The Winding Up Scene

I've been putting off this blog entry, my last blog entry, for some time.  It is an unfortunate day.  A day when you realize that all of your planning and excitement of your summer adventure is not only coming to a close, but has officially ended.  When I was a kid, the worst day of the year was always Christmas.  Not the morning part of Christmas, but the late afternoon part.  When all of the wrapping paper had settled, I'd finished eating my sugary cereal that occupied the whole of my stocking (pretty good cheap thinking on my parent's part) and the excitement of Christmas had started to wane it hits you.  Christmas is over.  I was looking forward to it for so long, counting down the days with that cardboard rectangle with a little piece of chocolate behind each door or the candle that you get to burn a little bit each night, and in the blink of an eye, it has come and gone.  All the anticipation and hype is gone, and it is back to waiting.  Another 365 days until Christmas.

My waiting, however won't be 365 days.  For one part, I don't know the next time I will have an entire summer to blow without any responsibility.  Also, the next time around my wife is going to find a way to come with me.  And the second part, medical school orientation officially starts in 13 days.  People keep on asking me if I am excited for school to start. I don't know.  Today I slept in, finished a movie, cleaned up the house and am going for a bike ride.  The lazy life?  Likely so.  I guess my answer to that question is, whether I'm excited or not it's going to happen.

Arrived at DTW yesterday at 6pm.  Katy was, of course, waiting.  It was great to see her.  I cut my trip short by a couple of days, and 700 miles, because I couldn't wait to see her.  The drive home from the airport was odd.  Kind of like, whoa, we're married.  Like hanging out with one of your good friends from elementary school that you've shared so much of your life with, but at the same time they are a stranger.

Katy had a great evening planned.  We went to a nearby State Park, had a picnic, went swimming.  Then because we were 3 minutes late to DQ, we meandered up Packard on our tandem to the new Frozen Yogurt joint.  Katy is somewhat particular about her desserts, but DQ and frozen yogurt make the list.  The Peanut Butter flavor was out, so everyone else in line quickly passed through and got one of the other 13 flavors on tap.  Not Katy, she didn't exactly insist that the Peanut Butter flavor be replenished, but she did let it be known that it was her favorite flavor, so the lady working there insisted she refill it and Katy get what she wanted. Then we sat at the corner of Liberty and Maynard until about midnight before cruising our way home, always to the shouts of "nice bike".  It really is a nice bike, after my wife, my tandem is what I had missed the most.

When we get home Katy has an email to send, so I turn on The Dark Knight.  I saw The Dark Knight Rises the other day (opening night, midnight showing, yeah I'm one of those types of people) and that made me all anxious to see the The Dark Knight again to tie up the story line.

This morning is when it really hit me.  I wake up early at 6:45am, fix Katy's flat tire, say a prayer and she's off to work . . .  and I'm back asleep.  I'm on SLC time, and lazy SLC time at that.  All week I've been staying up late and watching Breaking Bad (actually rewatching seasons 1-4 because season 5 just started and I want to know the plot inside and out).  And by staying up late I mean watching until 2 or 3 or 4 in the morning.  So I slept in this morning, to keep with my routine, and didn't wake up until noon.  Which isn't that bad when you consider it's only 10am SLC time.

Finished watching The Dark Knight, and then faced with the awful task of cleaning up my stuff.  I hate packing, and unpacking.  Throughout this unpacking process I had some interesting thoughts. Taking my tent, sleeping bag, pad, stove etc. to the basement I realized I have an entire floor of my house that serves no purpose other than to hold "stuff".  I've survived all summer on a bike and 2 panniers and a dry bag (which was later changed for a backpack) and I get home to an entire floor of my house that just has "stuff".  If you ask me, one of the problems with the American lifestyle.  All our stuff.  Then I'm unpacking my clothes.  I went the whole summer on 1 pair of shorts, 1 pair of pants and 4 shirts.  Now I've got an entire closet-full.  More than I can really count.  In fact, I can't even remember when I wore half of that stuff.  Much different than this summer when I said, Well, I've worn those shorts for 15 days in a row, and that shirt for 4 days and those socks for a week.  You think I better do some wash?  It is a bit shocking to see all of these "possessions".  Then my shoes.  All week I've been itching to buy a pair of shoes, Birkenstocks of course, because I've been in the same pair of shoes for over 8 weeks.  Each shoe has 3 holes in it, in perfectly symmetrical relation to the other shoe.  A manufacturing error if you ask me.  Or maybe overuse.  But I've got so many shoes here.  Sometimes, at times like this I guess, I just think to myself, why on Earth do I have all of this stuff?  You've probably heard the saying, He who dies with the most stuff wins.  You've probably also heard this one: He who dies with the  most stuff still dies.  I prefer the latter.  Sometimes I would like to toss my possessions and simplify simplify simplify.  Guess that's kind of what I did this summer.

Anyways, I'm here at home, it's 4:15pm, Katy is at work and I'm sitting on the couch.  After unpacking I did my daily clean up of all the left out dishes and tidying up.  Now I just have to reassemble that bike and adjust the derailleurs on my tandem.  At 7pm Katy and I are going for a ride. It should be fun, she has a century coming up and has been doing a lot of training.

Well, my trip has come to a close.  Done, finished, over, complete. I enjoyed every bit of it and am sad it's over.  In the last 70 days I've been gone I've slept in 47 different places.  It's nice to be on the move, and it's also nice to stay put.  Just got an email from a WS cyclist, he's hoping to be able to stay over tomorrow night.  Guess it's time to start repaying all of the kindnesses I've received along the way. This past week was also great, a rest stop at my home in SLC before reaching Ann Arbor.  Obviously, I spent as much time as possible in the mountains, hiking from Little to Big and Big to Millcreek and a hike up to Lake Blanche with Elizabeth and Charlie on my shoulders.  You never realize how great the mountains are until they are gone.  It was also great being with my family, I feel a bit like the outcast who hasn't been home much lately.  I  love my family, and it's hard knowing they get to hang out with each other every day while I'm over here in MI.  To those of you have been reading any of this, I hope you enjoyed reading as much as I've enjoyed writing.

I've been thinking of some lyrics to end this journey I've had.  Music is, I think, the best way to convey feelings and emotions. So, I guess I will end with, The End, The Beatles, Abbey Road.  "And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make."

Charlie and I up Millcreek.  

I'm home.  Love this girl.

I like Diet Coke.

It is now evident that I, and my stuff, have returned home.

Yum.

Doesn't Devil's Castle hold a special place in everyone's heart?

Summertime

Currently at PDX, Portland's International Airport. I thought that most people in this country were pretty familiar with the ins and outs of the airport. I agree that I definitely fly my fair share, but hasn't just about everyone at least been to the airport? After what happened 8 minutes ago I'm not so sure.

Flying on Southwest to SLC. At the baggage/check-in line winding through a somewhat long line, but it's moving pretty fast. The couple behind me makes some comments about the group of kids in front of me. They all have their ski gear so I assume some type of summer ski camp at Mt. Hood. This couple is in their mid 50s, well dressed, white. Appear normal from the outside. But then the following happens.

Husband: (Looking at the line) says, "Where do we go after here?" Huh? I think. Well you've got security, then you look at the TV monitors, check the letters attached to the ceiling. Find the right hallway and then start counting til you find your number. But not so with this couple. The lady shrugs her shoulders, apparently has no idea. Obviously they don't want to ask anyone for directions, that gives away their cluelessness. The husband eventually answers his own question, "I guess we will just follow all the people." Yikes. A moment later they are rumbling through their baggage and the wife pulls out a brush. "You can't take that on the plane," the husband comments. Sounds like a rough flight ahead. And I thought that my students from the Delta were the only ones out of touch with the complex going-ons of the airport.

Yesterday. A day of opposite emotions. In one sense, it was the end of summer. But at the same time it felt as though it was just beginning.

The end of summer: packed up my bike and mailed it home. My vehicle to freedom is gone. Wheels removed, seat taken off, front fender unassembled, handlebars removed and turned sideways. It was a symbolic ending of summer. No more new towns, no counting down highway mile markers, no more all you can eat bananas, trail mix and nutella. In fact, I should probably cut down on the all-you-can-eat altogether.

But the same day also brought me so many memories of summer. I guess it was primarily dinner. Watermelon, corn on the cob, hot dogs on the fire and s'mores. Quintessential summer.

Watermelon. Nothing spells summer like watermelon. Big old triangles. Juicy. The first bite is the easiest, cause the point of the triangle sticks out a bit. But once you get a bit closer to the green you just end up with a lot of watermelon on the sides of your face. Which is where it belongs.

Corn on the cob. Always reminds me of Keuka Lake in upstate New York. Nice and delicious. Crunchy. I particularly like the old typewriter feeling you get of working down a row, hitting the end, rotating the cob and then starting back at the beginning. I always eat mine without butter or salt. I think nature intended for it to be that way.

Hot dogs on the fire. There aren't too many foods that you can jab on a stick, put in the fire, and regardless of what happens in there they come out tasting delicious. Katy and I like our hot dogs the same way, with as much mustard as possible. In fact, Katy eats hot dogs more as a vehicle for the mustard as opposed to the hot dog for its own sake.

S'mores. A great combination of mallow, chocolate and graham. (Although I think we can all agree that the graham is the weakest link). I like The Sandlot's introduction of the s'more. "First you take the mallow. When the mallow's flaming you place it on the graham. Then, you stuff." s'mores remind me of two places, Alta and the San Juan Islands Alta- sitting there roasting away into the early morning. The unfortunate side effect is a dry mouth. And often ridiculously sticky fingers. After a long night of mallows I always enjoy that delicious Alta tap water. The San Juan Islands. The summer Katy and I had smores every week. They are best with banana and peanut butter (like most things). Roasting the marshmallow is the easy part. The hard part is how to get that chocolate nice and gooey to counteract the dryness of the graham. Last night I had a pretty legit chocolate delivery system. See picture.

So, in one sense summer has ended. But at the same time it has just begun. Just the way I like it.

Puerto Maldonado - Cusco - Lima - Houston - Portland - Beaverton - Parkdale

The last 48 hours have been all about moving.  The long trek home, and yet I find myself 2,297 Google Map Miles away from Ann Arbor, my bed, not having to search for a hostel and most importantly my wife.  I miss her.  I'm starting to feel bad for having left her for so long.  I think today marks 8 weeks of my summer run.  What A Long Strange Trip It's Been. I've enjoyed every bit of it, but when I was sitting in the Houston airport yesterday morning at 7am, I looked at the map on my iPhone and noticed that I had a 4 hour flight to Portland, although it was only about a 3 hour flight to Ann Arbor.  What am I doing? I thought.

So, to start us off in Puerto Maldonado.  Walk to the market in search of my last Peruvian Breakfast.  Then jump in a mototaxi to the airport.  Fly to Cusco.  Short layover, but don't change planes (very rare these days), and then fly the rest of the way to Lima.  Taxi into town.  Walk around.  The final lunch and dinner.  Taxi back to the airport.  Fly to Houston.  Customs.  Flight to Portland is delayed 2 hours or so.  Delightful.  Fly to Portland.  Take the MAX to Sunset Transit Center in Beaverton, OR and then Bus 89 to the corner of Cornell and 119th.  Walk up the hill to John and Amanda Englund's house.  Grab a bowl of cereal and collapse on the couch.  Get a ride to the Spaghetti Factory with John, where I am picked up by Aunt Jeannette, and drive to her house in Parkdale, OR.  That's enough transportation for 48 hours. 

Slept well last night.  Although I never took a shower, and likely need one (I never can tell).  I bought a new shirt in Lima the other night because Elizabeth said I smelled like a stinkbug and I didn't think it was fair to let someone suffer through a 7 hour flight with a noxious odor 9 inches away.  However, I'm thinking this shirt is now as bad as the last.  Laundry is the only thing left on my to-do list today.

This morning I had to, somewhat painstakingly, go back into planning mode.  I usually like planning.  It is a complex puzzle with a multitude of possibilities, no one path being the correct choice.  No right or wrong choices, just better choices and not so good choices.  When I took my field trip to NYC with my Delta students I was put in charge of planning.  I enjoyed it.  $50,000 to spend, 13 people in the Big Apple, almost two weeks.  It was great.  This trip has been similar (not the $ part, despite what you might think about my wife rolling in the Google dough).  8 weeks on the road.  The daily questions are always Where to sleep?  How to get there?  All the while trying to pinch pennies and get by without having to dig into your wallet too deep.  That's the appeal of Warmshowers.org.  But I digress.  Back to this morning. 

I'm an hour east of Portland.  I don't exactly feel like getting on my bike.  And it's not exactly the bike riding part.  (In fact, I think a ride up to Govertment Camp and the Shining's "Overlook Hotel" is in order. The Timberline Lodge at Mt. Hood was used as the exterior for the filming.  Danny isn't here Mrs. Torrance.)  It's the Where am I going to sleep tonight?  What route am I going to take?  The planning.  I'm all planned out.  I spent an hour or so twittling around on Craiglist's Rideshare page.  Trying to hook up a free ride, either east or south, it doesn't really matter.  Either through San Francisco, my original route, or through Idaho to visit a friend and be a cowboy.  But I wasn't feeling it.  Kind of like when I'm not in blogging mood, and so nothing happened.

Cutting to the chase.  pedalperupedal has become pedalperutrytofindouthowtogethomeasquicklyandcheaplyaspossible. I bought a ticket from PDX to SLC for Saturday.  That should give me two nice days to enjoy the raspberries, strawberries and views of Mt. Hood before descending on Utah.  And I just moved up my plane ticket back to Ann Arbor.  I was originally flying home the 28th, but I found something cheaper for the 23rd, so only 11 short days until I see my wife.  Can't wait.  She's been overwhelming kind and supportive.  In fact, when I tell people about my travels the first thing most people say isn't, Oh, what a cool trip! or That's a long bike ride! or anything of the like.  The first thing they usually say is, You've got a pretty nice wife for letting you do all of this.  And I agree.  Thank you Katy.  I love you.

But there are going to be many things that I miss.  Of Peru and Cycling.

1.  Meeting new people.  Whether a French bear researcher in British Columbia or a half naked man named Pablo in the Amazonian jungle.  I love meeting new people and wondering what it's like to walk in their shoes?  What makes them tick?  The best part about new people is always their overwhelming generosity.  Peruvians carry such a stern look on their face, but that instantly breaks as soon as you offer some garbled-English accented Spanish greetings.  Whether they were willing to point me in the right direction, help me with my Spanish, offer me a meal or a place to sleep. I can say they've been Christlike.

2.  The unknown.  When I get back to Ann Arbor I have a schedule that will be pretty consistent for the next 4 years.  The underlying theme is wake up, school, work.  Sure there will be variations.  And the next four years will no doubt be filled with joy and new experiences, but there is some level of unknown mystery that exists when you are traveling across the country or through Peru.  The unknown's include, what does the next turn in the road hold, how far til the next pass, where will I sleep tonight.  In Peru it was a bit different: what did they just say? what did I just say?  I wonder what I ordered for lunch?  I hope there is a place to stay on that island?  This morning I was looking for either a) a ride to Boise b) a ride to San Francisco or c) a flight to Portland.  It's nice to live on a whim once in a while.

3.  Getting on my bike everyday.  Freedom.  Unattached from cars, traffic.  Just get up and go.  See what you want.  Travel at your own place.

4,  In Peru: street food.  We, and by we I mean America, needs to get in on this little secret our friends to the south aren't exactly sharing with us.  Anywhere in Peru you pull 1 "nuevo sole" (their currency) out of your pocket (about 37 cents) and in return you've got a delicious treat in your hand.  It became so common place, and so wonderful that Eli and I started refering to the 1 Sole coin as a Token.  A Token can get you ice cream, churros, popcorn (but not normal popcorn, Peruvian popcorn.  Sweet, slightly chewy and according to Sarah Diamond the best antidiarrheal on the market. And that's coming from a Nurse who works with old people.  Really old people.), a papa rellena (refilled potatoes, often with meat, chicken and vegetables, then deep fried), fresh slices of pineapple, watermelon.  The list goes on and on, and as I foolishly figured out it also includes 2 kilograms of carrots.

And some of the miss-nots.

1.  Peruvian OCD when it comes to money.  If you've got a coin with a scratch on it, they won't take it.  Slight rip in a bill, might as well throw it away.  Trying to buy something for 2 soles with a 20.  Forget it.  Apparently change doesn't really exist in this county.

2.  Paying to use the restroom.  Not that cool.  Getting a receipt for using the restroom.  Awesome.  Elizabeth liked to keep her receipts to track her bowel movements.

3.  Bartering for prices.  It's fun once in a while, but not something you want to do everytime you get in a taxi or want to fall asleep at night.  

4.  Half napkins at restaurants.  You can always tell you're getting a cheap meal if your napkin looks like paper machete and you use up about 8 of them just to clean your mouth.

As for now, I think I'll take that long overdue shower, wash my clothes and pick some raspberries.  One last blog entry when I get to Alta, then it will be back to my home.

Lost in the Jungle > He´s sexy and he knows it.

The last three lines of Robert Frost´s 1916 poem, The Road Not Taken, read:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I -- 
I took the one less traveled by, 
And that has made all the difference.


I like those lines.  I like the woods.  I like to travel.  And I like taking the ¨other¨ path.  However, for my present purposes, I would like to alter these three lines to fit our present situation.  They should read as follows:

Seven trails crossed paths in the jungle, and I --
I tried all of them,
And it didn´t make any difference.


From the beginning.  After Cusco our next, and unfortunately last, stop in Peru is Puerto Maldonado.  It is in the jungle, at the intersection of the Madre de Dios and Tambopata Rivers.  They both eventually empty into the Amazon and then the Atlantic Ocean.  We decided to spend some money and fly the 45 minutes, in order to bypass the 17 hour bus ride.  When you travel you either pay in money or time.  With a couple days left in Peru, our time is more precious than our wallets.

Jungle lodges on the rivers charge $210 for a 3 day, 2 night stay.  But we like doing things our own way.  So, we decided on community homestays in the small village of Baltimore (not a bad town) on the Tambopata River.  Two ways to get there, a boat (only leaves on Monday or Thursday) or an hour taxi ride, ask to get dropped off at km 37 and then a 2-3 hour walk through the jungle on a (usually the word a indicates something singular, as in one, right?) trail.  Found a taxi driver, jumped in and we were off.  Got to the trailhead at about 3:30 and started walking.  Our driver recommended a guide, but arrogance and frugality (maybe a Nebeker trait? I don´t know) kicked in and we declined.  We grabbed our bags and started down the trail.  Had to move fast, dark around 6pm.  Don´t want to get lost in the jungle.

Let´s call the trail we are on Trail 1 (this will make sense as the story goes on).  The walk is beautiful.  Large papaya plantations on the sides of this dirt road, banana trees etc.  Typical jungle fauna.  Actually, it is a strange cross of Mississippi and Jamaica.  Every time I go somewhere new I use previous experiences to categorize new things.  The jungle falls into a tropical (Jamaica) flatland (Mississippi).  15 minutes in we hit a No Tresspassing, Private Property sign.  Go back 30 meters to a side trail (Trail 1b), but it just leads to a house.  We push forward on Trail 1, pass the Do Not Enter sign.  It is beautiful.  Authentic jungle.  A guy is working in a cleared field a ways off and we yell, Donde estas el camino para Baltimore?  He just throws his arm in the direction of the trail, so we confidently continue on our way.  We are singing and laughing.  Positive vibes all around.

Over the next hour we pass numerous side trails.  No signs.  No anythings.  Just occasionally the trail splits and a little side trail sneaks off to the right.  A unanimous vote agrees to stay on the larger of the trails at each split.  We had some disagreements earlier about this and that, and now that we´re out in the middle of nowhere I decide it be better if we are all on the same page.  After 3 or 4 votes following more trail splits we start thinking, sure hope we´re on the right trail.  Continue a bit further and then smack, dead end.  We´ve just walked into a clearing with some previous logging activity.   A giant tree is down, lots of wood shavings, but no trail to be found.  Fun and games just turned into -- now what?  The only option is to turn around.  After 15 minutes of backtracking (So we backtracked a tad? a tad, a tad Lloyd, you drove almost a sixth of the way across the country, in the wrong direction! ), we hit one of the many sidetrails.  Unanimous voting is going to be hard to come by, I figure. But I don´t want to just throw in the towel.  I´m not one to give up on a hiking trail.  Stubborn.  Confident.  Pretty good track record of getting from A to B.  In order to convince the other 3 this is the trail I drop my bag (actually two bags, Elizabeth´s bag is piggy-backing my bag.  As it turns out I also have a pretty good track record of being a porter.  Ask Katy.), and tell the others I´m going to run down the trail for a bit to check it out.  I run down the trail (if I´m not back in 5 minutes, just wait longer), we´ll call it Trail 2, and it looks legit.  All the makings of a well trafficked trail.  Foot prints, little bridges, motorcycle tracks.  When I return we put the trail to the vote.  Everyone is unsure.  We know it´s going to be dark soon and the idea of sleeping in the jungle without any dinner is unnerving to all of us. No ice cream? No popcorn?  Lessons learned in Primary kick in and we decide to say a prayer.  Eli says a quick one, and we kind of agree to try Trail 2.  Actually, Eli and I vote for Trail 2, Elizabeth says we should go back and Sarah is thinking to herself, How the hell did I end up lost in the Peruvian jungle with the Pratt´s listening to Dumb and Dumber all evening?

We walk for about 20 minutes, at which point I say, this is as far as I ran, I´m not making any more guarantees about trail quality.  Not more than 15 more steps down the trail and we hit an intersection.  This is not a little trail split, but a full on two trails cross each other at a pretty darn good 90 degree angle.  An intersection. Let me introduce you to Trail 3, Trail 4 and Trail 5.   Trail 3: go straight, continuing on the trail we are on.  Trail 4: turn left at the intersection and Trail 5, turn right.  Unanimous vote, stay straight and continue on Trail 3.  (If you´re paying close attention, it´s not really a new trail, just the same trail going straight.  But it took such deliberation to take it´s course it deserves to have its own name, hence Trail 3.)  About 12 minutes down Trail 3.  Abrupt dead end.  Unnavigable jungle overgrowth.  Turn around, back to the intersection.  (Now we don´t have enough daylight to get to Baltimore, we don´t have enough daylight to get home, we don´t have enough daylight to eat, or even sleep!).  At this point you can tell the girls want to call it quits.  Some quick logical reasoning on my part (which later proves to be somewhat incorrect (no absolutes in the jungle)) says left is the only way to go.  We need to get deeper into the jungle.  In the event of again returning back on this trail, I decide we need to pull a Hansel and Gretel trick and leave a trailmarker.  I´ve left a carribener hanging from a tree branch, and we´re just about to set off on Trail 4 when two folks coming wandering down Trail 5 towards us.  A man and his wife.  Actually, a mostly naked man and his wife.  He´s only wearing underwear.  Hmm.  Just what I expected.  God usually answers prayers with mostly naked slightly overweight Peruvians.  Eli asks where we are, a conversation ensues, but then out of nowhere (the three of us tune out when Eli starts chatting, we´re really only interested in the final outcome of the conversation) Eli says, they said we could stay with them tonight, and they´ll point us in the right way in the morning.  With no other options, and anxious to stop wandering we say yes, and follow them down Trail 4.  By house they meant shelter.  Two separates shelters, each constructed of half a dozen long poles (trees), and banana leaves as a roof.  One for the kitchen, the other for sleeping.  A small clearing where bananas and pineapple are growing.  We are in the jungle.  Nothing in any direction for miles.  We caught them on their way home from the nearby water hole (shower) and luckily were at the intersection when they came down the trail.  2 or 3 minutes earlier or later and no dice.  A nephew and a friend stay with them.  They work in a nearby gold mine.  Lots of machetes around the house, to keep away the snakes.

We set up the tent, which I think was as strange to them as the lean-to shelter was to us.  In my broken, and I mean BROKEN Spanish, I tell them we have a magic house (the tent).  It gets a couple laughs, always my goal.  Dinner is rice, squash and some noodles.  Pretty good.  The girls sleep in the tent, Eli and I under the stars.  Minor sticky leg, not too bad.  4am rolls around and Maria, the wife starts up the fire.  Breakfast at 5:30am, rice and lentils, Pablo´s got clothes on this morning (the husband) and we get back on the trail at 7am.  They take us back to the crossroads, and then down Trail 5.  This trail has seen better days.  We hit another intersection, and they tell us to go left, Trail 6.  Just follow it straight, they say.  It´s 2 hours down that trail to Baltimore.  Great, we walked forever yesterday and made almost no progress.  After 45 minutes, another dead end.  We hit a small river, unpassable.  Back track again (we´re in a hole, we´re just gonna have to dig ourselves out), and get on another sidetrail, Trail 7.  Walk on that trail for about an hour.  It gets scruffier and scruffier.  Eventually we are jumping over trees, under brush, careful next to the mudhole.  Then it hits all of us.  What are we doing?  This trail is just as bad as the last.  We have no idea if we´re getting any closer.  (Actually I think Elizabeth and Sarah have been thinking this the whole time, I´m just a little more determined).  We sit down on some logs in the trail to rest, my shoulders are killing me, and I surrender.  The jungle won.  We came, we lost, we turned around. Defeat.  Something I don´t take lightly. A very anticlimatic ending.  Getting back was much easier, all the intersections were etched in our minds, and getting from Trail 7 back to Trail 1 wasn´t too bad.  We finally made it out to the main road, after passing some strange guy on the trail with a rifle, and started the hitchiking process.  Got picked up by the first car.

Ten hours later and still wondering: were we close?  Did we even start in the right place?  Who knows.

Grateful that Pablo and Maria came to the rescue.  In the end, we had an authentic jungle experience.  One that money can´t buy, only bad luck, getting lost and the generosity of two strangers.

On a completely different note, in downtown Puerto Maldonado tonight Eli was seen saying, I love you (multiple times) to a Peruvian cross dresser, while repeatedly whipping him on the butt in a strange demeaning/sexual way with a leather belt.  A crowd of about 150 people looked on as the town celebrated their 110th anniversary.  You should ask him about it sometime.

Cusco, the Sacred Valley and Machu Picchu

Staying at the El Cuy Hostel in Cusco.  For those of you that don´t speak Spanish, El Cuy means The Guinea Pig.  Strange name for a Hostel? Yeah, I would think so too, if I weren´t aware that cuy is a delicacy here.  They love it.  Crispier than chicken, often served with the head and all still attached.  Yum.  I´m glad that when we were young and my mother wanted to dispose of our small friends, Doc and Spook, she took them up Millcreek Canyon and repeatedly ran over them with the car tire instead of putting them in the fryer.  But, I guess that story is for another day.

Apology for the factual prologue, more for my own memory than reader interest. Unless you´re a history buff.

Cusco, it comes from the Quechua word qosq´o, which means navel of the Earth.  As legend has it, in the 12th century, the sun god Inti, looked down on the Earth and decided it needed some improvements/change etc.  So, Inti created the first Inca, Manco Capac over on the Isla Del Sol on Lake Titicaca.  Manco was given a spear and told to drive it into the Earth.  Wherever the spear completely fell into the Earth he would create a great city.  He walked for a long time, eventually stopping in Cusco where he drove the spear into the Earth.  (Very similar to This Is the Place, I know.)  People have been living here ever since.  The city retains much of the same architecture.  The streets are cobble-stoned and only wide enough for a single car.  Above the Plaza de Armas the narrow cobble stoned passages and walkways give a ¨whoa, where am I¨ feeling.

The Incan Empire slowly expanded from the 12th century until the mid 1400s when growth really took off.  By the time the Spanish arrived in 1533ish the Incan Empire included all of Peru and Bolivia, most of Ecuador and parts of Chile, Argentina and Columbia.  The Incas were best known for their architecture, which was most prominent in El Valle Sagrado, The Sacred Valley.  This valley is formed by the Rio Urubamba which runs west to east about 20 km north of Cusco.  When the Spanish arrived they first attacked the Incans in Cusco.  After their defeat, the Incans retreated further into the Sacred Valley to Ollantaytambo.  The Incans won a large battle here.  The fortress and remaining ruins are literally right above town.  By showering the Spaniards with arrows and rocks, and flooding the town with pre-prepared water channels, the Incas were able to hold off the Spaniards for a time.  Eventually the Spaniards defeated the Incans and they withdrew further into the jungle. (As you travel further inland in Peru the climate changes from absolute desert to very jungly (if that´s a word)).  Their last retreat was to Vilcabamba, the lost city of the Incas.  It was this city Hiram Bingham was looking for in 1911 when he somewhat accidentally stumbled upon Machu Picchu.  At the time Machu Picchu was almost entirely covered by jungle overgrowth and it took a couple years to clear away the growth and expose the ruins.

When the Spaniards first arrived they never mentioned the presence of Machu Picchu in any of their records.  This makes it difficult for archaeologists to determine the importance of the site.  Was it abandoned when the Spaniards arrived? and therefore never visited. No one really knows.  It does contain many religious sites, temples and is crisscrossed by 7 major Inca trails, suggesting it was a significant Mecca for the Incas as well as a crossroads for travel throughout the region.

So, about our journeys.  First we went to Pisac.  It lies in the east end of the Sacred Valley, high above the Rio Urubamba.  The coolest terracing that I have ever seen.  I don´t think I can stress it enough, The Incas Were Builders.  We´re talking massive construction.  Thousands of boulders, perfectly symmetrical terraces that circle the steepest, harshest terrain.  It´s like someone got to High Rustler and said, ¨Hey, let´s plant some rice up here?¨ Why go through such hassles to grow crops on the side of a cliff?  It is believed that the Incan Empire numbered anywhere from 5-35 million people, (discrepancies exist not because of the lack of records left by the Incas, but how to interpret the records that the Spanish partially destroyed) and that´t a lot of people eating a lot of food. So, after all the flat land was used up, they went to the steep land.  A bit of a contrast to those in America today when they run out of food.  I think that instead of working tirelessly the modern day problem solving system is food stamps.  A bit lame if you ask me.  The four of us walked through the old citadel high on the mountaintop, through the rice terraces and spent the day wishing we could fly backwards 500 years and see the place in action.

The next day was on to Ollantaytambo.  Similar to Pisac.  Incredible terracing, masterful stonework, it really is incredible.  The architecture is incredible.  Buildings built entirely of rock, each rock about the size of a table, perfectly joined together without the use of any sort of mortar or cement.  Truly a perfect jigsaw puzzle.  Look at the picture to see.  We have a running joke that anytime we are on a really nice trail, road or building etc, we say, the Incas must have built it cause the Peruvians couldn´t.  Spent the night in Aguas Calientes, also known as Machu Picchu Pueblo.

Machu Picchu Pueblo sits at the base of and around the corner from Machu Picchu.  The only way to the town is by train, or Inca Trail.  The train lets you off and you´re immediately swarmed by poor-English speaking Peruvians hawking all sorts of crafts.  It´s the ultimate tourist destination in South America, we know it, they know it, and they want what´s in our wallets.  In comes the 2 block rule.  The distance between Tourism Central and The Real Peru is always 2 blocks.  Regardless of the town we´ve been in, 2 blocks always separates people selling artwork and jewelry from kids running in the streets, cheap food vendors and authenticity.  I hate the facade of tourism.  In all honesty it is sad to compare two vastly different cultures inhabiting the same land only 500 years apart.  One worked tirelessly to construct citadels, temples and terraces for growing crops.  The other sits under zinc metal and blue tarps and sells overpriced nonsense to weary travelers with nothing else to do but pick up trinkets of their travels. Hmm.

Real Peru for us was great.  We found the local soccer field, fantastic location, stadium lighting and the entire town was out playing volleyball and soccer the all night.  Sarah and I jumped in on a game with some kids, and we handed them a decisive victory.  We had the age and ability advantage, but they had the acclimatized advantage.  Running at altitude = I thought my heart would break out of my chest.  Then Eli and I got in on the typical, spin a 4 year old in a circle as fast as you can and as soon as you let them go tell them to run really fast and watch them fall over.  Never gets old.  Standard Peruvian fare for dinner and early to bed.  It was Machu Picchu Eve and we didn´t want to screw anything up.

The night before any great event, a Phish show for example, requires planning.  In the rock and roll world you want to be on ¨the rail¨. (To clarify, the rail is the front row of a general admission concert, but it´s  better than the front row.  You can´t buy a ticket to be on the rail, you´ve got to show up early, concentrate and hope that for just a moment the starts align.) It´s where the magic happens. Yes there are the thousand hoodlums behind you, who slept in, showed up late and still got to see the show, but it´s not the same.  When you´re on the rail you´re not at the show, you´re part of the show.  And thus it was with us. The prospect of 2,500 other tourists swarming all over Machu Picchu.  Not cool. I wanted to be on the rail.  The first bus up the mountain leaves at 5:30am.  We woke up at 4am to be in line at 4:30am, on the bus at 5:30am, Machu Picchu opens at 6am and we get a little bit of the majesty of Machu Picchu to ourselves.  We´re walking to the bus station at 4:28am and I´m nervous.  What if the line is already packed?  What will we do? Then we notice people walking the other way, down along the river, across the bridge and an hour up the very steep, did I say very steep, hill to Machu Picchu.  Alas.  If being on ¨the rail¨ at Machu Picchu comes down to a physical bout, I´m confident I can reach the top of the mountain first.  We´re allowed across the bridge at 5am and the race is on.  From the beginning it´s me and a French dude out front.  The climb is very steep, and dark.  I don´t have a headlight but am using the Frenchman´s headlight as we climb together.  My heart is pounding, legs burning.  I feel like I am on my bike again.  Competition.  Me vs. someone else.  Eight minutes into the climb Frenchy stops to adjust his clothing.  Now is my opportunity.  I push ahead in the dark with nothing between me and ¨the rail¨ but 40 minutes of heart pounding, Inca trail climbing darkness.  I momentarily check the time on my phone.  It´s 5:18, the first bus will be leaving in 12 minutes.  How much farther have I to go?  Will the bus beat me?  Despite my lead on Napoleon (I can no longer see his headlight), I push on faster.  When I notice my heart rate start to relax I pick up the pace.  The thought of victory with 2,499 people behind me propels me to the top.  As I climb I catch a glimpse of Wayna Picchu in the distance.  Adrenaline and childhood giddyness carries me the rest of the way and I reach the ticket booth at 5:26am.  I´m alone for 6 minutes (during which time I read a chapter of Matthew) until Joan of Arc (to be honest I never asked for the Frenchman´s name) arrives.

The earlybirds filter in until 6am when the gate opens and we race into Machu Picchu.  A couple moments of freedom, in what just might be the coolest place I´ve ever been, was worth the planning and physical exertion of the morning.  Some places, movies, people, food, things, etc don´t live up to the hype.  Machu Picchu surpasses it.  It´s not the buildings, or the stonework or the terracing that does it.  These exist in other ruins.  It´s the location.  Out of this world.  Most people only see Machu Picchu from the typical postcard picture location, with a very steep mountain, Wayna Picchu, directly behind it.  But when you are actually there and spin around in 360 degrees it is mesmerizing.  To top it off we climbed Machu Picchu Montaña, the mountain you don´t see in the postcard photo.  It stands about 2,000 feet above and behind Machu Picchu.  From there the views are incredible.  Nothing but mountains in every directions.  And tiny little Machu Picchu way down below.  On the way home we compared Machu Picchu to some of the other great iconic places we´ve visited, the Grand Canyon, the Empire State Building, the Dome of the Rock in Jerusalem, the Taj Mahal in India, the Coliseum in Rome.  But we all agreed this place tops them all.

Machu Picchu, need I say more?

Machu Picchu Montaña

MP.

This is what ¨the rail¨ looks like at 5:26am.

Pisac terracing.

The Fortress at Ollantaytambo.  Note the impeccable construction, rocks fit together perfectly.

Puno - Cusco, El Viaje de Autobus Desde el Infierno

El Viaje de Autobus Desde el Infierno = The Bus Ride from Hell.

According to my Lonely Planet guide book Puno and Cusco are 389km apart.  A rough translation from kilometers to miles (which I am getting good at due to my Canada days is just under 250 miles).  In America this would run as a typical 4 hour drive.  Over here in Peru, giving the benefit of the doubt to slow roads I guessed we would get there in 6 hours.  I´m accustom to long slow bumpy roads, but the road between these two cities is paved and it´s most likely the most touristy traveled road in Peru.  We all had our hopes up for some smooth sailing.  No dice.  Let me explain.

Side note: great keyboard, really feel like letting my creative thoughts flow.

We showed up at the terminal terrestre (bus station) in Puno at 9:30am, because we were told a bus leaves about every hour for Cusco.  The two larger more well known bus companies, Cruz Del Sur and Ormeno aren´t running buses to Cusco today.  Strange, not sure why.  We find out why 4 hours later.  So we check some other places.  One guy says he´s got a bus for 11:30, so we look for something earlier.  A couple of desks down (Peru has dozens of bus companies all of varying quality, value, speed etc.) another guy says he´s got a bus for 11am.  It´s the earliest to leave.  So we take it.  The guy also offers us the front four seats on the second floor, which means we have a huge glass window in front of us to see the sights.  We´re traveling with Libertad.

In our 1 1/2 hours to spare we jump in a taxi for town, grab some of the best empañadas we´ve found in Peru, some ice cream and get back to the bus station around 10:50am.  11am rolls around and nothing happens.  Here is where the time starts ticking.  In my mind we are leaving at 11am, traveling for hopefully no more than 6 hours, getting to Cusco by 5pm, having dinner while it is still light out etc.  While we sit there I look at our tickets, they are marked with an 11:15 departure time. 11:30 comes and goes.  At 11:45 we get our bags on the bus, but the guy there starts asking everyone where they are going.  So we quickly learn we aren´t on a direct bus, there are going to be stops on the way.  However, with my limited Spanish we don´t know how many stops, or for how long.  The bus gets rolling around 11:50 and we are the four white folks on a bus of 80 or so Peruvians (80 can fit because the bus has two floors).  We start creeping out of town.

15 minutes later Eli asks if he can go to the bathroom.  The guy says no, come back in 15 minutes.  Eli really has to go so he comes back in 14 minutes and uses the bathroom.  As soon as he gets in there the bus pulls to the side of the road and stops.  A kid jumps out with a large bucket and fills it up at a little river next to the road.  Oh heck, we think.  We´ve seen this trick.  In order to flush the toilets the toilet needs some water.  There must not be any on the bus, so the kid is getting off to get water and fill it up.  Pour the water down the toilet and it flushes.  Magic.  In America that´s what the big box behind the toilet is for.  What most Americans are hesitant to open, but what plumbers and third world folks deal with like it´s their job.  We get back on the road moments later, only to stop 5 minutes later.  A couple folks get off.  That´s strange, we think.  A couple minutes later we are in the middle of a desert, with nothing in sight but a lady on the side of the road, holding her arm out trying to flag down the bus.  The bus stops.  We pick her up.  We now realize that not only are we going to stop in all the major towns along the way, but also everytime someone on the side of the road wants a lift.  (To clarify: I´m very used to this practice.  In Jamaica and elsewhere public buses always stop anytime they can pick someone up.  However, in all of our previous long distance bus rides this has not been the case.  We have driven directly there without any stops.  What proves to be the biggest problem of the day is our expectations.  When you expect one thing, and something else happens, it irritates you.)

We roll into Juliaca at about 1:10.  Already 20 minutes behind schedule.  We get to the bus station, and we wait.  For a good half hour.  Not quite sure why.  Just know that we´re not moving.  Finally start rolling again, get 20 minutes out of town, and come to a huge long line of buses and semitrucks stopped in the road.  The bus pulls into a gas station and stops.  It´s just before 2pm and we´re not going anywhere.  Being the gringos on the bus we´re left out of what´s going on.  We get off our bus and find some other folks, happen to be from Germany, and ask what´s up.  There is a strike up ahead on the bridge, no way to get around, and the strike is supposed to end at 3pm.  It´s a teacher strike, they are upset about something.  I think to myself, hmmm, how clever.  If a strike were to happen back at Lakeside High School, it would defintely have to go til 3pm, cause if it stopped any earlier there would be the possibility of having to teach 7th and 8th period.  Wouldn´t want that to happen.  So we wait.  Growing impatient, I decide to walk the 2km or so down the road to where the strike is happening.  As I walk I am a little cautious.  Whenever you travel in other coutries you are always told to avoid two places: being out late at night by yourself and public demonstrations.  The two places you may find yourself in danger.  As I walk I notice the road is covered in rocks and broken glass preventing the movement of cars.  As I get closer I notice I´m the only white person around and everyone is staring at me.  More so than at any other time this trip. A bit nervous, I wonder if I should turn around.  But, it´s broad daylight and police are around so I push forward.    But right when I get to the actual protest the mood changes.  Up ahead I see a group of 6 women sitting in the middle of the road, the first of the protesters.  As I get closer they start cat calling, whistling me.  Like, you´re hot white guy, what are you up to?  I throw out some broken spanish, Lo siento, yo tengo una esposa.  (I´m sorry, I have a wife).  And immediately everyone on the road starts laughing.  5 of the women are all laughing at their friend who was whistling, the 6 police men hanging out on the side of the road all crack up and the many bystanders all have a good chuckle.  Great, now everyone is staring at me, but at least the situation isn´t violent.  In fact, it feels like a big party.  People just hanging out, having a good time, women have brought their carts to sell food to the protesters.  And the strangest part is that the police are just hanging out too.  Not a care in the world.  Again it is my expectations that are off.  I expect the police to break up such an act.  The only road between these two cities is blocked almost all day.  Do something police, establish order.  But, nope.  They´re just hanging out.


Walk back to the bus, sit around and just before 4pm we start moving.  So, we´ve traveled all of about 60 miles in 5ish hours.  Cool.  We should be almost there by now, but we´ve just started.


To make up for some serious lost time, the bus driver decides to drive a bit faster.  Good and bad.  At the front of the bus, up at the top is a LCD screen display.  It displays our speed, in kph.  Strange I think, why do the passengers on the second floor need to know how fast we are going?  It gets worse.  Every time the bus goes above 90 kph, this very loud beeping starts, similar to the warning sound of a semi truck backing up.  However, we have the front 4 seats in the bus and the sound is right over our head.  When a semi truck backs up the warning sound is beneficial.  It warns those in the vicinity to stand clear.  But what about our situation.  A loud beeping sound inside the bus, on the second floor everytime the driver goes over 90kph (which is only around 62mph, slow).  No logic here.  Why warn us that the driver is going too fast? and worst of all with a loud beeping noise?  As if, we hear the noise and shout downstairs, could you slow it down a little?  Doens´t he have a speedometer?  For the next hour the driver tries to make up lost time, so the speed bounces back and forth between 88 and 92kph.  Which means an obnoxious beeping noise of death that goes on and off for hours.  Finally, fed up with this we ask the people behind us, what´s with this thing?  All they can say is, It beeps when we go over 90.  Really?  Like I didn´t notice.  The four of us are infuriated, to the point where I have to shout out a long line of expletives similar to Bob Weiley faking that he has terret´s syndrome in Dr. Leo Marvin´s office.  The part that irks me the most, however, is that the 50 peruvians behind us in the bus are completely unphased by it.  They don´t even blink at it.  Again, expectations.  They were expecting it.  Somehow, to them it is normal, a daily part of traveling with the lovely, Libertad.  To me it´s the most illogical obnoxious I want to kill myself noise in the world.  As the four of us sit here, we all agree it is good that George, Dylan and Jessica aren´t with us.  Who are prone to more drastic outbreaks of impatience during such times.


After a while the driver slows down, the beeping goes away, the sun starts to set and it is a pleasant ride.  Pleasant enough to enjoy the ride, and turn our attention to other business.  To Eli, that means going to the bathroom.  He´s been holding it for a while and has to go bad, number 2.  He walks down the steps with his toilet paper in hand (big mistake) and goes into the bathroom on the bus.  As soon as he is gone for about 45 seconds Sarah, Elizabeth and I hear this uncontrollable  banging on a door downstairs, interspersed with yelling in Spanish.  What´s happened now we think? Is Eli ok?  He finally returns with the look of fear on his face.  What happened dude?  Eli says, the guy was banging on the door the whole time.  He was yelling I couldn´t go number 2.  But I had to.  What was I supposed to do.  When I came out of the bathroom he was yelling at me telling me I would have to fill up the bucket with water at the next stop to flush it down.  All I did was stand there and say, Como? No entiendo?.  And that´s our go to move when we are in a sticky situation.  Play the dumb American that doesn´t speack Spanish.  And so a giant turd sits in the toilet for the rest of the ride.  Elizabeth and Sarah have to go pee a couple hours later.  They are in fear of having to go downstairs and brave the bathroom man, but asssume if they don´t have toilet paper in their hand they will be ok.  (It turns out the toilet paper in hand was the give away that ruined Eli, guys don´t need toilet paper to take a leak.)  When the girls return they report that the turd is still there, nasty as ever.


As the bus rolls on, the beeping is on and off the rest of the way.  After a while it becomes routine.  You could even say that I expect it.  Somtimes I hear it and it doesn´t really bother me.  I think to myself, if a white dude jumped on the bus and it started beeping, he would surely ask, What the heck is that for?  Likely he´d be as enraged as I was.  But, I think my answer would be very familiar.  I would casually say, oh yeah, it beeps when we get above 90kph.  As soon as I have that thought it hits me.  I´ve become one of them.  At first enraged at the problems of the bus ride, I´ve come to expect them.  And our expectations go a long way in determining how we react to what happens to us.


We take two more stops, in other towns, and finally roll into Cusco around 10pm.  It wasn´t the longest bus ride ever, we had a 15 hour ride a week ago, but the combination of the strike, the beeping noise and Eli´s turd dilemna puts this bus ride down in the books as the El Viaje de Autobus Desde el Infierno.

The waiting game.

Travel prevented.

Teacher strike - demand for 30% pay during lesson preparation.

Puno - Chifron - Isla Amanti - Isla Uros - Puno

The last two days have been wonderful.  A cultural submersion none of us will forget. 

Got into Puno late.  Dropped off at the terminal terrestre (bus station) as usual.  The rest of the gringos jump into a taxi or prearranged hotel transportation, but not us.  We blow past the touts and end up on the main drag of town and begin walking across town to the cheapest hostal in our Lonely Planet guide.  We´ve all kind of agreed that 15 soles (about $6) is the most we will pay for a night.  15 in spanish is quince.  We have a running joke that everytime we get to a new town and ask, Where should we stay tonight? we all respond: quince?  We get to our hostal later, the Duque Inn, after trekking up very steep road.  I say it reminds me of Alta cause it´s so steep, to which Eli says, It reminds me more of Fortuna Way, cause it´s a street.  (Lot of sarcasm on this trip).  The guy asks for 20 soles, which I barter for 15 and we are all set.  Nice place, 5 stories up on the hill, nice view of Puno.  We´ve also got one of those killer bathrooms where the toilet, sink and shower are all in the same 4 foot by 4 foot tiled room.  I´ve always loved showering, going to the bathroom and brushing my teeth all at the same time.

Puno is supposed to be the 2nd most touristy town in Peru.  Which scares me.  Ever since serving in Jamaica I´ve had a hard time with tourism.  I remember serving in Ocho Rios and Port Antonio, Jamaica and watching the cruise ships roll in.  The whities were quickly herded to the local and superficial craft stands where Jamaicans spoke a very commercialized fake Jamaican Creole, they were corralled into touristy restaurants that didn´t serve typical cuisine and then they were pushed back onto their giant abomination of a cruise ship as quickly as they arrived.  They felt they saw Jamaica.  They didn´t.  The locals were glad they had a couple bucks in their pocket and then returned to their normal lifestyle in the hills.  The normal lifestyle I learned to love.  Ever since then I have feared that I am the tourist in the places I travel, the goofy whitie (or gringo) who is seen as nothing more than a wallet.  I´ve worked hard on this trip to avoid that.  We´ve found it´s not too hard to get of the beaten path.  In your typical town we have to walk about 2 blocks to get into ¨real¨ Peru.  Touristy Puno had ladies begging for money, restaurnts serving Pizza for outrageous prices and relentless, do you want to buy my stuff? offers.  Real Puno was much better.  A wonderful Saturday market that stretched a couple of blocks.  We stopped at the juice corner for fresh Pineapple, Papaya, Banana Juice and homemade popcorn (Sarah and my new favorite snack.  Although the sugar or honey used to sweeten the popcorn is always applied unevenly so we are constantly in search for a ¨good one¨- a sweet kernel).  Then we found the coolest playground ever.  A cement slide that was about 3 stories high.  We played on it with the local ninos for about an hour.  A short bicycle/taxi ride into town.  Town was slightly uphill from where we were, so the middle aged man just about killed over lugging Eli up this hill.  Eli left the guy a killer tip and swore never again to make a guy carry him up a hill via manual power.

To get further off the beaten path, we arranged to stay at a pueblito called Chifron (3 families with a total of 24 people) on the Capachica Peninsula, just northeast of Puno.  To find a taxi we had to walk all over town, through the market, asking everyone where a taxi was to Capachica.  After asking about 6 people and looking all over we finally found a van in a small alley headed to Capachica.  We told the driver we wanted to get in, and he didn´t really believe us.  (This of course is a good sign.  A very difficult taxi to find and a somewhat skeptical taxi driver all mean that this isn´t a typical stop on the gringo trail).  We arrive in Capachica around 3pm, and ask for lunch.  We are informed that lunch is over but we can wait around for dinner.  The town has about 15 people in it, 2 stores and a restaurant.  As soon as we get out of the taxi the, ¨hey we´re the only white people in town¨ feeling quickly sets in.  We jump in another taxi and go over the hill to Chifron.

Chifron has 5 buildings on a beautiful beach overlooking Lake Titicaca.  We quickly learn it´s a Peruvian vacation destination.  Elizabeth and Eli are quickly roped into a festive dance on the beach.  We go for a hike, play volleyball with some locals and listen to their blaring music all night long.

Next morning, wake up and arrange a private boat (giant canoe that can hold 8 people max) to Isla Asmanti.  The 4 mile ride takes about an hour and a half.  Isla Amanti is an island on Lake Titicaca, population 4,000, with no cars or roads and an authentic traditional agrarian culture.  When we get off the boat we are told we will be staying the night with the lady who has met us at the dock, a kind and short 37 year old named Rosalia.  The next 24 hours prove to be the highlight of the trip thus far.  She takes us to her home and shows us our room.  Her front yard is a field, growing beans, with a small corral for her 6 sheep and we are a stones throw from the shore.  We agree for a night stay and 3 meals for $12 a person.  Her home has no electricity.  Her kitchen is a dirt floor with a small fire/oven in the corner where she cooks all of our meals.  The four of us sit in this somewhat dark, dirt floor room, use a wood stump and stacked egg cartons for a seat and have some of our best meals of the trip.  All of our meals consist of only what can be grown on the island: potatoes, carrots, onions, eggs, a little bit of chicken etc.  All of our meals are delicious. I´m always blown away at what women can cook up on a couple of coals.  It´s a very humbling experience.  Throughout the day the four of us talk about the necessity of traveling to a place like this (no cars, no electricity, just farming and hard work) to put life in perspective.

After we get situated at her home we walk into town.  We quickly come upon 5 middle aged Peruvians carrying huge bags of flour on their backs up the hill.  Sidenote: it is very interesting to see how different cultures carry items.  Haitians carry items on their head, the Nepalese with a rope attached that goes across their foreheard, the Peruvains wrap whatever they need to carry (often children) in a blanket and then tie it around the front of their shoulders.  Wanting to experience typical Peruvian life I shout ahead, Peudo ayudar? (Can I help?)  Immediately a lady starts shouting, Si Si Si, and sets her bag down.  Her forehead is dripping with sweat and she´s about 2 feet shorter than me.  I confidently assume I´ll have an easier time with the bag than this somewhat out of shape 40 year old lady.  I strap the blanket with a 50 lb bag of flour on my back and start off the trail.  Yikes.  I´m about to die after 30 steps.  This 65 year old man is putting me to shame.  I am immediately unsure of the task ahead.  When I ask; Donde estas su casa? Her only answer is, arriba, which I have just learned means ´up´.  I struggle to the top of this hill, and her house, with a new respect for these people.  She speaks for a bit with Eli and asks, Don´t you carry stuff in your country?  To which we all joke, Of course not, us Americans are lazy.  As a show of gratitude, they ask us to sit down to share their lunch. We enter a small room of 10 people all sitting on a bench that spans the the circumference of the room.  In the middle of the room on the ground is a large blanket with a spread of local potatoes (they look like giant larvae), fried bread that resembles scones and 5 or 6 large bowls of tuna fish with onions.  Using only our hands, and without any dishes or utensils, everyone eats together, until we are full and then the remaing food is wrapped up in the same blanket and saved for later.  It has to be one of the most authentic cultural meals I´ve had.  And quite delicious.  Eli does his best to speak with them, but only one of them speaks good Spanish, the rest speak Quechua.  When Eli asks who likes the food the most, they all point at the lady whose bag I carried, commeting she´s the fat one of the group. (Another thing I like about other cultures, you can call people fat.  Not as derogatory, just as a matter of fact.  Try getting away with that in America.  ie, you roll into someone´s home and say, So, who is the fat one here who eats the most?)  It was all rather humorous.

Before dinner we take a hike to the top of the island, a rather steep trek up to what they´ve named, Pachamama, or Mother Earth.  As we hike we pass through fields all carefully separated by rock walls.  After hiking for a while we all turn to each other and at about the same time ask, Do you feel like you´re in the bible?  It felt like we were walking in another millenium.  The views were beautiful as the sun set over Lake Titicaca.

The next day we jumped aboard a boat to head back to Puno.  The boat was slow.  Real slow.  Like we could have walked that fast.  Chug a chug a chug a chug a.  Did I say the boat was slow? We reach Puno just in time to get in another boat and go back to the the Isla Uros.

Puno is most well known for its proximity to Lake Titicaca (highest navigable lake in the world at 12,500 feet), and the floating islands (Isla Uros).  The Isla Uros are literally floating islands, made from a totora reed that grows abundantly in the area.  It´s hard to think of a floating island, but think of a giant raft made of reeds about the size of a gymnasium.  In fact, when Thor Heyerdahl wanted to sail the world in Kon Tiki he came here to learn how to build rafts, or so I´ve read.  They were originally made 500 years ago as a way to escape from the aggresive Inca and Callos peoples.  To maintain the island they regularly take these giant reeds and continually add them to the top of the island.  The islands have a somewhat squishy bouncy feel when you walk on them.  There are about 60 of these tiny islands in total, each housing about 4-5 families.  It was an out of this world experience.

Back in Puno now,  where the fun began two days ago.  Tomorrow it´s a 6 hour bus ride to Cusco, Inca territory.  A week left on the trip, and we´ve still to see the famed Macchu Picchu and then into the jungle.

Lake Titicaca/MontBell advertisement.

Love at last.  I knew she would find that someone special.

Rosalia, our mother on Isla Amantani.

Rosalia cooking.

The floating islands.  I wonder how the kids run the mile in school gym classes?

Complimentary lunch of potatoes, sconish bread and tuna fish and onions, in exchange for carrying 50lbs. flower up the mountain.

Umm, yeah I think I´d like the head.  Horn soup anyone?

They really do float.