First, thank you to all of the bus drivers, airplane pilots, ship captains, train engineers, taxi drivers, canoe tillers, and motocab maniacs for getting me safely where I wanted to go; I didn´t always think we were going to make it (for that matter, thanks to everyone else on the road, water, sky, etc. that didn´t crash into us). I´m assuming that all goes well my last day here in South America, and that my flight gets home just fine.
Thanks also to my family and friends and coworkers, who supplied encouragement along the way. Many thanks to the people I met on my journey, you guys are great and made my trip great. It wouldn´t have been the same without you.
Thanks to everyone who looked at my photos on Flickr. There are a few more photos to upload, but most of the good ones are online. The most viewed photo, if you´re curious, is actually not mine-- it´s a photo Rohith Modgil of Scotland took of me prancing on the salt flats. The second most viewed photo is a picture of my beard that I took my first day in South America-- I find that hilarious!
And of course thanks most of all to YOU, the reader; I hope you were enlightened, or inspired or motivated-- maybe to make some travels of your own. If you do, be sure to write.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Welcome to the Jungle
Leaving the concrete jungle for a real one was a welcome relief. Still, it wasn´t all fun and games. Navigating the Amazon with a dying flashlight-- adventure, or just plain scary? Find out in this mock interview.
Interviewer: You went to the Cuyabeno Reserve in the Ecuadorian jungle, is that right? It´s supposed to be one of the most important protected areas on the planet, with a massive amount of biodiversity. How was it?
Me: Well, the guide quit after the first hour. But I suppose the jungle itself was pretty impressive.
Interviewer: I´m sorry-- you say the guide quit after an hour?
Me: Yeah, we drove three hours in a pickup truck with to meet the guide, he served us lunch and then left, promising to return within the hour. Three hours later he showed up and told us that the agency had not paid him, nor had they paid the local indigenous community for more than 3 months. He was going to leave us in the hands of a local so that he could file an official complaint and deliver a copy to his lawyer.
I: That´s... unfortunate. Did it affect your tour?
Me: Well the agency also hadn´t provided food, drinking water or sufficient gasoline either. So yeah it was a problem. We didn´t starve, but when another group showed up the last day we were able to see the food and service that should have been provided orginally. And we couldn´t go fishing for piranhas because there was only enough gas to get back out of the jungle, and none for side expeditions.
I: Did anything go right?
Me: Well, we left very late the first day-- from the park entrance it´s a three hour motorized canoe ride to the pueblo we were staying-- and so we ended up navigating the river in the dark, which is kind of creepy. But at dusk we were escorted by a swarm of bats, swooping and diving alongside the boat; although I´m not a fan of bats swarming towards me, it was amazing to be ¨flying¨ alongside them. You gain a real appreciation for their elegance.
I: What else did you see?
Me: Lots of insects-- dragonflies, stinging grasshoppers, the biggest cockroaches I´ve ever seen. Mosquitos of course. And a tarantula that was nesting in the bathroom. Lots of birds too, and frogs and lizards. Actually, before we even entered the park we were flagged down and given a turtle to release into the wild. He slept on my feet for a while and then tried to eat my pants. But alas, no river dolphins and no anacondas. I really wanted to see an anaconda-- although I hear they grow bigger in Venezuela.
I: And what did the company say about their poor performance?
Me: They promised me a refund as soon as my flight leaves. No, but seriously, I might get a refund here in a few hours. But I´m not holding my breath.
Interviewer: You went to the Cuyabeno Reserve in the Ecuadorian jungle, is that right? It´s supposed to be one of the most important protected areas on the planet, with a massive amount of biodiversity. How was it?
Me: Well, the guide quit after the first hour. But I suppose the jungle itself was pretty impressive.
Interviewer: I´m sorry-- you say the guide quit after an hour?
Me: Yeah, we drove three hours in a pickup truck with to meet the guide, he served us lunch and then left, promising to return within the hour. Three hours later he showed up and told us that the agency had not paid him, nor had they paid the local indigenous community for more than 3 months. He was going to leave us in the hands of a local so that he could file an official complaint and deliver a copy to his lawyer.
I: That´s... unfortunate. Did it affect your tour?
Me: Well the agency also hadn´t provided food, drinking water or sufficient gasoline either. So yeah it was a problem. We didn´t starve, but when another group showed up the last day we were able to see the food and service that should have been provided orginally. And we couldn´t go fishing for piranhas because there was only enough gas to get back out of the jungle, and none for side expeditions.
I: Did anything go right?
Me: Well, we left very late the first day-- from the park entrance it´s a three hour motorized canoe ride to the pueblo we were staying-- and so we ended up navigating the river in the dark, which is kind of creepy. But at dusk we were escorted by a swarm of bats, swooping and diving alongside the boat; although I´m not a fan of bats swarming towards me, it was amazing to be ¨flying¨ alongside them. You gain a real appreciation for their elegance.
I: What else did you see?
Me: Lots of insects-- dragonflies, stinging grasshoppers, the biggest cockroaches I´ve ever seen. Mosquitos of course. And a tarantula that was nesting in the bathroom. Lots of birds too, and frogs and lizards. Actually, before we even entered the park we were flagged down and given a turtle to release into the wild. He slept on my feet for a while and then tried to eat my pants. But alas, no river dolphins and no anacondas. I really wanted to see an anaconda-- although I hear they grow bigger in Venezuela.
I: And what did the company say about their poor performance?
Me: They promised me a refund as soon as my flight leaves. No, but seriously, I might get a refund here in a few hours. But I´m not holding my breath.
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
An Hour in the Life
A few minutes before the noon checkout time, I stumble out of bed and then stumble out into the rain; here in Ecuador, more than anywhere else, has the summer rainy season made itself known. Fortunately (?) my clothes are still mainly wet from the rain last night. I have dry clothes packed away somewhere, but the closer I get to going home the more unorganized my pack gets. I probably won´t find those dry socks until after my flight-- not that it matters, since my shoes are wet too. The downside of waterproof shoes is that once water gets in, it can´t find its way out.
I stand in the street, thinking ¨I´m not supposed to be here¨. In Quito that is, not Ecuador. My tour to the jungle was supposed to leave this morning, but was pushed back a day, throwing my mainly improvised plans into even more disarray. I contemplated paying for another night at my hotel so I could sit in bed and read all day; two and half months of travelling, plus the lousy weather, has worn me down a bit. But since I´d need to get out of bed to eat something, I figured I might as well wander around town.
¨Old Town¨ would be my destination for the morning (or rather early afternoon); so called because all the old colonial buildings here, but also because it lacks all the new luxuries of ¨New Town¨like donut shops and internet cafes. I´d spent the past few days in New Town, and was a bit spoiled by all the sweetbread shops there-- walking past window display after window display of the most delicate and delicious looking pastries. I figured a sugar rush was just what I needed to get this day started out right. But although I walked up and down countless streets, the only stores I passed were printing shops and tailors. Finally I spot a sign saying ¨confecciones¨and my stomach rumbles with anticipation; I look in and see a pile of clothes and a sewing machine. Sigh.
A few minutes later I see another sign that looks promising, and head up a very steep hill to investigate. As I get closer I see the store is exactly what I want... and closed. Of course. But right behind me at this point is a store with giant trays piled high with bread and pastries. For 80 cents I settle on something resembling lasagna crossed with a brick. It has at least six layers of flaky bread, white cream, some kind of orange fruit paste (peach? I can´t tell through all the sugar) caramel and more flaky bread. And it was seriously the size of a brick; I picked the biggest one since there was no telling when I´d find another breadshop. Outside, the store I´d seen originally was open now. Of course.
Several blocks and half a sugarbrick later, I think I can feel diabetes setting in. Maybe it´s the altitude I tell myself and keep eating. By the next block I wrap the pastry up and set it down on a ledge; earlier I´d seen the guy walking in front of me pick up a cup of soda off the sidewalk, and figured maybe somebody would want the rest of my sugarbread. It was like an offering to the street urchins.
Now I was turning onto America Avenue, and, right on cue, was a KFC. I figured some grease would be helpful in sopping up the sugar in my stomach, but opted for the chinese restaurant across the street. On wandering days, eating and walking go hand in hand. Mainly I walk because the bus systems are so complicated, but also because its so much easier to stop at a nice restaurant if you´re not on a bus. And after a nice meal I usually waddle out into the street feeling like a walk would do me good; it´s a vicious cycle.
The chinese restaurant has a large banner offering a lunch special for $1.50-- the menu inside has nothing for $1.50. I´m used to these false claims by now. I get a different lunch special for under two bucks and of course it´s a heaping plateful. Somethings must be the same everywhere.
Watching the news in the restaurant, I notice it´s only been an hour since I got up. A story about Fidel Castro is followed by one about people somewhere, hopefully not Ecuador, trying to catch a treed tiger by pulling on his tail. Remember the nursery rhyme, ¨catch a tiger by its toe¨? I think something got lost in translation. The tiger promptly mauled the man and then jumped frightened into a river. The next story was about the proliferance of counterfeit cigarettes in Quito. Somebody was putting off brand cigs into Marlboro boxes.
It only took an hour to realize that as long as I´ve been here in South America, I still just don´t get it.
I stand in the street, thinking ¨I´m not supposed to be here¨. In Quito that is, not Ecuador. My tour to the jungle was supposed to leave this morning, but was pushed back a day, throwing my mainly improvised plans into even more disarray. I contemplated paying for another night at my hotel so I could sit in bed and read all day; two and half months of travelling, plus the lousy weather, has worn me down a bit. But since I´d need to get out of bed to eat something, I figured I might as well wander around town.
¨Old Town¨ would be my destination for the morning (or rather early afternoon); so called because all the old colonial buildings here, but also because it lacks all the new luxuries of ¨New Town¨like donut shops and internet cafes. I´d spent the past few days in New Town, and was a bit spoiled by all the sweetbread shops there-- walking past window display after window display of the most delicate and delicious looking pastries. I figured a sugar rush was just what I needed to get this day started out right. But although I walked up and down countless streets, the only stores I passed were printing shops and tailors. Finally I spot a sign saying ¨confecciones¨and my stomach rumbles with anticipation; I look in and see a pile of clothes and a sewing machine. Sigh.
A few minutes later I see another sign that looks promising, and head up a very steep hill to investigate. As I get closer I see the store is exactly what I want... and closed. Of course. But right behind me at this point is a store with giant trays piled high with bread and pastries. For 80 cents I settle on something resembling lasagna crossed with a brick. It has at least six layers of flaky bread, white cream, some kind of orange fruit paste (peach? I can´t tell through all the sugar) caramel and more flaky bread. And it was seriously the size of a brick; I picked the biggest one since there was no telling when I´d find another breadshop. Outside, the store I´d seen originally was open now. Of course.
Several blocks and half a sugarbrick later, I think I can feel diabetes setting in. Maybe it´s the altitude I tell myself and keep eating. By the next block I wrap the pastry up and set it down on a ledge; earlier I´d seen the guy walking in front of me pick up a cup of soda off the sidewalk, and figured maybe somebody would want the rest of my sugarbread. It was like an offering to the street urchins.
Now I was turning onto America Avenue, and, right on cue, was a KFC. I figured some grease would be helpful in sopping up the sugar in my stomach, but opted for the chinese restaurant across the street. On wandering days, eating and walking go hand in hand. Mainly I walk because the bus systems are so complicated, but also because its so much easier to stop at a nice restaurant if you´re not on a bus. And after a nice meal I usually waddle out into the street feeling like a walk would do me good; it´s a vicious cycle.
The chinese restaurant has a large banner offering a lunch special for $1.50-- the menu inside has nothing for $1.50. I´m used to these false claims by now. I get a different lunch special for under two bucks and of course it´s a heaping plateful. Somethings must be the same everywhere.
Watching the news in the restaurant, I notice it´s only been an hour since I got up. A story about Fidel Castro is followed by one about people somewhere, hopefully not Ecuador, trying to catch a treed tiger by pulling on his tail. Remember the nursery rhyme, ¨catch a tiger by its toe¨? I think something got lost in translation. The tiger promptly mauled the man and then jumped frightened into a river. The next story was about the proliferance of counterfeit cigarettes in Quito. Somebody was putting off brand cigs into Marlboro boxes.
It only took an hour to realize that as long as I´ve been here in South America, I still just don´t get it.
Sunday, February 17, 2008
Market Day
Sometimes you catch yourself thinking like a tourist, and this is when you are best able to understand the locals´ mindset; crossing the bridge between two ways of thinking can be a comical affair.
The guidebook says that the Saturday Market in Riobamba, where I am, is worth checking out. Now, normally I have no interest in markets-- I´ve always been offered things to buy, whether I was looking for them or not-- but it´s easy to fall into the lull of the guidebook, and it was Saturday and I had no particular plans. So I asked a local, a man who owned a tour agency and interacted with gringos everyday, in which direction was the market.
He got very animated and immediately went to the street to flag a cab for me; ¨It´s just a few kilometers away, they don´t allow the animals downtown.¨ Animals? I was both confused and curious. My tourist assumption had been that ¨the Market¨was the crafts market; the usual assortment of handmade hats and sweaters, along with t-shirts, keychains and other junk from China. But in a place dominated by agriculture, even to a man living in the city, ¨the Market¨ meant the Saturday livestock market, where locals haggle over the worth of skinny farm animals.
Mainly cows, trucks and corrals and alleyways full of cows, but also sheep, pigs, goats, llamas, donkeys and horses are for sale. Vendors sell cotton candy and Chinese caramels; I definitely got that ¨only gringo in the crowd¨attention. But it is an interesting place, at least for a little while. The immensely swollen cow udders, showcasing potential; the daisychains of hog-tied sheep, convulsing in the morning heat; people emptying their pockets, and then waiting for the bus with a box of mangos and a pig. Animals are treated like animals here; I don´t think PETA´s influence has reached this far yet. It reminded me of the mesh sacks of guinea pigs (a delicacy) on the streets of Peru, biting each other and fighting for space in their last few hours.
Later in the day I would see the Ecuadorian delicacy-- entire roasted pigs-- on countless streetvendors´tables, the heads smiling at you as you walk past. Pig stew, pig skin, any cut of pork imaginable; an entire table of skinned pig heads, the black eyes contrasting against the freshly stripped flesh.
But of course more than just animals are for sale in the market. Apples, bananas, strawberries, blackberries, mangoes, potatoes, broccoli, cauliflower, lettuce; imagine a farmer´s market where everyone is still a farmer. And shoes-- I´ve seen more shoes for sale in this town than anywhere else in my life. There were entire market streets, lined on both sides, with nothing but shoes. And then there are countless shops devoted to shoes.
For me personally, market day is a chance to wander lazily, sampling the different ice creams and donuts and sweetbreads. Later I would discover the world of bootlegged products, where any cd, movie, or video game you´ve ever wanted is available for a dollar. And curiously, Ecuador, or at least Riobamba, seems to be a heavy metal mecca. I picked up some Iron Maiden patches, a shirt, some DVDs, and even a custom Manowar wallet. You would never find this stuff back home!
So in the end, the guidebook was right. Market Day is worth checking out; but sometimes it takes some cross-cultural confusion to make it worth your while.
The guidebook says that the Saturday Market in Riobamba, where I am, is worth checking out. Now, normally I have no interest in markets-- I´ve always been offered things to buy, whether I was looking for them or not-- but it´s easy to fall into the lull of the guidebook, and it was Saturday and I had no particular plans. So I asked a local, a man who owned a tour agency and interacted with gringos everyday, in which direction was the market.
He got very animated and immediately went to the street to flag a cab for me; ¨It´s just a few kilometers away, they don´t allow the animals downtown.¨ Animals? I was both confused and curious. My tourist assumption had been that ¨the Market¨was the crafts market; the usual assortment of handmade hats and sweaters, along with t-shirts, keychains and other junk from China. But in a place dominated by agriculture, even to a man living in the city, ¨the Market¨ meant the Saturday livestock market, where locals haggle over the worth of skinny farm animals.
Mainly cows, trucks and corrals and alleyways full of cows, but also sheep, pigs, goats, llamas, donkeys and horses are for sale. Vendors sell cotton candy and Chinese caramels; I definitely got that ¨only gringo in the crowd¨attention. But it is an interesting place, at least for a little while. The immensely swollen cow udders, showcasing potential; the daisychains of hog-tied sheep, convulsing in the morning heat; people emptying their pockets, and then waiting for the bus with a box of mangos and a pig. Animals are treated like animals here; I don´t think PETA´s influence has reached this far yet. It reminded me of the mesh sacks of guinea pigs (a delicacy) on the streets of Peru, biting each other and fighting for space in their last few hours.
Later in the day I would see the Ecuadorian delicacy-- entire roasted pigs-- on countless streetvendors´tables, the heads smiling at you as you walk past. Pig stew, pig skin, any cut of pork imaginable; an entire table of skinned pig heads, the black eyes contrasting against the freshly stripped flesh.
But of course more than just animals are for sale in the market. Apples, bananas, strawberries, blackberries, mangoes, potatoes, broccoli, cauliflower, lettuce; imagine a farmer´s market where everyone is still a farmer. And shoes-- I´ve seen more shoes for sale in this town than anywhere else in my life. There were entire market streets, lined on both sides, with nothing but shoes. And then there are countless shops devoted to shoes.
For me personally, market day is a chance to wander lazily, sampling the different ice creams and donuts and sweetbreads. Later I would discover the world of bootlegged products, where any cd, movie, or video game you´ve ever wanted is available for a dollar. And curiously, Ecuador, or at least Riobamba, seems to be a heavy metal mecca. I picked up some Iron Maiden patches, a shirt, some DVDs, and even a custom Manowar wallet. You would never find this stuff back home!
So in the end, the guidebook was right. Market Day is worth checking out; but sometimes it takes some cross-cultural confusion to make it worth your while.
Friday, February 15, 2008
Wooden Nickels
Ecuador switched to using the dollar in 2000, which makes travelling here easier than elsewhere. But I was surprised to find that although the bills are American, most of the coins are not. This morning I received one American nickel, and three Ecuadorian; they really look nothing alike.
Which reminds me of how I tried to buy a banana in Peru with a 50 centavo piece (worth about 16 cents) and was told it was counterfeit. Who in the world goes to the trouble of counterfeiting 16 cents?!
Which reminds me of how I tried to buy a banana in Peru with a 50 centavo piece (worth about 16 cents) and was told it was counterfeit. Who in the world goes to the trouble of counterfeiting 16 cents?!
The Last Border Crossing
I knew, even before I got on the bus, that it was going to be a long day.
The plan was simple: a night bus from Huaraz to Trujillo (9 hours), then directly on to Chiclayo (4 hours), go see the `Lord of Sipan´museum (amazing) and then hop on a bus to Piura (3 hours) in order to catch another night bus to Loja (8 hours) arriving in Ecuador only a day behind schedule.
That´s 24 hours on a bus altogether; long, but bearable. Unbearable, however, is spending the first two hours of the first bus ride cringing over Tom Cruise´s acting in The Last Samurai. But wait, it gets better. The second bus ride begins, and today´s movie... The Last Samurai. Again. By now I´m catching myself quoting scenes, and cringing in anticipation of the ludicrous plot. If the third bus had shown TLS instead of Underdog, I would have walked through the desert to Ecuador, seriously.
On the third bus I was surrounded by a salsa band who listened to the same song over and over for hours, as ¨practice¨-- this included playing drums on the seatrest and singing aloud. And the fourth bus... the couple across from me was bringing a puppy across the border, a very cute white puppy with diarrhea. So periodically a wave of stench would wash over the bus, accompanied by some unearthly puppy shrieks.
But I made it happy and safe into Ecuador. The first thing I saw there, right in the bus terminal, was a 24 hour diner; Waffle House appeared before my sleep deprived eyes for a moment, but sadly this was no Waffle House. They had coffee, but no milk. And to eat, they had chicken; everything else had been finished off already. Then some blackberry milkshakes appeared, and just as I made to order one, I was told they were the last ones. Nothing left.
And so to celebrate, since I couldn´t fly to Quito because the company´s website was down, I got on a twelve hour bus to Riobamba; that makes for 36 of the previous 46 hours on a bus. Makes you realize how precious time really is.
The plan was simple: a night bus from Huaraz to Trujillo (9 hours), then directly on to Chiclayo (4 hours), go see the `Lord of Sipan´museum (amazing) and then hop on a bus to Piura (3 hours) in order to catch another night bus to Loja (8 hours) arriving in Ecuador only a day behind schedule.
That´s 24 hours on a bus altogether; long, but bearable. Unbearable, however, is spending the first two hours of the first bus ride cringing over Tom Cruise´s acting in The Last Samurai. But wait, it gets better. The second bus ride begins, and today´s movie... The Last Samurai. Again. By now I´m catching myself quoting scenes, and cringing in anticipation of the ludicrous plot. If the third bus had shown TLS instead of Underdog, I would have walked through the desert to Ecuador, seriously.
On the third bus I was surrounded by a salsa band who listened to the same song over and over for hours, as ¨practice¨-- this included playing drums on the seatrest and singing aloud. And the fourth bus... the couple across from me was bringing a puppy across the border, a very cute white puppy with diarrhea. So periodically a wave of stench would wash over the bus, accompanied by some unearthly puppy shrieks.
But I made it happy and safe into Ecuador. The first thing I saw there, right in the bus terminal, was a 24 hour diner; Waffle House appeared before my sleep deprived eyes for a moment, but sadly this was no Waffle House. They had coffee, but no milk. And to eat, they had chicken; everything else had been finished off already. Then some blackberry milkshakes appeared, and just as I made to order one, I was told they were the last ones. Nothing left.
And so to celebrate, since I couldn´t fly to Quito because the company´s website was down, I got on a twelve hour bus to Riobamba; that makes for 36 of the previous 46 hours on a bus. Makes you realize how precious time really is.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Hiking in Huaraz
In the northern highlands of Peru, sandwiched between the jungle and the coast, lies Huaraz and the mighty Cordillera Blanca-- the highest mountain range in the world outside of the Himalayas. A devastating earthquake here in 1970 unleashed an avalanche wiping out the entire village of Yungay; today, the rebuilt Yungay is a stopping point travelling to the Santa Cruz trailhead, the most popular trek in the region.
The first day of trekking is a pleasant one, with views of stunning turquoise lakes, steeply carved canyons, and verdant valleys. Even the houses here, with their terra cotta roofs, are more attractive than elsewhere in Peru. The terrain is mainly flat, since you´re already at a considerable altitude when you start hiking, and burros are burdened with most of the weight-- the tents, the food, water, cooking supplies. Even the weather wants to cooperate.
The second day is more difficult, but infinitely more rewarding. Starting at breakfast at about 12,000 feet, you climb steadily until by lunchtime you reach the Punta Union pass at more than 15,000 feet. I was panting like a dog from the moment we started hiking-- the curse of being born at sea level. But Punta Union is special for two reasons: first, it is the continental divide. All water from here either flows to the Amazon where it will meet the Atlantic, or falls away the west and the Pacific. Second, the views from here are supposed to be some of the best in all the Andes. And quite honestly, this might be the most beautiful place I`ve ever seen; it is certainly the most impressive mountain range I`ve seen. The clouds drift in an out, providing everchanging views of the peaks; there is always another peak being exposed, a new sense of wonder being sparked. Descending into a seemingly never ending valley, even more mountains come into view. And although Alpomayo-- the perfect pyramid shaped mountain that Huaraz, if no one else, has deemed the world´s most beautiful-- remained mainly hidden, there is no sense of disappointment. If anything, it adds another reason to come back.
Day three is all down hill, and we have the first bit of rain for the trip. Reaching civilization we say our goodbyes and seek out a restaurant; as great as the mountains are for the mind and soul, the body craves a cheeseburger. And Huaraz obliges.
The first day of trekking is a pleasant one, with views of stunning turquoise lakes, steeply carved canyons, and verdant valleys. Even the houses here, with their terra cotta roofs, are more attractive than elsewhere in Peru. The terrain is mainly flat, since you´re already at a considerable altitude when you start hiking, and burros are burdened with most of the weight-- the tents, the food, water, cooking supplies. Even the weather wants to cooperate.
The second day is more difficult, but infinitely more rewarding. Starting at breakfast at about 12,000 feet, you climb steadily until by lunchtime you reach the Punta Union pass at more than 15,000 feet. I was panting like a dog from the moment we started hiking-- the curse of being born at sea level. But Punta Union is special for two reasons: first, it is the continental divide. All water from here either flows to the Amazon where it will meet the Atlantic, or falls away the west and the Pacific. Second, the views from here are supposed to be some of the best in all the Andes. And quite honestly, this might be the most beautiful place I`ve ever seen; it is certainly the most impressive mountain range I`ve seen. The clouds drift in an out, providing everchanging views of the peaks; there is always another peak being exposed, a new sense of wonder being sparked. Descending into a seemingly never ending valley, even more mountains come into view. And although Alpomayo-- the perfect pyramid shaped mountain that Huaraz, if no one else, has deemed the world´s most beautiful-- remained mainly hidden, there is no sense of disappointment. If anything, it adds another reason to come back.
Day three is all down hill, and we have the first bit of rain for the trip. Reaching civilization we say our goodbyes and seek out a restaurant; as great as the mountains are for the mind and soul, the body craves a cheeseburger. And Huaraz obliges.
The Honk
Spend any amount of time in South America, and you`ll become acquainted with ¨the honk¨-- the ubiquitous greeting/warning/invitation that transcends local culture. You find it in every city and country, at every time of day, and can always expect more around the corner-- literally.
In the city, the honk more often than not means ¨I`m going to hit you if you don`t move¨, and is applied not only to pedestrians, but also to other cars which are usually just as adamant about claiming the right of way. It`s kind of a not-so-friendly warning system. Other times in the city the honk simply asks ¨why aren`t you moving faster?¨As if honking will somehow reduce traffic to zero, allowing everyone to move forward simultaneously (you see this in New York as well).
In the country, the honk takes on new meanings. It often means ¨I am the only available transportation to the next town, so get on now while you have the chance¨-- an exciting opportunity to share a minivan with 18 other people, while a chicken sleeps on your feet. Sometimes the honk is used to acknowledge other taxi drivers; some taxis have multiple and customized honks which sound like car alarms or whistles-- honking taking on some of the nuances of language.
In the mountains, the honk is used around every blind corner, as a way of saying ¨here I come, ready or not!¨ A system that has worked well so far, given the inordinate number of blind curves on every mountain road.
It´s a complex language, albeit one without words.
In the city, the honk more often than not means ¨I`m going to hit you if you don`t move¨, and is applied not only to pedestrians, but also to other cars which are usually just as adamant about claiming the right of way. It`s kind of a not-so-friendly warning system. Other times in the city the honk simply asks ¨why aren`t you moving faster?¨As if honking will somehow reduce traffic to zero, allowing everyone to move forward simultaneously (you see this in New York as well).
In the country, the honk takes on new meanings. It often means ¨I am the only available transportation to the next town, so get on now while you have the chance¨-- an exciting opportunity to share a minivan with 18 other people, while a chicken sleeps on your feet. Sometimes the honk is used to acknowledge other taxi drivers; some taxis have multiple and customized honks which sound like car alarms or whistles-- honking taking on some of the nuances of language.
In the mountains, the honk is used around every blind corner, as a way of saying ¨here I come, ready or not!¨ A system that has worked well so far, given the inordinate number of blind curves on every mountain road.
It´s a complex language, albeit one without words.
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
Redemption
Having visited only the most touristed areas of Peru, I hate to badmouth the country too much, but it has been a bit of a letdown. The people haven´t been as friendly as Bolivia, the prices have been more expensive than expected (3 years ago Maccu Picchu was $10-- now it´s $40), there is always a tax or fee not included; you have to pay to leave the airport, the train station, the bus station, the port. It´s not all golden backpacker paradise like I somehow led myself to believe. But today, Peru redeemed itself.
It started innocently enough; a lady named Pilar who was on the amazon boat trip offered everyone a free place to stay at her house. Since our group was large (20 or so altogether) we declined, but agreed to come over for dinner the next day. And it was amazing; there was loads of food, kids bought us drinks, volleyball, soccer, singing, dancing, laughing. I taught some 13-year-old girls how to say 'you have beautiful eyes' in english. When I took their photo, kids came running from every direction to be included. Then more came running to see the photo; everyone wanted to do everything at once. It gave the day such a triumphant energy, erasing the lethargy lingering from the river. Finally, the most adorable kitten curled up in my lap and fell asleep, while I talked about great horror movies with Marcela from Chile; all it took was getting off the map for a moment, and trusting in the power of the group.
Peru, you´re OK in my book.
It started innocently enough; a lady named Pilar who was on the amazon boat trip offered everyone a free place to stay at her house. Since our group was large (20 or so altogether) we declined, but agreed to come over for dinner the next day. And it was amazing; there was loads of food, kids bought us drinks, volleyball, soccer, singing, dancing, laughing. I taught some 13-year-old girls how to say 'you have beautiful eyes' in english. When I took their photo, kids came running from every direction to be included. Then more came running to see the photo; everyone wanted to do everything at once. It gave the day such a triumphant energy, erasing the lethargy lingering from the river. Finally, the most adorable kitten curled up in my lap and fell asleep, while I talked about great horror movies with Marcela from Chile; all it took was getting off the map for a moment, and trusting in the power of the group.
Peru, you´re OK in my book.
Lines at Nazca
When you see the Nazca lines on television, you always see slow motion video of the lines-- a technique which serves to emphasize their supernatural quality, but which is probably done because to photograph them from a plane is terribly difficult. It doesn´t help that the lines are surrounded, bisected and generally criss-crossed by tractor marks, roads, fake lines and desert graffiti. Although the town of Nazca relies on the lines for tourist income, they seem to take a remarkably laissez-faire approach to maintaining them.
Immediately after getting off the bus from Arequipa I signed up for the 'basic flight' package which means a general loop around the lines with no yawing (side to side action which you need to photograph the lines) for less money. I was promised a slot on the first flight. But, being in Peru, we arrived to the airport just as my promised flight was taking off-- bumping me up then to the deluxe flight where not only did we yaw with the best of them, but I got to copilot the plane!
Copiloting doesn´t actually involve any duties or responsibilites, per se-- but it did make me smile for about 45 minutes nonstop. Having never been in such a small aircraft (6 seater), and then being a noselength away from all the vital controls was as great as the lines themselves. There was a good video after the flight which tried to explain what you see in the air; most theories point towards shamanic attempts to bring rain to a region that has seen no major precipitation since the last ice age. As the culture got more desperate, the lines got bigger and more intricate; or maybe it was aliens after all.
Immediately after getting off the bus from Arequipa I signed up for the 'basic flight' package which means a general loop around the lines with no yawing (side to side action which you need to photograph the lines) for less money. I was promised a slot on the first flight. But, being in Peru, we arrived to the airport just as my promised flight was taking off-- bumping me up then to the deluxe flight where not only did we yaw with the best of them, but I got to copilot the plane!
Copiloting doesn´t actually involve any duties or responsibilites, per se-- but it did make me smile for about 45 minutes nonstop. Having never been in such a small aircraft (6 seater), and then being a noselength away from all the vital controls was as great as the lines themselves. There was a good video after the flight which tried to explain what you see in the air; most theories point towards shamanic attempts to bring rain to a region that has seen no major precipitation since the last ice age. As the culture got more desperate, the lines got bigger and more intricate; or maybe it was aliens after all.
Journey to the Jungle
A flight from Lima, Peru to the central jungle capital of Pucallpa costs the same as a flight from Lima to the deep jungle capital of Iquitos. That´s because in essence they are the same flight; you board the same plane, you are served the same small breakfast, you pay the same $6.05 departure tax. You just exit the plane after an hour, as I did, instead of 1 hour 40 minutes. If you get off in Pucallpa, you then board a cargo boat bound for Iquitos-- paying extra money to take four unsavory days getting where you could have been in forty minutes. Why do it? Some things are done only for adventure.
Boarding the boat early seems like a good idea, in theory. You get to set up your hammock where you want (even if you don´t yet know where you want it), you get to hang out and meet people in the shade of the boat instead of the heat of town, and you don´t have to worry about the boat leaving without you. In practice, getting there early lets you watch a crowded boat transform into a manically crowded boat. The carefully managed spaces in between hammocks fills with all sorts of cargo, running kids, and more hammocks; the people you want to meet driven away by an ever-growing wedge of human bodies, as the boat delays departure until every inch of cargo space has been filled. Moto-taxis, refrigerators, potato chips-- as Iquitos is the world´s largest city unreachable by road, the jungle town relies on boats like mine to supply it with everything.
By the first night, hammocks are slung so close that one person´s unconscious swinging causes a pendulum reaction in the neighboring hammocks, until the entire cabin is swaying to the same lazy rhythm. Party music blasts from the ships speakers at absurd volumes, as if to say 'you´re having a good time-- enjoy it!' I had two children sleeping under my hammock. I would guess at least a hundred people shared the 3rd floor of the four story boat, built as tall as it was wide. More people slept below, where the engines throbbed so loudly you couldn´t think as you waited in line for your meal.
By the second day, you start noticing things. You notice how to kids on the boat, hammocks are like jungle vines; everywhere, and at all times, kids are swinging, chasing, diving under hammocks. On a boat with virtually no communal space, personal space is quickly sacrificed. You get used to people bumping your hammock; you get used to kids poking, prodding, kicking, headbutting you, whether by accident or act of boredom.
You also start noticing all the tiny villages along the river. The jungle is like a desert, and the river is like the one highway that runs through it; if people live in the desert, they live on that highway. To leave the river means risking losing all touch with the outside world.
By the third day, the boat starts feeling like a prison. You notice how the day revolves around mealtimes (a bowl of oat water for breakfast, bone soup for dinner, and some rice and a few beans for lunch), and you notice how people stare at you, sizing you up as you stand in line. The bars on the kitchen window don´t help the feeling. People talk about what they´ll do when they get out, or what they were doing before they got in.
As the boat slowly pulls in to Iquitos, a curious thing happens. From the bottom of their luggage people bring out dress clothes and makeup, shoe polish and eyebrow tweezers. They bathe their kids and touch up their hair in the mirror over the dish sink. They use cologne and deodorant for the first time in days. And so instead of ending with a prison break, the boat arrives with the appearance of luxury; as if this were a cruise ship and not a cargo boat.
Boarding the boat early seems like a good idea, in theory. You get to set up your hammock where you want (even if you don´t yet know where you want it), you get to hang out and meet people in the shade of the boat instead of the heat of town, and you don´t have to worry about the boat leaving without you. In practice, getting there early lets you watch a crowded boat transform into a manically crowded boat. The carefully managed spaces in between hammocks fills with all sorts of cargo, running kids, and more hammocks; the people you want to meet driven away by an ever-growing wedge of human bodies, as the boat delays departure until every inch of cargo space has been filled. Moto-taxis, refrigerators, potato chips-- as Iquitos is the world´s largest city unreachable by road, the jungle town relies on boats like mine to supply it with everything.
By the first night, hammocks are slung so close that one person´s unconscious swinging causes a pendulum reaction in the neighboring hammocks, until the entire cabin is swaying to the same lazy rhythm. Party music blasts from the ships speakers at absurd volumes, as if to say 'you´re having a good time-- enjoy it!' I had two children sleeping under my hammock. I would guess at least a hundred people shared the 3rd floor of the four story boat, built as tall as it was wide. More people slept below, where the engines throbbed so loudly you couldn´t think as you waited in line for your meal.
By the second day, you start noticing things. You notice how to kids on the boat, hammocks are like jungle vines; everywhere, and at all times, kids are swinging, chasing, diving under hammocks. On a boat with virtually no communal space, personal space is quickly sacrificed. You get used to people bumping your hammock; you get used to kids poking, prodding, kicking, headbutting you, whether by accident or act of boredom.
You also start noticing all the tiny villages along the river. The jungle is like a desert, and the river is like the one highway that runs through it; if people live in the desert, they live on that highway. To leave the river means risking losing all touch with the outside world.
By the third day, the boat starts feeling like a prison. You notice how the day revolves around mealtimes (a bowl of oat water for breakfast, bone soup for dinner, and some rice and a few beans for lunch), and you notice how people stare at you, sizing you up as you stand in line. The bars on the kitchen window don´t help the feeling. People talk about what they´ll do when they get out, or what they were doing before they got in.
As the boat slowly pulls in to Iquitos, a curious thing happens. From the bottom of their luggage people bring out dress clothes and makeup, shoe polish and eyebrow tweezers. They bathe their kids and touch up their hair in the mirror over the dish sink. They use cologne and deodorant for the first time in days. And so instead of ending with a prison break, the boat arrives with the appearance of luxury; as if this were a cruise ship and not a cargo boat.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
