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 )

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.

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.

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!