just your run-of-the-mill slime ball. That is until the next taxi did the same thing. And the next. And the next. Well, aren’t I the halfwit. Here I am getting all worked up over the  exorbitant  amount of attention being a solo gringa provokes only to find out that taxi drivers are just trying to get some business. Oops. Oh well. I’m getting used to feeling slightly incompetent all the time. Shopping is the worst. Buying fruit can be a chore, but it’s totally worth it. Fruit is dirt cheap here. I got an avocado, a banana, some oranges, a pound of grapes, and an apple for three Peruvian dollars, which is only one U.S. dollar. Awesome! I could really get used to this!

Arequipa also has something new to offer in terms of the travel culture. The ages of my co-travellers seems to be climbing the further north I go. In Argentina and Chile, I almost never met anyone over the age of thirty. However, walking around the city, I bump into several gringos who are sure to have grandchildren. It’s nice to see the mix changing a little. And speaking of older tourists, I’ve decided that I should give the older British guy a chance. Probably he’s really nice and was just having a terrible day or something, right? I really need to work on searching out the best in people instead of maintaining rock-bottom standards and expectations. It’s kind of funny the expectations tourists seem to have of one another. You wouldn’t believe how many times I’ve been in a dorm room with another person for some  abominable  amount of time before either of us were brave enough to venture an “hola” or “hello.” I think what happens is no one is all that confident in their Spanish, and you can never really be sure what someone’s first language (English? Swedish? French? Swahili?) is going to be. In effort to save face (i.e. not to end up in an “I-don’t-know-how-to-talk-to-you” situation), we just don’t talk at all. I’ve taken mental note and will now attempt to break the mold whenever possible.

Calama, Iquique, Arica, Tacna, Arequipa!

Travelling alone is really not bad at all. It`s so nice to be able to do whatever you want whenever you want to. You`d think you`d get lonely, but I stay in hostels so often that there are always people around. You can have your ten minute chats, and you have opportunities to get together with people and go out for dinner, but then you don`t have to put up with the painstaking group decision-making process. And you don`t have to feel bad or anti-social when you spend three hours at an internet cafè catching up with your online journals and e-mailing. Plus, other travellers aren`t generally all that great. Usually I`d almost rather be by myself. The times that are the hardest are when I have to deal with really challenging situations alone. And I`ve had a LOT of those, recently. It`s been rough.

First of all, I left San Pedro de Atacama for Calama in the afternoon after spending the entire morning at the geysers. I arrived two hours later. There were two groups of gringos on the bus that I probably could have started up conversations with, but I get preemptively annoyed by travellers who seem all-too stereotypical. Really, I shouldn`t be so damn closed minded and I shouldn`t be expecting the worst from people, but I am and I do. Plus, they were all in groups. It`s a lot more uncomfortable to crack into a group than it is to connect with another solo traveller. So, I decided not to try and make any friends. I started feeling ill on the bus. I didn`t know if was food issues or too long without seeing a toilet, but I felt awful when we arrived. If someone would have tried to mug me or something, I would have apathetically puked on them. That`s how bad it was.

The bus dropped us at a satellite office of the company I was travelling with. I went in to ask for directions to the next station. Through the haze of my illness, I got an address and something about turning at a church and walking several blocks. The man at the counter said, “It`s at least a half hour walk. You should probably take a taxi.” I saw no reason to do that when I had seven hours to kill before my next bus, plus I was almost out of money, so I told him so and nursed myself to the next station. Side note: being out of money is not a good thing to be. I was almost out of Chilean pesos, but I wanted to wait until I got to Iquique (where I was going to go paragliding and buy my final Chilean bus ticket) to make a withdrawl so I would have a better idea of how much to take out. Frickin` Wells Fargo charges an arm and a leg everytime I use foreign ATM, so I wanted to make it count. Too much money withdrawn, and I lose even more on changing pesos into soles for Peru. Too little, and Wells Fargo would tag me with yet another withdrawl fee.

Anyway, back to my seven hours to kill in Calama. Sometime within those seven hours I wanted to 1) take care of my stomach problem, 2) do some internet business, 3) make a phone call or two (it`s so cheap in Chile!). I kept passing all sorts of call centers and internet places on my way to the station. However, because of my desire to vomit, I decided I should just get to the bus station so I`d have a home base. Well, turns out the other station wasn`t a conglomerate of companies like usual (think airport), it was an independent terminal. This means minimal services for one company instead of fifty… kind of like hanging out at the Gillette Airport for seven hours, only it was located in the industrial section of town. After I got my stomach problems taken care of, I tried to decide if I should pay to leave my pack in the baggage check and walk to cheaper services (food, internet, phone) or if I should save myself the hassle and just pay the  exorbitant  amount the bus-station internet place was asking. I only had about two hours of daylight left. Considering the location of the terminal, I decided it was best if I just hung out. After spending as much time as I could stand staring at a computer and letting my thoughts seep onto the screen (two hours is usually my limit), I went to use the phone. I discovered, to my dismay, that my phone card wouldn`t work at the public phones and the call center wouldn`t let me use the card I had because they don`t get a slice of the action. Bummer. This is when it sucks to be alone. When you`ve got no home, you have no way of getting in touch with anything familiar, you feel like crap, and the only meal you can get is Oreos or fried mystery items. Times like these, it would be so nice to have someone. Nonetheless, I persevered.

I thought maybe I could get an earlier ticket (after all, Iquique is a popular destination) and found out the only other departure had been driving out the gate as I was walking in that afternoon. So, stuck I was. And it continued on like that for the next two days, basically. I arrived in Iquique at 5;30 in the morning, and chose to walk to my hostel, ten blocks from the station, instead of spend the small amount of money I had left. That was a mistake. I passed more prostitutes and strip-bars than I`ve ever seen in my life. The first two places I went didn’t seem to exist (thanks Lonely Planet). In fact one of the addresses turned out to be an abandoned building with a door hanging open and crooked on it`s hinges. A taxi driver had been following me for about four blocks by the time I got to the third place. He parked and got out while I was still waiting for them to answer the door. Scary. Times like this it would ALSO be nice to have someone. When he realized that I had already talked to someone inside on the intercom, the driver got back in his car and left. Phew.

The next day also had several challenging moments that would have been more easily dealt with if I had been with someone else. I had decided to save my money and not go paragliding since I awoke to the most bleak landscape I’d ever seen. Really. It was total desert. I guess I had failed to notice the Chilean promo at the beginning of the Lonely Planet chapter: “Atacama desert, world’s driest, covering the northern portion of Chile and Peru.” Fantastic! I wasn’t really mentally prepared to be travelling through a movie quality expanse of sand. At breakfast, I met my first American since I left the company of Jared and Eleanor. It was disheartening. She was from Wisconsin, and completely unfriendly. Argh! In light of no longer having anything to do in Iquique, I took a bus four hours north to Arica on the border between Chile and Peru. To cross cheaply, you have to bus to the border, take a colectivo (a kind of taxi service) across the line, then buy another bus ticket from the other side. It`s way more expensive to get a bus across the border (so I am told). So, I arrived on the Chile side having no idea where and how I get this “colectivo.” I was directed to what looked like a run-down flea market outside the bus station. Apparently, this is the “international terminal.” Not quite what I was expecting, but I`m getting used to bus stations that look like food courts. A giant maze of people and all their crap (I`m talking 10-15 pieces of luggage per person!) blanketed every piece of pavement available. As I tried to ignore all the “Taxi! Taxi! Colectivo! Tacna! Señorita!” and coinciding cat calls, I searched fruitlessly for something that would explain to me just exactly how all this was done.

Finally, I sought out the help of a woman in a call center. She took me under her wing and basically did everything for me. Times like that, it would have been nice to have another person to be confused with. Alone and confused is not fun. It was a good lesson for me, though. I’m so independent and set on doing things on my own. It was really valuable for me to be put in a situation where I was entirely at the mercy of the people. I definitely came to terms with the fact that you have to trust people, and you can’t always have the safety net of the gringo river to float yourself down.

The colectivo is a taxi that takes reservations, basically. You sign up, and when the car is full, you leave for the border. The driver helps you with all the formalities, and then drops you off in the town on the other side. Crossing had it’s moments. For some reason, some people were skipping the baggage scanning, which caused them to be swarmed upon by border police, C.O.P.’s style. Probably they just had fruit or something that was really valuable to them. The people were screaming at the cops hanging on to their baggage for dear life as ten officers surrounded them and ripped their luggage out of their hands and carried it off. Crazy!

We arrived in Tacna (on the Peruvian side) just as the sun was setting. From there, I had to figure out how to get to the next town, because there were several bus terminals. This is becoming more and more common, but it’s weird. It would be like Delta, United, and Continental all having their own airports. It was a mass of confusion and decisions. Do I want to walk to a hotel alone in the dark in this city? Should I go on to the next place right now and have to find my way around there at midnight? Should I hang out in the bus station for five hours and take the last bus possible which will get me to the next place at 5 in the morning again? Questions like these would be a lot easier to answer, and at lot less important, with another person. Being alone, you have the added burden of having to be concerned for your safety all the time. With another person, you`re a lot less vulnerable and therefore have a lot less to think about and a lot less to weigh in terms of decisions.

When I finally arrived by bus, at midnight, to the place I am now (Arequipa), the taxi driver was really nice, helpful, and didn`t try to rip me off. However, the first hostel I went to was full, and he assured me the others on my list were quite popular and would be full as well. (Turns out he kind of scammed me on this.) So, I let him take me to a place a few blocks away. It wasn`t a hostel, which equals more lonely, but I took it. It wasn`t bad, but I wasn`t tired, and it sucks to be essentially trapped in a tiny little room. Can’t leave for lack of safety, but too bored to stay. If I was travelling with someone else, or even if I was at a hostel, I could have gone to the common room and met up with people who wanted to go have something to eat or drink. Instead, I was relegated to hibernating in my barren, piecemeal room until I could fall asleep.

To make matters worse, I awoke to some guy with a Boston accent swearing in English at god-knows-who. I couldn`t tell if it was coming from outside or from within the hotel. He kept calling someone an asshole and sounded abnormally angry. Then I heard him walk up to the front desk, ask what “that goddamn kid is doing on the floor” and say, “Yeah, just give me the fuckin`key.” Jeez! I decided to vacate pronto. (Also another time that it would have been nice to have someone… in the event that I had to interact with this crazy bastard.) I tried the shower. As I suspected, cold water only. I promptly packed my bags as quietly as possible and high-tailed it to the front desk. I walked to the place that had been full the night before. They now had space, so I got a room. It was adorable, clean, had hot showers, and a patio terrace with views of the town and volcanos. After the past three days, it`s a dream come true! There was some weird, 40-something British guy checking in when I got there. He`s going on the same tour I am tomorrow (a two-day visit to the second deepest canyon in the world, home of the Andean condor- one of the biggest living birds). I`m not really looking forward to spending time with him. He makes me uncomfortable, watches me too much, is really awkward in conversation, and was really impatient with the staff (it`s HIS fault if he can`t understand things. Learn Spanish, for christsake, and stop expecting the world to cater to YOU!). Anyway, it would also be nice, in this instance, to have someone to join up with in order to keep him from wanting to befriend me. Perhaps there will be another single traveller on the tour!

World`s Highest Geysers

I would say 3:40 dawned bright and early, but dawn comes LONG after 3:40. I did manage to roll out of bed, despite my track record, at the first sound of my alarm. I got my 85 layers of clothing on, as recommended by the guide book, the tour vendor, and other travellers, and headed downstairs. The lights were off in the reception area, which meant no one to return my key to. The receptionist had assured me that the tour departed from our hostel, but there wasn`t another soul in sight. I chose to go stand outside in the street (just a dirt path, really). 4:08 and still no one. Finally, a young woman walked out the front gate. I threw out the standard “Hablas inglès?” To which she replied “Yes, please!” Her name was Mamika, from Japan and attending school in Australia. Sure enough, five minutes into our conversation, the van driver showed up.
After 15 minutes of driving from hostel to hostel, we headed off for El Tatio, the world`s highest geyser field.

The reason the tour starts in the middle of the night is to allow us to reach the geysers by dawn when the temperature difference at 14,000 feet is the most extreme. It took over 70 miles of nothing but dirt roads, some of the roughest I`ve ever been on, to get there. You`d never find your way without a guide service. The van was full of individual straight backed seats, which had every passenger contorting her/himself into all kinds of odd positions in the name of comfort. Despite the seats, it was the best vehicle I`ve been in so far combined with the best driver I`ve had. Except for the parking brake, which seems not to work in ANY of the vehicles down here, the van was in great shape. The driver was a native from one of the villages near the geyser field and was the first person I`ve seen even consider caution while behind the wheel. And he still managed to do an excellent job of getting us safely around the slower tour vans.

El Tatio at dawn

El Tatio at dawn

When we arrived at the geysers, the guide gave us an introduction which included the fact that El Tatio means “the old man that cries” in one of the native languages, and the giant hunk of machinery plunked down in the middle of the whole thing was to supply the world`s largest copper mine (100 miles away) with electricity. Wow. El Tatio was definitely NOT what I was expecting. First of all, there are almost zero conservation measures in affect. We drove right over the top of several fumaroles and small geysers! We also drove through the rivers created by the run-off. The fifty or so crossings per day have to be wreaking havoc as far as erosion is concerned. No official bathroom means the field of rocks above the field are actually a toxic waste hazard waiting to happen. Inadequate signage leaves tourists highly uninformed and therefore in danger if they don`t know about the behavior of geysers. No boardwalk through and among the geysers means visitor can walk where ever their feet will carry them, a problem for several reasons.
1) The ground among and around geysers is always hollow. In many places, the crust separating you from the boiling water below is inches thick (i.e. not thick enough to hold the weight of your average tourist). Most people that visit have no idea that the “neat hollow sound” you hear when you walk is actually a threat to your life. Several people have died here. One geyser is even named “El Frances” for the three French tourists that fell through the crust and boiled to death a few years ago.
2) Ecosystems around geysers and hotpools are really fragile. The bacteria that grows needs a very specific environment in which to thrive. That`s why you see the different colors in pools; each color is a different type of bacteria that thrives at a different temperature. Having hundreds of feet tramping through it daily pretty much wipes it out. People also toss in their lucky pennies and cigarette butts, which changes the chemistry of the water and kills the bacteria. Guide services use the hot pools to warm the milk for our morning coffee!
3) People don`t know how hot the water of a geyser is nor how unpredictable eruptions are, both in frequency, duration, and intensity. As a result, people climb up the cones of a freshly erupted geyser to have a look inside, and stand as close as possible during eruptions so as to procure a little heat in light of the freezing morning temps. (Genius! What are you going to do when the geyser stops putting out heat and you`re now 50% wetter than before?) Countless tourists have been scalded.

Mamika and I descended carefully across the field walking from geyser to geyser. She was environmental management major in school, and so was interested in everything I could tell her about geysers. I naturally walk pretty quickly due to growing up with a long-legged father, so Mamika took the responsibility of keeping our pace in check. At that altitude, you have to arrest your steps to an alarmingly slow stroll or else! Anything faster makes you want to vomit and/or gives you a violent headache (I found out later). With everyone walking so slow, I felt like an extra on the set of some zombie horror film. Weird.

After we visited the first of two fields, we went to the second where vistors could soak in some hot springs. I opted out because I would have to haul my wet clothing and towel around with me for the rest of the day as I travelled on to Iquique. Instead I opted to go for a walk off towards the mountains hoping to bump into some of the animals that inhabit the desolate high plain. I found more used toilet paper than anything else, and saw one lizard. Also, I saw a cactus with spines so dense that I mistook it for grass. The neatest part of my solo venture, however, was the grass mounds. There were little tufts of grass every few feet in all directions (see photo) that looked like some green thumb planted a grass bomb underneath the soil and it had exploded. Apparently animals had been grazing in the area, because almost every tuft had a sort of buzz cut gone wrong. Stepping on the tufts felt like standing on a wire brush. It was awesome!

exploding tufts of grass in the desert

exploding tufts of grass in the desert

On the way back to San Pedro from the geysers, I got my wish concerning animals. We saw a ton of wildlife and some awesome flora. First across our path was a small herd of vicuñas, a relative of the llama. See photo. It looks like a cross between an antelope and llama. A few minutes later, the road came within a stone’s throw of a desert marsh where these giant sage chickens were hanging out. They had bodies the size of basketballs, red heads, white necks and heads, and black everything else. I couldn’t believe their size! Finally we passed a bunch of domesticated llamas in a canyon. Instead of branding, the llama rachers tie all different colors of ribbons through the ears and around the necks of their animals. It’s really neat; they look so festive!

keepers of the desert - the vicuña

keepers of the desert Рthe vicu̱a

We stopped in a the only small village near the road on the way back to town to look at the 400 year old church and buy sopapillas or empenadas, if we so chose. I had a delicious sopapilla. Actually, make that two. I couldn’t help it! The buildings in the village were really neat to see. The walls were constructed of stones cemented together with mud, and the roofs were thatched grass from the limitless exploding tufts.

The last stretch back to town was full of rockish canyons of reddish brown stone. It reminded me of the rocks alongside interstate just outside Douglas, but reddish brown instead and tons more. Whole fields of them! It was like being on the moon or something.

I realized in the van on the way back that I’m really lucky to have English as my first language, but it’s also a disadvantage. The debatably postive side is that English is the second language of the world. Almost all the travellers I meet speak their native language, English, and limited Spanish. As a result, if you’re from any non-English speaking country, you’ve got to learn the language of the place you’re travelling to, at the very least. And anywhere you go, if you can’t understand the language, they default into English. So I have both the privilege of only having to know two languages, and the disadvantage of being less well rounded than the rest of the industrialized populace.

Also in the van I noticed something interesting as I listened to conversations in English, German, and Hebrew. As far as I know, all South American countries are referred to by their names, no matter the language. Bolivia is Bolivia in English, Spanish, German, Hebrew, etc. But it’s not the same for European countries. Germany is the English word. Deutschland (sp?) is what the Germans call it. Alemania is the Spanish word. Why is this?

When we got within range of San Pedro, the CB-like radio in the van crackled back to life. It’s something I’ve been noticing down here. Radios must be cheaper than phones or something, because lots of service vendors have them. Almost unfailingly, hostel hawkers that meet the buses have a radio they’ll use to alert the hostel of your arrival if you agree to stay. Interesting way of doing things.

Back in San Pedro (de Atacama), I had a few hours to kill before the bus departure, so I hung out in the main plaza and read my guide book. As I was planning my next moves, a radio blared to life somewhere and started blasting, of all things, Guns ‘N’ Rose’s “Paradise City.” Weird. Very surreal. Finally the bus arrived and I loaded up for what were to be three of the more trying days of my life.