Peru 2003

October 15 — October 27

Learning to Hate Pizarro

Day 1, Wednesday:

Given that this was my first trip alone, I had grand plans of meeting several attractive travel companions on the flight. Instead, I ended up next to old Peruvian women. Despite my efforts, I stepped off the plane with a mastery of only the Spanish numbers: uno, dos, and tres, and trying desperately to memorize "banyo."

Day 2, Thursday:

Lima Airport:

I was pretty tired by the time we touched down, but managed to hitch a ride into town with a travel agent (everyone in Cusco is a travel agent), then got setup at a hostel for 13 bucks a night, the most I'd pay during the trip for the worst accommodations. At this point, I hadn't slept, hadn't eaten, hadn't spoken to a fluent English speaker in days, and was at altitude (12,000 feet).

Originally, I'd planned to stop off in Peru to see Machu Picchu before heading over to Bolivia to spend some time in the jungle. I'd spent the past couple months monitoring the political unrest in Bolivia, but I was still pretty disappointed to find that transportation was basically cut-off at its Peruvian border. Buses were being raided, shot at, or pummeled with stones. Now don't get me wrong, I LOVE VIOLENCE, but generally not when it's directed at me. I thus rationalized a trip to the Manu National Park in the Peruvian Amazon rather than border jumping. I rolled the options over with my new "friend", who promised to help me set things up. In the mean time, I'd need some diversion — the next thing I knew I was on a bus full of Peruvians headed into the mountains.

Cusco was the capital of the Incan Empire, before Pizarro and his bastard conquistador friends rolled into town. Afterward, it played victim to Spanish Colonialism. It's a mix of old (Spanish buildings) and older (Incan stone foundations) and sits in a little valley at the edge of the Andes. Turns out that I was booked on an all day (10 hours) tour of Greater Cusco, including half a dozen sites of interest including a couple markets, several ruins (the Sacred Valley, Temple of the Sun, and Pisac), and an old Spanish Missionary at Chinchilla.

The Incas didn't have written records per se, so self proclaimed tour guides have full freedom to make up all kinds of ridiculous stories for the unknowing tourists. I heard more than a few that day, more than a couple which included sacrificing virgins. I had seen that sort of thing in the movies, so I knew it was all true.

The craziest thing about all these ruins was how well the walls and foundation held up. Most of them composed of *huge* stones, carved so perfectly to fit together that you couldn't slip a piece of paper between them. Actually, I guess that's was really only amazing for two reasons: 1) the shapes of these stones were very irregular (we're not talking about rectangular bricks here), and 2) they didn't have metal tools to carve them with. Insane. I bet the Incas would have loved Legos.

The Incas also did a lot of farming, which is tough when you live in the mountains. Someone came up with the bright idea of creating terraces — all of the major ruins we saw were highly terraced. Tourists (including myself) apparently just can't take enough pictures of these old terraces. I guess it's our subconscious way of congratulating them for their great idea.

In Chinchilla, I quenched my subconscious need for wool by purchasing a hat, then walked around a little to check out the town. Spotting a couple of little girls dressed in traditional garb, I made the mistake of snapping a photo. They quickly informed me that they don't pose for free, at least not with their llamas. Apparently, it's easy to get National Geographic quality shots of the natives — it just costs 2 soles.

We were back on the deathtrap at dusk, jerking in and out of sleep, we wound our way down the cobbled streets toward Cusco's Plaza Mayor. After promptly losing my new hat, then finalizing the details of the Manu trip, I sucked down several banana pancakes and 4 gallons of mate de Coca (tea with Coca leaves, popular derivatives of which include Coca-cola and Cocaine) before cashing out, hard.

Day 3, Friday:

Bright and early, I was in a car with a man who spoke not a single word of English, but who loved Latin pop music. Si, sometimes, it's possible to communicate without speaking. We spent a couple hours at the airport before deciding that the plane was broken. We'd have to wait until a part was flown in from Lima the next day, or so I thought with my limited grasp of the language. Back to town I went and ate some lunch in the Plaza. I ended up talking with several locals, and got my picture taken with a group of girls before dropping my bag off at a new hostel. This one came recommended from the chick at the travel office (Marybell), and was super-posh, relatively speaking, and 15 bucks.

I spent the day on the mean streets of Cusco, soaking up culture (cathedrals, museums...), cheap fruit drinks, and third-world urban pollution. After a few stuffed peppers, a cerveza grande, and a nap, I lounged around on the cathedral steps hoping to talk to some locals (read: pick up chicks). I met a nice father/daughter duo (Henry and Flower) that gave me the scoop on Cusco, haggled with some pre-adolescents over a chocolate bar, then ended up giving it to an old man with a hat full of bread. Good times. The Plaza de Armas (city square) was packed with kids, all strolling around like it was an American mall on Friday night. Apparently, teenage antics and superficiality are officially cross-cultural.

Still no news from Marybell about the plane, so I headed back to the hostel to relax before cashing out. I admired my craftiness as I undid the series of locks and cables I'd constructed to keep the door shut, only to find that the window had been open all day. I feel asleep thinking again about Pizarro, and wondering how many Incan women had been plundered in the room I was sleeping in.

Day 4, Saturday:

Got a call at 6:45am ... plane was ready and would leave in 45 minutes. Jumped in the waiting car, which again blasted bad Latin pop all the way to the airport, then sat around watching them try to fix the little plane for almost four hours. Finally, they came up and claimed it was ready to roll. Having stared at them for the last couple days and having never once seen them actually start the plane even to test their new part, I was a little skeptical. Luckily, my lack of communication skills neutralized my self preservation instinct and desire to argue. I hopped on the plane filled with mail and four Peruvians.

The first stop was relatively quick, and we dumped the mail and the other two passengers. Once we got back in the air, the pilots started bickering in Spanish. Something about "blah blah gringo blah" and "blah blah charter blah" ... Apparently one of them wasn't too happy to have to make a (death-defying) trip into the jungle just for some punk American kid. I just kept my mouth shut and casually located the parachute bin.

So we flew from Cusco up into the Andes. The ride was rough and choppy, which made pretty good sense if you were to look out the window to see the ridiculous snow-capped mountains we were flying over and around. At one point, the mountains fell away and we were left staring at a think blanket of mist. We then dove right into it, and into what seemed like a scene from Jurassic Park — wicked jungle action as far as the eye could see. After cruising for another half hour, we dive again. This one seemed unplanned to me, but before I could wet myself, I saw a thin strip where the green tangle had been trimmed away enough to expose a grass landing strip. Now I'm not sure what scared me the most between a) the impossible physics associated with a successful landing, b) the rusty graveyard of planes all long the edges of the runway, or c) seeing the pilot slap the dash board a couple times during the decent. Regardless, it was seemingly obvious that we were going to die. Somehow, we didn't. We were greeted on the runway immediately by half a dozen smelly, grumpy backpackers who had been sitting in the rain waiting for this plane for over two days. I was then ushered into a longboat and off we went down the river in search of the group I was to meet up with.

The media does their best to convince you that the Amazon is packed with lumberjacks trying to cut down every tree in sight. My 45 minute trip down the river took me past took us past far too many for my liking, several of which greeted my amazed look of disgust with some rude yells and a couple pumps of their chainsaws.

I met up with the group at a small village, shook some hands, denounced George Bush, apologized for being American, and most importantly, apologized for making them sit around and wait for me for half a day. The group consisted of a couple Canadians, a few Swedes, a couple from the Netherlands and a somewhat attractive Spanish girl who was being actively hit on by our Peruvian, botanist guide (Nicholas), who was incidentally married. We cruised on up the river to a camp (several wooden platforms situated in a circle). After some dinner and a lot of political talk, we took our torches out to do a night walk. This activity should be avoided at all costs by those with any type of aversion to large, nasty spiders in ridiculous numbers.

Day 5, Sunday:

The day started with one of the Swedes screaming like a 12 year old girl. Apparently he'd left his bag outside his tent (chump) and thought something was in it. Sure enough, we dumped it out to find Spiderzilla, the mother of all large and hairy spiders.

We were back in the long boat just after sunrise, cruising up the river. Each day we spent about half our time in the boat and the other half walking through the jungle. As far as group treks go, this one was heavy on the cameras and keeping quiet and light on the socializing. It was at this point in the trip that I noticed the glass water bottles the old Swedish women were perpetually sucking from were in fact, whiskey bottles. Everything else (their quirky behavior and sudden outbursts) started to make sense. In the mean time, at the back of the boat, our lone single girl was waxing Jane to the Tarzan that was our guide, even though he spoke often of his wife and children.

We were in the Reserved Zone of the Manu National Park, so we were all expecting to see a ton of wildlife. Cruising around in a boat all day, you end up seeing mostly birds. I like birds and all, but I was glad when something a little bigger came along. Some notes:

The monkeys (Spider, Squirrel, Capuchin) were the most entertaining part of the trip. In the morning we climbed a tower to get a better vantage of them near an oxbow, then we took a catamaran out onto the lake a little later. Definitely more than I'd ever seen at once, and all around — there was a sense of community that's hard to duplicate in a zoo.

After cruising down the river a bit more, we stopped at a small village for a not-so-tasty lunch of lima beans. Afterwards, a couple of us went with Nicholas to walk it off. After trudging along for a half hour or so, he motioned for us to stop and be quiet. In the distance, we hear leaves rustling — "Look for a tree to climb," he says, at which point we cock our heads in confusion. "Many wild boars ... headed this way." Obviously, we panicked. Within a couple seconds we were watching dozens of big hairy boars trample the jungle only a couple dozen meters in front of us. Afterwards, we proceeded to change out of our urine-soaked pants and hug our guide profusely.

The rest of the day consisted of more bird ogling and searching for the illusive jaguar. The beans did a number on me, and I spent the evening engaged in a vicious struggle for gastrointestinal peace. Walking the fifty feet to the shitter through the pitch dark of the jungle ten times during the night with a) irritable bowels, b) limited toilet paper, c) knowledge of the spider density, makes for a lousy night.

Day 6, Monday

We woke and packed, and ate the last of our food. We had torn through all the fresh stuff days ago, so we were left with some strange canned meat, and of course, lima beans. Funny how one can miss veggies in an area with more bio-mass per square meter than any other place on earth. At the airport, there was already a group there waiting for the next plane, tired, dirty, and pissed off. Apparently they'd been waiting for three days. Amazingly, the plane landed again without bursting into flames or wrapping itself around one of the many conveniently located trees and we all managed to pack in. Good conversation made up for some pretty rotten smells. Before we knew it, we were back on the streets of Cusco. I rode back with the Dutch couple and setup shop at their hostel (Richartiy, 25 soles). After checking in though, I never saw them again.

After a much needed shower, I checked out the Cathedral and a couple art museums, then San Blas Church, Cherichenco and San Diego Church, Ave Del Sole, etc. After hanging out in the square for a couple hours, I nabbed some groceries (read: chocolate and water), then headed back to pass out.

Day 7, Tuesday:

After waking up I went through the usual rituals and ended up at the Royal Cusco (20 soles / night). Still no news from the travel company about the Inca Trail, so I grabbed some breakfast, then checked again. Nothing.

I decided to take this convenient *cough* opportunity to check out more of the local sights, and hopped in a cab up into the mountains to Tambo Machay. A few miles into it, I realized that my driver had somehow misconstrued my destination and wasn't particularly willing to rectify the situation. So yeah, I ended up doing some walking.

Being the hub of the Incan empire, Cusco was naturally surrounded with the ruins of ancient suburbs. I cruised through Puca Tambo Machay, then Pucara and Qunqo, and passed Christo Blanco (a 10 meter statue of Christ overlooking the city) before heading over to Sacsaywaman (sounds like "sexy woman"). Sacsaywaman looks like a series of tall, zig-zagging stone walls and sits up on a mountain overlooking Cusco. I set out on a self-guided tour, which apparently is a crime, and finally submitted to being shown around after dodging several would be "friends". My choice: a middle age man who'd seen cleaner days and spoke approximately 0 words of English. He'd wander over to a particular spot, and proceed to offer an series of crude gestures in explanation. I'd then guess at what he was saying, then he'd nod or shake his head.

Cusco was supposedly laid out in the shape of a puma. The city itself is the body and Sacsaywaman is the head. The huge, the round alignment of stones on top was the eye, and the zig-zagging walls of rock (that I watch several groups of Japanese tourists piss on) were the teeth. The puma was significant, as it represented the center of the Inca's 3-tiered world view. The falcon and condor were above and symbolized their version of heaven, while the snake was their symbol of the underworld. Yes, I managed to get most of that from my stinky guide, with some a little reading a did afterwards.

Storm clouds were rolling in, so I started the long walk back to the city. Checking in with my friendly travel "coordinators", I was apparently set to start on the Inca Trail the next morning. Due to the lack of details though, I wasn't feeling very good about it. I left knowing only that they would somehow contact me sometime the next morning.

Knowing the next few days would be rough, I decided to splurge for a nice dinner. I found a place with nice while tablecloths and shoveled down some fresh guinea pig and Peruvian wine, which tasted a lot like spoiled Kool-Aid. Next stop was the cathedral — I got there in time to catch the Rosary, which was actually pretty nice and very heavily attended. For as devout as the population seemed, the churched were in great disrepair. A stark contrast to how much money are spent on churches in the states — makes it seem as though Americans are buying off their guilt through church improvements.

Back on the steps of the plaza, I spent some time with some of the local kids at large. Those brave enough to approach travelers, are very savvy. I'd bet their knowledge of American history and politics is greater than the average American — I had several start reciting the list of presidents as soon as I mentioned where I was from. Although several did come straight out and ask for "my tips" (a present of money they tried to convince me I owed them), most instead would entertain themselves with haggling, trying to trade all kinds of stuff to get my (cheap) wristwatch.

Having spent several days in Cusco now, I began to make several observations:

After returning to my room, I realized it was directly next door to an ad hoc TV studio. They seemed to be recording some type of local news story ... my fatigue trumped any interest I might have had at the time. I wrapped up the day by attempting to take a dump in the smallest stall of all time. There door was so close to the toilet, that I physically couldn't sit down.

Day 8, Wednesday:

I was gathered up with another American, a Canadian couple, a Spanish couple, and several miscellaneous Norwegians early in the morning, then herded over to the square to round up some porters. Apparently these guys just hang out hoping to get picked up by a group for the 4 day trek. After a couple hours on the bus we stopped at a local village for supplies, and ended up poking around a couple traditional homes (for lack of a better word). After lunch, we got acquainted with the other members of our group. In cliche fashion, I made fast-friends with the other American in the group, Scott, who was also easy-going and could understand the words coming out of my mouth. Then we were off across the river and onto the Inca Trail.

The hiking was pretty easy, pretty social, and very scenic. Our guide (who seemed a very mature 16 or so), made lots of chit-chat, attempted to explain a lot of the history as we'd pass by various sites, and was very patient each time I asked "where zey keep zee woomanz???" He also explained slightly more relevant things, like that houses flagging a small red flag sold a maise-based moonshine. I spent a good hour or two trudging along with a nice buzz.

Due to restrictions put in place two years prior, all trekkers are required to go with an organized group (guide plus several porters). Not only does this ensure you don't cause any trouble, but it allows them to employ a lot more people. I carried my own bag, but didn't have to take a tent or food, etc. The porters were amazing, carrying huge, awkward loads wearing flimsy sandals. Anyway, I slept well that night, despite it being the first time I'd ever slept in a tent I didn't setup myself.

Day 9, Thursday:

Uphill all day. [wheeze] Longest staircase ever. [gasp] Cardiovascular beating.

We had just a minute at the top of Warmiwañusca (Dead Woman's Pass) at 4,215m (the highest point on the trail) before it started raining. Wet, cold, and exhausted we bounced over the pass and down to camp at lower altitudes without seeing a single dead woman. Many of the porters beat me to camp, leaving me feeling exceptionally white and lazy. It didn't help that when I arrived, they stopped working long enough to pour me a glass of fresh juice. I crawled into my tent and tried to gather up what was left of my masculinity.

A couple hours later, once everyone had arrived, we sat down for dinner. Given that we were a couple days into the trek, I was expecting some beans and canned meat. Instead, we received trout ... delicious, well prepared trout. I couldn't believe it, and I asked them how they managed to keep it fresh for two whole days of trekking. "We catch today before you get to camp." Holy shit. I immediately assumed I'd misunderstood them and proceded to make a fool of myself using hand gestures to verify. Fresh trout...

Day 10, Friday:

The Inca Trail is all about progression. You know your destination (Machu Picchu) and spend the long days of hiking wondering about it, building it up, constructing models in your head — you look for it over every hill. Here you are walking for several days and almost a hundred miles on a path of large stones fitted together meticulously hundreds of years ago, in the middle of the jungle (a huge undertaking with today's technology). Why would people do this? What the Hell was so important? Thanks to the Incas' lack of written language, we can only assume it involved drugs and sex.

The trek ended at a camp a few hours away from Machu Picchu, where we actually had a shower, several beers, and an amazing meal. Since it's a larger camp, the porters and cook had access to actual cooking facilities and used them to whip up what ranks among the best meals of my life, including animals sculpted from various fruits and vegetables. The motivation for the feast, of course, stems from the "tradition" of collecting the tips for the crew after the meal.

The practice, along with recommend amounts are published in most books, so it wasn't much of a surprise. I let people know the guidelines, then tossed my money into a hat and passed it around. Chaos ensued. Apparently the Europeans felt that tipping was unnecessary. Scott and I, who'd spent the last several days wondering what we did to deserve being treated like kings, lost it. I tried to keep my cool, explaining that it was a local custom, and that the amount was insanely small compared to the exemplary service they'd proved over the past 3 days. FRESH F$%#ING TROUT! Things got ugly in a hurry and before long each member of the trek was either on the American/Canadian "we-throw-money-at-everything" side, or the European "we-wouldn't-tip-them-in-our-own-country-so-we-won't-here" side. New friendships were broken, and the dynamic of the rest of the trip was completely changed. Several of us tipped 6 times the standard amount to make up for the cheap bastards.

Day 11, Saturday:

We were up at 4am, walking in the dark. The heavy fog and light rain hadn't let up when we reached the "Sun" Gate at 6, so we couldn't see a thing. We slowly made our way down into the valley, with visibility capped at about 20 feet — ooooh, mysterious. We slowly navigated our way down past several terraces packed with feisty llamas, which looked pretty sexy in the misty haze.

I liked to pretend that hiking the Inca Trail was the only way to get to Machu Picchu, and that the long days of walking were a way or earning one's entrance. In reality though, it's the Disneyland of Peru. Buses cruise up the steep slope on dozens of switch-backs packed with fat, lazy tourists. They actually sell pizza and Gatorade. Luckily, we had 2 hours to explore before the first buses arrived, so we made the most of it. Commercialism aside, it is every bit as amazing as I imagined it. Creeping in at sunrise and having the ruins of an ancient city appear on the top of a mountain as the fog burns off ... not too shabby. The pizza sucks though — heads up.

We wandered around, wondering how the Hell all this rock was brought up to this remote spot and feeling a growing urge to hurt innocent virgins. Just as the crowds starting moving in, Scott and I decided to hoof it up to one the adjacent peaks to get a better view from above, now that our visibility was back. It was definitely worth the hour we spent getting up there, which felt amazing climbing without packs. After hanging around at the top, we decided to try (bad idea) finding an alternate route (don't do it) down. We wandered, helplessly lost (turn back now) for about 2 hours before stumbling out of the jungle onto the ruins of the Temple of the Moon, which seemed a little lame having overdosed on ruins over the past week.

After a bus ride back to Agua Caliente, we ate again, said our good byes, and I was on a train back to Cusco, exhausted physically from the trek, and mentally from trying to communicate with the others on the train who spoke zero English. Back in town, I was a smelly, mess of an American. I'd given up on the idea of washing my clothes, and started haggling to buy some instead. I met a girl (also American) at the store, and she set me up with a hostel (super cheap), then I went out with her and some friends to several of the night clubs. The music was awful, but the beer was cold. I spent my last night in Cusco clubbing.

Day 12, Sunday:

Before I knew it, I was back in the airport, headed for Lima. I had the cabbie drop me in the suburb of Mira Flores. Which was quiet, and largely uninteresting. After some food at an outdoor cafe, I made my way downtown which was more to my liking. Downtown Lima is gorgeous, has a very colonial feel to it thanks to lots of European looking state buildings, and has more mannequins per capita than any other Peruvian city. I went through my usual routine of sitting on the Cathedral steps and meeting some locals (read: a few people practiced their English on me). It was Sunday, so people were out shopping. The parks were packed, with herds packed around the entertainers, comedians, etc. I met a kid selling bracelets, who was lamenting the lack of tourists in the park on weekends — apparently it's bad for business.

After dropping my gear off at a hostel, I dove into the sea of locals. Maybe it was because I was on the home stretch, but I couldn't bring myself to expose my camera to take pictures. Paranoia of losing all my photos from the trip, plus a little bit of fatigue and boredom drove me back to the hostel where I napped for a couple hours before heading back to the airport, dreaming of conquistadors and how they bastardized an ancient culture.