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.
Monday, June 27, 2005
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).
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