Wednesday, May 26, 2004
Continuing from where I left off in yesterday's post....
As beautiful as this country is, there is a lot of pain here and it is evident. Everyday we read in The Prensa, the biggest daily in the country, articles about the upcoming referendum to export gas (to the US via either Chile or Argentina). It seems the people distrust the presidents proposal to raise needed cash by exporting gas, not because of the proposals' specifics, but becuase such policies have failed the citizens time and time again. The only day the referendum did not capture the headlines was on the day the headlines anounced that the price of bread may increase.
Within the paper each day there is a full page, USA Today-style graphic with a map of the country showing the protests taking place in various cities. Road blockades are signified with black stars and the mines which have been taken over by the miners with hollow stars. One headline announced that 80% of the goverments' time is used setling such strikes, protests, and disputes.
Despite all of the turmoil we do feel safe, but we also feel guilty. When we read that 88% of the profits from the exportation of gas will go to multinational corporations I realize that the spoils of Bolivian weath falls first into American hands, and only that which slips through our fingers into Bolivian mouths. It is interesting to note that Che´Guavara seems to have retained the most popularity in this South American nation
Yesterday we were in the Plaza 25th del Mayo watching the festivities. I was reading a posterboard of articles against the referendum (and our president) with the referendums' author, Bolivias' President, waiving across the street from the building where South Americas' independance movement began. The bell first rang in Bolivia though they were the last to achieve independance. Bolivia was the biggest prize for the Spaniards and they held their grip harder and longer here. The bell seems to be ringing again with protests and transportation strikes pegged to paralise the country in the lead-up to next months' referendum. The impoverished residents of El Alto are decending on the city of La Paz. The cries of "energy crisis" coming from our country may convince Bolivias' predident, but they do not persuade this croud.
The march around the square included marching bands (playing "when the saints go marching in") featuring baton-waving girls in skirts that fell no lower than 1ft above the knee, followed by cigarette-smoking generals in full regalia, followed by wrinkled-faced women wearing hats, skirts, aprons and big bundles on their backs. This last group was an organization for the elderly, but there were no men. It is likely that they perished in the mines of the city where we now are, Potosi. It is increasingly evident that this country's poverty is directly connected to its natural wealth.
Somehow, but I have yet to figure out how, the imported cars from Japan, where the peddles and steering wheel have been improvised on the opposite side as the spedometer, gas gauge, and clock is a perfect metaphor for Bolivia.
How can this country be, as som many travelers have told us, the best place to be in South America? Are they immune to the ancient women in the streets bearing their gray braids to hold out their hat for the 5-10 cents I may spare? Or the 8 year old boys who follow me, begging me for the opportunity to shine my leather shoes when I forget to wear my hiking boots? Can they speak enough Spanish to hear the peoples' anger and frustration towards their situation? Their president? Our president? Do they see the beautiful architecture and not those who sift through the trash? They certainly, as we do, admire the majestic landscapes and the crafts they can take from the country so cheaply. But when they consume their cheap liquor, "safe salads" and perfectly-done steaks, do they notice the man in the plaza who cannot afford the $3 antibiotics the doctors require him to buy before they will amputate his infected finger, the miners who are 40 but look 70, or the young boys waiting outside the resteraunt with the cheap liquor. "safe salads", and perfectly-done steaks?
We have spent the last few days with a German couple, and as is odd but true, they are more poetic and eloquent in our language that we are. I can only conclude that those aforementioned travelers with unconditional love for Bolivia are, as the Germans put it: running after highlights. These travelers do not, and cannot see as I see. They described Potosi, once the richest and now one of the poorest cities in the world (and the city where I write this) as: beautiful but hard. I can extend this statement to all of Bolivia. It contains the most beautiful cities and the most impressive landscapes I have ever seen. But if you see as I do, it is hard indeed.
Comments-[ comments.]
As beautiful as this country is, there is a lot of pain here and it is evident. Everyday we read in The Prensa, the biggest daily in the country, articles about the upcoming referendum to export gas (to the US via either Chile or Argentina). It seems the people distrust the presidents proposal to raise needed cash by exporting gas, not because of the proposals' specifics, but becuase such policies have failed the citizens time and time again. The only day the referendum did not capture the headlines was on the day the headlines anounced that the price of bread may increase.
Within the paper each day there is a full page, USA Today-style graphic with a map of the country showing the protests taking place in various cities. Road blockades are signified with black stars and the mines which have been taken over by the miners with hollow stars. One headline announced that 80% of the goverments' time is used setling such strikes, protests, and disputes.
Despite all of the turmoil we do feel safe, but we also feel guilty. When we read that 88% of the profits from the exportation of gas will go to multinational corporations I realize that the spoils of Bolivian weath falls first into American hands, and only that which slips through our fingers into Bolivian mouths. It is interesting to note that Che´Guavara seems to have retained the most popularity in this South American nation
Yesterday we were in the Plaza 25th del Mayo watching the festivities. I was reading a posterboard of articles against the referendum (and our president) with the referendums' author, Bolivias' President, waiving across the street from the building where South Americas' independance movement began. The bell first rang in Bolivia though they were the last to achieve independance. Bolivia was the biggest prize for the Spaniards and they held their grip harder and longer here. The bell seems to be ringing again with protests and transportation strikes pegged to paralise the country in the lead-up to next months' referendum. The impoverished residents of El Alto are decending on the city of La Paz. The cries of "energy crisis" coming from our country may convince Bolivias' predident, but they do not persuade this croud.
The march around the square included marching bands (playing "when the saints go marching in") featuring baton-waving girls in skirts that fell no lower than 1ft above the knee, followed by cigarette-smoking generals in full regalia, followed by wrinkled-faced women wearing hats, skirts, aprons and big bundles on their backs. This last group was an organization for the elderly, but there were no men. It is likely that they perished in the mines of the city where we now are, Potosi. It is increasingly evident that this country's poverty is directly connected to its natural wealth.
Somehow, but I have yet to figure out how, the imported cars from Japan, where the peddles and steering wheel have been improvised on the opposite side as the spedometer, gas gauge, and clock is a perfect metaphor for Bolivia.
How can this country be, as som many travelers have told us, the best place to be in South America? Are they immune to the ancient women in the streets bearing their gray braids to hold out their hat for the 5-10 cents I may spare? Or the 8 year old boys who follow me, begging me for the opportunity to shine my leather shoes when I forget to wear my hiking boots? Can they speak enough Spanish to hear the peoples' anger and frustration towards their situation? Their president? Our president? Do they see the beautiful architecture and not those who sift through the trash? They certainly, as we do, admire the majestic landscapes and the crafts they can take from the country so cheaply. But when they consume their cheap liquor, "safe salads" and perfectly-done steaks, do they notice the man in the plaza who cannot afford the $3 antibiotics the doctors require him to buy before they will amputate his infected finger, the miners who are 40 but look 70, or the young boys waiting outside the resteraunt with the cheap liquor. "safe salads", and perfectly-done steaks?
We have spent the last few days with a German couple, and as is odd but true, they are more poetic and eloquent in our language that we are. I can only conclude that those aforementioned travelers with unconditional love for Bolivia are, as the Germans put it: running after highlights. These travelers do not, and cannot see as I see. They described Potosi, once the richest and now one of the poorest cities in the world (and the city where I write this) as: beautiful but hard. I can extend this statement to all of Bolivia. It contains the most beautiful cities and the most impressive landscapes I have ever seen. But if you see as I do, it is hard indeed.
Tuesday, May 25, 2004
Don't miss Raegan's last post on our Salar de Uyuni jeep trip. And if you are having difficulty imagining the surreal landscapes that she described, here are some pictures from our time up until now in Bolivia. Also, although many of these pictures are of strangers, you can see more of our ride on the most dangerous road in the world here (the password is photos). I'll let the fact that we rode down about 12,000 vertical feet and the pictures tell the story.
Raegan and I are currently in Sucre, Bolivia and it is the cleanest and most beautiful city we've visited thus far in South America. We are just as surprised by this as you likely are, but it is indicative of our time in Bolivia. This country is full of contrasts and contradictions: beautiful colonial cities and mud huts with thatched roofs; men in 3-piece suits with cell phones and women in andean dress with 50lb bundles of grain on their backs. Bolivia is the richest country in South America in mineral and natural wealth, but...... This is, perhaps, its curse.
La Paz, as well, was not at all what we expected of the capital city of the poorest country in South America. La Paz is beautifully situated at the base of a canyon -- thus sheltered from the harsh winds of the altiplano -- and surrounded by 20,000ft+ peaks on all sides. At the lower parts of the city the well-manicured gardens, tree-lined streets, and glass apartment buildings can trick you into thinking that you were in a posh part of Denver. It was in such parts that we enjoyed the best coffee we'd had in months. Higher up in the city, however, the buildings are in a lesser and lesser state of repair. It was in these parts where we visited the stands of witch doctors and bought charms to ensure our continuing relationship (but remained untempted by the llama fetuses). Yet, even these parts of the city are no worse (in apearance) than parts of Santiago, and their residents are certainly better-off than those in the slums outside of Mexico City, Guatemala City, and Tijuana. Though Raegan and I only experieced it in passing on the bus, the same seems to apply for the even more impoverished residents of the fastest growing city in South America: El Alto -- still exposed to the altiplano winds, perched on the rim of the canyon where La Paz sits.
In La Paz we watched what I consider to be an Oscar-worthy performance by Snoop Doggy Dog, as Huggy Bear in Starsky & Hutch after eating in a fake In-N-Out burger next to a real Burger King. We passed men in suits with newspapers in their laps and cell phones to their ear looking at ghastly pictures of Iraqi prison abuses; boys wearing ski-masks covering their faces (?) shining their shoes. Women with cell phones sold calls on the corners. Traffic-cops posted on medians, wearing military-green uniforms, changed the citys' stoplights by playing with its wires. Everyday brought one mellow protest or another and armed military men guarded Bolivias' Capital every night.
Also in La Paz we saw the movie Troy and had the some of the best meals we've had thus far in South America. It is in Bolivia that we can easily afford creature comforts and can easily see and feel the seperation between us and them.
We are really enjoying our time here, but are confused by the reports of so many travelers we've met who have named Bolivia as their favorite in South America.
I have a ton more to say on these matters, but will leave you hanging until tomorrow.
Comments-[ comments.]
Raegan and I are currently in Sucre, Bolivia and it is the cleanest and most beautiful city we've visited thus far in South America. We are just as surprised by this as you likely are, but it is indicative of our time in Bolivia. This country is full of contrasts and contradictions: beautiful colonial cities and mud huts with thatched roofs; men in 3-piece suits with cell phones and women in andean dress with 50lb bundles of grain on their backs. Bolivia is the richest country in South America in mineral and natural wealth, but...... This is, perhaps, its curse.
La Paz, as well, was not at all what we expected of the capital city of the poorest country in South America. La Paz is beautifully situated at the base of a canyon -- thus sheltered from the harsh winds of the altiplano -- and surrounded by 20,000ft+ peaks on all sides. At the lower parts of the city the well-manicured gardens, tree-lined streets, and glass apartment buildings can trick you into thinking that you were in a posh part of Denver. It was in such parts that we enjoyed the best coffee we'd had in months. Higher up in the city, however, the buildings are in a lesser and lesser state of repair. It was in these parts where we visited the stands of witch doctors and bought charms to ensure our continuing relationship (but remained untempted by the llama fetuses). Yet, even these parts of the city are no worse (in apearance) than parts of Santiago, and their residents are certainly better-off than those in the slums outside of Mexico City, Guatemala City, and Tijuana. Though Raegan and I only experieced it in passing on the bus, the same seems to apply for the even more impoverished residents of the fastest growing city in South America: El Alto -- still exposed to the altiplano winds, perched on the rim of the canyon where La Paz sits.
In La Paz we watched what I consider to be an Oscar-worthy performance by Snoop Doggy Dog, as Huggy Bear in Starsky & Hutch after eating in a fake In-N-Out burger next to a real Burger King. We passed men in suits with newspapers in their laps and cell phones to their ear looking at ghastly pictures of Iraqi prison abuses; boys wearing ski-masks covering their faces (?) shining their shoes. Women with cell phones sold calls on the corners. Traffic-cops posted on medians, wearing military-green uniforms, changed the citys' stoplights by playing with its wires. Everyday brought one mellow protest or another and armed military men guarded Bolivias' Capital every night.
Also in La Paz we saw the movie Troy and had the some of the best meals we've had thus far in South America. It is in Bolivia that we can easily afford creature comforts and can easily see and feel the seperation between us and them.
We are really enjoying our time here, but are confused by the reports of so many travelers we've met who have named Bolivia as their favorite in South America.
I have a ton more to say on these matters, but will leave you hanging until tomorrow.
Saturday, May 15, 2004
We've been in Bolivia for over a week now and there's much to report. Here is a synopsis of our first 24 hours in the country. Soon you'll get a little about La Paz and our time on the most dangerous road in the world.
First Impressions:
Rather than taking a direct bus across the border we decided to do it the real travelers way. We haggled successfully for a 2 sole (66 cent) taxi ride to where the buses leaving for Yunguyo line up. When we arrived at the "station" we were swept quickly onto the next bus for the three hour ride down the shore of Lake Titikaka towards the border. The ride was beautiful. While we cruised by the deep blue lake we passed dozens of small villages whose inhabitants made their living from the lakes reeds and fish -- The reeds for boats and miniature touristy versions, and the fish, well, for eating. We arrived in Yunguyo with sore knees (but I'm used to that by now) and haggled again for a bicycle taxi to the border. The ride was a little longer and steeper than we had thought, but we hadn't taken a bicycle taxi yet so it was all part of the adventure.
Our driver, rather peddler, was very nice so that when the incline (and altitude) became too extreme, we got out and walked while he peddled our bags alongside. We talked politics, of course. He gave us a little more detail on the recent road blockades and his opinion on their affects on locals, tourists and the country as a whole -- bad. He also gave us a little more insight into the recent (civil war-style) lynching of a "corrupt mayor" in one of the picturesque villages we had passed earlier in the day (and also the general strike planned for Peru in June. Sorry and good luck to those planning on going then).
When we arrived at the border he sat down for some water and a breather and we headed off to change money and cross the border. I caught the money changer trying to short me out of a little over a dollar. I thought to myself: man your sharp, Jacob... they can't get a trick like that by you. Bolivianos in hand, we waited in line at the border behind some folks on tour taking a direct bus across, and I have to admitt, I felt a little superior. Once across there was a van waiting to take us to Copacabana for about 30 cents each. Man that was easy, we've got this traveling thing all figured out. No need to be hand-held or baby sat.
We checked into a nicer hotel -- it cost $5 a night -- and set out for a $1 three-course trout lunch and our first taste of Bolivian beer. Not bad. We read and rested for a while, and when we left, the hotel receptionist told us that the front door locked at 10:30 sharp. With our curfew set, we headed out to watch the thunderstorms in the distance and the sun setting over the ocean, rather, lake. We also watched a soccer game between women in full andiean attire: flowing skirts, aprons, and the now familiar hats. We splurged for dinner, as we often do in a new country, city, or any other excuse that will do. I had trout stuffed with bacon, spinach and herbs, and Raegan had the fettuchini with wild mushrooms. We sampled a bottle of Bolivian wine which was not as bad as we'd been warned it was. By the time we paid our tab and tip which came to under $10 -- bolivia is cheap -- the resteraunt had cleared out. We figured the town bedded down early, as beds are the only warm place in town after sundown.
I had a whisky at the bar next door to warm me up. Raegan had a drink mixed with rum, red wine, and lemon which wasn't nearly as bad as it sounds. Then another. It was only 9:35 by the time we decided to head to the warmth of our bed. When we arrived at our hotel the gate was already locked. What the...? We knocked and were let in, thankfully.
We set the alarm for a little after 7 to catch the next mornings 8:30 boat for a few days on the Island of the Sun, the site of the Incas most famous creation myth. When we came down for breakfast after a snooze or two, the receptionist warned us that the boat had already left. I knew that he couldn't be right. I had read about the 8:30 boat in my book, and on a schedule at the dock the night before. Seeing that our watch read 8:10, we hurridly ate our breakfast in 10 minutes, exchanged a few dollars, bought some provisions, and headed to the dock. "The boat left at 8:30" the ticket-seller said. But it's only 8:25 you freako, can't Bolivians keep time (I thought to myself). He explained the difference between the way Bolivians and Peruvuians keep time: one hour.
Feeling foolish, we sat in the morning sun, on the dock of the (lake), watching the time go by. We read our books, ate our rations of Pringles, considered whether Don Rumsfeild still had a job, waited for the 1:00 boat to the island until 12:30, when we took a bus to La Paz.
Comments-[ comments.]
First Impressions:
Rather than taking a direct bus across the border we decided to do it the real travelers way. We haggled successfully for a 2 sole (66 cent) taxi ride to where the buses leaving for Yunguyo line up. When we arrived at the "station" we were swept quickly onto the next bus for the three hour ride down the shore of Lake Titikaka towards the border. The ride was beautiful. While we cruised by the deep blue lake we passed dozens of small villages whose inhabitants made their living from the lakes reeds and fish -- The reeds for boats and miniature touristy versions, and the fish, well, for eating. We arrived in Yunguyo with sore knees (but I'm used to that by now) and haggled again for a bicycle taxi to the border. The ride was a little longer and steeper than we had thought, but we hadn't taken a bicycle taxi yet so it was all part of the adventure.
Our driver, rather peddler, was very nice so that when the incline (and altitude) became too extreme, we got out and walked while he peddled our bags alongside. We talked politics, of course. He gave us a little more detail on the recent road blockades and his opinion on their affects on locals, tourists and the country as a whole -- bad. He also gave us a little more insight into the recent (civil war-style) lynching of a "corrupt mayor" in one of the picturesque villages we had passed earlier in the day (and also the general strike planned for Peru in June. Sorry and good luck to those planning on going then).
When we arrived at the border he sat down for some water and a breather and we headed off to change money and cross the border. I caught the money changer trying to short me out of a little over a dollar. I thought to myself: man your sharp, Jacob... they can't get a trick like that by you. Bolivianos in hand, we waited in line at the border behind some folks on tour taking a direct bus across, and I have to admitt, I felt a little superior. Once across there was a van waiting to take us to Copacabana for about 30 cents each. Man that was easy, we've got this traveling thing all figured out. No need to be hand-held or baby sat.
We checked into a nicer hotel -- it cost $5 a night -- and set out for a $1 three-course trout lunch and our first taste of Bolivian beer. Not bad. We read and rested for a while, and when we left, the hotel receptionist told us that the front door locked at 10:30 sharp. With our curfew set, we headed out to watch the thunderstorms in the distance and the sun setting over the ocean, rather, lake. We also watched a soccer game between women in full andiean attire: flowing skirts, aprons, and the now familiar hats. We splurged for dinner, as we often do in a new country, city, or any other excuse that will do. I had trout stuffed with bacon, spinach and herbs, and Raegan had the fettuchini with wild mushrooms. We sampled a bottle of Bolivian wine which was not as bad as we'd been warned it was. By the time we paid our tab and tip which came to under $10 -- bolivia is cheap -- the resteraunt had cleared out. We figured the town bedded down early, as beds are the only warm place in town after sundown.
I had a whisky at the bar next door to warm me up. Raegan had a drink mixed with rum, red wine, and lemon which wasn't nearly as bad as it sounds. Then another. It was only 9:35 by the time we decided to head to the warmth of our bed. When we arrived at our hotel the gate was already locked. What the...? We knocked and were let in, thankfully.
We set the alarm for a little after 7 to catch the next mornings 8:30 boat for a few days on the Island of the Sun, the site of the Incas most famous creation myth. When we came down for breakfast after a snooze or two, the receptionist warned us that the boat had already left. I knew that he couldn't be right. I had read about the 8:30 boat in my book, and on a schedule at the dock the night before. Seeing that our watch read 8:10, we hurridly ate our breakfast in 10 minutes, exchanged a few dollars, bought some provisions, and headed to the dock. "The boat left at 8:30" the ticket-seller said. But it's only 8:25 you freako, can't Bolivians keep time (I thought to myself). He explained the difference between the way Bolivians and Peruvuians keep time: one hour.
Feeling foolish, we sat in the morning sun, on the dock of the (lake), watching the time go by. We read our books, ate our rations of Pringles, considered whether Don Rumsfeild still had a job, waited for the 1:00 boat to the island until 12:30, when we took a bus to La Paz.
Tuesday, May 04, 2004
In the last episode you left the gringos in the porters' village, full from four meals of corn and potato soup, and about to party.....
Out comes the harp and the fire water. There was no chicha, or corn beer, so we had to settle for corn booze. The interviews soon stretched into conversations about who was single, and more questions about our respective homes. The award for most interesting question was: "what kind of tools do you use to harvest crops in the United States." When machines were the answer, the follow-up was: "what about the crops in the mountains?" We did our best to explain until the music began.
I was the first to be asked to dance. In nearly every instance, I feel truly awfull about what the spaniards did to the incan culture. Many traditional cultural forms have been ruined and sometimes replaced by those of the spaniards. Thankfully, despite the damage done by the spaniards the quechua language persists, as do some original crafts and music of the Incas. I feel differently about dance. Unfortunately, although the spaniards and their african slaves brougt some great hip-shaking moves to the new world, the traditional Inca dance persists. It is riduculous. When my parter asked me to dance I was prepared for a life-changing cultural experience: to learn a traditional inca dance. We held hands, and shifted our weight from one foot to the other as the harpist strummed. When the song quickened 5 minutes later we started to trot or jog in place still holding hands. After the 10 minute song and dance ended, I joined Raegan in her avoidance tactic: helping a young boy with his homework. It didn't work.
By the time we returned to the van we had drank a plastic bottle of corn booze, eaten four meals, chatted and mingled with the villagers, and danced for about an hour -- the men with women in Abe Lincoln hats, the women with men in Yankees caps. The boys had deserted us for their bed, and so we headed off to our tents.
The next morning we drank our Coca tea, and one of the porters families donated a special treat to bolster our meal -- some cuy, a guinea pig. This is a local delacacy so we were honored that one had met its end on our behalf, but I couldn't help but think that this animal roasting over the open flame was pretty lame in comparison to the goat Raegan and I had a month earlier. I kept that thought to myself and ate the sweetest meat I've ever tasted.
As the cuy was settling in, our group set off on the inca trail. Here were a few highlights:
-- In the first day of walking the hills are covered in dry brush and cacti. By the 4th we were esentially in the jungle, the threshold of the amazon.
-- Our group: We liked everyone in the group, and enjoyed getting to know them. Plus, we all traveled at more or less the same pace, which led our guide to tell us "you guys are ready for the competition!"
-- Our guide, "super" Mario. He was terrific and very knowledgable about both the archeology and the botany on the trail.
-- Coffee or Coca tea in our tents every morning. (And, for that matter, all of our meals).
-- The second day: We climbed over our first pass. Nothing but up for the first 4 hours or so, from just shy of 10,000ft to just shy of 14,000ft. I missed the lunch spot -- the first time this had happened to our guide after years on the trail -- because I was charging up the hill too fast. A couple other folks in our group, too, had to accend closer to 5 or 6000ft that day as a result. After the pass we headed down what we heard was more than 1500 steps, or over 2,000ft, to our campsite.
-- The fever I got that night, and held for the last two days of the trek.
-- The number of orchids, and other blooming flowers on the trail. According to super Mario we were on the trail at the best time of the year.
-- The many other ruins we saw which were only accesable by trail.... especially, the "secret" ruin he showed us, still grown over by the jungle. It really stoked our imaginations about both what Machu Pichu looked like when discovered and the posibility of countless of other undiscovered sites in the jungle.
-- Learning to say thank you in quechua to the porters after their hard work.... it sounds like hawking a loogie with a mouthfull of marbles.
Machu Pichu was a highlight, too, and arriving there the way we did made the experience all the richer. I'll let others tell you about the site itself. But for now, here are some photos!
Comments-[ comments.]
Out comes the harp and the fire water. There was no chicha, or corn beer, so we had to settle for corn booze. The interviews soon stretched into conversations about who was single, and more questions about our respective homes. The award for most interesting question was: "what kind of tools do you use to harvest crops in the United States." When machines were the answer, the follow-up was: "what about the crops in the mountains?" We did our best to explain until the music began.
I was the first to be asked to dance. In nearly every instance, I feel truly awfull about what the spaniards did to the incan culture. Many traditional cultural forms have been ruined and sometimes replaced by those of the spaniards. Thankfully, despite the damage done by the spaniards the quechua language persists, as do some original crafts and music of the Incas. I feel differently about dance. Unfortunately, although the spaniards and their african slaves brougt some great hip-shaking moves to the new world, the traditional Inca dance persists. It is riduculous. When my parter asked me to dance I was prepared for a life-changing cultural experience: to learn a traditional inca dance. We held hands, and shifted our weight from one foot to the other as the harpist strummed. When the song quickened 5 minutes later we started to trot or jog in place still holding hands. After the 10 minute song and dance ended, I joined Raegan in her avoidance tactic: helping a young boy with his homework. It didn't work.
By the time we returned to the van we had drank a plastic bottle of corn booze, eaten four meals, chatted and mingled with the villagers, and danced for about an hour -- the men with women in Abe Lincoln hats, the women with men in Yankees caps. The boys had deserted us for their bed, and so we headed off to our tents.
The next morning we drank our Coca tea, and one of the porters families donated a special treat to bolster our meal -- some cuy, a guinea pig. This is a local delacacy so we were honored that one had met its end on our behalf, but I couldn't help but think that this animal roasting over the open flame was pretty lame in comparison to the goat Raegan and I had a month earlier. I kept that thought to myself and ate the sweetest meat I've ever tasted.
As the cuy was settling in, our group set off on the inca trail. Here were a few highlights:
-- In the first day of walking the hills are covered in dry brush and cacti. By the 4th we were esentially in the jungle, the threshold of the amazon.
-- Our group: We liked everyone in the group, and enjoyed getting to know them. Plus, we all traveled at more or less the same pace, which led our guide to tell us "you guys are ready for the competition!"
-- Our guide, "super" Mario. He was terrific and very knowledgable about both the archeology and the botany on the trail.
-- Coffee or Coca tea in our tents every morning. (And, for that matter, all of our meals).
-- The second day: We climbed over our first pass. Nothing but up for the first 4 hours or so, from just shy of 10,000ft to just shy of 14,000ft. I missed the lunch spot -- the first time this had happened to our guide after years on the trail -- because I was charging up the hill too fast. A couple other folks in our group, too, had to accend closer to 5 or 6000ft that day as a result. After the pass we headed down what we heard was more than 1500 steps, or over 2,000ft, to our campsite.
-- The fever I got that night, and held for the last two days of the trek.
-- The number of orchids, and other blooming flowers on the trail. According to super Mario we were on the trail at the best time of the year.
-- The many other ruins we saw which were only accesable by trail.... especially, the "secret" ruin he showed us, still grown over by the jungle. It really stoked our imaginations about both what Machu Pichu looked like when discovered and the posibility of countless of other undiscovered sites in the jungle.
-- Learning to say thank you in quechua to the porters after their hard work.... it sounds like hawking a loogie with a mouthfull of marbles.
Machu Pichu was a highlight, too, and arriving there the way we did made the experience all the richer. I'll let others tell you about the site itself. But for now, here are some photos!
Monday, May 03, 2004
WE'RE ALIVE!!! I am truly sorry about the lack of communication on our part. I've got a couple of excuses, but I won't bother you with them. I will, however promise that in the next few weeks we will make it up to you, our readers, with rapid-fire entries likely to make your head spin. There will be our entries, our first guest blog entry, tales from lake titikaka, and if your lucky... more photos. Stay tuned.
Raegan's parents are here in Peru and we've been living in the lap of semi-luxury. We're currently staying in a hotel which offers both hot water and real towels. Last week we left Cusco for the market town of Pisac in the sacred valley of the incas. Over the last few days we headed from one small valley town featuring inca ruins to another until we hit the big daddy ruins of Machu Pichu. It's been great to have travel buddies, but I'll let them tell you about their time here. Raegan and I have some catching up to do (as we've been reminded in countless emails), so let me tell ya about the week prior to the coming of the padres.
Despite the fact that Raegan and I are now experieced backpackers, we didn't go solo on the Inka trail as it is no longer an option. We chose the company Waiki Trek for our Inka trail experience after reading glowing reviews of their guides and reports that they treated their porters much better than many of the other companies on the cheaper side of the spectrum. True to form, the company just began offering a new option to the trek: to stay one night in the porters' village prior to embarking on the trail. We took the option, and are glad we did.
After meeting our fellow trekers, we piled into a van and headed into the hills above Cusco. We passed many villages on the way, all very far off the well-worn tourist route in and around the sacred valley. Each village consisted of a few two story mud-brick houses with spanish tile roofs and elaborately carved wooden balconies. One could be tricked into envy by the idylic mountain setting of these beutiful, but simple houses. Of course the inhabitants of these houses were poor subsistance farmers. Most got by with a few animals and crops of barley, potatoes and corn. For extra money, a few families would send thier sons off for weeks at a time to Ollatetambo to wait for the opportunity to do 4 days of back-breaking labor carrying 50 pounds up and down the mountanous inka trail. If a family was really fortunate, they could save enough to send their youngest son to school in Cusco. Our guide was one of those sons.
The village we arrived at was at 3700 meters or so -- about 12,000ft -- and as such was too high for corn. The fields were all worked communally, potatoes and barley were the crops, and they traded the excess for corn with other, lower villages. We arrived at rush hour, though ours was the only vehicle. The men and women of the village were still in the fields harvesting potatoes, but their children were driving (or watching) burros, cows, pigs, sheep, goats, and a few chickens (of course) make their way down the dirt road. As our van honked and weaved through the traffic, some of the children pointed and shouted "gringos, gringos." According to our guide we were the first gringos to visit this village.
He took us to his moms house (and childhood home) and we set up our tents in what, the week before, was the burro bathroom. His mom wore several skirts, leggings, sweaters, and the now familiar Abe Lincoln hat. Wearing a big, two-toothed smile she invited us into her home with hand gestures. She did not speak a word of English or Spanish, only qechua. We practiced our newly-learned qechua: "hello". Her house was one room. Her walls were costructed with mud-brick, her roof was thatched roof and her floor was dirt. She was building a fire in the earth-oven in one corner and air was filled with euctalyptus smoke. She waved for us to sit on her wood bench, so we did in silence -- "thank you" was well beyond our collective quechua abilities. Next to us were a few chickens pecking at cornmeal leftovers on a mortar and pestle. Bellow them were dozens of guinea pigs either eating barley or hiding from sight. One lone bulb hung in the middle of the room.
We drank the coca tea she offered once her fire warmed the water sufficiently. Our guide figured the porters wouldn't return until well after dark, so after our tea we headed to the dirtpatch to rummage up a game of soccer. Getting a game together was not tough, but playing at 12,000ft wasn´t so easy. As hard as it was we had a great time. I did my best to ensure that every score recieved the proper "goooooooooooooool." We played until the southern cross was easier to see than the ball.
When we returned to the house the boys who had shouted "gringos" were waiting. Most of them couldn´t speak a word of spanish, so verbal communication was out of the question, but they were sure interested in us and remained our companions for the rest of the evening. The porters filed in to the moms' house and each invited us to theirs. Before we could leave, however, the mom insisted that we eat some of the soup she fixed us. It's customary that visitors be offered food or beverage, and apparently the tea she offered earlier didn't count. After our meal we piled into the van, the curious children took the last two rows, and headed to visit our first porter and his father.
The children stayed in the car and we entered the house which was very similar in nearly ever respect except that he had a lot more guinea pigs. We made our introductions and were offered our second meal -- the same type of corn soup we'd eaten earler. After a nice chat, we woke up the children as we piled into the van and headed off to our third visit. There we made introductions and were offered our third meal -- corn soup. We were all very full, but even more polite. This time the children didn't stir when we piled into the van and headed off to our next, and out of neccesity our last visit. After introductions and our fourth meal, things got more interesting.
to be continued..............
Comments-[ comments.]
Raegan's parents are here in Peru and we've been living in the lap of semi-luxury. We're currently staying in a hotel which offers both hot water and real towels. Last week we left Cusco for the market town of Pisac in the sacred valley of the incas. Over the last few days we headed from one small valley town featuring inca ruins to another until we hit the big daddy ruins of Machu Pichu. It's been great to have travel buddies, but I'll let them tell you about their time here. Raegan and I have some catching up to do (as we've been reminded in countless emails), so let me tell ya about the week prior to the coming of the padres.
Despite the fact that Raegan and I are now experieced backpackers, we didn't go solo on the Inka trail as it is no longer an option. We chose the company Waiki Trek for our Inka trail experience after reading glowing reviews of their guides and reports that they treated their porters much better than many of the other companies on the cheaper side of the spectrum. True to form, the company just began offering a new option to the trek: to stay one night in the porters' village prior to embarking on the trail. We took the option, and are glad we did.
After meeting our fellow trekers, we piled into a van and headed into the hills above Cusco. We passed many villages on the way, all very far off the well-worn tourist route in and around the sacred valley. Each village consisted of a few two story mud-brick houses with spanish tile roofs and elaborately carved wooden balconies. One could be tricked into envy by the idylic mountain setting of these beutiful, but simple houses. Of course the inhabitants of these houses were poor subsistance farmers. Most got by with a few animals and crops of barley, potatoes and corn. For extra money, a few families would send thier sons off for weeks at a time to Ollatetambo to wait for the opportunity to do 4 days of back-breaking labor carrying 50 pounds up and down the mountanous inka trail. If a family was really fortunate, they could save enough to send their youngest son to school in Cusco. Our guide was one of those sons.
The village we arrived at was at 3700 meters or so -- about 12,000ft -- and as such was too high for corn. The fields were all worked communally, potatoes and barley were the crops, and they traded the excess for corn with other, lower villages. We arrived at rush hour, though ours was the only vehicle. The men and women of the village were still in the fields harvesting potatoes, but their children were driving (or watching) burros, cows, pigs, sheep, goats, and a few chickens (of course) make their way down the dirt road. As our van honked and weaved through the traffic, some of the children pointed and shouted "gringos, gringos." According to our guide we were the first gringos to visit this village.
He took us to his moms house (and childhood home) and we set up our tents in what, the week before, was the burro bathroom. His mom wore several skirts, leggings, sweaters, and the now familiar Abe Lincoln hat. Wearing a big, two-toothed smile she invited us into her home with hand gestures. She did not speak a word of English or Spanish, only qechua. We practiced our newly-learned qechua: "hello". Her house was one room. Her walls were costructed with mud-brick, her roof was thatched roof and her floor was dirt. She was building a fire in the earth-oven in one corner and air was filled with euctalyptus smoke. She waved for us to sit on her wood bench, so we did in silence -- "thank you" was well beyond our collective quechua abilities. Next to us were a few chickens pecking at cornmeal leftovers on a mortar and pestle. Bellow them were dozens of guinea pigs either eating barley or hiding from sight. One lone bulb hung in the middle of the room.
We drank the coca tea she offered once her fire warmed the water sufficiently. Our guide figured the porters wouldn't return until well after dark, so after our tea we headed to the dirtpatch to rummage up a game of soccer. Getting a game together was not tough, but playing at 12,000ft wasn´t so easy. As hard as it was we had a great time. I did my best to ensure that every score recieved the proper "goooooooooooooool." We played until the southern cross was easier to see than the ball.
When we returned to the house the boys who had shouted "gringos" were waiting. Most of them couldn´t speak a word of spanish, so verbal communication was out of the question, but they were sure interested in us and remained our companions for the rest of the evening. The porters filed in to the moms' house and each invited us to theirs. Before we could leave, however, the mom insisted that we eat some of the soup she fixed us. It's customary that visitors be offered food or beverage, and apparently the tea she offered earlier didn't count. After our meal we piled into the van, the curious children took the last two rows, and headed to visit our first porter and his father.
The children stayed in the car and we entered the house which was very similar in nearly ever respect except that he had a lot more guinea pigs. We made our introductions and were offered our second meal -- the same type of corn soup we'd eaten earler. After a nice chat, we woke up the children as we piled into the van and headed off to our third visit. There we made introductions and were offered our third meal -- corn soup. We were all very full, but even more polite. This time the children didn't stir when we piled into the van and headed off to our next, and out of neccesity our last visit. After introductions and our fourth meal, things got more interesting.
to be continued..............
