We got up at about seven, having been blessed with what I considered our best night of sleep on the trip so far. Ice had formed on the jug of water outside of the kitchen as we sat inside and ate Florenzia's pancakes. Soon after, she took us down to the boat and we parted ways.
We took an hour rideto the island of Tequile, during which many of our tour mates remarked on my being "Mr Popular" and "the belle of the ball." On Tequile, we were marched up to the main town where we were enjoined to buy the famous woven wares (which neither Andrew nor I did...no one's gonna tell me when to spend money) and then sat down to eat at a restaurant, while a local boy sang Beatles' songs in the local dialect in an effort to get us to help him pay his way through college.
All of that was all well and good, but I was looking forward to my dip in the lake. Michael, an Oregonian bow hunter, and I had been talking about taking a swim since the day before. Fortunately, the hike back down to the boat after the meal took up the thirty minutes that mothers insist children should wait to swim after eating, and I changed into my swimsuit in the outhouse by the moored boat.
I have to admit that I was concerned about the cold, especially after Almogenes, the guide, warned us that the lake was 10 degrees Celsius. Fifty degree water, for those that don't know, is very cold. So cold that there's a risk of immediate cramping, or of gasping when you hit the water and thus drowning. While the possibility of either of those things happening were not likely, it still gave me pause. Nonetheless, I was going in; after all, being able to say that I swam Lake Titikaka (in winter) was well worth the risk, and I'd already told the group I was going to, so there was no backing down.
Michael and I climbed up to the top deck of the boat, about ten feet above the water, stepped over the railing and held on to it as we prepared ourselves. Michael had had a bad experience jumping into Crater Lake before, so he made sure to throw a couple of life preservers into the water in case we cramped. I just focused on how crystal clear, yet deep blue the water was.
We agreed to jump to the count of three and a yelled, "Lake Titikaka!" as our fellow tour mates lined up along the side of the boat with their cameras. Upon our bellowing, we both lept; Michael swan- dove; I, appropriately for a former Artilleryman, did a cannonball. I had threatened to soak the boat but ultimately I was kind and did not.
Great Googly- Moogly! That water was cold! I surfaced, grabbed my life preserver, and booked it as quickly as I could over to the take out point forty feet away. Unlike Michael I did not take the opportunity to have a leisure swim.
After all of that, we headed back into Puno. Andrew and I were thrilled to discover that we had a nice hotel (for there...it was about like a motel 8 in the states) and that we had a real shower with real hot water (not the deadly showerhead like everywhere else). We met up with the group at a bar/ restaurant where we proceeded to tie one on. After that we went over to a bar that claimed "This is the best pub on town with the best music in the planet." I will not relate the myriad events that occured therein, but shall simply say that when we stumbled out of the bar at 2am, the town was dead. We were kings of Puno. As Andrew later said, "That night might be the hardest I've ever partied on a Monday."
We got a nice power nap before we got to the bus station this morning. The bus ride was different, though equally as miserable, as the first one, as we were severely hung over (or still drunk, at first... we couldn't quite tell), sporadic blasts of Peruvian pop melted our heads, and the smell of all of us baking in the bus helped add to our nausea. We poured ourselves off the bus here in Cusco, thankful that Titikaka was well behind us. We're ready to get home.
Wednesday, June 29, 2005
Tuesday, June 28, 2005
Titicaca (Day 1): June 28th
Andrew and I had latched on with a group of Oregonians from Medford and a Scottish family. After a short ride on the boat, during which we rammed another tour boat that tried to pass us, we got to our first floating island of the day. Almogenes, our guide, walked us to the center of the 100' by 70' island and sat us down on reed logs while he explained the various curiosities of the floating islands and their peoples (how they were constructed, how the people cooked food, etc).
Walking on the island felt like walking on a bed, what with it giving way before the surrounding tension kept us from sinking down any further. After Almogenes had finished his spiel and we had been kept there long enough to bilk money out of the Oregonians for the natives' various woven wares, we took a ride on a reed boat.
Unlike the island, the boat was surprisingly firm. It had no sail; it was propelled by the native on the aft two- handed till. My respect for Venetian gondoleers evaporated as our pilot deftly maneuvered us along, while sometimes training his son on the family trade, at a moderate pace.
When we'd finished our fun on the islands, we were taken on a three or four hour ride around the lake. As I was exhausted from the bus ride the night before, I slept a blissful, drooling sleep. Andrew, the social butterfly, spent the majority of the ride on the back deck, regaling the Scots with his tales.
At length, we arrived at Amantini, the island which we were staying on for the night. We scrambled off the boat and were immediately paired up with our host families, at whose homes we would be eating and sleeping. Andrew and I drew Florenzia, a tiny, hunched over woman who appeared to be about seventy and was more likely forty. She led us up the island, which was two big hills (230m above the lake) and a connecting ridgeline, to her home.
Much of the home appeared to be built on faith, what whith everything (walls, bannisters, etc) canted at a perilous angle. We weren't much concerned, other than when Andrew's head knocked off the rain gutter. Our room, with its hobbit-sized door, was everything we could have hoped for, in that it had marvelously soft, warm beds. Andrew particularly liked the room because it was "Andrew- sized", meaning that when he stood up his head perfectly wedged him under the canvas ceiling.
The thing about Lake Titikaka is that, at the end of the day, it doesn't have a Nessie, nor is it made of wine; it's just a lake. As such, Andrew and I weren't particularly riveted by the sights, though we were treated to a spectacular sunset on the top of one of the wind swept hills, but, rather, we were most interested in the culture. Our two meals were, in my mind at least, fantastic. Lunch was a fabulous soup and then a sort of fried omelet souffle on top of potatoes; supper was a different, though equally wonderful, soup and then rice and vegetable sauce.
The highlight of our time there, however, was most definitely the dance. When Almogenes had mentioned there would be a dance that night for the tourists to dance with the locals, Andrew and I were taken aback; it simply seemed exploitative and too manufactured. Thus, when Florenzia woke us after our post- supper siesta, neither of us were particularly excited to go. She offered us ponchos, which we thought was because it was cold, but we didn't accept them because I already had the poncho I'd bought in Cusco days before and Andrew had a jacket.
When we stepped outside, our jaws dropped. As there was no electricity on the island, and thus no light pollution, we could see more stars than we'd ever seen and the glow of the Milky Way was brighter as well. We both had a hard time following Florenzia on the rocky paths because our attention was diverted.
Florenzia, in our minds, had broken the cardinal rule by bringing us to the party early. We sat there, as though we were back in junior high, and chatted while the band warmed up. Three local women entered, all in the island's traditional garb (black embroidered blanket draped over their heads, white blouses with black open sweaters, and gaily embroidered turqoise colored calf length skirts), when I noticed that two of them were wearing pants underneath the skirts. They were two of the Oregonians. We quickly discovered, as more of the group showed up, that we all were supposed to be in native garb, which was the real reason Florenzia had offered us the ponchos. Fortunately for us, as it was chilly, we had worn the woolen Peruvian caps that everyone else had on.
Everyone had arrived and we were all sitting on the benches that lined the walls. I jokingly explained to the couple next to me that I would let them all have a go first because I was such an amazingly good dancer that I didn't want to steal all of the attention by being the party star off the bat. That blew up in my face when Florenzia waddled over, took me by the hand, and we started the dance. I was a bit self- conscious, but I threw that off and went for it.
Now, as I've mentioned before, ordinarily a bit of the sauce is required for a true Andre dance experience. Perhaps not having enough oxygen flowing to the old noggin put me in a similar state, or maybe it was that I had been blessed by my kinsman Wirracocha, the white- skinned Peruvian god of creation; whatever was causing it, the fact remains that I tore up that dance floor. We danced alone on the floor for a minute or so, as gringoes and Peruvians alike clapped, cheered, or sat dazed in overawed stupefaction. Finally, the Peruvians grabbed gringoes and we all boogied down.
Though I was undoubtedly the Peruvian dance god, the altitude still did a number on me. Unfortunately, I wasn't given a chance to rest as Peruvian woman after Peruvian woman sought me out to dance; however, this was where Andrew shone yet again. As, not just me, but the other gringoes flagged, he kept the party going, bouncing all over the dance floor with his partners and starting the congo line. Even with his prodigious stamina, we were both worn out after an hour and, I think to Florenzia's dismay, we made our way back to our room, where we collapsed into an exhausted slumber.
Walking on the island felt like walking on a bed, what with it giving way before the surrounding tension kept us from sinking down any further. After Almogenes had finished his spiel and we had been kept there long enough to bilk money out of the Oregonians for the natives' various woven wares, we took a ride on a reed boat.
Unlike the island, the boat was surprisingly firm. It had no sail; it was propelled by the native on the aft two- handed till. My respect for Venetian gondoleers evaporated as our pilot deftly maneuvered us along, while sometimes training his son on the family trade, at a moderate pace.
When we'd finished our fun on the islands, we were taken on a three or four hour ride around the lake. As I was exhausted from the bus ride the night before, I slept a blissful, drooling sleep. Andrew, the social butterfly, spent the majority of the ride on the back deck, regaling the Scots with his tales.
At length, we arrived at Amantini, the island which we were staying on for the night. We scrambled off the boat and were immediately paired up with our host families, at whose homes we would be eating and sleeping. Andrew and I drew Florenzia, a tiny, hunched over woman who appeared to be about seventy and was more likely forty. She led us up the island, which was two big hills (230m above the lake) and a connecting ridgeline, to her home.
Much of the home appeared to be built on faith, what whith everything (walls, bannisters, etc) canted at a perilous angle. We weren't much concerned, other than when Andrew's head knocked off the rain gutter. Our room, with its hobbit-sized door, was everything we could have hoped for, in that it had marvelously soft, warm beds. Andrew particularly liked the room because it was "Andrew- sized", meaning that when he stood up his head perfectly wedged him under the canvas ceiling.
The thing about Lake Titikaka is that, at the end of the day, it doesn't have a Nessie, nor is it made of wine; it's just a lake. As such, Andrew and I weren't particularly riveted by the sights, though we were treated to a spectacular sunset on the top of one of the wind swept hills, but, rather, we were most interested in the culture. Our two meals were, in my mind at least, fantastic. Lunch was a fabulous soup and then a sort of fried omelet souffle on top of potatoes; supper was a different, though equally wonderful, soup and then rice and vegetable sauce.
The highlight of our time there, however, was most definitely the dance. When Almogenes had mentioned there would be a dance that night for the tourists to dance with the locals, Andrew and I were taken aback; it simply seemed exploitative and too manufactured. Thus, when Florenzia woke us after our post- supper siesta, neither of us were particularly excited to go. She offered us ponchos, which we thought was because it was cold, but we didn't accept them because I already had the poncho I'd bought in Cusco days before and Andrew had a jacket.
When we stepped outside, our jaws dropped. As there was no electricity on the island, and thus no light pollution, we could see more stars than we'd ever seen and the glow of the Milky Way was brighter as well. We both had a hard time following Florenzia on the rocky paths because our attention was diverted.
Florenzia, in our minds, had broken the cardinal rule by bringing us to the party early. We sat there, as though we were back in junior high, and chatted while the band warmed up. Three local women entered, all in the island's traditional garb (black embroidered blanket draped over their heads, white blouses with black open sweaters, and gaily embroidered turqoise colored calf length skirts), when I noticed that two of them were wearing pants underneath the skirts. They were two of the Oregonians. We quickly discovered, as more of the group showed up, that we all were supposed to be in native garb, which was the real reason Florenzia had offered us the ponchos. Fortunately for us, as it was chilly, we had worn the woolen Peruvian caps that everyone else had on.
Everyone had arrived and we were all sitting on the benches that lined the walls. I jokingly explained to the couple next to me that I would let them all have a go first because I was such an amazingly good dancer that I didn't want to steal all of the attention by being the party star off the bat. That blew up in my face when Florenzia waddled over, took me by the hand, and we started the dance. I was a bit self- conscious, but I threw that off and went for it.
Now, as I've mentioned before, ordinarily a bit of the sauce is required for a true Andre dance experience. Perhaps not having enough oxygen flowing to the old noggin put me in a similar state, or maybe it was that I had been blessed by my kinsman Wirracocha, the white- skinned Peruvian god of creation; whatever was causing it, the fact remains that I tore up that dance floor. We danced alone on the floor for a minute or so, as gringoes and Peruvians alike clapped, cheered, or sat dazed in overawed stupefaction. Finally, the Peruvians grabbed gringoes and we all boogied down.
Though I was undoubtedly the Peruvian dance god, the altitude still did a number on me. Unfortunately, I wasn't given a chance to rest as Peruvian woman after Peruvian woman sought me out to dance; however, this was where Andrew shone yet again. As, not just me, but the other gringoes flagged, he kept the party going, bouncing all over the dance floor with his partners and starting the congo line. Even with his prodigious stamina, we were both worn out after an hour and, I think to Florenzia's dismay, we made our way back to our room, where we collapsed into an exhausted slumber.
Monday, June 27, 2005
Miserable Again...Woohoo!: June 27th, 2005
Andrew and I made a happy pair, him with his upset stomach, me with my sinus infection/ strep throat/ black death, as we barreled along in the bus to Puno. We had long decided that we were going to see Lake Hoohoopoo...I mean, Titicaca, and, with the festival in Cusco finally over, it was time to get going.
Why Lake Titicaca? In all honesty, I'm pretty sure it was solely the fact that it has a funny name. Is that a valid reason to visit somewhere? Do other people do that? Do y'all do that? (If so, I might recommend the Spanish town of Peñiscola, just north of Barcelona.)
At any rate, armed with our initial impetus to see such a place, we attempted to disguise our shameful reasoning by learning what we could about the lake so that we could b.s. our way through explaining our motivations to our fellow, more cultured, travelers. What we came up with, courtesy of the guidebook, is that the lake is the highest navigable lake on earth, there are man-made floating reed islands, and that it is the birthplace of civilization according to the Incas.
Armed with that abundance of knowledge, we set up a proper tour with a tour agency in Cusco. Unfortunately, to be able to "do" Titicaca, one must have four days available; we only had three. As two of the days were travel days though, we were able to work things out by taking an overnight bus and then launching into the tour immediately. Andrew and I were sold on all of this by the tour operator's assurance, counter to the holy guidebook, that the bus would be comfortable. "Two levels...big, bed seats."
If we have time when we get back to Cusco, before we have to catch our flight to Lima, I'm going to kick that guy flush. There were two levels to the bus; tis true, but the big bed seats were nothing more than economy airline seats with bizarre wedge headrests and nonexistent leg room. Perhaps the tour operator thought the fact they reclined made them bed seats? When I lowered mine it put me at that perfect angle where I felt that I was neither lying down in a position where I could sleep, nor was I sitting in a proper sitting position to sleep either. When the grimy, 20 y.o. German sitting in front of me lowered his, he crushed my knees and thus wedged my lower body into one position for the duration. My comfort, or discomfort rather, was nothing compared to Andrew's, however, as, since he sat on the aisle, he was knocked in the head by the marching horde of Peruvian women with massive bags of laundry strapped to their backs.
We'd gotten on our way at about 9:30pm. The bus, packed to the gills, was without air conditioning and was so hot that all the windows were covered with condensation. In an effort to save us from the stifling heat, I slid the window next to me open. We fell asleep, miraculously.
When we woke up at 3:30am, the bus having stopped for a moment to give the bag ladies a chance to smack Andrew senseless, I couldn't move my head from the crick in my neck, my throat was on fire, and it was freezing in the bus. I didn't want to move; I merely wanted to experience such an exquisite ordeal. Andrew took the opportunity to use the facilities downstairs. When he came up, he informed me that the bathroom door lock didn't work and there was no light. As that seemed like my sort of adventure, I made a run for it.
I pulled on the door, but it WAS locked. I stood there, in the entranceway to the bus, shivering because the bus door was open and watched tricycle taxis in whatever little town pick up the bag ladies. The bus started rolling, with the hydraulic door next to me still open, and whoever was in the bathroom still hadn't come out. I knocked on the door and heard a muffled whimper. I continued to hold on for dear life for a minute or so before the driver remembered to press the button and close the door.
About that time, a hottie in the lower compartment, which had its own door, made her way over to stand in line with me. The only problem was that, while the bus driver didn't remember to shut the main door for so long, he had remembered to lock the lower compartment, by hand, when he'd walked by during the stop in the little town. I attempted to play the part of the white knight but to no avail. No matter which way I turned the lock, I couldn't get the door open. Finally, in a fit of frustration masked as bravado for the looker, I put a shoulder into the door and it opened.
We stood there in the hallway as I explained that the bathroom was occupied. As she had no confidence in me after my flailing at the door, she asked if I were sure. I knocked, yet, again, but there was no response.
As the annoyed woman standing next to me was very attractive and I had no idea what the woman I might offend looked like, I played the odds and gave the bathroom door a considerable yank. It flew open to reveal no one inside. Sheepishly, I entered.
As Andrew had said, there were no lights. The bus was playing pothole slalom and I felt as though what I were about to attempt was as difficultly similar as mid- air refueling. There was no way the hottie wouldn't know it was me who destroyed the bathroom. Coward that I am, I buckled back up, stepped out, and informed her she would probably appreciate going before my impending debacle. Though taken aback, she accepted my offer nonetheless.
Fortunately for all readers, I need not go on in my usual manner, but, rather, I shall blithely say that I took care of business with an agility and determination that I scarcely thought possible.
After that, Andrew and I only had an hour on the bus, though the hour did feature a screaming child, before we were deposited in Puno, on the shores of Lake Titicaca. As we had three hours to wait until the tour guide picked us up, we attempted to find somewhere in the terminal to sleep. The deliciously biting cold that comes from being at 3800m (12500ft), the peddlers hassling us, and the blaring Lifetime movie (starring Keri Russell, no doubt titled something to the effect of "Not Without My Child, The INSERT NAME HERE Story") conspired to keep us cranky, miserable and without sleep.
Why Lake Titicaca? In all honesty, I'm pretty sure it was solely the fact that it has a funny name. Is that a valid reason to visit somewhere? Do other people do that? Do y'all do that? (If so, I might recommend the Spanish town of Peñiscola, just north of Barcelona.)
At any rate, armed with our initial impetus to see such a place, we attempted to disguise our shameful reasoning by learning what we could about the lake so that we could b.s. our way through explaining our motivations to our fellow, more cultured, travelers. What we came up with, courtesy of the guidebook, is that the lake is the highest navigable lake on earth, there are man-made floating reed islands, and that it is the birthplace of civilization according to the Incas.
Armed with that abundance of knowledge, we set up a proper tour with a tour agency in Cusco. Unfortunately, to be able to "do" Titicaca, one must have four days available; we only had three. As two of the days were travel days though, we were able to work things out by taking an overnight bus and then launching into the tour immediately. Andrew and I were sold on all of this by the tour operator's assurance, counter to the holy guidebook, that the bus would be comfortable. "Two levels...big, bed seats."
If we have time when we get back to Cusco, before we have to catch our flight to Lima, I'm going to kick that guy flush. There were two levels to the bus; tis true, but the big bed seats were nothing more than economy airline seats with bizarre wedge headrests and nonexistent leg room. Perhaps the tour operator thought the fact they reclined made them bed seats? When I lowered mine it put me at that perfect angle where I felt that I was neither lying down in a position where I could sleep, nor was I sitting in a proper sitting position to sleep either. When the grimy, 20 y.o. German sitting in front of me lowered his, he crushed my knees and thus wedged my lower body into one position for the duration. My comfort, or discomfort rather, was nothing compared to Andrew's, however, as, since he sat on the aisle, he was knocked in the head by the marching horde of Peruvian women with massive bags of laundry strapped to their backs.
We'd gotten on our way at about 9:30pm. The bus, packed to the gills, was without air conditioning and was so hot that all the windows were covered with condensation. In an effort to save us from the stifling heat, I slid the window next to me open. We fell asleep, miraculously.
When we woke up at 3:30am, the bus having stopped for a moment to give the bag ladies a chance to smack Andrew senseless, I couldn't move my head from the crick in my neck, my throat was on fire, and it was freezing in the bus. I didn't want to move; I merely wanted to experience such an exquisite ordeal. Andrew took the opportunity to use the facilities downstairs. When he came up, he informed me that the bathroom door lock didn't work and there was no light. As that seemed like my sort of adventure, I made a run for it.
I pulled on the door, but it WAS locked. I stood there, in the entranceway to the bus, shivering because the bus door was open and watched tricycle taxis in whatever little town pick up the bag ladies. The bus started rolling, with the hydraulic door next to me still open, and whoever was in the bathroom still hadn't come out. I knocked on the door and heard a muffled whimper. I continued to hold on for dear life for a minute or so before the driver remembered to press the button and close the door.
About that time, a hottie in the lower compartment, which had its own door, made her way over to stand in line with me. The only problem was that, while the bus driver didn't remember to shut the main door for so long, he had remembered to lock the lower compartment, by hand, when he'd walked by during the stop in the little town. I attempted to play the part of the white knight but to no avail. No matter which way I turned the lock, I couldn't get the door open. Finally, in a fit of frustration masked as bravado for the looker, I put a shoulder into the door and it opened.
We stood there in the hallway as I explained that the bathroom was occupied. As she had no confidence in me after my flailing at the door, she asked if I were sure. I knocked, yet, again, but there was no response.
As the annoyed woman standing next to me was very attractive and I had no idea what the woman I might offend looked like, I played the odds and gave the bathroom door a considerable yank. It flew open to reveal no one inside. Sheepishly, I entered.
As Andrew had said, there were no lights. The bus was playing pothole slalom and I felt as though what I were about to attempt was as difficultly similar as mid- air refueling. There was no way the hottie wouldn't know it was me who destroyed the bathroom. Coward that I am, I buckled back up, stepped out, and informed her she would probably appreciate going before my impending debacle. Though taken aback, she accepted my offer nonetheless.
Fortunately for all readers, I need not go on in my usual manner, but, rather, I shall blithely say that I took care of business with an agility and determination that I scarcely thought possible.
After that, Andrew and I only had an hour on the bus, though the hour did feature a screaming child, before we were deposited in Puno, on the shores of Lake Titicaca. As we had three hours to wait until the tour guide picked us up, we attempted to find somewhere in the terminal to sleep. The deliciously biting cold that comes from being at 3800m (12500ft), the peddlers hassling us, and the blaring Lifetime movie (starring Keri Russell, no doubt titled something to the effect of "Not Without My Child, The INSERT NAME HERE Story") conspired to keep us cranky, miserable and without sleep.
Friday, June 24, 2005
Inti Raymi: June 24th, 2005
We didn't really know what the festival of Inti Raymi (The Incan god was Inti), was going to include. For the last two days there has been a nearly perpetual parade around the main square, the Plaza de Armas. Different companies, government agencies, clubs, small towns, etc (basically any group of more than four people) participated. Most of the groups had a dance routine as they went around the square, though some just walked. All wore colorful native festive garb. Most of the time each group would have a few members with instruments (flutes and drums) who would play the same song as everyone else. Sometimes they dressed like cowboys, sometimes like Incans. One group we saw dressed up as monkeys. Our favorite though, were the multiple groups who dressed like cowboys and did a drunken stumble dance while they pretended to chug beer and then offer the bottle to a friend.
Today, we got to the plaza expecting more of the same, but that was not the case. The streets were empty. We asked some other gringoes what was going to happen and they didn't know. Whatever was going to happen, the police had cordoned off the inside of the plaza for it. At about ten or eleven, we figured out it was to be the ancient Incan ritual for the holiday when an Incan high priest led a procession of four Incan conch players to the middle of the square. Then came a band of flute players and drummers. Next came four groups of warriors. The two bookend groups (one wearing orange robes, the other grey) carried shields and weapons which I can only describe as flat stones on two foot sticks. The two middle groups carried shields and one had stone hatchets while the other had pikes with stone blades. Behind them came the Inca's (Inca was actually only the name of the king...calling them Incas is like calling all UKers Windsors) concubines and the virgins of the sun, who were all carrying bowls with food in them, which I supposed were to represent the bounty of the empire. The queen was brought out on a silver litter and she wore silver (Silver represents the moon, which is considered the bride of the Sun).
The last group before the Inca came out was a small group of what I can only describe as jungle indians, because they wore thongish garb with shell flaps covering the bits (the women wore shell bikini tops, the men wore cross leather straps). The lead indian held a python out before her. The women wore feather headdresses that looked like a peacock's splayed tail.
Finally, the Inca was brought out in his golden litter being hoisted by about twenty men. He had the most ornate robe, which had gold woven into it, and carried his great scepter, which was topped by a golden axe blade and corn husk. As he dismounted, all of the participants bowed and the other priest followed him as he walked up to the center of the plaza; a lackey held the train of his robe.
As for the ceremony, the Inca stood silently, arms out, basking in the sun for a time and then he delivered his speech in Quecha, the still- used Incan language. The jungle indians then did a highly erotic dance (how did the women not pop out of those outfits shaking like that?) that centered around the python, and, when they had finished, runners brought out colored beads to present to the Inca, which, since the Incas didn't have writing, functioned as the record of the produce of the Empire (I think).
The ceremony finished with the Inca speaking some more and then getting back on his litter. The participants rearranged themselves into a procession and made their way out of the plaza. The spectators poured into the plaza so that they could get as close to the Inca as possible.
At that point, Andrew and I headed up to Sacsayhuayman (Pronounced "sexy woman"), the site of Incan ruins just above the city, where we were told that they were going to sacrifice a llama. Suffice it to say that with entertainment like that, Sacsayhuayman was packed. Andrew and I found very uncomfortable "seats" on the side of a hill where we could see most of the platform where the sacrifice was to take place. We baked in the sun while the Peruvians blew their one o' clock start time. Finally, the Incan procession made it to their positions and the ceremony started. Without going into the nitnoid details, I'll simply condense it enough to say that they all got in their positions, the Inca spoke A LOT, they set fire to some bales of hay, the llama was finally hoisted up onto the altar an hour into the ceremony, a priest stabbed it and then cut out its heart and presented it for everyone to see, and Andrew and I got the hell out of there since that was what we'd waited two hours for.
As far as holidays go, it was pretty entertaining.
Today, we got to the plaza expecting more of the same, but that was not the case. The streets were empty. We asked some other gringoes what was going to happen and they didn't know. Whatever was going to happen, the police had cordoned off the inside of the plaza for it. At about ten or eleven, we figured out it was to be the ancient Incan ritual for the holiday when an Incan high priest led a procession of four Incan conch players to the middle of the square. Then came a band of flute players and drummers. Next came four groups of warriors. The two bookend groups (one wearing orange robes, the other grey) carried shields and weapons which I can only describe as flat stones on two foot sticks. The two middle groups carried shields and one had stone hatchets while the other had pikes with stone blades. Behind them came the Inca's (Inca was actually only the name of the king...calling them Incas is like calling all UKers Windsors) concubines and the virgins of the sun, who were all carrying bowls with food in them, which I supposed were to represent the bounty of the empire. The queen was brought out on a silver litter and she wore silver (Silver represents the moon, which is considered the bride of the Sun).
The last group before the Inca came out was a small group of what I can only describe as jungle indians, because they wore thongish garb with shell flaps covering the bits (the women wore shell bikini tops, the men wore cross leather straps). The lead indian held a python out before her. The women wore feather headdresses that looked like a peacock's splayed tail.
Finally, the Inca was brought out in his golden litter being hoisted by about twenty men. He had the most ornate robe, which had gold woven into it, and carried his great scepter, which was topped by a golden axe blade and corn husk. As he dismounted, all of the participants bowed and the other priest followed him as he walked up to the center of the plaza; a lackey held the train of his robe.
As for the ceremony, the Inca stood silently, arms out, basking in the sun for a time and then he delivered his speech in Quecha, the still- used Incan language. The jungle indians then did a highly erotic dance (how did the women not pop out of those outfits shaking like that?) that centered around the python, and, when they had finished, runners brought out colored beads to present to the Inca, which, since the Incas didn't have writing, functioned as the record of the produce of the Empire (I think).
The ceremony finished with the Inca speaking some more and then getting back on his litter. The participants rearranged themselves into a procession and made their way out of the plaza. The spectators poured into the plaza so that they could get as close to the Inca as possible.
At that point, Andrew and I headed up to Sacsayhuayman (Pronounced "sexy woman"), the site of Incan ruins just above the city, where we were told that they were going to sacrifice a llama. Suffice it to say that with entertainment like that, Sacsayhuayman was packed. Andrew and I found very uncomfortable "seats" on the side of a hill where we could see most of the platform where the sacrifice was to take place. We baked in the sun while the Peruvians blew their one o' clock start time. Finally, the Incan procession made it to their positions and the ceremony started. Without going into the nitnoid details, I'll simply condense it enough to say that they all got in their positions, the Inca spoke A LOT, they set fire to some bales of hay, the llama was finally hoisted up onto the altar an hour into the ceremony, a priest stabbed it and then cut out its heart and presented it for everyone to see, and Andrew and I got the hell out of there since that was what we'd waited two hours for.
As far as holidays go, it was pretty entertaining.
Thursday, June 23, 2005
World Wearied: June 23rd, 2005
We found a sports bar that carried the NBA game and on the way there we ran into Niels, who had finally bathed, thankfully. After the game, Niels took us around to the various dance clubs here in Cusco where he was trying to meet up with the other teaching volunteers. Andrew and I shook our "groove thang" mightily, which, as some of you are well aware, meant that I had been pouring down my fair share of the sauce ("my fair share" = way more than decency allows).
After having gone to (and conquered, in my opinion) about five clubs, we finally found the volunteers. Niels was right to have gone to so much trouble to find them. Most of them were girls and they were smokin'. Unfortunately, they were all also nineteen. It was/is sad. I'm twenty- six; is there something wrong with me when I'm not willing to put up with what comes out of a nineteen- year- old's mouth just because she's hot? Hell, even when they didn't say anything, they just exuded their... well, whatever that was so annoying about their youth. At any rate, the fact that we were all shaking it to songs that came out before they were born and I remembered from my childhood quite vividly didn't help my carmudgeonly instincts. After about thirty minutes of having the nineteen year old guys try to cut in and having to toss them, Andrew and I, like proper old men, decided that was too much of that silliness and went back to the hostel to crash.
After having gone to (and conquered, in my opinion) about five clubs, we finally found the volunteers. Niels was right to have gone to so much trouble to find them. Most of them were girls and they were smokin'. Unfortunately, they were all also nineteen. It was/is sad. I'm twenty- six; is there something wrong with me when I'm not willing to put up with what comes out of a nineteen- year- old's mouth just because she's hot? Hell, even when they didn't say anything, they just exuded their... well, whatever that was so annoying about their youth. At any rate, the fact that we were all shaking it to songs that came out before they were born and I remembered from my childhood quite vividly didn't help my carmudgeonly instincts. After about thirty minutes of having the nineteen year old guys try to cut in and having to toss them, Andrew and I, like proper old men, decided that was too much of that silliness and went back to the hostel to crash.
Tuesday, June 21, 2005
Machu Picchu: June 21st, 2005
We woke up groggily at 4:30am and, yet again, we could hear the "#$!ing roosters. We got up so early because we wanted to make sure that we beat the hordes who were flocking to Machu Picchu (which in the native language of quecha means "old mountain") for the sunrise on the solstice, which is the time to be there. I got really frustrated because Jose Luis hadn't bought the bus tickets up to Machu Picchu the night before like he said he would. There we were standing around waiting for him to get through the ticket line as bus after bus filled with tourists and left; it was already growing light.
Fortunately, we got the Evel Knievel of tourist bus drivers and he raced up the mountain. Ordinarily I would have been terrified by his passing another bus on a small straightaway on a tiny dirt road, but I wanted to make sure we didn't miss that sunrise. We got up there in plenty of time, but all the tourists that had gotten there had already staked out the best spots to witness the "phenomenon", as Jose Luis put it. In Machu Picchu the solstice is special because, the sun temple there was built so that on the 21st, the light breaks over the mountain and goes perfectly through the one window facing that side (it also has a special window for the december solstice, but that one isn't as important) onto the altar. June 21st was the Inca New Year and the largest celebration of the year since the sun was their main god. In fact, the big festival, Inti Raymi, that we're going to in Cusco on the 24th was originally on the 21st, but the Roman Catholics made the natives switch the date (on a side note, they still sacrifice a llama at the festival and the Incan flag flies above the churches).
Fortunately, while we didn't have the best positions, we were taller than most of the tourists and so we got to see the "phenomenon". Actually, it wasn't life changing (no map showing where the treasure was hidden like Raiders of the Lost Ark)
Jose Luis took us around and showed us the various temples (to Water, the Earth, the Condor, and the mountains) and the various neat aspects of the town. We were fortunate in that the train from Cusco hadn't arrived yet, so there weren't the scads of tourists that there ordinarily are. After we wandered on our own a bit we bid farewell to Machu Picchu and made our way back to Cusco, where the preparations for Inti Raymi were well underway.
During the course of the trip, Andrew has been taking pictures of all of our various activities, and when he has the opportunity, he\'ll upload them on the web. I really can't do Machu Picchu justice with words.
Fortunately, we got the Evel Knievel of tourist bus drivers and he raced up the mountain. Ordinarily I would have been terrified by his passing another bus on a small straightaway on a tiny dirt road, but I wanted to make sure we didn't miss that sunrise. We got up there in plenty of time, but all the tourists that had gotten there had already staked out the best spots to witness the "phenomenon", as Jose Luis put it. In Machu Picchu the solstice is special because, the sun temple there was built so that on the 21st, the light breaks over the mountain and goes perfectly through the one window facing that side (it also has a special window for the december solstice, but that one isn't as important) onto the altar. June 21st was the Inca New Year and the largest celebration of the year since the sun was their main god. In fact, the big festival, Inti Raymi, that we're going to in Cusco on the 24th was originally on the 21st, but the Roman Catholics made the natives switch the date (on a side note, they still sacrifice a llama at the festival and the Incan flag flies above the churches).
Fortunately, while we didn't have the best positions, we were taller than most of the tourists and so we got to see the "phenomenon". Actually, it wasn't life changing (no map showing where the treasure was hidden like Raiders of the Lost Ark)
Jose Luis took us around and showed us the various temples (to Water, the Earth, the Condor, and the mountains) and the various neat aspects of the town. We were fortunate in that the train from Cusco hadn't arrived yet, so there weren't the scads of tourists that there ordinarily are. After we wandered on our own a bit we bid farewell to Machu Picchu and made our way back to Cusco, where the preparations for Inti Raymi were well underway.
During the course of the trip, Andrew has been taking pictures of all of our various activities, and when he has the opportunity, he\'ll upload them on the web. I really can't do Machu Picchu justice with words.
Monday, June 20, 2005
The Trail (Day 4) June 20th
I'm going to try my damndest to remember the name of the teacher who told me that roosters call at the crack of dawn... so I can track her down and kick her. They started at 4:30 again. One would go from the tree next to our tent, then another would answer from somewhere up the mountain, then three would answer around us. "Maybe this is why they came up with cockfighting," Niels posited, "to kill all the !%#$ing roosters!"
I would have been in a foul mood besides the roosters simply because I didn't sleep well at all the night before, nor did Andrew. Apparently we both did the thing where we didn't get good sleep until about ten minutes before the alarm clock went off. Ugh.
We'd had to get up very early because we had to take a truck from Playa down to Santa Teresa where we'd then hike to a gondola to cross the river and then take yet another truck up to the train station where we'd wait to take the train to Aguas Calientes ("Hot Springs"), where we'd make our ascent to Machu Picchu from.
My first thought on seeing the truck we were riding down to Santa Teresa in was "Tom Joad". It was a flatbed truck with about a 15 foot bed. The sides were wooden and it had a tent A-frame welded to it. There were seven gringoes in the back (Andrew, Niels, and I, plus a French Family of four; the two little children, both under five, speaking French was adorable) and seven Peruvians. I immediately thought of how unsafe having that many people standing in the back of a truck was, but I was to quickly discover that I had no idea. We stopped every quarter mile or so and picked up various people who lived in the mountains who needed to get to Santa Teresa for some reason; we picked up many children and their teacher.
Besides that the truck was getting fuller and fuller, to the degree that occasionally someone would sit on the A-frame or would ride the bumper, the road itself was terrifying. The driver had no qualms about safety. He had to get to Santa Teresa soon and he was going to do it, by God. This might not have been so bad were we on a good road, but this road was one lane, dirt, and skirting cliffs (with no guard rails) the majority of the time. Nonetheless, the driver booked it, his only concession to averting disaster being that he'd honk his horn before we got to a blind corner. At one point we did meet another truck coming up the mountain and we had to back up (which the driver did without mirrors) to a point where the other truck could get by.
When we finally got to Santa Teresa we had FORTY NINE people riding in the back of the truck with us though, despite the fact that it was so packed, I had a three foot space around me, which turned out to be from the fact that they were intimidated by me wearing camoflage (soldiers get a wide berth here apparently).
From Santa Teresa we walked for twenty minutes down to the gondola. This wasn't a gondola like Venice, or a ski gondola, but rather a four foot by two foot crate that was attached to a 100 meter long metal rope by a pulley. I crossed (the river was roaring and there were vicious rapids just below) with two packs. My weight carried me most of the way and then I pulled myself the rest of the way by the threaded rope that hung off the wire rope by hooks. I was at least 40 feet above the river.
The other truck ride was not nearly exciting as the first, though the second driver didn't honk around curves and we didn't have the A-frame to act as a roll bar, so I guess that was a bit thrilling.
We had to wait at the train station for six hours and in the meantime I took a cold shower in a restaurant's bathroom, which was a corrogated metal shed. I merely stood next to the water, wetting my hands down and then washing myself. Had I gotten under the showerhead completely, I would have screamed. Nonetheless, I was finally clean. In thanks for allowing me to shower, I bought a beer from the restaurant, my first on the hike. Over the course of the six hours I bought many more.
After we finally got to Aguas Calientes, got to our hostel, wandered around the town on our own a bit, and met back up for supper, Niels said that he ran across some of the other hikers we'd seen on the hike. When Niels had said who he was hiking with, they'd said, "The Americans? The one that's still fighting the war (me apparently) and the one with the funny hat (Andrew bought an awesome hat in Cusco before we left)?"
I would have been in a foul mood besides the roosters simply because I didn't sleep well at all the night before, nor did Andrew. Apparently we both did the thing where we didn't get good sleep until about ten minutes before the alarm clock went off. Ugh.
We'd had to get up very early because we had to take a truck from Playa down to Santa Teresa where we'd then hike to a gondola to cross the river and then take yet another truck up to the train station where we'd wait to take the train to Aguas Calientes ("Hot Springs"), where we'd make our ascent to Machu Picchu from.
My first thought on seeing the truck we were riding down to Santa Teresa in was "Tom Joad". It was a flatbed truck with about a 15 foot bed. The sides were wooden and it had a tent A-frame welded to it. There were seven gringoes in the back (Andrew, Niels, and I, plus a French Family of four; the two little children, both under five, speaking French was adorable) and seven Peruvians. I immediately thought of how unsafe having that many people standing in the back of a truck was, but I was to quickly discover that I had no idea. We stopped every quarter mile or so and picked up various people who lived in the mountains who needed to get to Santa Teresa for some reason; we picked up many children and their teacher.
Besides that the truck was getting fuller and fuller, to the degree that occasionally someone would sit on the A-frame or would ride the bumper, the road itself was terrifying. The driver had no qualms about safety. He had to get to Santa Teresa soon and he was going to do it, by God. This might not have been so bad were we on a good road, but this road was one lane, dirt, and skirting cliffs (with no guard rails) the majority of the time. Nonetheless, the driver booked it, his only concession to averting disaster being that he'd honk his horn before we got to a blind corner. At one point we did meet another truck coming up the mountain and we had to back up (which the driver did without mirrors) to a point where the other truck could get by.
When we finally got to Santa Teresa we had FORTY NINE people riding in the back of the truck with us though, despite the fact that it was so packed, I had a three foot space around me, which turned out to be from the fact that they were intimidated by me wearing camoflage (soldiers get a wide berth here apparently).
From Santa Teresa we walked for twenty minutes down to the gondola. This wasn't a gondola like Venice, or a ski gondola, but rather a four foot by two foot crate that was attached to a 100 meter long metal rope by a pulley. I crossed (the river was roaring and there were vicious rapids just below) with two packs. My weight carried me most of the way and then I pulled myself the rest of the way by the threaded rope that hung off the wire rope by hooks. I was at least 40 feet above the river.
The other truck ride was not nearly exciting as the first, though the second driver didn't honk around curves and we didn't have the A-frame to act as a roll bar, so I guess that was a bit thrilling.
We had to wait at the train station for six hours and in the meantime I took a cold shower in a restaurant's bathroom, which was a corrogated metal shed. I merely stood next to the water, wetting my hands down and then washing myself. Had I gotten under the showerhead completely, I would have screamed. Nonetheless, I was finally clean. In thanks for allowing me to shower, I bought a beer from the restaurant, my first on the hike. Over the course of the six hours I bought many more.
After we finally got to Aguas Calientes, got to our hostel, wandered around the town on our own a bit, and met back up for supper, Niels said that he ran across some of the other hikers we'd seen on the hike. When Niels had said who he was hiking with, they'd said, "The Americans? The one that's still fighting the war (me apparently) and the one with the funny hat (Andrew bought an awesome hat in Cusco before we left)?"
Sunday, June 19, 2005
The Trail (Day 3): June 19th, 2005
We woke up early and I ate well again. Today was to be our longest day; Jose Luis estimated seven hours. After we'd gone about an hour (I again carried no pack, nor did Andrew; Niels was the only one that carried a pack each day), Jose Luis took us off the main path, down into the bottom of the ravine where, next to the river, were hot springs. I didn't want to get wet and grimy and then have to hike the next six hours, even if it were all downhill like Jose Luis said, so I didn't get in. Andrew, Niels, and Jose Luis had no such qualms, quickly stripping down (Jose Luis and Niels in underwear, Andrew in his birthday suit) and getting in. I jumped around the rocks in the river while they enjoyed their bath. Other hikers gawked and took pictures of the three exhibitionists from a spot on the path across the ravine.
I stayed with them for a time after we'd crawled back up to the main path, but going so slowly hurt my legs. I passed them and the horses and went alone again.
About halfway, I came to a glen where there was a shack full of snacks run by an old woman. I looked back up the valley in the direction from which we'd come and could make out Salkantay, the mountain which had broken me the day before, well off in the distance. Circumstances had surely changed, and for the better, in that I was basking in the sun in a grassy glen with trees and bushes all around me, I had the gentle murmur of a stream beside me, and birds were calling out and flying just above me; it was idyllic.
Jose Luis and the others caught up to me and we carried on with the hike. We'd not been on our way long when I smelled something horrible. I looked down from the path and forty feet below was a dead pack horse rotting on a rock by the river. Its head appeared as if it had been sheared in half, the top part missing, and I figured it must not have died from the fall and so someone had gotten a shotgun and put it out of its misery since no ribs or anything else were exposed.
As I barreled down the mountain I passed a bald man (late 20s, early 30s) who asked me if I were British. When I replied that I was American, he said, "American? You're brave to wear that!" I was already past him and didn't bother querying him as to how I was brave to wear army jungle boots, camoflage pants, a green longsleeve t-shirt with a baseball logo on it, a desert camoflage camelback on my back, and a camoflage gortex jacket tied around my waist. True if, besides what I were wearing, I looked like a US soldier, he would have had a valid point since Europackers (a group in which I include Aussies and Canucks) detest Americans who could be seen as supporting the President, but I haven't cut my hair in months and I haven't shaved in two weeks (nor has Andrew. He has a full beard already; I have my natural Don Juan/ gay French waiter thing, along with a few pathetic wisps of lonely hair on my cheeks).
I finished the walk in three hours, three hours ahead of the estimate, and while waiting for the others (Andrew was four minutes behind) I sat with some locals in the shade of a shop and drank an Inca Cola. Inca Cola outsells coca- cola in Peru. It isn't very carbonated, is yellow, and tastes like a cross between cream soda and bubble gum.
While sitting there drinking our drinks we watched roosters strut up and down the road/ path. It should be mentioned at this point that we've come to despise roosters. The first problem we had with them was in the Galapagos, where each day we were woken up by them at 4:30am, well before light. Here on the trail it's been the same thing. Simply put, !$%&! roosters!
We'd finished the hike so early that we went ahead and set up our tents there in the village of Playa (which means "beach"; it was next to the river) and then had lunch; it was barely lunchtime. As we had so much time to kill and we'd put up our tents on a large field which also had the town soccer field on it, we played soccer too. Niels and Andrew play; I don't, but I attempted nonetheless. I did alright, but I had to stop shortly after I tried to pivot in the jungle boots and took the bottom of my left big toe O- F- F.
As dusk fell, we were served a hot pineapple soup slathered in nutmeg while sitting out on a local family's porch. Inside, the family watched a DVD of a spastically rhythmed Peruvian band. A menagerie of house pets (cats and dogs, one of which was named, no joke, "pokemon") and farm animals walked around us and under the table while we ate. (Oh, and as for the hiking, I am hurting. My legs are on fire and I'm walking like a old man, or a cowboy, or an old cowboy.)
On a partially unrelated note, just as a general observation of our time in Peru so far, we haven't seen many honestly attractive adults, but, uniformly, the children are gorgeous. We haven't seen an ugly child. Apparently somewhere around 15 these people age 25 years.
I stayed with them for a time after we'd crawled back up to the main path, but going so slowly hurt my legs. I passed them and the horses and went alone again.
About halfway, I came to a glen where there was a shack full of snacks run by an old woman. I looked back up the valley in the direction from which we'd come and could make out Salkantay, the mountain which had broken me the day before, well off in the distance. Circumstances had surely changed, and for the better, in that I was basking in the sun in a grassy glen with trees and bushes all around me, I had the gentle murmur of a stream beside me, and birds were calling out and flying just above me; it was idyllic.
Jose Luis and the others caught up to me and we carried on with the hike. We'd not been on our way long when I smelled something horrible. I looked down from the path and forty feet below was a dead pack horse rotting on a rock by the river. Its head appeared as if it had been sheared in half, the top part missing, and I figured it must not have died from the fall and so someone had gotten a shotgun and put it out of its misery since no ribs or anything else were exposed.
As I barreled down the mountain I passed a bald man (late 20s, early 30s) who asked me if I were British. When I replied that I was American, he said, "American? You're brave to wear that!" I was already past him and didn't bother querying him as to how I was brave to wear army jungle boots, camoflage pants, a green longsleeve t-shirt with a baseball logo on it, a desert camoflage camelback on my back, and a camoflage gortex jacket tied around my waist. True if, besides what I were wearing, I looked like a US soldier, he would have had a valid point since Europackers (a group in which I include Aussies and Canucks) detest Americans who could be seen as supporting the President, but I haven't cut my hair in months and I haven't shaved in two weeks (nor has Andrew. He has a full beard already; I have my natural Don Juan/ gay French waiter thing, along with a few pathetic wisps of lonely hair on my cheeks).
I finished the walk in three hours, three hours ahead of the estimate, and while waiting for the others (Andrew was four minutes behind) I sat with some locals in the shade of a shop and drank an Inca Cola. Inca Cola outsells coca- cola in Peru. It isn't very carbonated, is yellow, and tastes like a cross between cream soda and bubble gum.
While sitting there drinking our drinks we watched roosters strut up and down the road/ path. It should be mentioned at this point that we've come to despise roosters. The first problem we had with them was in the Galapagos, where each day we were woken up by them at 4:30am, well before light. Here on the trail it's been the same thing. Simply put, !$%&! roosters!
We'd finished the hike so early that we went ahead and set up our tents there in the village of Playa (which means "beach"; it was next to the river) and then had lunch; it was barely lunchtime. As we had so much time to kill and we'd put up our tents on a large field which also had the town soccer field on it, we played soccer too. Niels and Andrew play; I don't, but I attempted nonetheless. I did alright, but I had to stop shortly after I tried to pivot in the jungle boots and took the bottom of my left big toe O- F- F.
As dusk fell, we were served a hot pineapple soup slathered in nutmeg while sitting out on a local family's porch. Inside, the family watched a DVD of a spastically rhythmed Peruvian band. A menagerie of house pets (cats and dogs, one of which was named, no joke, "pokemon") and farm animals walked around us and under the table while we ate. (Oh, and as for the hiking, I am hurting. My legs are on fire and I'm walking like a old man, or a cowboy, or an old cowboy.)
On a partially unrelated note, just as a general observation of our time in Peru so far, we haven't seen many honestly attractive adults, but, uniformly, the children are gorgeous. We haven't seen an ugly child. Apparently somewhere around 15 these people age 25 years.
Saturday, June 18, 2005
The Trail (Day 2), June 18th, 2005
I had a rough night. Not only was it below freezing (there was frost in the tent, where the moisture from our breath had frozen to the inside of the outer shell) but the mountain stream we were camped next to roared like the ocean all night and roosters set about crowing well before sunrise; plus the dogs that followed the groups of hikers pawed around our tent all night looking for food.
I got up, got dressed, and went to the bathroom in the pit that was set up for hikers. It was fifteen feet from the stream and upstream from where the cook was getting water for breakfast. I did feel a bit better in that, while I still had a headache, my stomach was fine. I even managed to eat breakfast.
Just before we headed off I made sure to bundle up in all of my cold weather gear (jacket, sweatshirt, gloves, and wool cap) since we were climbing up to 4700m (15510 feet) and passing 300m away from Salkantay, the highest mountain in the region, and one venerated by the Incas as a god. Jose Luis, the guide, picked up my pack to put it on the horse. He huffed and puffed and struggled to pick it up, then asked me, "How did you carry this up here?"
The hike up was as I'd feared. Not having the pack didn't matter; I was barely moving, just concentrating on moving my left foot, then my right. My head was throbbing and I felt as though I were breathing through a pillow. I had to work at it the first time that I tried to take a drink from my camelback because the line had iced. Women and horses passed me. I was miserable, and thus right in my element.
After nearly three hours, I made it to the pass, where the others had long been waiting. They wanted to hang out and rest; I wanted to get the hell down as soon as possible so that I could breathe.
Going down was not much easier. I still was having a hard time breathing and I continually slipped on the loose stones (the size of a fist) and slid on the loose dirt. My stomach- ache had come back again and halfway down, just after I'd been passed by horses, again, I threw up. Then I threw up some more. Then I threw up some more. I tried to drink water, but I threw that up too. Finally, having been passed by most of the people who'd been napping at the top of the pass, I got down to the plateau where Percy was cooking lunch. I walked just past him and collapsed.
It took me nearly an hour to get my breathing under control, by which point Andrew and Niels had come down. I lay there, unable to eat or drink, as they chatted and had lunch. I actually did manage to choke down a packet of crackers just before we started out again, but I was worried. For all intents and purposes, I'd missed three meals and, if the altitude sickness didn't abate soon, I thought about how I might have to cut the hike short, get flights changed, and get back to sea level.
I stood up and wobbled in the process. My head continued to throb. I\'d started off a bit ahead of the others but they soon caught up to me and passed me. The flats were okay, but the downhills wore me out. After about an hour, I caught up to the others, just past a natural arch where we could see miles down the length of the valley. We took some pictures and, as I noticed the first tree we'd come across, I offered to take a picture of Andrew with it, but he declined. We continued on with our descent for a short distance, during which I yelled to Andrew that I was fed up with the loose rocks and the horse nuggets, when we had to stop and stand aside for a passel of horses being led up the path.
Then it happened... I was unleashed! I realized I could breathe again. In my exaltation, I went tearing down the mountain, leaving the others far, far behind. I was barely winded and loving it, going so quickly that I was nearly jogging, though in truth I was merely stretching out my stride and letting gravity take me. I flew past many of the groups that had passed me that morning and in two and a half hours I'd reached the campsite, well ahead of Jose Luis' four hour estimate.
Andrew arrived fifteen minutes after me, which he managed to do, he said, by running some, and thirty minutes after that Jose Luis and Niels sauntered in. Other than the hot spots on my feet and a minor head- ache I felt great. And I was starved. I told Percy that I was ready to eat, to which he smiled.
There at the tiny village of Chaullay, down in what Jose Luis called the "high jungle" (there were many gnats and it was warm and muggy), we hunkered down for the night. We'd gone about 12 to 15 miles and ended up at 2800m (9240 feet).
I got up, got dressed, and went to the bathroom in the pit that was set up for hikers. It was fifteen feet from the stream and upstream from where the cook was getting water for breakfast. I did feel a bit better in that, while I still had a headache, my stomach was fine. I even managed to eat breakfast.
Just before we headed off I made sure to bundle up in all of my cold weather gear (jacket, sweatshirt, gloves, and wool cap) since we were climbing up to 4700m (15510 feet) and passing 300m away from Salkantay, the highest mountain in the region, and one venerated by the Incas as a god. Jose Luis, the guide, picked up my pack to put it on the horse. He huffed and puffed and struggled to pick it up, then asked me, "How did you carry this up here?"
The hike up was as I'd feared. Not having the pack didn't matter; I was barely moving, just concentrating on moving my left foot, then my right. My head was throbbing and I felt as though I were breathing through a pillow. I had to work at it the first time that I tried to take a drink from my camelback because the line had iced. Women and horses passed me. I was miserable, and thus right in my element.
After nearly three hours, I made it to the pass, where the others had long been waiting. They wanted to hang out and rest; I wanted to get the hell down as soon as possible so that I could breathe.
Going down was not much easier. I still was having a hard time breathing and I continually slipped on the loose stones (the size of a fist) and slid on the loose dirt. My stomach- ache had come back again and halfway down, just after I'd been passed by horses, again, I threw up. Then I threw up some more. Then I threw up some more. I tried to drink water, but I threw that up too. Finally, having been passed by most of the people who'd been napping at the top of the pass, I got down to the plateau where Percy was cooking lunch. I walked just past him and collapsed.
It took me nearly an hour to get my breathing under control, by which point Andrew and Niels had come down. I lay there, unable to eat or drink, as they chatted and had lunch. I actually did manage to choke down a packet of crackers just before we started out again, but I was worried. For all intents and purposes, I'd missed three meals and, if the altitude sickness didn't abate soon, I thought about how I might have to cut the hike short, get flights changed, and get back to sea level.
I stood up and wobbled in the process. My head continued to throb. I\'d started off a bit ahead of the others but they soon caught up to me and passed me. The flats were okay, but the downhills wore me out. After about an hour, I caught up to the others, just past a natural arch where we could see miles down the length of the valley. We took some pictures and, as I noticed the first tree we'd come across, I offered to take a picture of Andrew with it, but he declined. We continued on with our descent for a short distance, during which I yelled to Andrew that I was fed up with the loose rocks and the horse nuggets, when we had to stop and stand aside for a passel of horses being led up the path.
Then it happened... I was unleashed! I realized I could breathe again. In my exaltation, I went tearing down the mountain, leaving the others far, far behind. I was barely winded and loving it, going so quickly that I was nearly jogging, though in truth I was merely stretching out my stride and letting gravity take me. I flew past many of the groups that had passed me that morning and in two and a half hours I'd reached the campsite, well ahead of Jose Luis' four hour estimate.
Andrew arrived fifteen minutes after me, which he managed to do, he said, by running some, and thirty minutes after that Jose Luis and Niels sauntered in. Other than the hot spots on my feet and a minor head- ache I felt great. And I was starved. I told Percy that I was ready to eat, to which he smiled.
There at the tiny village of Chaullay, down in what Jose Luis called the "high jungle" (there were many gnats and it was warm and muggy), we hunkered down for the night. We'd gone about 12 to 15 miles and ended up at 2800m (9240 feet).
Friday, June 17, 2005
The Trail (Day 1): June 17th, 2005
It was actually touch and go until the last minute that we'd actually start the trip today (the 17th) and not tomorrow. Last night, when we met up at the travel agerncy to meet our guide, the owner revealed that no one else had joined our group and if it were to be the two of us we'd have to pay more, but if we waited a day we could go with a group of four others. I wanted to go alone because I wanted to see Machu Picchu on the solstice, which we would miss were we to wait. Andrew wanted to get in on a group. We were on the verge of flipping a coin for it when a Dutchman, Niels Pannevis, showed up and joined us. He'd spent the past few months teaching English in a village outside Cusco.
At any rate, we were set and so we showed up at the agency at 0530, as per our arrangement from the night before. However, this being Peru, the guide and the bus that was to take us to the start point didn't show up for another twenty minutes. Niels fell victim to Peruvian timing when the hostel he was staying at gave him his 5am wake-up call at 5:30. Despite of all of this, we clambered into the van and set out on the four hour ride to where we'd begin the trek.
At one point, Andrew tapped me on the shoulder, waking me from my drooling nap. I lifted the hat from my face, rubbed my eyes, and was treated to Andean splendor. There we were winding down a mountain road and passing through little Peruvian villages. On the other side of the valley I could see terraces and fields of crops growing; we were so high up that a cloud was floating beneath us in the center of the valley. Boor that I am, I took a thirty second look at all of that, decided I was gonna see plenty of that in the next few days, and promptly went back to sleep.
We stopped at a little village a few miles from the start point to procure horses for the extra gear. Andrew, Niels, and I were resolved on carrying our big packs on the entire trip, which had befuddled the tour agency owner, Liz, and our guide, Jose Luis, since the normal practice is to strap the big packs to horses and carry "day" packs while hiking. We had determined we were going to be macho, so we were carrying all of our gear. The horses were just for the cooking supplies and the guide's and cook's gear.
While Jose Luis was getting the horses arranged, I bought coca leaves (illegal in the States), which, I had been told, were the best medicine for altitude sickness, be it by chewing on them or making tea with them. Andrew and I then strolled over to the village restaurant/bar/store and bought two cokes for about $0.35 apiece. The proprietor's young daughter, maybe five years old, came out to stare at us. After polishing off the drink, I asked to use the facilities, which turned out, surprisingly, to be a toilet and not just a hole in the ground. It was located out in the back courtyard, in a homemade shed. When I'd finished up, I looked at the view of the mountains, which were spectacular of course, and then at the courtyard. There was an animal carcass, halfway through the process of being tanned, on the roof of the toilet shed and across the way, under a corrogated metal roof was the family's dining room table. All along the wall next to the table were newspaper advertisements and a calendar that caught my eye.
Simply put, it was of a topless white woman, which seems to me to be the perfect set piece for dining decor. While mildly shocking in its own right, the calendar just drove home somthing that I'd noticed since we first got to Peru. We'd not seen a white Peruvian yet, but most all of the advertisements featured white women. Very strange.
We got back on the bus, and headed up an unpaved mountain road that seemed to be no more than a wide foot path. We passed a group of hiking "gringoes" (Whities) and stopped to pick up the porters who were carrying the gringoes gear; they were women. I felt disgusted about Western Civilization.
As we got farther up the road/path, the bus got stuck in mud. Having not broken myself of directing operations yet, I was sorely tempted to take charge, but Andrew reminded me that they had it all taken care of, which, eventually, they did.
Finally, we got to our start point. The bus dropped us and the gear off and then headed back to Cusco. Jose Luis told us we'd be eating lunch. I don't know what we'd really been figuring on, but when Jose Luis set up a table, with a table cloth, and Percy, the cook, put on his white apron and chef's hat, we felt awkward. There we were, attempting to be tough, and we were being fawned over like any old spoiled Americans. That they served us tea before the meal didn't help our egos, nor did the group of Europeans who had hiked up and decided to take a break twenty yards away. The meal was multi-course and finished off with yet more tea. I'm so ashamed writing this...
After we'd eaten, Andrew tied to speak to the cook, Percy. He did very well introducing himself, correctly saying "Me llamo Andrew" (I call myself Andrew), though he got a bit ahead of himself when he tried to introduce me by saying, "Te llamo Andre." Amusingly, that sounded exactly like "Te amo, Andre" (I love you, Andre).
We started off and Andrew and I flew up the path far ahead of Niels and Jose Luis. Jose Luis had said that the path was flat, which to an Andean Peruvian it probably seemed like it was; to us though, we recognized it as a constant, though not difficult, ascent. Andrew led the way; frankly, he's a better hiker than I am. A guide, not Jose Luis, but one from another group who Jose Luis asked to run up ahead and herd us, pointed to a steep path directly up the mountain, off the main path we were on and led us up it. OOOOPPPHHH! We could handle the ten degree slope with no problem, but the fifty degree dang near killed us. And he did that two us twice. I had a suspicion he was just doing that to put the gringoes in their place, which, for me at least, it did; I was smoked. We took a break and Niels and Jose Luis caught up. Jose Luis assured us "the rest is flat." See my earlier comments on his estimation of flat.
From about that point on (we'd pretty much passed the tree line), I couldn't catch my breath if we went uphill. The higher we went the slower I went, to the point where Niels had passed me and Jose Luis was staying back to keep an eye on me. I was gasping and my pulse was so high that I felt my neck and head throbbing in time with it.
I stumbled into our campsite, feeling slightly nauseous at that point. I resolved then and there NOT to carry my pack the next day. Jose Luis pointed out condors circling around the top of the snow capped mountain next to us. I admired them as much as I could without fainting. Jose Luis was excited because he hadn't seen condors up there before.
Andrew and I set up the tent and then slept while we waited for Percy and the horses. It took forever for my hands to warm, even though I was nestled in my zero degree (fahrenheit) sleeping bag. After an hour, Jose Luis woke us, telling us that the coca leaf tea was ready. We still had headaches but our breathing was better; my stomach felt worse.
I had two cups of the tea while we sat around the table in the cooking tent taking about politics and the Army. The tea wasn't helping. I ate three spoonfuls of soup, excused myself, went outside, and threw up repeatedly. I didn't consider eating, but instead went back to my tent, cleaned myself up, and went to sleep.
We'd walked nine miles, going from 3100 meters (10,230 feet) to 3800 meters (12,540 feet).
At any rate, we were set and so we showed up at the agency at 0530, as per our arrangement from the night before. However, this being Peru, the guide and the bus that was to take us to the start point didn't show up for another twenty minutes. Niels fell victim to Peruvian timing when the hostel he was staying at gave him his 5am wake-up call at 5:30. Despite of all of this, we clambered into the van and set out on the four hour ride to where we'd begin the trek.
At one point, Andrew tapped me on the shoulder, waking me from my drooling nap. I lifted the hat from my face, rubbed my eyes, and was treated to Andean splendor. There we were winding down a mountain road and passing through little Peruvian villages. On the other side of the valley I could see terraces and fields of crops growing; we were so high up that a cloud was floating beneath us in the center of the valley. Boor that I am, I took a thirty second look at all of that, decided I was gonna see plenty of that in the next few days, and promptly went back to sleep.
We stopped at a little village a few miles from the start point to procure horses for the extra gear. Andrew, Niels, and I were resolved on carrying our big packs on the entire trip, which had befuddled the tour agency owner, Liz, and our guide, Jose Luis, since the normal practice is to strap the big packs to horses and carry "day" packs while hiking. We had determined we were going to be macho, so we were carrying all of our gear. The horses were just for the cooking supplies and the guide's and cook's gear.
While Jose Luis was getting the horses arranged, I bought coca leaves (illegal in the States), which, I had been told, were the best medicine for altitude sickness, be it by chewing on them or making tea with them. Andrew and I then strolled over to the village restaurant/bar/store and bought two cokes for about $0.35 apiece. The proprietor's young daughter, maybe five years old, came out to stare at us. After polishing off the drink, I asked to use the facilities, which turned out, surprisingly, to be a toilet and not just a hole in the ground. It was located out in the back courtyard, in a homemade shed. When I'd finished up, I looked at the view of the mountains, which were spectacular of course, and then at the courtyard. There was an animal carcass, halfway through the process of being tanned, on the roof of the toilet shed and across the way, under a corrogated metal roof was the family's dining room table. All along the wall next to the table were newspaper advertisements and a calendar that caught my eye.
Simply put, it was of a topless white woman, which seems to me to be the perfect set piece for dining decor. While mildly shocking in its own right, the calendar just drove home somthing that I'd noticed since we first got to Peru. We'd not seen a white Peruvian yet, but most all of the advertisements featured white women. Very strange.
We got back on the bus, and headed up an unpaved mountain road that seemed to be no more than a wide foot path. We passed a group of hiking "gringoes" (Whities) and stopped to pick up the porters who were carrying the gringoes gear; they were women. I felt disgusted about Western Civilization.
As we got farther up the road/path, the bus got stuck in mud. Having not broken myself of directing operations yet, I was sorely tempted to take charge, but Andrew reminded me that they had it all taken care of, which, eventually, they did.
Finally, we got to our start point. The bus dropped us and the gear off and then headed back to Cusco. Jose Luis told us we'd be eating lunch. I don't know what we'd really been figuring on, but when Jose Luis set up a table, with a table cloth, and Percy, the cook, put on his white apron and chef's hat, we felt awkward. There we were, attempting to be tough, and we were being fawned over like any old spoiled Americans. That they served us tea before the meal didn't help our egos, nor did the group of Europeans who had hiked up and decided to take a break twenty yards away. The meal was multi-course and finished off with yet more tea. I'm so ashamed writing this...
After we'd eaten, Andrew tied to speak to the cook, Percy. He did very well introducing himself, correctly saying "Me llamo Andrew" (I call myself Andrew), though he got a bit ahead of himself when he tried to introduce me by saying, "Te llamo Andre." Amusingly, that sounded exactly like "Te amo, Andre" (I love you, Andre).
We started off and Andrew and I flew up the path far ahead of Niels and Jose Luis. Jose Luis had said that the path was flat, which to an Andean Peruvian it probably seemed like it was; to us though, we recognized it as a constant, though not difficult, ascent. Andrew led the way; frankly, he's a better hiker than I am. A guide, not Jose Luis, but one from another group who Jose Luis asked to run up ahead and herd us, pointed to a steep path directly up the mountain, off the main path we were on and led us up it. OOOOPPPHHH! We could handle the ten degree slope with no problem, but the fifty degree dang near killed us. And he did that two us twice. I had a suspicion he was just doing that to put the gringoes in their place, which, for me at least, it did; I was smoked. We took a break and Niels and Jose Luis caught up. Jose Luis assured us "the rest is flat." See my earlier comments on his estimation of flat.
From about that point on (we'd pretty much passed the tree line), I couldn't catch my breath if we went uphill. The higher we went the slower I went, to the point where Niels had passed me and Jose Luis was staying back to keep an eye on me. I was gasping and my pulse was so high that I felt my neck and head throbbing in time with it.
I stumbled into our campsite, feeling slightly nauseous at that point. I resolved then and there NOT to carry my pack the next day. Jose Luis pointed out condors circling around the top of the snow capped mountain next to us. I admired them as much as I could without fainting. Jose Luis was excited because he hadn't seen condors up there before.
Andrew and I set up the tent and then slept while we waited for Percy and the horses. It took forever for my hands to warm, even though I was nestled in my zero degree (fahrenheit) sleeping bag. After an hour, Jose Luis woke us, telling us that the coca leaf tea was ready. We still had headaches but our breathing was better; my stomach felt worse.
I had two cups of the tea while we sat around the table in the cooking tent taking about politics and the Army. The tea wasn't helping. I ate three spoonfuls of soup, excused myself, went outside, and threw up repeatedly. I didn't consider eating, but instead went back to my tent, cleaned myself up, and went to sleep.
We'd walked nine miles, going from 3100 meters (10,230 feet) to 3800 meters (12,540 feet).
Thursday, June 16, 2005
Cusco: June 16, 2005
Last night Andrew and I went to an interesting restaurant/bar, after we'd already stuffed our faces full at a different restaurant for about $3 apiece. The interesting bar was called "Macondo", after the name of the town from Marquez's One Hundred Years of Solitude. It was decorated to evoke the spirit of the book and was a delight.
At any rate, having already eaten, we were of a mind to have a drink and settled on wine, the thinking being that we didn't want to mess with liquor our first night in the high elevation. We ordered a Peruvian wine, Tacama Gran Tinto, but when the waiter came back he was holding a Concha y Toro, a Chilean wine that I've had before.
"That's from Chile; the wine we ordered is from Peru."
"This is from Peru." (The bottle says Chile, which Andrew pointed out to him.)
He sheepishly came back moments later with the correct bottle of wine. He didn't get a very good tip.
There are hasslers everywhere here, the most fierce of whom are the pretty local girls the various restaurants employ to herd us in. None of them accept "no", or its variants in any language. We have found the best method is to speak gibberish and continue walking without making eye contact.
I'm not officially a soldier anymore as of today. (Sorta, I'm on the lists for recall if need be, but I'm not getting a paycheck anymore.) Time to dive into the coca leaf tea.
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The Showers of Damocles? At all the hostels we've stayed at so far, I have to hit the breaker switch next to the shower once I've turned on the water. The breaker then runs electricity through covered wires to the showerhead, which heats the water to a point above freezing but below bearable. The copper wiring is exposed as it connects to the showerhead. Showers thus far have been short and prefaced, taken, and concluded with prayers.
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This morning it seemed time for a break. Andrew and I are getting along fine but I require solitude sporadically. I wandered around the city, walking a part of the Avenida del Sol before heading up. I continue to be winded by the altitude, but I made my way up the cobblestone streets until I'd passed all the ghetto homes and came to the tree line. I looked out on the city. Terracotta- tiled roofs, more orange than red, splayed out before me. I easily made out the various churches and plazas that I'd been walking among. I continued to climb to the ridgeline and then walked along it, past shepherds and sheep to the large statue of Jesus, arms spread wide, who keeps watch on the city.
The plan was to read there, but even six hundred feet above the city there were peddlers. One came over to talk to me. I made the mistake of being cordial. He knew just enough English to confuse me by switching between that and his native tongue. He gave an impromptu history lession. He carried a map, so I knew that he was just trying to show his worth as a guide. Without being rude, I tried to make it apparent that I just wanted to be left alone.
I should have been rude. Eventually, I gave up and made my way over to another peak, where there's a twenty foot cross. He began to follow, but finally accepted that he wasn't going to get my business. Nonetheless it was obvious he wanted money for bombarding me with unasked for, partially understood, and barely believed information. I gave him a 5 soles coin ($1.50) and he scoffed.
I left him and got to the other hilltop where I could finally enjoy my peace. Up there I heard the din of cars (mostly taxis and, if not taxis, then old VW Beetles...they\'re everywhere in Peru and Equador) scooting through the streets, a vendor with a bullhorn somewhere in the maze below, and the joyful yells of children at play.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Andrew and I are off in a few minutes to the travel agency, where we will meet our guide and our fellow travellers. We head out at 5am tomorrow for our five days (four nights) on the trail that will take us to Macchu Picchu in time for sunrise on the morning of the 21st, the solstice. We are not taking the standard Inca Trail, since that is loaded with tourists, but are taking a bit longer route that is marked more by natural scenery than by ruins. At any rate, it is the centerpiece of the trip, and the part that we have most looked forward to. This of course means that y'all will be spared these blasted emails for some days, though I wouldn't be surprised if some hermit's hut had an internet cafe in a corner.
At any rate, having already eaten, we were of a mind to have a drink and settled on wine, the thinking being that we didn't want to mess with liquor our first night in the high elevation. We ordered a Peruvian wine, Tacama Gran Tinto, but when the waiter came back he was holding a Concha y Toro, a Chilean wine that I've had before.
"That's from Chile; the wine we ordered is from Peru."
"This is from Peru." (The bottle says Chile, which Andrew pointed out to him.)
He sheepishly came back moments later with the correct bottle of wine. He didn't get a very good tip.
There are hasslers everywhere here, the most fierce of whom are the pretty local girls the various restaurants employ to herd us in. None of them accept "no", or its variants in any language. We have found the best method is to speak gibberish and continue walking without making eye contact.
I'm not officially a soldier anymore as of today. (Sorta, I'm on the lists for recall if need be, but I'm not getting a paycheck anymore.) Time to dive into the coca leaf tea.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Showers of Damocles? At all the hostels we've stayed at so far, I have to hit the breaker switch next to the shower once I've turned on the water. The breaker then runs electricity through covered wires to the showerhead, which heats the water to a point above freezing but below bearable. The copper wiring is exposed as it connects to the showerhead. Showers thus far have been short and prefaced, taken, and concluded with prayers.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
This morning it seemed time for a break. Andrew and I are getting along fine but I require solitude sporadically. I wandered around the city, walking a part of the Avenida del Sol before heading up. I continue to be winded by the altitude, but I made my way up the cobblestone streets until I'd passed all the ghetto homes and came to the tree line. I looked out on the city. Terracotta- tiled roofs, more orange than red, splayed out before me. I easily made out the various churches and plazas that I'd been walking among. I continued to climb to the ridgeline and then walked along it, past shepherds and sheep to the large statue of Jesus, arms spread wide, who keeps watch on the city.
The plan was to read there, but even six hundred feet above the city there were peddlers. One came over to talk to me. I made the mistake of being cordial. He knew just enough English to confuse me by switching between that and his native tongue. He gave an impromptu history lession. He carried a map, so I knew that he was just trying to show his worth as a guide. Without being rude, I tried to make it apparent that I just wanted to be left alone.
I should have been rude. Eventually, I gave up and made my way over to another peak, where there's a twenty foot cross. He began to follow, but finally accepted that he wasn't going to get my business. Nonetheless it was obvious he wanted money for bombarding me with unasked for, partially understood, and barely believed information. I gave him a 5 soles coin ($1.50) and he scoffed.
I left him and got to the other hilltop where I could finally enjoy my peace. Up there I heard the din of cars (mostly taxis and, if not taxis, then old VW Beetles...they\'re everywhere in Peru and Equador) scooting through the streets, a vendor with a bullhorn somewhere in the maze below, and the joyful yells of children at play.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Andrew and I are off in a few minutes to the travel agency, where we will meet our guide and our fellow travellers. We head out at 5am tomorrow for our five days (four nights) on the trail that will take us to Macchu Picchu in time for sunrise on the morning of the 21st, the solstice. We are not taking the standard Inca Trail, since that is loaded with tourists, but are taking a bit longer route that is marked more by natural scenery than by ruins. At any rate, it is the centerpiece of the trip, and the part that we have most looked forward to. This of course means that y'all will be spared these blasted emails for some days, though I wouldn't be surprised if some hermit's hut had an internet cafe in a corner.
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
Fun With a Con Artist: June 15th, 2005
Andrew and I have done a remarkably good job of keeping out of the jaws of con artists so far, or perhaps we´ve been extraordinarily lucky that a couple of obvious marks like ourselves hadn´t been pegged yet. Either way, we got our first taste of that sort of thing yesterday.
After we´d taken the motorboat ride (in the rain) from Santa Cruz to San Cristobal, flown to Guayaquil, and then flown into Lima, we were tired and ready to get to the hostel. We politely waved at the two hundred plus people who were waiting on friends, family, or clients outside of the customs area and after drawing more of this crazy money from the ATM we set out to find a taxi.
There in the airport a cabbie was getting his shoes polished, but he jumped up mid-job to get us. We told him where we wanted to go and he produced a laminated card showing that district for $25. As we´d gotten taxi rides from that area for not $25, but 25 soles (their money; approximately $8), I asked "¿Soles o Dollares?". I didn´t hear his answer so I said, "25 soles?" He said yes and off we went.
We were winding our way along the various terrifying roads as he tried to bolster my confidence talking about the great service that his taxi company provided and that we knew it was secure because he had good identification. In fact, he mentioned (this conversation is going on mostly in Spanish, of which mine is poor, though certainly better than his English) that a gringo had gotten in what he thought was a taxi the other day only to be taken to some alley, robbed, and shot. I agreed that I wouldn´t like to be killed. We also talked about how high the price of gas was. Then he started saying something about how for the airport, or for the government, in order not to pay some tax when he went back I needed to fill out a basic form, to show that he could gain readmittance without having to pay the toll into the airport parking lot (at least, this was what I understood, though I was having a hard time of it).
At any rate, as we were getting to our area, he pulled into a gas station. I was a bit uncomfortable because I didn´t like the idea of sitting there in Lima at night, but then he wanted me to give him money for gas. I told him I wasn´t paying money for gas. That was when he explained that the gas meter (which I had pointed out was nearly full) wasn´t accurate and that the money from the gas would come out of the price for the trip. I went to hand him the 25 soles and that´s when he scoffed and said "dollars!"
Suffice it to say I very sternly said no. He pulled out his little laminate again and showed how the trip wasn´t even $25 but more like $50, because of the ten dollar per person tax (what I hadn´t understood before) and some other company tax. I was struggling to explain to him that regardless of what the paper said, before we had gotten in the car, he had agreed to soles.
He got very upset, to the point that I was concerned that he would try to get physical. In his broken English he howled, "Gas is mas que 25 soles! That like 8 dollars! I been drive hour!" I apologized to him but held firm that he had said soles. He made some suggestion that he was going to drive us back to the airport, which, since I was so worked up, was fine with me; I wasn´t about to get jobbed like that. I was concentrating so hard, trying to figure out what to say, that apparently I missed out on some grade-A whining. Andrew kept hearing him say, "You got taxes in April; I got taxes now!"
Though things were tense they were not scary. That is, until he yanked the wheel over, stopped the car on the side of the road, got out of the car and bolted into some building. There we were in the middle of Lima with no idea where we were and a pissed off cabby had just rushed in some building for what could have been a sinister purpose. I jumped up out of the car and ran to the back of the car to get my k-bar out of my bag. The back latch was locked so I tried to get into it from the back door (it was a hatchback). Andrew didn´t like the idea of me getting the knife at all, thinking that all it would do was escalate the problem; he very well could have been right, but I didn´t like the situation at all.
At that moment the cabbie came out with a reasonably well dressed younger man. I stopped messing with the bag because I didn´t want them to see me going for a knife, but I told Andrew to get it while I went around to fight/argue/who-knew with them. Fortunately, the cabbie had stopped at a hostel that he knew of where people spoke English and he´d grabbed a porter to translate. Pfew.
The cabbie explained himself to the porter, who told me what I already knew. I told him what I already told the cabbie. The porter looked like he sympathized with the two gringos getting taken for the proverbial ride. All I knew was that I sure as hell wasn´t backing down. Perhaps thats in my genes. I still remember the time when I was seven and saw my father do a modified Sumo match with a gondoleer that tried a similar ruse in Venice. At any rate, I was seeing red.
Fortunately for all involved, that was when Andrew rolled down the window. "Compromise! We´ll give you five dollars more." The cabbie continued to whine; he hated the idea. I wasn´t about to back down when I knew I was right; I hated the idea. Andrew continued, to the cabbie, "Look, take the 25 soles and the $5. We´re already almost here," and to me, "dude, what are you doing? At the end of the day it´s five dollars." I started seeing his point, though I wasn´t happy about it.
The cabbie agreed and we got to our hostel eventually. I didn´t end up having exact change so I had to give the "#$!#$ 30 soles plus the five. Once we got up in the room, Andrew had a nice discussion with me about the necessity of pulling my head out of my fourth point of contact since it hadn´t even occurred to me to bargain with the guy.
After we´d gone out for supper and a beer or two (at a tacky Peruvian Texan bar, where two lithe waitresses wearing the bar uniform of ultra-tight jeans, rolled up loosely buttoned blouses, and cowboy hats did an impromptu booty shaking dance session for the awed patrons), we´d finally gotten to a point where getting jobbed was mildly amusing. Oh, and we came to the agreement that Lima sucks.
We are now in Cusco. The Elevation (11,000ft) is kicking my butt. We head off for the Inca Trail and Macchu Picchu in two days.
One thing that I forgot to mention about the trip so far has been that our favorite entertainment so far have been the taxi rides (exluding the aformentioned example) in the big cities, since there are no lanes and seat belts, and the makeshift road rollercoaster that the locals used on Santa Cruz in the Galapagos. Basically, they´d welded a cartoon dog´s head over the chassis of a truck and then tacked on four to five trailers with benches, which also were done up to look like cartoon dogs. We saw this thing careening over the streets while we were eating supper one night so after we´d finished drinking it seemed like the perfect thing to do. We were right. To make it exciting, the driver would whip the thing all over the roads, regardless of lanes or even sidewalks it seemed.
After we´d taken the motorboat ride (in the rain) from Santa Cruz to San Cristobal, flown to Guayaquil, and then flown into Lima, we were tired and ready to get to the hostel. We politely waved at the two hundred plus people who were waiting on friends, family, or clients outside of the customs area and after drawing more of this crazy money from the ATM we set out to find a taxi.
There in the airport a cabbie was getting his shoes polished, but he jumped up mid-job to get us. We told him where we wanted to go and he produced a laminated card showing that district for $25. As we´d gotten taxi rides from that area for not $25, but 25 soles (their money; approximately $8), I asked "¿Soles o Dollares?". I didn´t hear his answer so I said, "25 soles?" He said yes and off we went.
We were winding our way along the various terrifying roads as he tried to bolster my confidence talking about the great service that his taxi company provided and that we knew it was secure because he had good identification. In fact, he mentioned (this conversation is going on mostly in Spanish, of which mine is poor, though certainly better than his English) that a gringo had gotten in what he thought was a taxi the other day only to be taken to some alley, robbed, and shot. I agreed that I wouldn´t like to be killed. We also talked about how high the price of gas was. Then he started saying something about how for the airport, or for the government, in order not to pay some tax when he went back I needed to fill out a basic form, to show that he could gain readmittance without having to pay the toll into the airport parking lot (at least, this was what I understood, though I was having a hard time of it).
At any rate, as we were getting to our area, he pulled into a gas station. I was a bit uncomfortable because I didn´t like the idea of sitting there in Lima at night, but then he wanted me to give him money for gas. I told him I wasn´t paying money for gas. That was when he explained that the gas meter (which I had pointed out was nearly full) wasn´t accurate and that the money from the gas would come out of the price for the trip. I went to hand him the 25 soles and that´s when he scoffed and said "dollars!"
Suffice it to say I very sternly said no. He pulled out his little laminate again and showed how the trip wasn´t even $25 but more like $50, because of the ten dollar per person tax (what I hadn´t understood before) and some other company tax. I was struggling to explain to him that regardless of what the paper said, before we had gotten in the car, he had agreed to soles.
He got very upset, to the point that I was concerned that he would try to get physical. In his broken English he howled, "Gas is mas que 25 soles! That like 8 dollars! I been drive hour!" I apologized to him but held firm that he had said soles. He made some suggestion that he was going to drive us back to the airport, which, since I was so worked up, was fine with me; I wasn´t about to get jobbed like that. I was concentrating so hard, trying to figure out what to say, that apparently I missed out on some grade-A whining. Andrew kept hearing him say, "You got taxes in April; I got taxes now!"
Though things were tense they were not scary. That is, until he yanked the wheel over, stopped the car on the side of the road, got out of the car and bolted into some building. There we were in the middle of Lima with no idea where we were and a pissed off cabby had just rushed in some building for what could have been a sinister purpose. I jumped up out of the car and ran to the back of the car to get my k-bar out of my bag. The back latch was locked so I tried to get into it from the back door (it was a hatchback). Andrew didn´t like the idea of me getting the knife at all, thinking that all it would do was escalate the problem; he very well could have been right, but I didn´t like the situation at all.
At that moment the cabbie came out with a reasonably well dressed younger man. I stopped messing with the bag because I didn´t want them to see me going for a knife, but I told Andrew to get it while I went around to fight/argue/who-knew with them. Fortunately, the cabbie had stopped at a hostel that he knew of where people spoke English and he´d grabbed a porter to translate. Pfew.
The cabbie explained himself to the porter, who told me what I already knew. I told him what I already told the cabbie. The porter looked like he sympathized with the two gringos getting taken for the proverbial ride. All I knew was that I sure as hell wasn´t backing down. Perhaps thats in my genes. I still remember the time when I was seven and saw my father do a modified Sumo match with a gondoleer that tried a similar ruse in Venice. At any rate, I was seeing red.
Fortunately for all involved, that was when Andrew rolled down the window. "Compromise! We´ll give you five dollars more." The cabbie continued to whine; he hated the idea. I wasn´t about to back down when I knew I was right; I hated the idea. Andrew continued, to the cabbie, "Look, take the 25 soles and the $5. We´re already almost here," and to me, "dude, what are you doing? At the end of the day it´s five dollars." I started seeing his point, though I wasn´t happy about it.
The cabbie agreed and we got to our hostel eventually. I didn´t end up having exact change so I had to give the "#$!#$ 30 soles plus the five. Once we got up in the room, Andrew had a nice discussion with me about the necessity of pulling my head out of my fourth point of contact since it hadn´t even occurred to me to bargain with the guy.
After we´d gone out for supper and a beer or two (at a tacky Peruvian Texan bar, where two lithe waitresses wearing the bar uniform of ultra-tight jeans, rolled up loosely buttoned blouses, and cowboy hats did an impromptu booty shaking dance session for the awed patrons), we´d finally gotten to a point where getting jobbed was mildly amusing. Oh, and we came to the agreement that Lima sucks.
We are now in Cusco. The Elevation (11,000ft) is kicking my butt. We head off for the Inca Trail and Macchu Picchu in two days.
One thing that I forgot to mention about the trip so far has been that our favorite entertainment so far have been the taxi rides (exluding the aformentioned example) in the big cities, since there are no lanes and seat belts, and the makeshift road rollercoaster that the locals used on Santa Cruz in the Galapagos. Basically, they´d welded a cartoon dog´s head over the chassis of a truck and then tacked on four to five trailers with benches, which also were done up to look like cartoon dogs. We saw this thing careening over the streets while we were eating supper one night so after we´d finished drinking it seemed like the perfect thing to do. We were right. To make it exciting, the driver would whip the thing all over the roads, regardless of lanes or even sidewalks it seemed.
Monday, June 13, 2005
More Annoying Travel Stuff: June 13th, 2005
Andrew and I are currently on the island of Santa Cruz, having taken a three hour motorboat ride, on open water of course, here from Isla San Cristobal yesterday. We woke up at a goodly time this morning, went to buy our tickets back to San Cristobal (where we fly out tomorrow), and then went looking for bicycles to rent, as the guidebook we're using said that biking was a good way to get to all the things we wanted to see here. Unfortunately, we couldn´t find bikes for rent. There was one lady that was willing to rent us bikes with flat tires for a dollar each hour we used them (for what?), but we surprisingly decided against that great offer. Instead, we set off on foot from the coastal town of Puerta Ayora to Bella Vista, where we were under the impression that we could find a guide that would take us around to the various scenic delights here on the island; we did not take the guide book.
The walk to Bella Vista was in between three to four miles, though all uphill, and along the way we took our time exploring the lava tunnels, which were just off the road, that the island is known for. We had a good time spelunking and taking macho pictures. We got back on the road, got to Bella Vista (though we saw no good view, which is what the name implies in Spanish), and were disturbed to find that we could not find any guides. Well, that´s not quite true. A fat Equadorian wearing a wife-beater t-shirt led us to believe he could get us a guide to take us up to the national park to see the sights for $25. While that might seem like peanuts, we´ve grown accustomed to not paying more than a few dollars for anything, thus it would not do. We took a peak at our free map, ascertained that the next town, Santa Rosa, which wasn´t far at all from a number of areas of interest, was about six or seven miles away. Off we trudged, again all uphill.
Suffice it to say that we were smoked by the time that we got to Santa Rosa and after buying and drinking a few bottles of water there, we made up our minds to finish off what we´d started and walk to Los Gemelos. I was whupped at that point, but Andrew resolutely led the way keeping me at his fast pace for shame of falling back. At any rate, after a few more miles of uphill, we saw tourists sitting along the side of the road, asked them, and were pleased to discover that we had reached Los Gemelos. What we weren´t particularly pleased about was that we´d forgotten what the guidebook had told us that Los Gemelos were where the earth had caved in on vacant lava chambers. Thus, we walked thirteen miles uphill to see to two blinkity-blankity big holes in the ground. We did our best to extend our time up there, to peruse the holes from several angles, but we were both tired, sweaty, sunburned, and annoyed at that point. We started the easy part of the trip, the thirteen miles downhill.
Fortunately, we went no more than a few hundred yards when a trio of Galapagosian teens offered to give us a ride back to Puerta Ayora for $3. We´d read not to hitch-hike, but we figured that two guys weren´t going to rob us with a girl in the car. Luckily, we guessed right. It was more than a bit annoying to watch the four hours that we walked fly by in less than fifteen minutes, but we were very happy to be back. We´re taking a siesta for our day´s efforts.
Other various observations/anecdotes from the trip, as a whole, so far:
1. The internet is ubiquitous. There are shops in every town we've been to, even way out here, six hundred miles into the Pacific Ocean.
2. We´ve been pleasantly welcomed into the Gringo traveling community, having spent our first days here in the Galapagos talking and hanging out with Brid (pronounced Breed), an female Irish electrical engineer; Kevin, a Scot traveling with his Tasmanian girlfriend Kate, and...well, I forget the other guy´s name, but he´s an American working with the Peace Corps here in the Galapagos. Brid gave us the rundown of what we can expect for the rest of our trip, in particular the Inca Trail, Machu Pichu, and Cuzco.
3. Guayaquil was interesting. It´s the largest city in Equador and most of it is simply barrio (ghetto). We stayed in a hotel that cost us $8.70 for the night, though we did get a cold water shower (Dear Lord, that was cold!) included in that price. There´s a renovated riverwalk there which we walked up and down stopping at the various eateries and drinking beer. Some poor Equadorian dropped her ring into the river, so I leaned over the ledge and tried to fish it out, but to no avail. Unfortunately, my attempt at chivalry went unrewarded as the cute mamacita was with her boyfriend (who sure as heck wasn´t going to get his sleeve wet fishing for some cheap ring). The highlight of our day in the city was definitely when we decided (a few beers in) to have a beer on the pirate ship that was moored to the river walk. We had to pay a $4 cover, but we thought it was so tacky that we had to do it. We got led by a flourescent uniformed Pirate to our seats near the bar (on the deck above the captain´s quarters) and were thrilled when we discovered that our $4 wasn´t a cover charge, but, in fact, paid for the one hour trip we ended up taking. If you´re ever in Guayaquil with an hour and four dollars to spend, there are worse ways to do so.4. Even though you have to pay exhorbitant plane fares to get to the Galapagos, the Galapagosian government charges you a $100 (apiece) tourism tax. Alright, other than all of that, that´s pretty much it. Tomorrow, we have a three hour motorboat ride back to San Cristobal, an hour and a half flight to Guayaquil, and then a two hour flight to Lima. Yay!
The walk to Bella Vista was in between three to four miles, though all uphill, and along the way we took our time exploring the lava tunnels, which were just off the road, that the island is known for. We had a good time spelunking and taking macho pictures. We got back on the road, got to Bella Vista (though we saw no good view, which is what the name implies in Spanish), and were disturbed to find that we could not find any guides. Well, that´s not quite true. A fat Equadorian wearing a wife-beater t-shirt led us to believe he could get us a guide to take us up to the national park to see the sights for $25. While that might seem like peanuts, we´ve grown accustomed to not paying more than a few dollars for anything, thus it would not do. We took a peak at our free map, ascertained that the next town, Santa Rosa, which wasn´t far at all from a number of areas of interest, was about six or seven miles away. Off we trudged, again all uphill.
Suffice it to say that we were smoked by the time that we got to Santa Rosa and after buying and drinking a few bottles of water there, we made up our minds to finish off what we´d started and walk to Los Gemelos. I was whupped at that point, but Andrew resolutely led the way keeping me at his fast pace for shame of falling back. At any rate, after a few more miles of uphill, we saw tourists sitting along the side of the road, asked them, and were pleased to discover that we had reached Los Gemelos. What we weren´t particularly pleased about was that we´d forgotten what the guidebook had told us that Los Gemelos were where the earth had caved in on vacant lava chambers. Thus, we walked thirteen miles uphill to see to two blinkity-blankity big holes in the ground. We did our best to extend our time up there, to peruse the holes from several angles, but we were both tired, sweaty, sunburned, and annoyed at that point. We started the easy part of the trip, the thirteen miles downhill.
Fortunately, we went no more than a few hundred yards when a trio of Galapagosian teens offered to give us a ride back to Puerta Ayora for $3. We´d read not to hitch-hike, but we figured that two guys weren´t going to rob us with a girl in the car. Luckily, we guessed right. It was more than a bit annoying to watch the four hours that we walked fly by in less than fifteen minutes, but we were very happy to be back. We´re taking a siesta for our day´s efforts.
Other various observations/anecdotes from the trip, as a whole, so far:
1. The internet is ubiquitous. There are shops in every town we've been to, even way out here, six hundred miles into the Pacific Ocean.
2. We´ve been pleasantly welcomed into the Gringo traveling community, having spent our first days here in the Galapagos talking and hanging out with Brid (pronounced Breed), an female Irish electrical engineer; Kevin, a Scot traveling with his Tasmanian girlfriend Kate, and...well, I forget the other guy´s name, but he´s an American working with the Peace Corps here in the Galapagos. Brid gave us the rundown of what we can expect for the rest of our trip, in particular the Inca Trail, Machu Pichu, and Cuzco.
3. Guayaquil was interesting. It´s the largest city in Equador and most of it is simply barrio (ghetto). We stayed in a hotel that cost us $8.70 for the night, though we did get a cold water shower (Dear Lord, that was cold!) included in that price. There´s a renovated riverwalk there which we walked up and down stopping at the various eateries and drinking beer. Some poor Equadorian dropped her ring into the river, so I leaned over the ledge and tried to fish it out, but to no avail. Unfortunately, my attempt at chivalry went unrewarded as the cute mamacita was with her boyfriend (who sure as heck wasn´t going to get his sleeve wet fishing for some cheap ring). The highlight of our day in the city was definitely when we decided (a few beers in) to have a beer on the pirate ship that was moored to the river walk. We had to pay a $4 cover, but we thought it was so tacky that we had to do it. We got led by a flourescent uniformed Pirate to our seats near the bar (on the deck above the captain´s quarters) and were thrilled when we discovered that our $4 wasn´t a cover charge, but, in fact, paid for the one hour trip we ended up taking. If you´re ever in Guayaquil with an hour and four dollars to spend, there are worse ways to do so.4. Even though you have to pay exhorbitant plane fares to get to the Galapagos, the Galapagosian government charges you a $100 (apiece) tourism tax. Alright, other than all of that, that´s pretty much it. Tomorrow, we have a three hour motorboat ride back to San Cristobal, an hour and a half flight to Guayaquil, and then a two hour flight to Lima. Yay!
Sunday, June 12, 2005
The Galapagos: June 12th, 2005
We got to the dive/snorkel shop at the agreed upon time of 7:30am, but they weren´t there. Punctuality isn´t a prerequisite for business here, but the owner of the shop showed up after about fifteen minutes and got us onto the boat that he´d hired after we spent an inordinate amount of time trying to get flippers for me that fit. I wear 15; the biggest size he had was 11. I grimaced and made do.
Our boat driver, Luis, a handsome dark hispanic, spoke not one lick of English, but was very enthusiastic and did his best to give us the lowdown of the highlights along the way to our destination. My embryonic Spanish was strained to understand the majority of his discourse. Nonetheless, he did well enough that I understood most of what he tried to get across. He showed us where Darwin and the Beagle first arrived and came to port there at the island of San Cristobal. The coastline was comprised of black volcanic rocks which were apparently bleached white in certain places. I asked Luis and he confirmed my suspicions: centuries of birdpoo had coated them like paint.
The boat ride was about fifty minutes and we went out to a gargantuan rock formation about a mile off shore. It was 300 meters long and split in two, the sixty foot gap separating the 100 meter peak from an 85meter peak, four-fifths of the way to one end. It was covered in bird offerings as well and the birds were specks circling near the top. But for the break it reminded me of the rock of Gibraltar. Luis slowly puttered around the rock, which I believe he called "sleeping sea-lions" after the many we saw piled on ledges basking in the sun.
Once we´d made our way around, Andrew and I weren´t quite certain what was going to happen next, but we soon figured out we were supposed to start snorkling there in the canal and follow the path around that he´d taken us on.
It was with a minor sense of building trepidation that I put on the flippers and mask and went over the side. My courage had not been helped when I picked out the word "tiburon" from the various creatures Luis said were in the water there. I asked him if it was okay to swim with sharks and he laughed, saying "it's not the Mediterranean!" Having been scarred by Jaws at an early age, I've always been a bit reticent about open water. Nonetheless, in I went.
I couldn't see a thing there in the center of the canal because it was so deep, but as I got near the rock faces the world underneath came into focus. The water was clear, which was startling for me having mostly experienced the Atlantic there on the east coast. Fish, sea anemone, and various small creatures flitted and scrambled along as I swam by. I was careful to keep a three foot minimum distance from the wall, as the barnacles and other organisms growing on the rocks would have torn me to shreds.
After fifteen minutes or so, something moving out away from the rock caught my eye. It was just on the barrier of what I could make out, perhaps 30 feet away. I turned towards it, focused, and got my flimpse of a Galapagos turtle swimming. I pulled up to call Andrew over, and as I waited I watched the turtle lazily swim. Unfortunately, Andrew´s mask was foggy and he couldn´t make it out and the turtle was going out to sea. We headed back to the rock.
We passed the area where the sea lions were swimming and I mimicked their bellow, which did nothing more than cause one bull to lift his head, look at me, and then go right back to sleep, though the bellow had caused Andrew to yank his head out of the water to figure out where the howling sea lion was.
Shortly after that, as we were turning beyond where the rock wall would block the sun, a hammerhead shark, perhaps five to six feet long, slid by fifteen or twenty feet below me. My heart raced and I surfaced to tell Andrew. He nonchalantly said we should keep going, so I swallowed my fear and kept swimming. I did keep my arms pinned to my body so it wouldn´t get an arm if it bit me.
We´d gone perhaps twenty more feet when I saw a fleet of hammerheads (6-8) down just at my limit of vision. That was it. I told Andrew, gave the thumbs up to Luis (who´d been following us in the boat), and skidaddled back to the boat. I was not happy. We got back in the boat and I explained to Luis about the sharks. He laughed and said it was no reason to worry.
We sped along from there to a cove where Luis told us the baby sea lions swam. Again, he drove us along our swimming route, showing us the sea lions and the black iguanas, which matched the color of the rocks exactly, and thus making them very hard to see, as they sat perfectly still facing the sun as though in prayer.
When Andrew and I got back into the water, I wasn't nearly as perturbed as the water was only about fifteen feet deep and I could see well. We meandered along for a time and then the sea lions came to play. At first the babies, three to four feet long, darted around us, coming directly at us before bolting away. Soon the parents came by, doing much the same as the babies, though at a much slower pace. There were eight to twelve sea lions between and around us as we languidly swam/drifted, going about us in a fashion that brought to mind images of biplanes dogfighting.
Finally, they lost interest in us and wandered off somewhere. Our other big glimpses were a manta ray and a flittering school of tropical fish. We got back in the boat and Luis took us back to San Cristobal. We were happy and felt we got our money´s worth.
Our boat driver, Luis, a handsome dark hispanic, spoke not one lick of English, but was very enthusiastic and did his best to give us the lowdown of the highlights along the way to our destination. My embryonic Spanish was strained to understand the majority of his discourse. Nonetheless, he did well enough that I understood most of what he tried to get across. He showed us where Darwin and the Beagle first arrived and came to port there at the island of San Cristobal. The coastline was comprised of black volcanic rocks which were apparently bleached white in certain places. I asked Luis and he confirmed my suspicions: centuries of birdpoo had coated them like paint.
The boat ride was about fifty minutes and we went out to a gargantuan rock formation about a mile off shore. It was 300 meters long and split in two, the sixty foot gap separating the 100 meter peak from an 85meter peak, four-fifths of the way to one end. It was covered in bird offerings as well and the birds were specks circling near the top. But for the break it reminded me of the rock of Gibraltar. Luis slowly puttered around the rock, which I believe he called "sleeping sea-lions" after the many we saw piled on ledges basking in the sun.
Once we´d made our way around, Andrew and I weren´t quite certain what was going to happen next, but we soon figured out we were supposed to start snorkling there in the canal and follow the path around that he´d taken us on.
It was with a minor sense of building trepidation that I put on the flippers and mask and went over the side. My courage had not been helped when I picked out the word "tiburon" from the various creatures Luis said were in the water there. I asked him if it was okay to swim with sharks and he laughed, saying "it's not the Mediterranean!" Having been scarred by Jaws at an early age, I've always been a bit reticent about open water. Nonetheless, in I went.
I couldn't see a thing there in the center of the canal because it was so deep, but as I got near the rock faces the world underneath came into focus. The water was clear, which was startling for me having mostly experienced the Atlantic there on the east coast. Fish, sea anemone, and various small creatures flitted and scrambled along as I swam by. I was careful to keep a three foot minimum distance from the wall, as the barnacles and other organisms growing on the rocks would have torn me to shreds.
After fifteen minutes or so, something moving out away from the rock caught my eye. It was just on the barrier of what I could make out, perhaps 30 feet away. I turned towards it, focused, and got my flimpse of a Galapagos turtle swimming. I pulled up to call Andrew over, and as I waited I watched the turtle lazily swim. Unfortunately, Andrew´s mask was foggy and he couldn´t make it out and the turtle was going out to sea. We headed back to the rock.
We passed the area where the sea lions were swimming and I mimicked their bellow, which did nothing more than cause one bull to lift his head, look at me, and then go right back to sleep, though the bellow had caused Andrew to yank his head out of the water to figure out where the howling sea lion was.
Shortly after that, as we were turning beyond where the rock wall would block the sun, a hammerhead shark, perhaps five to six feet long, slid by fifteen or twenty feet below me. My heart raced and I surfaced to tell Andrew. He nonchalantly said we should keep going, so I swallowed my fear and kept swimming. I did keep my arms pinned to my body so it wouldn´t get an arm if it bit me.
We´d gone perhaps twenty more feet when I saw a fleet of hammerheads (6-8) down just at my limit of vision. That was it. I told Andrew, gave the thumbs up to Luis (who´d been following us in the boat), and skidaddled back to the boat. I was not happy. We got back in the boat and I explained to Luis about the sharks. He laughed and said it was no reason to worry.
We sped along from there to a cove where Luis told us the baby sea lions swam. Again, he drove us along our swimming route, showing us the sea lions and the black iguanas, which matched the color of the rocks exactly, and thus making them very hard to see, as they sat perfectly still facing the sun as though in prayer.
When Andrew and I got back into the water, I wasn't nearly as perturbed as the water was only about fifteen feet deep and I could see well. We meandered along for a time and then the sea lions came to play. At first the babies, three to four feet long, darted around us, coming directly at us before bolting away. Soon the parents came by, doing much the same as the babies, though at a much slower pace. There were eight to twelve sea lions between and around us as we languidly swam/drifted, going about us in a fashion that brought to mind images of biplanes dogfighting.
Finally, they lost interest in us and wandered off somewhere. Our other big glimpses were a manta ray and a flittering school of tropical fish. We got back in the boat and Luis took us back to San Cristobal. We were happy and felt we got our money´s worth.
Friday, June 10, 2005
Now In Equador: June 10th, 2005
Well, I´m alive for the time being, and in another country to boot. Tomorrow Andrew and I fly from Guayaquil (Southern Equador) out to the Galapagos. The highlights of the trip so far:
Day 1:
1. On the way to the airport in DC, Andrew notices that the itinerary has us flying into LaGuardia but then flying to Peru out of JFK. Minor Panic ensues.
2. The ticket counter in DC tells us that we don´t have electronic tickets and that they´re going to charge us an extra hundred dollars for a lost ticket application. I ask to speak to the manager, who then tells us that we have to buy whole new tickets at the current rate (twice as much as the lost tickets). Major Panic ensues. The ticket counter man talks to sales and works out so that we only have to pay for the 100 dollars. We gleefully do so. Afterward Andrew posits that the manager just did a standard ploy of scaring us so badly that we were happy to get screwed over only by 100 dollars (I´ll be having a nice chat with the airlines when I get back).
3. We drink a pint of beer by the gate.
4. We drink (I guzzle) a beer on the plane (gratis...the first thing to go our way on the trip).
5. Getting off the plane in NY I panic when I can´t find my passport. Andrew is already down an escalator when I stop to search myself. He begins to come up steps when I find it and yell out, ¨Stay Down!!!!¨, which, it turns out, is NOT the thing to yell in an airport in NY. The woman next to me turns bleach white and gasps. I realize what I just did and apologize and then hot-foot it out of the airport.
6. We pay some guy $45 to get us from LaGuardia to JFK lickety split.
7. We drink two beers in the lobby of JFK, then go through security, where we, along with all the other caucasians on the flight are rigorously searched. By the gate, we drink another beer.
8. Lan Chile turns out to be the best airline that we think we´ve ever flown on. We were no doubt influenced by the pretty stewardesses and the fact that we were on the emergency exit aisle (more leg room).
9. Touch down in Chile. I discover that my duct tape, hatchet, and pocket knife were stolen (Semper paratis). My K-Bar was not stolen.
10. The drive through Lima to the hostel was amusing and terrifying. Lima reminded me of Iraq (well, that and the other third world countries I´ve been to) in that there was trash everywhere and all the cars from the 70s are flying all over the roads, which didn´t really have lanes. I had a seatbelt. Andrew didn´t. I asked the taxi driver when the sun comes out. He told me that it doesn´t come out during the winter in Lima. I´d forgotten that it was winter there since it was 66 degrees. The locals are bundled up.
11. After getting the room square and setting out to explore the city, we are immediately accosted by urchins who polish our boots. We laugh at the fact that we´re being swindled. The polishers try to extort money from us, which we´re happy to comply with since the exchange rate there is ridiculously in favor of the dollar. Eventually I tell them ¨No!!!¨and they skidaddle, thrilled that they bilked $5 from us.
12. Mostly drinking for the remainder of the night plus a cheap meal.
Day 1:
1. On the way to the airport in DC, Andrew notices that the itinerary has us flying into LaGuardia but then flying to Peru out of JFK. Minor Panic ensues.
2. The ticket counter in DC tells us that we don´t have electronic tickets and that they´re going to charge us an extra hundred dollars for a lost ticket application. I ask to speak to the manager, who then tells us that we have to buy whole new tickets at the current rate (twice as much as the lost tickets). Major Panic ensues. The ticket counter man talks to sales and works out so that we only have to pay for the 100 dollars. We gleefully do so. Afterward Andrew posits that the manager just did a standard ploy of scaring us so badly that we were happy to get screwed over only by 100 dollars (I´ll be having a nice chat with the airlines when I get back).
3. We drink a pint of beer by the gate.
4. We drink (I guzzle) a beer on the plane (gratis...the first thing to go our way on the trip).
5. Getting off the plane in NY I panic when I can´t find my passport. Andrew is already down an escalator when I stop to search myself. He begins to come up steps when I find it and yell out, ¨Stay Down!!!!¨, which, it turns out, is NOT the thing to yell in an airport in NY. The woman next to me turns bleach white and gasps. I realize what I just did and apologize and then hot-foot it out of the airport.
6. We pay some guy $45 to get us from LaGuardia to JFK lickety split.
7. We drink two beers in the lobby of JFK, then go through security, where we, along with all the other caucasians on the flight are rigorously searched. By the gate, we drink another beer.
8. Lan Chile turns out to be the best airline that we think we´ve ever flown on. We were no doubt influenced by the pretty stewardesses and the fact that we were on the emergency exit aisle (more leg room).
9. Touch down in Chile. I discover that my duct tape, hatchet, and pocket knife were stolen (Semper paratis). My K-Bar was not stolen.
10. The drive through Lima to the hostel was amusing and terrifying. Lima reminded me of Iraq (well, that and the other third world countries I´ve been to) in that there was trash everywhere and all the cars from the 70s are flying all over the roads, which didn´t really have lanes. I had a seatbelt. Andrew didn´t. I asked the taxi driver when the sun comes out. He told me that it doesn´t come out during the winter in Lima. I´d forgotten that it was winter there since it was 66 degrees. The locals are bundled up.
11. After getting the room square and setting out to explore the city, we are immediately accosted by urchins who polish our boots. We laugh at the fact that we´re being swindled. The polishers try to extort money from us, which we´re happy to comply with since the exchange rate there is ridiculously in favor of the dollar. Eventually I tell them ¨No!!!¨and they skidaddle, thrilled that they bilked $5 from us.
12. Mostly drinking for the remainder of the night plus a cheap meal.
Tuesday, June 7, 2005
Checking In and Checking Out: June 7th, 2005
Well, the last few days/ weeks have been rather hectic and that trend will apparently continue for the foreseeable future. Upon turning 26 two saturdays ago, I drove up to the mountains where I sequestered myself at my pop's place to study for the LSAT. Having very little time, and the cold front that swept through bringing copious rain, meant that I stayed boarded up in the kitchen house, cramming my head full of helpful techniques while I poked and prodded as much heat as I could get out of the old woodburning stove. I got back to Charleston last Saturday and continued my studies, though I did take the time to blow the head off of a copperhead that I accidently ran over in the driveway. Fortunately, Pop, who was with me since we'd just come back from eating Mexican, wasn't aware that was my first confirmed kill or he no doubt would have tried to bathe me in its blood (a standard rite of passage for newly minted deer hunters) and I no doubt would have run screaming, wailing about venom getting in my eyes.
I took the test yesterday at the College of Charleston. I'm feeling cautiously optimistic at this point. Hopefully I do well enough that I can get USC to pony up some dough. I find out near the end of the month what the results are. All that being said, the big news is that I got out of the test and immediately drove the five hundred miles up here to Washington DC, where I am staying until my friend Andrew (we did our Artillery training together in OK) and I fly for Peru tomorrow. Three weeks (til June 30th) in a third world paradise are just what the doctor ordered, I believe, though hopefully he only ordered bouts of binge drinking, cheap travel, beautiful scenery, and friendly locals, and not an uprising of Tupac Amaru or Shining Path, or a ransom kidnapping, or a stabbing, shooting, mugging or even plain old pickpocketing (all of which I bring up solely to torment my beleaguered parents... kisses, mom and dad). At any rate, even with coca production up three hundred percent so far this year, Peru hasn't gotten a travel warning from the State Dept yet, so I think we're in the clear. Besides, if they really want Americans, why would any baddies want to mess with two athletic (looking) young men, when they can just grab a group of spoiled, obnoxious sorority chicks, or an overweight couple in tacky t-shirts walking around with their faces buried in a map? Oh yeah, I'm taking a hatchet and a k-bar (so that you know what did it when I email that I accidently stabbed myself at some point during the trip... me and sharp things aren't friends).
I hope everything is doing well out there in y'all's necks of the woods and hopefully the next time y'all see me it will be in person and not on a hostage videotape being aired on CNN.
I took the test yesterday at the College of Charleston. I'm feeling cautiously optimistic at this point. Hopefully I do well enough that I can get USC to pony up some dough. I find out near the end of the month what the results are. All that being said, the big news is that I got out of the test and immediately drove the five hundred miles up here to Washington DC, where I am staying until my friend Andrew (we did our Artillery training together in OK) and I fly for Peru tomorrow. Three weeks (til June 30th) in a third world paradise are just what the doctor ordered, I believe, though hopefully he only ordered bouts of binge drinking, cheap travel, beautiful scenery, and friendly locals, and not an uprising of Tupac Amaru or Shining Path, or a ransom kidnapping, or a stabbing, shooting, mugging or even plain old pickpocketing (all of which I bring up solely to torment my beleaguered parents... kisses, mom and dad). At any rate, even with coca production up three hundred percent so far this year, Peru hasn't gotten a travel warning from the State Dept yet, so I think we're in the clear. Besides, if they really want Americans, why would any baddies want to mess with two athletic (looking) young men, when they can just grab a group of spoiled, obnoxious sorority chicks, or an overweight couple in tacky t-shirts walking around with their faces buried in a map? Oh yeah, I'm taking a hatchet and a k-bar (so that you know what did it when I email that I accidently stabbed myself at some point during the trip... me and sharp things aren't friends).
I hope everything is doing well out there in y'all's necks of the woods and hopefully the next time y'all see me it will be in person and not on a hostage videotape being aired on CNN.
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