Hoy Dia No, Mañana Vamos a Ver

The return to Peru made us a little nervous, having heard of contiuning unrest there. Some Canadians we encountered ealier had been politely asked off their bus at a roadblock at 2AM and had to walk a mile to the other side. Demonstrators have been occupying train stations, blocking highways and trains, taking police hostage and even blockading the Machhu Pichu train and pelting it with rocks. Thankfully, either national unity due to Peruvian Independence Day or ´pacification´ efforts by the army have slowed things down. Although as our bus driver said ¨Hoy Dia No, Mañana Vamos a Ver. (Today no, tomorrow we will see). Of course the first thing we saw coming out of the bus station in Puno as we waited for our taxi was a convoy of jeeps full of Uzi toting soldiers and missile mounted armored vehicles coming out of the station. And plenty of AK toting soldiers walking around the city, where many of the roadblocks have been.


Puno was again dingy and gringoey, but we only had to stay one night with the bedbugs and get up for the train to Cusco and the Sacred Valley the next morning. The Peruvian people were preparing for independence day and all celebrating Machu Pichu´s addition to the NEW seven wonders of the world list. The train ride was incedible, albeit long. The train itself, even backpacker class was nicer than any other developing country train I´ve been on, and actually far cleaner and more comfortable than Amtrak. The views ranged from high altiplano Llama villages to snow capped mountains as we entered the sacred valley. We were following an ever widening river as we wound through more patchwork fields of quinua and maiz growing terraced villages.



Finally arrived in Cusco, packed with both Peruvian and foreign tourists, with nary a room in the inn. We tried multiple hotels, all shockingly expensive before settling on one overpriced hotel and overpriced dinner. A shock to come from backpackery bolivia to here and suddenly find gringos and tourists and tourist prices) everywhere.


Slept well though, and got up for a hike to Sacsayhuaman, an incan fortress or temple (its as yet unclear) above the city. We actually snuck in and learned for free, shocked at the ticket price. Some impenetrable fortress! Though the ticket price was probably worth it, we saw amazingly crafted masonry, ten multi-ton foot blocks seamlessly held together building the zig-zag walls of the structure overlooking the city and mountains in the distance. The blocks of stone were so bubbly and round and perfectly placed, it almost looked like a foam blocks on a movie set, but the stone was definitely real.

Cusco itself was once the capital of the Incan empire, and its amazing to learn how close the Incans were to defeating the Spanish. Only because they had been weakened by their own civil war a few years before the arrival of the Spanish were they and their leaders (including Tupac Amaru) defeated. The city still stands on Incan foundations and laid out on a more Incan that spanish system of small streets and alleyways. Its also so steep that most of the sidewalks are actually staircases, not so easy in this altitude, but actually not bad for us as we had come DOWN from the Bolivian altiplano on the train to get into the mountains here. Its a city of baroque Spanish colonial architecture, not brightly painted like the colonial cities of Mexico or Central America, but white with tile roofs. Most interestingly, many Spanish buildings appear to grow out of original incan foundations, gigantic cut rock walls with spanish architecture superimposed atop. Curious, unique and beautiful to the eye, it is certainly symbolic on a number of levels. Interestingly, every so often earthquakes bring the spanish architecture tumbling down around its forever unshakeable incan foundations which are ever undamaged. Typically, the Spanish built viceroy mansions atop the palaces of Incan kings and Churches over sacred temples. One particularly egregious example of this Spanish behavior was the Incan Sun Temple, holiest place in the Incan empire with walls made of four inch thick solid gold and a garden and menagerie of gold sculptures. Pizarro took the Incan king hostage and had the whole place melted down and shipped to Spain within a month, building a monastary on its Incan foundation. Still shocking to learn again as we wandered around about the more crimes of cruelty against humanity that Spanish colonialism perpetuated. And how they set the blueprint for the rest of the European colonial project to begin in earnest around the world, which, though more subtle was still full of shocking cruelty and exploitation. And the current American system of puppet imperialism is hardly better. But enough of politics.

Wandered around the market for a while, buying some provisions for our next trek. The market herbalist- witch doctor selling coca leaves was also trying to push ayahuasca (hallucinagenic herb) and san pedro cactus (a peyote - like cactus) on us. We politely declined these classic beat and hippie drugs even at the price of mere pennies. Did enjoy a lunch of some delicious ceviche before returning to the central plaza.

And tomorrow we are off again, this time to Choquequirao. A recently uncovered ruin that is understood to be the sister city to Machu Pichu. As of now, there is now way to get there without taking a four day trek in the mountains, though the road will inevitably come. As of now though, only a few thousand visitors a year make it, compared to MP´s millions. Should be very cool. So until Thursday kids!


(pics- Train to Cusco, Plaza De Armas Cusco (and by the way, no thats not the gay pride flag, its the Quechua flag which is the EXACT same rainbow flag and is weirdly flying everywhere in peru)m Sacsayhuaman during Quechua New Years, Back streets of Cusco- note incan stonework foundation and cobblestone below spanish building )

Final thoughts and filler on Bolivia

So its been an interesting last few days in Bolivia, not the least of which was getting extremely sick the other day. I´d finished my cipro, but thankfully Ben had some for me to take, nervous about buying it here after hearing about all the counterfeit drugs from other travellers.


We had initially intended to hit the jungle and Amazon, but were stymied in our attempt by rain conditions that apparently prevented our flight. (yes, apparently it rains in the rain forest, making it somehow impossible to get there). We spent seven hours at the military airport, which was maybe our mistake- choosing to hitch a ride with the Bolivian air force. They gave us no information from seven AM when we were supposed to take off until 2PM when they told us to come back tomorrow. (I suppose everything when you fly with the military is on a need to know basis) And for those who say third world flying is dangerous, frankly I´d rather take a VERY experienced pilot who has probably flown drug interdiction (or more likely drug running) missions in and out of the lawless and rainy parts of the country every day in an ancient soviet plane for years than an American trained pilot who flies between St. Louis and Chicago three days a week!) The result being that piranha fishing, anaconda and croc hunting, and pink river dolphin swimming will have to be saved for another trip.) The next day the flight seemed to be cancelled again, though it was unclear as the airport had also been blockaded and occupied by angry demonstrators. No one was very friendly about refunding our money.


Onward to Lake Titicaca we went again, this time a beautiful day on which to see the Isla Del Sol. Again, this is the place where the Incans believed the Sun was born (and the next island over, Isla Luna where the moon was born). We ferried up to the north end of the island where there is a small museum and also a mysterious underwater temple which you cant really see, and began hiking from north to south. Passed the sacred titi -karka (puma rock) from which the whole lake takes its name, a stone table where some folks were incongruously picnicking on a table that once saw animal and human sacrifice, and on up and down the old incan road. We arrived at a labyrinth sun temple, where we rested a while, playing in the ruins and watching the clouds burn off over the mountains across the lake and to the north.

And yet in spite of all the difficulties, I will really miss Bolivia. We were heading out from Puno and I was just sitting on the bus watching the Cordillera Real mountains grow more distant as we drove. I looked out from the bus across villages and yellow llama fields where the deep blue of Titicaca began, the line of blue and its meeting point with the pale blue cloudless sky broken by the jagged white peaks. I literally got teary as they vanished around a bend for the last time. I´ve never seen mountains so powerful and majestic in their permanence and majesty. Its easy to understand why the Incans worshipped them as gods.

Some things I shall miss and remember, and some better left behind...
I´ll miss the complete enagement of the populace in their activism for rights of the poor and indiginous people and their ability to peacefully shut down the country and government, elect the first indiginous leader in the Americas, a former coca grower and union leader.
I´ll miss the indigenous traditions displayed out of ethnic pride, rather than for the benefit of tourists. A country with a 30% indigenous population that retains their culture, larges in size but second only to Guatemala in percentage. (though Rigoberta Menchu is running for president there).
I´ll miss the 100% fake hard rock cafe in La Paz, presumably the worlds highest (and only?) fake hard rock cafe complete with ecstacy addled Israeli backpackers, and slightly off (lemon flavored) brownie sundaes.
I´ll miss the only place where people wear legwarmers out of necessity for the subzero temperatures and not out of fashion irony.
I´ll miss the Bolivian spanish, where they do not roll their r´s, instead making a zz sounds which works great for me as my failure to roll my r"s is the achilles heel of my spanish. I´ll also miss the charming way they add "ito" to seemingly every single noun here, a dimimnutive equivalent to the english "y"or "ie", (or french ette), as in "I will bring you the checky for your platey of food and muggy of coffee for you two youngstersies now."

We also got a great straightedge razor shave at an old fashioned barber, complete with a view of girlie pictures of Miss Bolivia taped to the mirror. Felt mucho mas macho after that.

I´ll miss the political grafitti- including some of my faves-

Vive la huelga nacional indefinida!
(long live the indefinite national strike)
Vive la huelga de hambre! Salvemos la democracia! Salvemos la constituyente!
Cemento = muerte, arboles = vida
(Cement = Dath, Trees = Life)
Vive la dictadura de la proletariat!
Izquierda Insugente!
(insurgent left!)


And newly appearing on gringo alley the day after a large protest-
Fuck tourismo = capitalismo = imperialismo

Other things I´ll miss less-
The massive inequities, racism and exploitation that continues in spite of all the activism.
The freezing cold, though it does kill the bedbugs in a way that the Peruvian hostels have not.
The constant delays to everything, the beurocracies, etc.
The undelivered promises of hot showers and heated hotel rooms.
The sleepless nights after food poisoning.

Nightly dogs fighting.

The constant sound of either squealing brakes or gunning 30 year old engines going very up or very down the streets of La Paz.

Trying to ditch the ubiquitous counterfeit currency.

The origin of the Eclectic shower disease.

Horror stories from other travellers of drunk busdrivers pouring water over their heads to sober up on the drives, getting stranded in the middle of frozen deserts, or strangle muggings at midnight on the streets of La Paz.

And I'm just not sure what to make of the most memorable TV commercial I've ever seen. A woman wearing nothing but a thong crawling around on al fours for 25 seconds, followed by a five second splash for a bathroom tile brand. Seems like they take the sex sells mantra of advertising pretty literally here.

We're Number 1!

Congratulations Wesleyan...
gawker.com/news/kids-today/the-most-annoying-liberal-arts-school-in-the-us-282425.php
And I really like that Eclectic gets a shout out...

El Choro

It was such a strange day in La Paz, absolutely no one on the streets, no cars, no people, nothing was open. Only in the morning when people were gathering on streetcorners with their flags and banners for the march up to El Alto were people around, and then they marched off and it was quiet. Protests are mainly about the possibility of moving the capital- the rich whites in the south are in favor, the poor and indigenous of La Paz and elsewhere are against. (apparently the march drew 2 million people) Its pretty depressing to be in the worlds greatest democracy and have such an uninvolved populace. We´d probably vote for the new capital on a reality show. We did eat at a good Arab place that was open, I suppose they didnt care whether the capital stayed in La Paz or moved. (and if anyone has a good mujadara recipe, please send it to me) I can´t imagine Americans taking to the streets the way the people here do for anything. But anyway, we began our Choro Trek the next day.

The Choro Trek travels for three days from the high mountains above la paz down to the sweaty jungle region of the Yungas, and even better than that, is almost entirely downhill. Oh yeah, and was paved with smooth stones 1000 years ago by the incans. (and in many spots in better shape than the streets in downtown boston) It even retains some original stone and wood bridges over the rivers flowing eastward toward the Amazon from the Andes. The trail begins on an extremely steep and rocky mountain pass, where we began to head down passing caravans of llamas and alpacas heading upward, driven by locals in bright colored weavings, and some of the only people I´ve ever seen wearing legwarmers justifiably. It had a real Lord of the Rings epic feel on the way down, with a bit of Herzog´s Aguirre Wrath of God thrown in. We made it down the steep part, passing the stone remains of an incan waystation, and headed into more grassy green pasture land with old stone houses with thatched roofs and walls penning in sheep and alpacas. We decended into a clouds, or fog anyway, and it felt like we could have been in scotland were it not for the occasional glimpse of enormous mountains through fog breaks.

Took a brief stop in our guides town, an Aymara village in the valley which has probably changed little in the last 1000 years. They still raise alpacas, grow quinua and potatos, and make chuno (freeze dried potatos), and still speak Aymara. Guzman and alejandro, the two brothers in their 50´s who were our guides greeted everyone we encountered with winusakari, an aymara greeting.

By the end of the first day we had descended enough to be wearing t shirts, the vegetation had become tropical and lush, and if the temperature didnt tell us we were in the jungle, the mosquitos did. We made camp in a little stone village of about five houses, a few hours of electricity and in a lovely setting next to the river. No running water per se, but they ingenious had run an extremely long hose from higher up the river waterfall to provide a flow of water in the town. Food was good, tents and sleeping bags we rented a bit short and clearly made for for the height of the average Bolivian. The stars were incredible, could make out the scorpio constellation perfectly, exciting to see a real southern hemisphere constellation. Slept well overall to the sounds of villagers chatting away in Aymara and the wild sounds of the jungle birds and other creatures.

Arose the next day to hike through more jungle, past calla lillies and giant yellow flowers, wild strawberries and tropical butterfly meadows. We wound around some extremely high ridgelines with views back over snowy peaks and ahead toward deeper jungle and hundred foot cascading waterfalls. It looked a lot like how I imagine Colombia, (which I suppose is how Colombia looks in Hollywood movies). You could smell the heady funky smell of jungle rot, and the temperatures were a welcome relief from the coldness of La Paz and the Altiplano. The few towns we passed had almost nothing save for a few banana trees, and a couple shacks looking rather precariously perched on the jungly cliffsides. On the third day we stopped at the Japanese house, three days´ hike from anywhere a tiny little 70 year old Japanese man lived whose hunchback was almost a complete 90 degrees. He had an incredible view and wonderful gardens there, but I couldnt help but wonder why he had decided this spot in Bolivia to move to some 40 years ago. South America was once infamous for its hiding Nazis, and I wondered a bit about this fellow as well.

Finally we arrived to chairo, where we bathed in the freezing river and headed back toward to La Paz in a car that broke down repeatedly. An amazing trek overall, and I´d recommend our guides who grew up in the valley and know all its twists and turns and characters as well.

Attempted to fly to the Amazon bright and early this morning 600 , only to be told around 130 that our flight was cancelled. Couldnt even get a cab to our hotel because of more demonstrations so had to walk. Oh well, here now post nap and feeling halfway human again. With any luck we´ll make the Amazon tomorrow.

Salar De Uyuni - La Sede No Se Mueve - Thoughts on Travel

So the salt flats were pretty incredible. The Salar de Uyuni is the worlds largest salt flat, stretching 12,000 square kilometers and 500 meters deep of pure salt. (yeah, you do the math on your time). Its a desert of salt at about 11,000 ft, and just pure blinding white that almost looks like snow. Its pretty much unbroken, except for mountains in the far distance and the occasional -island-.

Basically, the whole area used to be a lake that collected rain from the andes, which are extremely rich in minerals. Eventually the Andes grew, the lake dried up and the salt was left. (Although our guide explained the incan legend in spanish which I think I mostly understood- the mountain huayna potosi in La Paz is a very sacred mountain or apus, the Incans believed the mountains were gods. (easy to understand when you see them) Anyway, Huayna Potosi was married to the mountain seen in the pictures and they had a baby, in spite of the long distance relationship, the baby was the isla pescado (also pictured). But the baby was far away from the mother, so she flooded the plain with her milk, hence the white salt.

When you approach the Salar, it looks like a distant white ocean, as you get closer there is practically a line where the salt starts and the earth ends. We splurged to stay at a salt hotel, made completely out of blocks of salt, for the last night since it was alleged to be warm and have hot showers which it did. It was the most expensive place we stayed (10$), but definitely worth it AND passed the taste test for legitimacy. The sunset over the pure white was incredible, as was the sunset as we headed out into the whiteness the next morning. Watched the sunrise, pastel colors washing over the white salt and then drove across the plain to the Isla Pescado, what used to be a coral island in the ancient lake that no longer exists. You can still see the coral in the rock, which is now growing with cactuses. It was a great place to stop for breakfast and try to warm up, as well as taking some ridiculous pictures with the white background. (forthcoming).

Stopped at a salt mining factory, not a surprising destination in this location, and browsed all sorts of random trinkets carved from salt- llamas, dice, ashtrays, etc before heading into the town of Uyuni to await our night bus. Bus ride seemed interminable again, 12 hr nightbus over dusty dirt roads, and though they promised us heat I watcdhed the condensation on the window next to me slowly turn to ice between spells of fitful sleep. Arrived in La Paz this morning to find the city entirely on strike to protest the congress{s plan to move the capital from La Paz to Sucre, a wealthier, more spanish city in the center of the country. Well, the people arent having it and NOTHING was open all morning so that everyone (2 million according to the paper) could march and chant Vive Bolivia, Vive La Paz, La Sede No Se Mueve!!! and march up to El Alto. They also blockaded all roads in and out of sucre with boulders, the train too and apparently La Paz may be next. We ll be trekking for the next three days down an ancient incan road from the mountains into the Yungas jungle area, so hopefully no one will be stopping us.

I spent a bunch of time on the trip thinking about what it means to travel. I sat and watched this one volcano in Chile, Ollague smoking across another national border, and started getting philosophical. What is this travel thing, my interest in it and all of our interests in it. Am I just a voyeur at best, or at worst a colonialist with a backpack on? Instead of stripmining the country for silver as the spanish did, or oil as my countrymen have, (or cheap factory labor now) am I just searching for some sort of cultural authenticity and experience to walk away with? Well, yes, I concluded, but is that necessarily a bad thing?

I suppose its also the constant paradox of travel, searching for authenticity and experience, and then ending up so often just bumping into other travellers, even in places like Bolivia, El Salvador and Laos or wherever else I think will be off the beaten track. (lesson- if lonely planet writes the guidebook- the gringos and banana pancakes will come) Still, I do feel like the backpacking gringo trail thing, (which now exists everywhere!) is probably better than well established tourist packages and corporate travel companies in Europe and the US. For one thing, I eat at local restaurants and hire local guides when I need to from local companies who presumably keep the money in country. Its hardly like an international hotel chain in cancun is taking 95% of the money back to wall street and paying the locals pennies. Still, I am paying the locals very little in a sense, taking advantage of how inexpensive travelling here and other such places is. But I{m also helping people make some money, I try to support businesses run by enterprising women and minority groups within the countries who might otherwise have few options, though in truth I often will go for whoever seems to be both inexpensive and honest. Still, I never treat these countries or the people like they exist for my benefit as a neocolonial corporate travel business would. Nor am I arrogant enough to assume that I am always of a benefit to them, I attempt treat the people and cultures I encounter as if they exist for themselves, in spite of the fact that my interactions with people will never be objective. I also make an effort to learn about the local culture, learn some language and talk to the locals about their countries and cultures.

And still I get sick of the backpacker reverse snobbery, everyone trying to prove their cred by talking about how little they paid for this or that, when all of the euros, aussies and canadians (met no americans yet) could easily afford way more. And everyone is searching for adventure and experience, while we claim to love the freedom and antimaterialism of backpacker travel, we have become materialists for experience. Sure, I like to think how much I buy most of my clothes and things secondhand to opt out of the market somehow, and that I maybe dont want that much stuff, but Ive become a materialist for experiences- adventures travelling, spiritual experiences with meditating or whatever. And isnt desire just that- doesnt it lead to suffering the same way? Sitting in the absolutely beautiful salt flats and thinking about sitting in the absolutely beautiful sacred valley and machu picchu next week. Is that really much different than some broker type sitting in a new car or house and thinking about getting a fancier car or house next? Well, I might like to think so, but doubts are creeping in...

Enough of my philosophizing for now. In the end though, travel has opened my eyes enormously to other cultures, (both of the countries I visit and the Euros I meet) my own culture, and myself, even if it is never as pure an experience as we might wish it to be.

Bolivia: Southwest Circuit I

The dirt road busride to Tupiza from Potosi seemed endless, though we did make it through the days dust with a norweigian couple and a whole lot of Bolivians as the land around us grew drier by the mile. Had some tasty food on the way, Api, which is a sweet and cinnamony corn beverage, kind of like a hot liquid corn pudding that really warms you up in the morning. Also some tasty fried thing which I ate while chatting with a local engineer who was asking me how he could get an american work visa. Ate at some street stalls ina little aymara village where the bus stopped, grilled animal parts that were reasonable enough and then in the dusty heat I spotted a man squeezing fresh orange juice. Just the thing to quench my thirst in the dry desert. I watched him pluck a glass from his bucket, and did think twice about the filthy water and drank anyway. It was delicious, though I definitely regretted it come 6am the next morning. But I took my antibiotics and such, and was feeling mostly better by the time we began our southwest circuit tour.

We signed up for a four day tour from Tupiza, apparently less travelled than the tours that go from Uyuni, which are rumored 12 deep convoys of gringo packed land cruisers pulling up at every sight of interest. And thankfully, we were pretty much just alone on our route with the three french canadians in our 4x4. Leaving Tupiza we headed into the dry mountains winding past scenery that looked a lot like the american southwest- Arches, Canyonlands or Monument Valley national parks. Crazy red rock formations, black ridges and golden gray mesas speckled with some scrub brush cactuses. The wildlife were mostly vicuñas galloping past a camelid like llamas or alpacas but more graceful and deerlike, as well as wild. Their wool was allegedly worth more than gold to the ancient incans. We saw ostriches and a condor, even saw it landing and taking off with llama flesh in its beak as it flapped its 9ft wings and soared away.

The southwest like landscape must have felt homey to old Butch and Sundance, as we saked our driver to take us to San Vicente, the mining camp where they died. San Vicente did not appear to have changed much since Butch and Sundance relieved the mine owners of their 90,000$ payroll. A tiny mining encampent in the desert mountains, with just a sign seen below:

Real off-road driving (not to mention on-dirt-road and even piste driving) I would like to point out for the record is extremely different from how things appear in SUV commercials. It is extraordinrily uncomfortable and slow, like 5-10mph, even on -roads-. We were even in a toyota land cruiser, not super new, but the vehicle that 9 out of 10 afghan warlords agree is the most rugged, and I'm not about to argue with them, and STILL were moving extremely slowly. These roads (and mountains, and dry river beds, and frozen rivers, and boulders) really were the proper use of such vehicles, but I'll save the rest of my SUV political comments for another day.

We were really completely off the grid-if you think about 16 hours worth of busses from La Paz, (a city that only one international airline flies into) then three days by jeep. Our driver could neither radio nor cell phone to anywhere, and I felt a pang when I considered the French people I heard about whos jeep broke down and they had to sleep in it overnight, or the woman who fell off a mountain our guide pointed out and died. The villages we saw and stopped in were picture perfect , complete with stone houses, and mud brick churches where we'd practice our spanish and game playing with local children. Most dont have electricity, and if they do it is from a few solar panels. In fact, I kept thinking about how the villages and the region could probably benefit enormously from solar or wind power, but still am not sure if benefit is the right word. They would certainly change is undeniable, benefit is questionable, and someone else would certainly get rich off of the wind and sun in the high altiplano.

We stayed in such towns, in such stone houses where the temperatures were astonshingly cold. Colder even than the summit of Misti, and only a few hours of electricity that powered a bare bulb or two. In fact, it was rather like camping inside, huddled under sleeping bags and three wool blankets it was still freezing. We took our breakfast and dinner inside but of course fully bundled, gloves and all.

Next day we drove through more plains and mountains, the red rocks receding into the distance and giving way to bare mountains and some of the most desolate landscape I've ever seen. Almost no signs of life except for wandering llamas, their shepherds miles away. How I'd imagine parts of Afghanistan, or even Antartica, though that could have been the cold also. The altitude was 15000 feet, higher than even the gran teton in wyoming, and we were just driving across deserts. I was actually feeling fairly altitude sick, having never been this high up before except fro climbing a mountain a few weeks back. Stopped in a weird old ghost town as the sun rose, the town having been snowed in years before causing many of the children and animals to die, with the survivors moving to lower elevation and abandoning the town wholesale. Strange to wander through crumbling churches and an old plaza, overgrown with weeds and just a few rabbits and llamas wandering about in the eerie light of dawn. Would have been an amazing place to camp out or spend more time if it werent so damn freezing.

Onward we motored up and down hills, through the desert and past frozen lakes until about noontime when we reached a hot springs in the middle of the desert. The day was warmer, and we decided to give it a show. Oh my GOD were they wonderful and warm and cleansing and refreshing and relaxing and everything hot springs should be. And with a phenomenol view over mountains and another frozen lake to boot! My soroche, (altitude sickness) was mostly cured by the healing waters, with some help from our drivers coca leaves. We somehow dragged ourselves out and onward. We stopped at some strange frozen mineral lakes, one a bright caribbean green with waves seemingly frozen in place and underneath a perfect snow capped cone shaped volcano. Another was bright red, the Laguna Colorado, and even bore the incongruous sight of bright pink flamingos walking around on the ice. Yeah, like John Waters Baltimore pride plastic lawn pink flamingos! More desolate lifeless desert mountains, looking more like nevada than the more dramatic parts of the southwst. We did make a late interesting stop at some geysers, bubbling with mud and steam and hissing like the sound of jet engines.

Stayed in another bunker-like stone building for the night, less cold than the previous, but still watched my breath as I read my book with gloves on. Met some brits who were climbing 6 6000meter peaks in 6 days for charity, a highly admirable feat on multiple levels. They had started a charity called challenge bolivia and raised 10,000 pounds for school supplies for a few villages. I was deeply impressed at their effort, and if anyone is up for such a similar charity task, let me know and lets think about making it happen!

Day three was more desert, the desierto de dali, a supposedly surreal landscape, which was pretty interesting and stopped at some other bizarre rock formations, including the arbol de piedra, or stone tree. Back into more redrock formation and finally to our salt hotel on the very edge of the salt flats. Yes, a hotel made entirely our of salt, (and passed the taste test) save for the showers (hot! and existent! unlike our last few nights!) Dinner by candlelight, save for a brief hour or two of electricity and an amazing sunset over the salt flats. Which will be my next entry and probably mostly a photo essay. That is, if the strikes dont get in the way. Apparently the people of Bolivia are also restless, and roadblocks have now shut down entry and exit from Sucre, the other large city entirely. Negotiations are underway to keep La Paz open. Heres hoping that they are still negotiating when our bus tries to get to La Paz at 7am tomorrow!!!

photos: San Vicente- sign explanatory, arbol de piedra, me at ghost town, flamingos in laguna colorado, laguna verde)

(for the record, let me make clear that many photos are from the internet until I return and upload my own. I am not that good or bad a photographer)

El Misti

One of the highlights of this trip (and my life) that I´ve not yet described was climbing El Misti, an 18000 ft mountain on the outskirts of Arequipa. (thats three Mt. Washingtons, or 3.5 Denvers)

We found a decent guide (but not porters!) in town, and headed out early in the morning for a long day of hiking. Our companions were pretty good folks, a brit, a french couple and a dutch guy who all had less mountaineering experience than either ben or myself, which was quite reassuring. We drove through town, up past the smoldering dump and to the highest point our 4x4 would go before finalizing our packing and hitting the road. Bens rented pack was falling apart, but our trusty guide managed to sew it up with dental floss and it actually held. The intial hike took us up about to 14000 ft, where the air became noticeably thinner even as the view became more amazing. Arequipa was spread out below us, canyons and rivers flowing into the city and beyond, and we could see ourselves growing increasingly paralell to other snow capped ranges and even barely make out a volcano (ampato?) lazily smoking in the distance. We made it to camp just before sunset, which seemed to light up the whole of southern peru in light golden and pink shades. Dinner was a meager chicken soup, but warm and delicious enough to feel filling and we attempted to sleep in spite of it being only 6pm.

Slept a bit, and woke up at 1am to our guide offering us a breakfast of coca mate tea and some bread and cheese. (summiting montains needs to be done in the morning to avoid being trapped mountaintop in afternoon storms) The stars were magnificent, the milky way was clear and bright, and all the millions of southern hemisphere constellations both comforting and confusing in their unfamiliarity. Arequipa lay sleeping below us, surprisingly large and spread out over the valley, the lights twinkling and bright yet so distant from our perch on the mountain. The climbing was even slower going when we hit the trail at 130 or 2, climbing over boulders was one thing, but the sand and volcanic ash was even worse. One step forward and a half step sliding back in the sand, but the air was almost impossible to breathe. We were hiking by headlamp light only, though it was possible to see by the stars. My lungs ached with each breath, and every ten steps we needed to rest for a few. Oh, did I mention the wind and the freezing cold negative degree temperatures? Thank god I had borrowed some gloves, not to mention wearing three jackets and two layers of long underwear. My mouth and throat were completely dry from the altitude and dryness, and drinking water was a chore given its frozen state and the fact thta it required removing gloves and such. Our guide of course, was practically jogging up the thing, carrying a transister radio to tune in local stations and listen to the big Copa de Americas soccer games.

We pushed on, approaching the snow at the top and the french woman had to turn back. The sun arose at 630 or so, lighting our path and creating an astonishing sunrise but hardly warming us. Because it was still behind the mountain, the sun created an enormous mountain shaped shadow stretching behind us and over arequipa. Every time we looked up the summit seemed the same distance. Our breaks grew more frequent, heads were pounding with altitude sickness, each step seemed like it would wind us. Finally we somehow reached the saddle below the summit, and rested for a while as we attempted to catch our breath. The summit was another forty five minutes, and only the french guy and I were able to have the random luck of not being burdened with altitude poisining. The feeling of summiting though was incredible, and adrenaline got me through the last half an hour. Ten o´clock in the morning and we were 18000 ft above the world, yet standing on it. I somehow expected I would feel like I would in an airplane, but it really was completely different and absolutely exhilerating. I shook hands with the frenchman, and lamented the fact that my camera was still in our hotel. Still, there was something nice about having it only as a memory. I did ask the frenchman about his mountaineering experience, and he said he had never been in the mountains before (and did I mention that he smoked the whole way up?). The downward trek was far faster, getting to base camp in about an hour and a half I literally laid down on a pile of rocks and fell asleep. I woke up about forty five minutes later, still out of breath from the altitude but absolutely feeling incredible. Chatted with the guide on the remaining hike, which was mostly just sliding down sand and volcanic ash. He was a pretty interesting guy, used to be a miner and now leads gringos up and down enormous mountains 3 or 4 times a week. Insane that such a triumphant day for me is essentially another day at the office for him!

Back to Arequipa for an enormous steak dinner and slept the sleep of the just.

Bolivia: The Mines and Miners of Cerro Rico Mine in Potosi

Long overnight bus to Potosi from La Paz, not terribly comfortable and arriving us to Potosi at 530 AM. The first hotel we tried didnt answer the door, so frustrated, on we went to the next which was perfectly decent. We got about two hours of sleep there and then up for breakfast.

Potosi is a very old colonial town that is loomed over by an enormous mountain, the Cerro Rico, which has been mined since the conquest. The Potosi silver mine essentially bankrolled the Spanish Empore for hundreds of years, with the mountain giving massive amonuts of silver to the spanish, in exchange for the lives of literally millions of miners who have toiled there since the 16th century. 8 million indian and african slaves gve their lives to the mountain, and the conditions today are barely improved. This was the mine where coca chewing miners went for 48 hour shifts from childhood until their early deaths. Obviously someone was getting rich, and it was the spanish and later the mine owners, who helped make Potosi the richest and largest city in the Americas at one time. Dozens of ornate colonial churches and hundreds of colorful buildings make up the city (claimed to be the worlds highest) with winding little streets apparently to keep the freezing altiplano winds at bay.

So we decided to take a look...
We got a guide and waited around a bit for the car to pull up. An ancient minivan with bench seats that were literal backless benches pulled up and we clambered in. It wasnt until the second or third stop that I noticed that the van always stopped on a hill so as to begin with a rolling start. Our guide, Oswaldo, introduced himself to us, cheerfully reminding us that we could remember his name because it was like Lee Harvey Oswald. This should have been a sign...
We headed up the hill toward the mountain to stop at a market to get some gifts for the miners to thank them for showing us around. It seems the main thing the miners want as gits from tourists is booze, cigarettes, coca leaves and dynamite, an excellent combination any way you think about it. I bought myself an extra stick of dynamite from a six year old girl, who very casually took my 10 bolivianos (about a dollar) picked a stick of dynamite from a bag, cut a two foot length of fuse, and dropped them in a bag with a handful of ammonium nitrate (an explosive accelerator).
We drove the rest of the way up to the mine, changed into rubber boots, hardheats with headlamps and allegedly protective outer gear. Our guide explained that miners drank this certain kind of booze which is 96% pure alcohol and smells like industrial cleaning solvent. I politely declined his offer as he tossed a few back, not before spilling out a few drops as an offering to the mountain and goddess Pachamama.

In we went. We walked down an olding mining track, stopping occasionally to let the rumbling mining carts piled with 2 tons of tin ore go past (they dont have brakes apparently). Each time we met some miners, they were called Tarzan, the Terrorist, The Killer, or other such fanciful nicknames and our guide Oswaldo would hand out presents from his bag like Santa Claus, then insist on doing a few shots with them. At this rate, he would be plastered by the end of the tour. But in fact, he was already quite plastered only a few minutes into our tour it became apparent.
The miners were friendly enough, talking abuot how long they had worked in the mines (most since mid to early adolescence) how much they made (about 5-10$ a day), and what the work was like. They all appeared exceedingly drunk and glassy eyed, I suppose from the tennis ball sized wads of coca leaves stuffed in their cheeks. My tiny amount of coca leaves had started to make me feel a little off, so I spat them out. We watched as they drilled holes for dynamiting, holding the bits as they turned and sprayed out bits of rock. We watched as they lowered wach other down seemingly bottomless pits on ancient frayed ropes. One even complained to me about getting paid in American dollars, that they had gotten increasingly less valuable since he began working, and all the Europeans laughed at us. Oh, and none of the miners wore ANY protective gear at all.
We wandered deeper into the mine, about mile or two in in where it began to really feel claustrophobic. Our feet were wading through mud and clay, with rocks occasionally falling on our hardhats. The walls could touch my shoulders in many places, and I was constantly bumping my hard hat if I wasnt ducking. Faces and walls were lit by headlamp alone, rendering an eerie lighting effect. The air pressure would change suddenly, or a completely strange odor would waft past and we could only hope it wasnt poisonous. Our guide lead us to some extremely rickety looking and mud caked ladders and instructed us to go on up. All I could think about was the Far Side cartoon abuot the controversial exposure therapy for fear of heights, small places and the dark. The ladders were about 20 feet high each, and barely attached to the mud and rock walls. We climbed about six, and I was first and terrified to look down in the dark at what was below, especially when my headlamp knocked off and I fumbled to reattach it while on a wooden ladder hundred feet above solid ground, which was a mine tunnel floor in the dark. Falling might not have been so bad, given how narrow the mine shafts were I probably would have just gotten wedged in somewhere. The guide then pulled me off the ladder and over to a landing that I had to walk across a two by four over another bottomless pit to get to. I sat and waited while he chatted with some miners and then they left. a few mintues later I saw the group start to climb past me on the ladders again, ¨¨um, are you guys still going up?¨¨ I asked. It seemed that Oswaldo had forgotten about me in the side tunnel. They were. We climbed up another dozen ladders or so, and entered another tunnel where we chatted again and watched out guide do more shots of whatever that stuff was. suddenly, we could feel the mountain move slightly, and the air pressure changed as we listened to the dull thudding sounds of detonating dynamite somehwere else in the mine. Even though it was muffled by the mountain and not so loud, it still felt immensely powerful. Here he had us turn off our headlamps for a moment, and I can definitely say I have never expereinced such absolute deep blackness. We slowly headed down the ladders, descending another few hundred feet but more slowly as one of our group had his headlamp go out.
Ben and I asked the guide about whether we could now help detonate some dynamite, a task that Lonely Planet had assured us was both possible and safe. He told us to wait while he called and attempted to track down some miners for us to drill some holes that needed blasting. He came back without any, but furtively beckoned us to come with him, directing the rest of the group to stay where theye were. They did not much appreciate being literally left in the dark. Oswaldo had us jump over another mining shaft, and then had us prepare our dynamite. We unpeeled the wrapper slightly and jammed the fuse into the mushy stuff inside (which I think means it was actually TNT, but I´m no demolition expert). The stick went in a bag with the ammonium nitrate and we stood waiting for the miners to help us, feeling rather like Wile E Coyote, stick of dynamite in one hand, fuse in the other. But no miners came, now did we put the dynamite into any pre drilled holes. Oswaldo, breath reeking of firewater and coca leaves, just had us set it in a pile of rocks, light the fuse and walk away back over the uncovered shaft and around the corner, warning us not to run as thats how accidents happen and we had a five minute fuse. He began to explain about Tio, the sort of demon protector of the mine, when suddenly the group was literally blasted off our feet by the shockwave of the dynamite that definitely did NOT have a five minute fuse. More like 60 seconds. Ears ringing, Oswaldo hustled us toward Tio´s shrine, where we hastily offered his red diablical statue booze and coca leaves, and we were on our way.
Checking with the other tour groups we learned that they got rubber raincoats and face masks, not crappy windbreakers and nothing to protect their mouths. They also did not go up somethingteen ladders in the dark, nor did they light off sticks of dynamite, nor was their guide too drunk to walk straight by the middle of the tour. Well, we got our adventure I suppose. And that dynamite might have been the best dollar I spent in Bolivia.
I got back to the hotel and showered for the first time in days now that we had hot water (I know, cold showers arent bad, but they suck when you are in an unheated hotel in the middle of winter in the mountains. I blew my nose and was horrified at the blackness that came out from just a few hours in the mines. It may seem like a wacky adventure to me now, but it really is astonishing that people live and work in those conditions as mine owners get rich and the rest of us in the west live cheaper lives with inexpensive metals. 10$ a day for one of the highest paying jobs in bolivia, where the miners work and live a hard life starting in childhood only to die at silicosis by about age 35. But I won´t get into politics now.

And don´t worry Olivia and Mom, I promise thats the last dangerous thing we are doing!!
Now to the salt flats, back to civilization on friday.

Bolivia: WMD-R

Ah Bolivia...

Land of over 100 revolutions since your independence...

Land where the presidential palace is called the burned palace, (palacio quemado) due to the number of revolutions that burned it to the ground.

Land of the worlds highest international airport, highest ski run and highest golf course.

Land where Che Guevarra was gunned down by CIA trained assassins and buried under a military runway.

Land where Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid met their maker in a hail of gunfire...

Land of the infamous Bolivian marching powder, making up nearly 40% of the GDP, and, of course, home to the world´s most dangerous road according to the Inter American development Bank. This 40 mile stretch is between La Paz in the frozen mountains and the tropical jungle coca growing region of the Yungas toward the Amazon Basin. Some years see up to 300 deaths, from cliff plunges over fogged out and unpaved muddy passes, a sheer drop of over half a mile in some places. And the world´s most dangerous road which we bicycled down yesterday, trying to get as stupid and irresponsible as possible.

The first delay was when the road TO the road was too iced over to even let trucks or buses on, and we sat and waited by a sign warning caution and 13 deaths so far this month. Two hours later, we reached the top of the Worlds Most Dangerous Road, and prepped our mountain bikes for the descent, quadruple checking our brakes and the quadruple checking them again. We began in snow capped mountains, down a slightly icey and mostly paved stretch downwards, past some beautiful passes, a few old incan stone ruins and downward into a narcotics checkpoint. We were waved through, as were most of the busses and trucks travelling to and from the coca region. (the DEA must have had the day off from trying to convince the police to enforce the gringos law.)

The road got a little more sketchy, and though the ice cleared up it replaced by patches of cobblestone in a few spots and stomach churning glimpses of sheer cliffs to the left of us. Cars and vehicles, ourselves included are required to go on the cliffside of the road due so that its easier to see how much space you have. Yikes. We even had to pass a few trucks, and I was quite literally white knuckling it with my hands on the brakes as the fog rolled in, obscuring visibility to about 30 feet or less. Good thing the thrifty bolivian drivers like to save gas by not turning on their headlights. Finally, after a brief uphill, we reached the end of the ¨paved¨ section of the road, leaving us with only gravel and mud. The fog of the mountains gradually gave way to the steam of the jungle, equally impenetrable. Thankfully, we were getting lower in elevation and no longer needed our winter hats and jackets, so changed, snacked, and steeled ourselves for the next section, which we were then informed was the real dangerous part. Only a few minutes into the mud, the road shrunk to about eight feet wide in a few places, the gravel slipping hundreds, no thousands of feet down into the whiteness. The road wound constantly, every turn seemed blind, sudden and 180 degrees.

We paused occasionally for a snack, or to view one of the roadside memorials, or look at the wreckage of a bus where dozens had perished in one bad skid. And its no wonder when you look at the bald tires on the busses and trucks either, not to mention the places where the road is crumbling away. We paused to see a marker where the first bicyclist died, an israeli in 1999, and the most recent bike death, just a few months ago another israeli went over the side only about 100 feet later. It was understandable given that it was essentially a 180 degree turn that went under a waterfall. From time to time there would be a small shack, or an Indian trudging up the hill carrying sticks- coming from god knows where and going to god knows where. It was a hell of an adrenaline rush, the whole thing from start to finish. Not only that though, it was through some of the most beautiful landscape I´d ever seen. From rocky outcroppings and snow at the top to jungle covered steaming mountains toward the bottom as we rolled through coffee, banana and coca plantations and on into the town of Coroico, trendy vacation spot for wealthy narcotraficantes and mine owners.

(Pictures do not show bottom of cliff.)

Bus was sold out, so after many frantic attempts to get on another, we got the night bus tickets for tonight and spent another day in La Paz and visited the ruins of Tiwanaku, a pre incan civilization outside the city. Drove again through El Alto and on into the Altiplano, some of the highest plains in the world, with little but a few mud huts on the prairie and the Cordillera REal mountains gleaming in the background. The ruin were fairly impressive, though only partially excavated at this point. There were some enormous carved figures that looked like tiki dolls, and the architecture was overall very different from the Incan architecture, and dates back to BC times. Overall though, I was glad that we had gone here before Machhu Picchu or we would have likely been quite disappointed. Part of the problem could be seen in the town, where the beautiful church and many buildings had been constructed out of rock that the Spanish removed from the ¨¨heathen¨¨ temples. Stone was also apparently used to lay the bed of the railroad. And its one last meal at La Paz´s best cuban restaurant, where we´ve eaten nearly all our meals (besides the lunch at the fake Hard Rock Cafe) and onto a 10 hour overnight bus to Potosi. The saga continues...

Sell Bolivian, Feds in Oblivian...

Caught an early bus for La Paz from Copacabana, with one view out over towering snowy mountains, the other over the calm of Titicaca. We had to stop and cross the lake at one point, and or bug drove onto what essentially amounted to a floating dock slightly larger than the bus itself. Thankfully, we were off the bus as it crossed, having our passports inspecting by the Bolivian Navy. (remember now, Bolivia is landlocked, so the Navy just tootles around Lake Titicaca and shakes down gringos). One on our tour had her passport on th bus on the floating dock, which gota little bit sketchy for a moment as the passenger boat threateneed to pull away without her, but she somehow managed to tell him she would come back with her passport, miraculously no bribe required.

La Paz, sprawling as it is, didnt take long to get to, we arrived first in El Alto, a suburb that is now bigger than La Paz, and is the worlds largest city of indiginous americans. The men tend to dress in standard western gear, but the women wear multiple broad skirts, woven tops and petticoats, carry bright pink swaddles on their backs that are filled with either groceries or babies. They also all wear these tiny top hats (almost like clown hats) perched atop their braided heads. The bus wound its way through snowy dirt roads of El Alto and on down into the valley, watching the city spread endlessly, slums and buildings climbing up cliffs and seeming to be precariously build about to tumble down ravines. In fact, the only end in sight was where the city met the smog, and just faded to white in the distance.

Found a hotel without much difficulty in spite of demonstration related traffic, and started exploring. Thinking we heard gunshots, or at least smoke grenades, we headed immediately in that direction, having heard a demonstration was happening. We made our way through crowds of people, down to the central plaza which was swarming with riot police in terrifying uniforms complete with tear gas cannisters, shotguns, and full on riot gear. The gunshots and gas grenades we thought we heard were just protesters shooting fireworks indiscriminately. Or perhaps they were aiming for the cops. The policia nacional however, were none too receptive to our questions, or seemed amused at being photographed. Whats amazing about these demonstrations is that they are so typical that everyone else was just going about their business in spite of the noise and police and marchers, hell- there was even a guy walking along with the marchers selling them cotton candy! In spite of the normalcy of it all, and the fact that ultimately it WAS peaceful, we thought we skedaddle before the next pickup truck full of policia kindly asked us to permanently borrow our cameras.

So on to the witches market, which was not as big as I had hoped, but did have an excellent selection of dried llama fetuses if thats your thing. Plenty of bizarre curses and potions as well, sold by people whos spanish was barely better than my own, not being their first language either.

So we decided to hit up the Museo del Coca, or Coca Museum, about the Coca plant that is now infamous for processing into cocaine. The exhibits were a little dry and a little propagandistic, but quite informative and thought provoking over all. Coca leaves- the raw material of cocaine, has been used in the Andes for tea or chewed for thousands of years as a mild stimulant. The spanish came and the church immediately declared it officially diabolical, banning its use by the subjugated people. That is, until they discovered that the slaves in the mines would work longer hours and harder when they used it. The church reversed its ruling, and blessed the stuff, with the whole colonial operation feeding coca leaves to the miners as their only sustenance during 48 hour shifts in the mines! The history of so much of the world is full of exploitation and horror. And the colonialism and wretched mining conditions continue today, hence the strikes that nearly kept us from travelling by bus. (more on mining when we get to Potosi) The museuem continued on with the explanation of pharmaceutical uses of coca, and its refinement by western powers into these drugs we know today. Like the church in the 16th century, the solonialist UN and US declared coca to be diabolical in the 20th, except when it suits them. Essentially, the museum told the story of a native plant, indiginous to the culture and used for spiritual purposes, that becomes alternately vilified and commodified by Western powers. The museum points out, somewhat accurately, that most profits from the drug trade benefit non-Bolivians, whether it is the Colombians who control the trade, the Russians, Swiss, Panamanians and Americans who control the money laundering, or Americans who conbtrol the distribution, little goes back to the Bolivian people who make the cocaine at the price of 2.16 per Kilo!!!! The import of refining chemicals in banned in Bolvia, but it is European and American firms who make, sell and ship the chemicals needed for refinement. Still, although I agree that fighting drugs on the supply side rather than demand side is hopeless, especially after seeing coca fields that are thousands of years old, and trucks full of coca leaves, can buy myself coca leaves outside this internet cafe, whose proprieter, like 90% of the people here chew coca leaves. So how do you destroy the coca leaf without significantly damaging the culture- bearing in mind that most Cocaleros (coca farmers) are also Aymara or other native groups. Still, the museum was a bit lopsided, and could have placed more responsibility on Bolivia. After all, the cocaine trade accounts for up to 40% of the Bolivian economy.

Interestingly, Evo Morales, the current president and first indiginous president in the Americas, was the former head of the coca growers union. He wants to replace the laurel wreath on the Bolivian flag, which he sees as a western symbol, with the coca leaf, a symbol of native indiginous pride.

Pictures: Riot police with indiginous Chola woman, Dried Llama fetuses

Menos Caca..

Titicaca was angry today, I literally had a few minutes in which thought I was going to die. But let me back up... We made it to puno, on the lake without trouble- thought that the roadblocks by striking miners would keep us (see pictures), but they gave us a break. The lake town of puno was fairly unimpressive, and our hotel was right over the loud street and bedbugs kept us up all night. We got ourselves booked on an island tour the next day, to see the floating islands of uros, and the stationary island of Taquile.

The first were the floating islands where Aymara speaking indians moved hundred of years ago to escape first the incas, then to escape the spanish they moved further out. They are essentially huge rafts woven of woven reeds kinda like the movie waterworld. Sounds amazing, I know, but I dont think I´m too jaded here to say that with many tourists, and one horrible family that kept grabbing the kids and taking pictures with them and even just marching right the families´ reed huts it was a little exploitive feeling. I just wanted to scream ¨They´re not dolls!!¨ if I had spoken Hebrew. The indians all were selling artisan crafts and such, and even put on a song and dance that really felt a bit like a shuck and jive routine. The whole thing left me feeling a little icky, even though it was fascinating to see.

We then headed further out into lake Titicaca to see the next island, Taquile, which also is mostly Aymara speaking, a little spanish and no english. The two hour boatride was beautiful on the way out, a little rain and clouds, and we could see the snow capped peaks of bolivia coming into view over the water. The immense sky and ever changing clouds made the water change from dark black to bright white to shadfes of blue and green in between, with the water texture changing from perfectly flat to whitecapped,m and of course the hills and mountains rising in the distance, when you could even see land. We arrived at the island, essentially a mini mountain and hiked way up these ancient incan paved roads, through grassy terracesa with grazing sheep, and men and women all wearing traditional bright clothing that was sort of half spanish half indian. We had lunch and the usual guide explanations about the local food and the symbolism of the traditional clothing and other cultural traditions, changed slighlty with the arrival of the spanish, and little again thereafter.


We ambled around a little, then back down the trails to the docks as a storm was hitting, rare for this time of year. We arrive just in time to see the waves crashing two boats into each other, shattering the windshield and side windows on our boat. Too dangerous to board on that side of the island, our guide sent us back up over mountain to go to the other port, as fast as possilbe to leave by 4 when we could get navigation help. We hiked over, getting an even better view of the island and lake, down through terraces and old archways that felt almost mediterranean and onto our boat. We were forced to leave five of the party behind in order to leave by 4 o clock, and took on a few people who were trying to get off the island. Halfway through the boat journey the storms kicked up again, blacking out the sky and suddenly lightning and thunder, with lightning coming terrifyingly close to the boat. All I could think of was remembering to never be out on open water in a storm, especially in a tiny metal boat. Next thing I know we start hearing a staccato ratatat (not the band), and realize that it is hailing, a few inches accumulating on the bow and stern of our boat as a Colombian woman exclaimed "es una locura!" Bear in mind the lack of windshield and broken windows, no lights on the boat, and I´m not a big worrier, but am literally imagining a story buried in the back of a newpspaper about a boat sinking in lake titicaca, a few american aboard and presumed drowned-electrocuted. Does anyone have my name in town, how would my family and loves find out. Thank god the lightning cleared up, and at leat we made it into port even if it took six hours. Had mediocre pizza for dinner at the creatively named machu pizza and straight to bed.


This morning into Bolivia easily, in spite of having to bribe the busdriver to let me get my backpack out from under the bus to get my passpòrt. Seems its fairly common, he even gave me change for my bribe! Bolivia greeted us with more snow and sleet at the crossing, but we are safely here and I write this after a six hour power outage, during which we played scrabble and backgamman at a cozy cafe. The place was run by a colombian woman who had a giant poster of Pablo Escobar, and was lecturing her staff about left wing activism, globalization great to see politics so passionate somewhere. The rest of the town of Copacabana was charming, an amzing cathedral of moorsih design, bright white with colored tiles and somewhat incongruous in the snowy mountains of Bolivia. Inside the church a stunning solid gold and silver altar, the better to really wow the natives I suppose the Spanish were thinking, and outside they were blessing peoples cars with flowers and incence. Titicaca is for prettier on this side, great views of Isla Del Sol, birthplace of the sun in Incan legend, and a landscape that reminds me oddly of Montana. Tomorrow onto La Paz, highest capital in the world...


Pics of Taquile, roadblocks, titicaca

To Colca (Con Coca)

As I was saying about the food: I dont think i had realized that peruvian cuisine is its own thing, primarily ceviche dishes and potato based things, with some other interesting Andean surprises. Arequipa is also the cuisine capital of Peru, making for some great eating experiences.

Ive now tried rocoto relleno, a stuffed pepper dish witha potoato and cheese pancake this, which was quite delicious. Similarly, Ocopa Arequipena, a potato in dried cream with spices, cheese, olives and a few other ingredients and excellent. Had a abodo last night, a stewed pork chop in vinegar, beer and onions, similarly tasty and very tender. On the more exotic side, I did give the alpaca chops a try, and cant say i´d do so again. Thankfully they were smothered in garlic butter, but otherwise tasted basically like a tough piece of lamb. ¨Cuy¨ of course, is the most infamous Andean dish, yes, the translation is in fact Guinea Pig. I tried some of Ben´s who had it in the traditional deep fried style, and though it literally ¨tasted like fried chicken.¨ The shape of it was quite undeniably guinea piggish, ´further reinforcing my lack of need to eat it ever again. It should also be noted that potatoes are a major part of every meal, predating Columbus, who introduced them to Europe. Local women sell spuds of all shapes, sizes and colors (white to red to blue to yellow) on the street corners, and any meal you get has french fries on it. Steak- with french fries on top, garlic bread, with french fries on top, pizza- with french fries on top. Even rice- as in, a plate of rice with french fries on top is what a lot of vegetarians down here seem to eat. I also am dying to try some ceviche, but apparently you cant get it at night- peruvians believe it makes you sick to eat at night, same with ice cream, which in Arequipa they call queso helado or frozen cheese. The coffee has been surprisingly awful, usually nescafe, and I´ve actually weaned myself off of coffee, close to a miracle for those who know me and my 6 cup a day habit. Of course, the coca leaf mate helps a bit, but I don´t even drink much of that.

I dont think I mentioned we are taking some conversation classes and staying with a family. They are quite a lovely and kind family, though the breakfasts leave something to be desired (ie, hot dogs and cheese microwaved on stale bread, washed down with coca mate tea or nescafe). My converstaion teacher is also quite intense, we were talking about the power of institutions, and whether they exist solely to prepetuate themselves or for any other reason. Then, she literally asks me if I´ve read Foucault and what I think of him. Now, my Spanish is okay, but come on! I was able to explain in spanish that ¨¨Yes I have read Foucault and barely understand him in English, I do not think I can have a conversation about him in Spanish!¨¨ Thankfully, she steered the conversation to simpler topics!! However, she has a tendency to steer toward heavy and difficult subjects, like culture, history, economics, politics. Weve read and discussed testimonials by female prisoners during the civil war, opinions on drug policy, the rise of indigenous movements and neo-progressivism is latin america, US imperialism, and the social and individual origins of mental illness. Ive also learned how to say indie rock in Spanish ¨el indiroc.¨ She also warned me about human sacrafice still happening near Lake Titicaca where we are going, though I personally think its a leyenda urbana.

So we spent the weekend taking a tour to Colca Canyon, the worlds second deepest canyon and some indian villages in the surrounding area. its one of those experiences that is far better understood with pictures than with an explanation. But- i will try, and I will also try to get some pictures up on here one of these days.

The area where were, aroud the town of Chivay, is far higher than we are here, about 10,000 ft up, and yet still manages to be in a valley. The mountains all around are cut with pre-incan terraces, (see picture) essentially stone retaining walls that create flat areas for growing crops like corn, potatos and quinoa, but give a very strange and otherworldly look to the mountainsides, especially when each terrace has a different colored crop. The region remains one of the fertilest in Peru, still thanks to the 1000 year old irrigation systems and stone aqueducts that carrywater down from the mountains. We hiked our way up past some terraces, through the still standing ruins of incan villages destroyed during the conquest in the 16th century. The walls of the village and the clifftop temple of the sun were still crumbling from where the spanish calvary had shot them with cannons. So high in the mountains, with more snow-capped peaks behind, it looked (to sound super-nerdy) a lot like the Lord of The Rings.

The Spanish then rounded up the population and killed them or forcing them into collective towns, laid out in the grid pattern so common to the Americas, but its origins were in controlling the populace. And, I had never known until I started researching this trip how advanced the Incans were, and how close to actually beating the Spanish as each carried cannons and armor into these stunningly high mountains where we could barely catch our breath sitting still. We viewed some ancient pre-Incan tombs, which i was somewhat shocked to discover when I looked in that they still actually contained piles and piles of bones of forgotten Incan nobles. The current Indian villages dont look much different from the ruins sadly, some wild boars or alpacas in the stone wall enclosed yard, with cactuses planted atop the walls for security. Brightly dressed indiginous women wash clothes in the creekbed. The churches, spanish-catholic in name only, still retain iconography and gods of Incan beliefs carefully hidden into the church decorations without the spanish noticing.

We hiked down as the sun set, with looming snow-capped Mt. Mismi in the background, now understood to be the source of the Amazon. If a raindrop falls on one side, it travels 40 miles to the pacific, if it lands on the other side, it travels 4000 miles to the Atlantic. Dinner was unmemorable, though we did spend some time in the local hot springs.

The next morning we were off to an early start to see the canyon more clearly and hope to catch sight of a condor as the left the canyon for the day. We strolled around, taking a few pictures of the canyon when suddenly out of the depths condor came flying right above us, about twenty feet away, hardly flapping its 6 ft wings once. It was incredible, but then more and more kept spiralling out of the canyon, there must have been about 20 or 25 in all that we saw, one of the best days for condor viewing, apparently you are lucky to see just one!

Peru - Lima to the White City*

Well, the flights down were quite interesting, by which i mean highly stressful. Literally every flight (bos-dc, dc-atl, atl-lima, lima- arequipa) was delayed to the point I thought I was going to miss them while still on the other flight making sleep all but impossible, to say nothing of just relaxing on the plane. Got to Atlanta way late, convinced I had missed my Lima connection and would be spending the night in Hotlanta. THankfully, after running to the gate, it was delayed by two hours. Oh, but Ben didnt get there until about a half hour before the flight. We made it though, arriving in Lima at about 7AM. We bumbled around asking at ticket booths for prices and times of flights to Arequipa, most of which we had just missed. 1245 was the enxt, giving us two hours to sit with our bags, then check them, then sit around without our bags. Of course, by 1030 when we could check our bags, our flight was pushed back to 145. Sleepless, we decided to hit up Lima for a few hoursand maybe get some lunch and check out the fine peruvian cuisine (primarily steak, potatos and ceviche) weve been hearing about. After explicitly giving us the price into town in Nuevos Soles, our cabbie announced halfway into town that we were confused, he had said dollars, tripling the price of the overpriced cab. Utter bullshit, which I tried to just wait out silently, telling him to let us out right there or take us back. ¨I will not let you out here, too dangerous, and double price to go back to airport.¨ He was right, it was a less than desirable neighborhood. We decided to cut our losses and head into the Plaza De Armas or center of the city. We were met by a multithousand person marching anti government union demonstration, complete with molotov cocktails and stone throwing mobs, national police at the ready with teargas canisters. Streets were blocked off, and traffic was insane, it now looked like we might miss our flight we had just bought tickets for. We cut our losses and returned to the airport, to find our flight further delayed. Finally, we pile onto the plane and take our seats, only to be removed again from the airplane for another half hour delay.

Thankfully, by 300 we were winging our way over the Andes southward. The thing about flying over the Andes is that it is really like flying next to the andes, passing by and barely over the 20,000 ft peaks, with visions of cannibalistic soccer team andean plane crashes dancing in our heads. It was a spectacular flight though, over the worlds two deepèst canyons, over the Nazca desert lines, next to snow capped peaks on one side sliding down to the pacific on the other.
So at least, we arrive in Arequipa, about a half mile higher than Denver, and noticeably thinner air. They call it the white city, because the colonial buildings are all built from white ¨sillar´¨ a volcanic rock that is so soft that the walls of many buildigns are six feet thick. (this also helps the rich landownging spanish criollos, most of whom live here, defend against uprising farmers and indians). Many of the archways in the buildings (which as 16th century structures also predate the pilgrims), have signs that say ¨zona seguro de los sismos¨´ - safe place during earthquakes. NOt sure if I´m reassured or not. But it is a beautiful city, white colonial buildings framing the central plaza, where you can sit balconies sipping coffee (or coca leaf tea- no really, its good for the altitude) and watch the people on the plaza, the weddings outside the cathedral and the sunset over the snowcapped peaks beyond. Everyone seems to spend their time outside, even though nights get pretty chilly this high up and technically in the dead of winter, perhaps just the meditarannean cultural legacy is too hard to shake. The restaurants even provide blankets for chilly nights sitting outside, though I could do without the constant stream of peruvian windpipe players-amusing at first but quickly tiresome. A few other random things, like the Santa Claus who is always wandering around, every car is either a slightly-larger than bumper-car sized taxi or an enormous 1970´s Dodge Dart or Plymouth Valiant, the garbage trucks that play ¨fur elise,¨and the interesting fact that google peru can be used in Quechua, the local Incan language. Reminds me more of continental Spain than my trips to central america have, perhaps because it is less poor, or perhaps the architecture and the thin white sunlight creating shadows on the buildings. Also has a bit of a moroccan feel with rooftop terraces and small back alleyways, not surprising given the intertwined history of all the countries. Not at all bad and more on the food next time...

*although the guidebooks say its the white city because of the white Sillar stone, an incan-mestizo guy said it was because its where all the white people live