Animal Collective

Now that my decrepitude has begun in earnest (I'm many months north of 30 these days...) I don't get out to the shows like I used to. The rock and or roll just takes it out of me too much, especially on a school night, especially up in Boston. Now, Wednesday was the first day of school, and only a few bands can lure me out after such an important day. Animal Collective is one of them.


Hungout in Foxboro until it was time for the show. The show was at the Avalon, on Landsdowne Street, literally across the street from Fenway. Of course the Orioles or some other bunk ass AL team were in town so parking was nigh on impossible. After 45 minutes of fruitless driving around, I finally settled on a parking lot (35 dollars...ouch) after Stephen texted me saying that they were about to go on.

I got there right as they launched into "Peacebone" off of Strawberry Jam. They were just a three piece, where was Deaken? But rest assured, those of you who have a chance to catch their fall tour, Avey, Panda Bear, and the Geologist were kicking out the jams aplenty.

As Avey, howled, barked, and moaned into the mike, Panda Bear pounded the skins, and the Geologist twiddled the knobs. After "Peacebone," they played al ot of new things I wasn't familiar with until Panda switched to keyboards or computers or something too, and they began to harmonize on "Who Could Win a Rabbit?" with totally different backing music. More awesomenew stuff until the encore of "Leaf House" and "Fireworks." No Feels stuff, but after what I've heard about their live sets and them touring one set ahead of their current recorded output, I guess I'm glad I recognized anything. Trust me, see this show if it comes your way...

Halle-fucking-lujah!

Okfirst off, did I spell "Halle-fucking-lujah" fight? It's tough work inserting profanity in the middle of words usually considered sacred. Anyway, as all 0-3 of my readers know, I spent most of the summer backpacking around Peru and Bolivia. While that was great for seeing and doing amazing things, it was very ineffective for my summer blockbuster going. While I'm slowly but surely catching up, I still have a ways to go. "Order of the Phoenix" crammed an 870 page book into barely a 2 hour movie, the first of the adaptations that I've found wanting. However, as you may have surmised, a so so Harry Potter movie is not going to merit the amalgation of the sacred and profane that titles this post...

The Simpsons Movie was the highest point the show has reached in years. It's depressing that what (on the basis of its first 10 or so seasons alone) was once the best show in the history of television has now been bad for nearly as long it has been great. Apparently, they were saving their load for the big screen, because the phrase "return to form" immediately sprang to mind. Among the many throw away jokes and sight gags that have always made this show genius there are: Full frontal Bart, Marge saying "goddamn," and of course Spider Pig. Plus the American government borrowing Tom Hanks' folksy credibility, and the return of a villianous Albert Brooks. Anyone who remembers the swath of destruction Hank Scorpio cut across the Eastern United States knows that that is a good thing.

In addition to Matt Greoning, Simpsons OGs James L. Brooks, Mike Scully, and John Swartzwelder are all among the credited writers. I wanted this movie to be good more than any movie since the Star Wars prequels. Unlike George "fuck my fans and my legacy" Lucas, Groening and his compatriots delivered on all counts.

See this movie.

Machu Pichu

The train station at Ollantaytanbo resembles nothing so much as the concentration camp at the end of Children of Men, only instead of ethnic minorities being forcibly rounded up and deported from the UK, the station is full of gringos clamoring to get on a train to Aguas Calientes, a town notable for little more than being located at the base of Maccu Piccu.

It´s after dark when we arrive having (barely) survived a 1.5 hour cab ride from Cuzco to Ollantaytanbo, where our train is departing from. Apparently, when it´s both the high tourist season in Peru and Peruvian school vacation week, then it behooves the individual to make reservations for one of the most visited archeological sites in the world, Maccu Piccu, more than 24 hours in advance. We can be accused of a lot of things, but consistent forethought is certainly not one of them. After a day of scrambling and plan changing, we finally came up with an itinerary that allowed us to visit Maccu Piccu and a bit of the Sacred Valley as well before we need to return to Lima (via 19 hour bus...awesome!) and eventually the states. Unfortunately, said itinerary involved us catching a train in Ollantaytanbo, not Cuzco...

Which brings me back to the cab ride introduced way back at the begining of the last paragraph. Actually, the email started with the train and the train station which I´m currently laboriously trying to wind my way back to, via cab ride anecdote, and events that happened even earlier. The fact that I´m actually paid to teach children to write makes me shudder a bit. Fractured narratives are all well and good for David Foster Wallace or Dave Eggers, but I´m trying to convey information here.

Anyway, the cab driver, I´m pretty sure hopped up on something, drives like a maniac the whole way, flashing his brights, honking incessantly, and passing on the outside, even on blind turns, but we make our destination a solid half hour earlier than our travel agent estimated. Driving into Urabambo, we almost hit a mule crossing the road, and ás we zoom on, I´m begging children and old ladies to not try to cross in front of us because I don´t think this guy is going to stop.

Ok, we´re back at the train station. It´s the constant jostling of many people in a confined space combined with harsh halogen lights and chainlink fences that put me in the mind of Children of Men, as opposed to random beatings, torture, and squalid living conditions. However...

I have seen the lowest circle of hell and it is the 8:15 Ollantaytanbo-Aguas Calientes train. Initially on boarding you find that a group of American college students have taken your seat in order for them to sit together. They tell you it´s fine, you can have theirs, even though their seats are apart from each other and you are traveling with a friend who you´d like to sit with. You and your friend at least had enough forthought to book seats together. The students are part of a larger group of 12 who seem to be terribly excited by the prospect of the train ride. You are once again reminded that you´re not as young as you used to be, but for one of the first times ever you realize that this might not be a bad thing. The train lurches into motion only to suddenly stop, seemingly at random, multiple times, and for varying lengths of time. You´ve been up for close to 20 hours, but you can´t sleep. You´re pretty sure you can smell the socks you´ve inexplicably been wearing for the last three days, even though you´ve got a bag full of freshly laundered pirs back in Cuzco. When the train finally pulls into Aguas Calientes, the disembrking is only slighly less chaotic than the (?) embarking. Exhausted, you shuffle off, carried along by the crowd, and realize that one thing has gone right this day as you see a young woman holding a sign reading ¨Bwem Brinkop Cfris Willar¨. She will take you to your hotel and blissful, blissful sleep...

Augas Calientes is a nice little town built lmost entirely out of the profits from tourism to Maccu Piccu. Laid out along the Rio Urabamba and the train tracks, it serves little purpose beyond getting people in and out of Maccu Piccu. We collapse for the night at the Payacha Hostal, literally the nicest place we´ve stayed ll trip. Highly reccomended, even though we only slept there for about 4 hours before waking up the next day to hit the site.

Up at 4:30 to catch the first bus. We´ve heard that if you miss the 5:30 bus, then they only run every subsequent hour. After queueing up patiently we watch group after group of tourists arrive after us, balk at the ever growing line, and then trudge dejectedly towards the back. It´s early enough to still be dark, but we are comforted by the knowledge that we got there erly enough to be on the first bus. We chuckle at everyone else´s misfortune, and, with a little bit of preliminary stretching and some light calesthenics, give ourselves a congrgulatory pat on the back.

Around 5:30 we hear the rumble of diesel engines. Chugging up the hill comes our bus!, but it is followed by at least nine more. As we begin to board, I am literally the first person not allowed on the first bus. My heart falls, all of our diligence for nothing! However, 30 seconds after the first bus leaves, the second pulls up and I am sheparded aboard. It takes about three minutes to pack it full nd then we are off. On one hand, I´m happy to have the opportunity to get there early, but on the other, I´m livid that people who slept an hour later than me will still arrive at roughly the same time. After 30 minutes of tortuous, winding switchbacks we arrive at the park, only to immediately get into another line waiting to enter the site proper. We are informed that we can bring in none of the food we have rought, nd Chris is forced to check his backpack stuffed full of delicous sandwich fixings.

None of these minor inconveniences mtters in the least once we enter the park. We are among the first 100 people in and are able to to glimpse it in relative solitude. By midday, there will be better than 1500 people crawling about its various temples, dwellings, and complexes. We immeditely climb up towards the guardian hut and the sun gate (entrance from the Inca Trail) so we can view the entire site from the terraces above it. It´s even more brethtking than we anticipated being. There are certain places you can visit (Mt. Rushmore springs immediately to mind) where you think ÿep, just like it looks in all the pictures I´ve seen of it.

Maccu Piccu does look like pictures you´ve seen of it, but these pictures can´t begin to do it justice. The scale is unbelievable. Maccu Piccu is 1000 meters lower than Cuzco, but it seems infinitely higher. As you gaze down from the terraces you see: To the west, cliffs plunge straight down to the Rio Urabamba far below. To the east, it is surrounded by dozens of different, jagged individual peaks, all covered in cloud forest all they way to their summits. To the north looms Huayna Piccu, the guardian mountain of the city. Later that day, I would wait in line for over an hour to climb it, as if it was a roller coaster ride.

As we pose for pictures and just marvel of the realization of mutual childhood dream, the sun comes up over the mountains and bathes the buildings in that special kind of early morning sunlight, the kind that makes everything seem fresher, more distinct. The kind that reminds you that there is a huge difference between daylight and sunlight. Grinning like children, we turn down to begin to explore the buildings.

Like Sacsayhuaman above Cuzco, Maccu Piccu was built with out mortar. The buildings, displaying different styles in different areas, are all composed of perfectly shaped and positioned stones that hold together as well today as when they were first laid over 500 years ago.

By 10:00 we´re ready to try our hands at Huayna Piccu. By this point of the trip we´ve survived El Choro and Choqequirao, so we´re supremely confident we can handle on last 600 m ascent. There was one thing we didn´t count on: steps. It´s not trail up the mountain, it´s a series of stone steps. Hundreds and hundreds of stone steps. Some close together, some fr apart, some so far apart that I literlly have to crawl up them. Halfway up I´m cursing the superior Incan stoneworking that I´ve been so impressed with this entire trip. Three quarters of the way up, I´m only still going because I saw a 60 year old lady come down from the mountin earlier that day. Nine tenths of the way up I encounter my finl obstacle. The pth winds through a cave that I literally have to get down on my belly and wiggle through to make it.

Once at the top, however, the pain and the sweat, and the aches drop away as if they´d never existed. Maccu Piccu, so sprawling and enormous from ground level, seems tiny from up here. I´m eye level with many f the peks of the surrounding valley, and actually above many others. This is easily one of the coolest things I´ve ever done. Maccu Piccu lived up to and vstly exceeded every expectation I had of it. No wonder it is one of the new 7 Wonders of the World. The descent from the summit, was less tiring, but more terryfying. Some of the stairs going down had an incline of close to 70 degrees, and most of them weren´t much more than six inches wide. The image of me missteping, pitching frward, and tumbling right off over the side was not a hrd one to conjure up. Thankfully, we both made it down unhurt.

9 hours after arriving, we headed back for Aguas Calientes, exhausted, but giddy with accomplishment and wonder. As prone to jadedness and sarcasm as I am, it felt really good to be passionately enthusiastic bout something. Such is the majesty of Maccu Piccu, it managed to puncture the ice-encrusted piece of coal that shudders arythmically within my chest.

The next day, we headed back to Cuzco via a couple of other stoips in the Sacred Valley. Now, if you are ever visiting Peru, I reccomend that you do the Sacred Valley on your way out to Maccu Piccu. This is what we had intended to do before circumstances went beyond our control. Ollantaytanbo was a series of terraces and buildings built into the side of a cliff literlly right next to the town of the same name. We hadcome down in altitude by now, and the terrin was very deserty. Reminded me a lot of Jabba´s palace from Return of the Jedi, but then again, I´m a huge nerd, and comparing things to Star Wars comes as easy to me as brething does to other people. Moray was slightly more interesting. A site of both agricultural and ritual significance, many believe that it´s design was experimental in nature. Indeed, the terrces here are circular, and descend concentrically down seven levels. When we visited, there was some sort of Incan preharvest ritual going on (Apparently happens all of August) and for the first time Peru felt similar to Boliviva in terms of its pride in its indigenous heritage.

After that it was back to Lima vi 19 hour bus where I currently type this email. Visited the Museum of the Inquisition today, and despite reding all about the horrors and injustices, the scariest thing I saw was that we´re (The U.S.) still using some of these techniques today. Lima in the winter is super depressing, consistently grat and overcast for all of June, July, and August. As we left the torture museum (which it might as well be called) we were greeted with gry skies, and a buncj of enormous crows perched in a dead tree cross from the museum. I don´t know how people do it. The 12 hours or so I´ve spent in this city are have already been much worse than the entire winter I lived in Washington. Anyway, sorry about the length, but it´s the last rambling email you´ll get from me this trip. We leave late tomorrow night. Haven´t driven a car in 6 weeks (longest ever since I was legally able to) and I can´t wait to se a movie and eat some ice cream. This trip has ben amazing on so many levels, but I´m also ready to get back to the states. Travel is great for opening your eyes to the world, but it´s also great for making you appreciate your home.

Nice Mohawk, Jackass.

Made it back safely from Choquequirao, a literal lost city of the Incas. Though it´s whereabouts have been known by the locals for centuries, it has only been recently that it has been excavated and accessible to tourists. Known as Maccu Piccu´s sister city, it can still be visited in relative isolation. Alas, a new road is being built, and within a few years the allure of visiting a ruin accessible only by a two day hike will be lost forever. Soon there will be gift shops, tacky (but maybe kind of awesome as well) t-shirts, and tours full of loud mouthed, ill tempered, litterbug Isrealis. Not that I haven´t been any of the previous three at one time or another in my life, but I´ve can safely say I´ve never been all three simultaneously.

We begin in the town of Cochara, not much to look at, but notable for being the closest significant settlement to Choquequirao. We began our hike (Chis, myself, a Peruvian family-Mom, son, daughter, grandma, another Peruvian, Piero, our guide, Walter, and a team of cooks, porters and burro wranglers) downhill from the town´s central plaza into a fertile valley where I assume quinoa and potatoes (principal crops of the region) are grown. It´s nice to not have to carry a pack, as we walk unfettered, our packs are strapped to the strong and steady backs of several burros accompanying us. Several of them are indeed done up in mohican style hairdos, see the subject line.

Cochora and the Valley below are dominated by an incredible range of glacier topped mountains, the first we have seen in Peru that can rival the mind-blowing awesomeness of Bolivia´s Cordillera Real. These peaks are easily 17,000 feet high, but we are currently so high up that they seem half that. The pace is easy going and downhill (a fact that I would come to regret in a couple of days. Choquequirao is not a loop. You hike two days in, and then 2 days out over the same route. Anything that you go down one way, you need to go up coming back.) we wind through fields and into a eucalyptus forest. The tree is not native here. The Spanish planted them to stabalize the slopes of the mountains and hills of the areas. As we continued to hike, we would eventually leave the Eucalyptus behind, a sign that we were also leaving the realms of European colonization. A gentle breeze blowing in the leaves makes a pleasant walk downright magnificent. Once we clear the forest and hike along a rutted dirt and gravel road, we are again facing the massive mountains in front of us. We will hike towards them for the next 2 hours or so, our forward vision always filled with their sheer immensity.

We break for lunch and it turns out Grandma isn´t up to the task of hiking. Why she even signed up in the first place is beyond me, as this trek is generally regarded as very tough. She rode a burro to lunch, but after returned to Cochora where she would stay in a hotel for four days waiting for us to return. More on the suitability of this trek for the very young and the very old to follow...

After a punishing 2 hour descent (oh my knees and toes, god I´m getting old.) we arrive at our camp where we are immediately assaulted by tiny gnat-like insects that leave bites like a volcano, complete with tiny red crater in the middle. The itch is maddening, and they are especially prone to bleed freely at even the slightest scratch. Chris might posses the zen discipline required to ignore the unignorable but I am no Bhuddist, and soon my legs look like Dresden circa February 15 1945. We had purchased new DEET rich bug spray after exhausting Chris´s New Zealand Army surplus, but by the time we realized we needed it it was far far too late.

Other than the entomological problems we encountered, the campsite itself was fairly pleasant complete with snack hut, and flush toilets (although no toilet seats). We were to get up at 4:30 the next morning in order to begin hiking by 5:30. The logic of thise insanely early rising being that it would allow us to do the bulk of our hiking before the punishing sun could poke its nosy rays over the tops of the mountains surrounding us. Sure enough we were awakened at 4:30 with coca tea, and accustomed to a certain degree of pack up and go from our Gray Wolf days, were packed and ready to eat by quarter to 5. We then proceeded to wait and wait and wait. Apparently, despite the repeated warnings of Walter the night before, the family decided that they didn´t want to get up that early. As my rage slowly simmered towards boiling, I watched the night turn to dawn turn to full-fledged morning. By the time we finally finished breakfast and hit the trail, it was 7, 1.5 hours later than we intended.

Day 2 is far and away the most difficult of the trek. After a brief hour descent the rest of the way down to the river, we crossed a suspension bridge, and immediately began to climb up the other side. We then continued to climb for the next 3 hours or so. We occasionally rested, once at the village of Santa Rosa where I bought an insanely overpriced bottle of Gatorade (although in the villagers defense, knowing supply and demand as I do, I would have charged twice what they did) and once on the side of the trail when we finally crossed out of the blissful shade of the mountain into the full intensity of the morning sun. At this point, all I could think about was the fact that we should be 1.5 hours further up the mountain. The pain was intense, especially in the lower calves, but after a while, you develop a certain zombie-like rhythm and continue to shamble forward and up up always up the trail. Needs like water and rest become secondary as one thought begins to consume me, ¨stop at the top.¨ I´m counting switchbacks since our last pause, and despite especially long and steep ones on 11, 14, and 16, 18 turns out to be the one that takes me to the crest at the village of Marapata, 1500 vertical meters above the river. As I sit, exhausted on a rock overlooking the valley below me, I realize that I´m eye level with the clouds.

Once you round the corner in the village, you can see the ruins, still several kilometers distant, perched on top and on the side of the mountain. We wait for an hour in the village but the family never shows so we just push on to the Choquequirao campsite. We´re there for a solid 2 hours before they finally get htere. Now, I don´t begrudge them being slow, god knows I went slow enough going up El Misti, but what does really piss me off is their rudeness in waking up in the morning. We´ve now lost close to three hours of the day waiting for them, and by this point it´s late afternoon and we have very little daylight remaining.

Chris and I decide to head down to some terraces that are literally built into the side of the mountain. They´re called Casa de Agua Caida (House of Falling Water) I assume because their steplike formations resemble a waterfall. The great thing about them is Chris and I are literally the only people there, something unheard of in this day and age of eco and anthropological tourism. The only sounds are the wind in the trees and the rumblings of a distant waterfall. As we look out over the path that we have come up and the cloud forest that surrounds us, and then down at these enormous stone steps (all of which still contain fertile soil) we are momentarily overwhelmed by the majesty of this place. All of this was built by hand, and has lasted undisturbed for well over 500 years. Unfortunately, momentarily is the key word in the preceding sentence, and after only 15 minute or so we are forced to head back to camp in order to have enough time at the primary ruins before nightfall.

We hustle back up the trail to camp, and from there it´s another half hour up to the primary ruins on the top of the mountain. I´m breathless by the time we arrive, but also impatient, and I urge my aching body further, faster. First I encounter more terraces, they appear in front of me without warning as the forest abruptly ends. I follow them, ascending when I encounter stair cases between levels. Ahead of me and above, I can see the main complex, but I can also see the rapidly waning sunlight. I put on a final burst of desperate speed, and I´m almost running by the time I scramble up the remaining bit of the trail.

By the time I´m there, the ruins are virtually deserted. Outside of our own group I only saw 4 other people the whole time we explored. Set on the edge of a cliff, Choquequirao offered its inhabitants an unobstructed view of any possible attackers. Its height offered the perfect natural defense as there is really only one possible route to take to the city, and because of the terraces it was self-sufficient agriculturally. In short, before it was abandoned, it was virtually inpregnable to conventional attack as the Incas knew it.

There is a central square with a major temple facing it. Behind the temple lie the ruins of smaller buildings and dwellings. To the south the mountain rises another 50 meters or so, we encountered a sacrificial area for priests, and to the north, also on an elevated area above the main complex, lay the homes of the royalty and nobility. Unlike Maccu Piccu and Sacsayhuaman, the buildings here were built with rocks and mortar, not just perfectly shaped rocks. We climbed an ancient stone staircase to the area of the priests and witnessed spectacular vistas of the whole city, terraces, temples and all, and it was from here that we watched the sun set over the distant mountains. It was now a bit cold and we descended back to camp, the wonder that the city inspired slightly overcoming the resentments I had towards the family for costing me valuable exploring time.

Since this email has already droned on way too long, I´ll be succinct and say that the next two days were spent hiking out. The family delayed us again, but on the last day they surprised us all by getting up on time. Everything we had hiked down we had to hike back up, and vice versa. In the grips of a powerful case of ¨trailhead fever,¨Chris and I motored out the last day with a sort of Batan Death March like intensity.

Back in Cuzco now, we leave tonight for Maccu Piccu and the Sacred Valley. After that, one last overnight bus ride back to Lima for a day and a half or so, and then home. Unbelievable that six weeks is almost up. Thanks to grad school summer programs, I won´t be able to do another trip like this, at least for the next two summers. Glad I got the experience in while I had the chance.

We're Learning for Free!

We´ve made it safely to Cuzco, no demonstrations or road blocks or any other obstacles that we noticed. Train from Puno was fantastic. Even though we were traveling ¨backpacker class¨we still enjoyed seats to ourselves with a table (complete with white, linenesque tablecloth) in the middle for our scrabble playing pleasure. There was even a functioning bathroom that was actually open to the passengers! (This is something literally every bus we´ve taken so far has lacked, even the ones that lasted 10 plus hours). As we relaxed and watched the amazing mountain scenery pass us by out the windows, bowtied porters passed back and forth taking drink and meal orders from the passengers. As much as I would have loved to sip a steaming hot cup of black coffee, I wasn´t quite ready to pay three dollars U.S. for it. As you can probably imagine, breakfast, lunch, and ¨tea¨ prices were even more ridiculous. I was quite content to eat the oranges and bananas we had bought in the market the night before. As nice as our car was, I could only wonder what was going on up in Ïnca¨(first) class. Padded, vibrating, recling chairs? Duck L'Orange? Personal Masseuses? Sensory deprivation tanks? Screenings of current theatrical releases? Gilded silverwear? Solid gold silverwear? I could only speculate. As nice as the train was, my only complaint was its seeming interminability. The agent initially told me that the ride would be 6 hours, so I based all my ¨get me off of this train¨expectations on this figure. The ride ended up taking about 10 hours, so needless to say I was quite antsy to get off by the end.

Got into Cuzco after dark, and after finding the two hotels we had preselected from our three years out of date Rough Guide (after this trip, I´m never traveling without Lonely Planet again) waaaay out of our price range we set out on a birth of christ llike series of follies. It seems there was ¨no room at the inn¨where ever we happened to try. We were getting very tired of lugging our stuff (which now includes a giant supplementary bag stuffed with souvenirs and bootleg DVDs) around, and we finally found a place that met our newly revised maximum per night price range of 50 soles (a little more than 8 dollars). Set off to find dinner and we were so hungry by this point (I take it back, I was NOT content to eat oranges and bananas, by this point I was STARVING.) that we settled on one of the first places we found. Dinner was over priced, under portioned, and really not that great. Nonetheless, I ate every scrap. It´s hard being back in Peru after Bolivia as now everything is literally twice as much as it was in Bolivia.

This morning, got up early and had a delicous cup of coffee, a suprising rarity in this coffee rich part of the world. We also moved hotels to a slightly cheaper place that actually seems nicer than last nights. Cuzco in the daylight is a lot different. Many of the buildings here retain either foundations or actual walls of leftover Inca construction. After the conquest, the Spanish razed many of the buildings (Cuzco was the Inca capital) but given the Inca´s unparalleled skill with stone working, they kept a lot of the bases for their admitedly less than inspiring baroque architecture. Even the Plaza de Armas is unique among the latin american cities I´ve visited. Instead of being a perfect square, the center of a rectilinear grid, it is more shaped like an ¨L¨conforming roughly to the layout of buildings the Inca had in their day.

We spent the morning hiking up to the ruins of Sacsayhuaman, a ruined fortress that at one time protected Cuzco to the north. The walk is tiring, but like so many walks we´ve done in South America, totally worth it. The first thing you see is a wall stretching off into the distance. Each block is at least 10 tons and fits into place with such exactitude that no mortar is neccesary. Even 500 years later this wall stands as ready as ever, challenging attackers to break themselves against it. As we reached the entrance to the main part of the ruins, we realized that the ¨Cuzco Tourist Ticket¨ we needed to buy was about 25 dollars, or 150% more than our (previously admited 3 years out of date) Rough Guide lead us to believe. I didn´t have the money on me, and before I could settle too deeply into my funk, Chris suggested that we just wander around until someone carded us (see email subject line). I immediately perked up, and sure enough, as a huge batch of complaining French tourists clogged up the ticket booth, we waltzed right by unnoticed. As you walk in, you realize how formidable a defense this fortress must have once been. Composed of ascending levels of walls, once again composed of that magnificent mortarless stone work, an attacking force would be constantly exposed to fire from above, even if one level was taken, the defenders could just retreat up to the next level. No one could possibly take Sacsayhuaman without suffering terrible losses. From the top of the fortress, we were afforded an incredible view of Cuzco as a whole, one of the best miradors I´ve ever seen in regards to viewing a city.

Heading back, we arranged a tour to Chiracarao, a little visited ruin accesible only by two day hike. Only a few hundred people visit it each year a opposed to the hundreds of thousands that visit Maccu Piccu. We are pretty excited to do that, but of course we´ll head to Maccu Piccu itself when we get back. After that, it´s pretty much time for us to head back home. There have been times when I have been daunted by the ammount of time we´ve spent traveling (although to the Europeans we´ve met with their 6, 8, 11, 23 month trips, 6 weeks is a tiny, tiny ammount of time, and when talking to them we´ve been forced to start saying ¨Just 6 weeks¨when asked how long we are traveling.) but now I can´t believe we´re almost done. Going to be out of email range for a while, but I´ll let you all know when I get back.

Peru 2: La Regressa!

Well, the good news is I have not contracted Dengue Fever, Malaria, Jungle Rot, Jaguar-induced bodily trauma, trench foot, annaconda bruises, caiman ingestion, candiru infestation (I dare you to click on the last one and read the entire entry.), or any of the other myriad misfortunes that can befall the intrepid rain forest traveler. The bad news is, of course, we never made it to Rurranabaque and the Bolivian Amazon. Surprisingly enough, it continued to rain in the rain forest (surely theres some sort of team of experts to look into this strange phenomenon?) and our flight was indefinitely delayed once again. Not willing to waste another day in La Paz (which is actually fairly pleasant, my favorite of all the Latin American cities Ive visited with the possible exception of Panama City, but pleasant or no, we had exhausted the leisure possibilities the city had to offer) we decided to push onto Copacabana.

Copacabana, you may remeber, is the pleasant little town on the Bolivian side of Lake Titicaca. We had initially passed through on our way down to La Paz, and bad weather forced us to move on before we sufficiently painted the town red. Actually, to call Copacabana "sleepy" would be like calling Godzilla "irritable." Theres not a lot to do there other than watch the gringo hippies and buy artisan-y souvineers. Actually, the real attraction of the town, besides its incredibly relaxed atmosphere, is its proximity to Isla del Sol. The Incas believed that this island was not only the birthplace of the sun, but also the location where the first people, Manco Capac and his sister Mama Occlo, appeared. Despite over 500 years of fervent and devoted missionary efforts, many of the local people still believe this as their creation story.

You reach the island via 2 hour boatride. When you head down to the docks, you realize that every gringo within a 25 mile radius is heading to the same place you are, and that 25-30 of them are going to be jammed onto the same marginally seaworthy (lakeworthy?) boat you are. No matter where weve been, even in remotest southern Bolivia, weve been surrounded by other tourists. As Chris says, if Lonely Planet makes a guide for it, youre going to be surrounded by gringos, Bob Marley music, and trust fund hippies selling crappy jewelry on the street.

Anyway, the boat dropped us off on the north end of the island where the primary ruins are. After a bit of hiking we apparently walked right by the Templo de Inca and the Piedra Sacrado (Sacred Rock) which the guide at the gate was either too lazy or too indifferent to point us in the right direction of. We did, however, find the Mesa Sacraficado (Sacraficial Table) where human sacrifices may or may not have taken place, and an allegedly puma shaped rock where the the lake takes its name from (Titi- puma, karka- rock in the Aymara language). If the sun is behind it and you squint, and you imagine really hard...well, it still doesnt look much like a puma, at least to me. Of course 1000 years ago, to people who worshipped the sun, it may have been the spitting image.

By far the most interesting thing we saw was the Labertino (Labrynth) Chinkana, a mazelike series of interconnected rooms and plazas overlooking the lake. The walls only came up to about chest height (I would have seemed like a giant to the Inca who averaged about 5"2´ in adult males) but to get from area to area I had to literally crawl to fit through some of the tunnels. The Incas believed that in the center of the labrynth there was a well whose water would bestow the drinker with health and vitality. I never found the well, but I suppose it would be a pretty terrible labrynth if the special thing in the middle or end was easy to find...

After the northern ruins, we started the long trek back to the south end of the island where our boat was due to pick us up. The walk itself is fairly arduous, lots of ups and downs along a trail that is mostly paved in the -nonoriginal- Incan style, but the view alone makes it well worthwhile. As you walk south, to the east you see the vast majesty of Bolivias Cordillera Real, a mountain range that makes the Rockies look like the Appalachians. If the day is clear enough, you can see all the way to Huyana Potosi and Illimani, the 2 massive 6000 m peaks that overlook La Paz. To the west, Lake Titicaca stretches out in all its crystaline beauty, looking like the Aegean with its sparkling blue waters and tiny rustic islands.

By the end we were well tired but totally pleased with the day, despite the numbers of tourists we saw. I know Ive already commented on the irony of me, a tourist, complaining about other tourists, but despite my self-awareness in this regard, I cannot help what I feel.

After Copa, we headed back to Peru and tonight find ourselves back in Puno; dirty, noisy, touristy, charmless Puno. When we were pulling out of the bus station on the way to our hotel, our cab was cut off by an army convoy of armored vehicles, camoflauged dune buggies complete with mounted missile launchers, and trucks full of heavily armed (with uzis!) soldiers. As we pulled into line behind them in traffic, they affixed me with glares that can only be described as "menacing." In the weeks heading up to Peruvian Independence Day (July 28-29) there have been massive anti-government riots and demonstrations throughout Peru. Apparently President Alan Garcia has not done much to calm peoples concerns about the prices of milk, bread and gas in the three weeks or so since we were last here. In fact, things seem to be getting worse. We heard that the army was brought in to "pacify" the situation in the south, especially around Cuzco and the Sacred Valley because there is so much tourist money centered around there. We did hear that a train to Maccu Piccu was stopped and that people threw rocks at it, but by and large the frustrations of the people seem to be directed at the government and its representatives, the police and the army.

Just out of curiosity, any of this making the news in the papers back in the states or Europe? Were not finding much of anything online when we look, the same with the La Paz-Sucre capital divide thats going on in Bolivia right now. Its a huge deal there, but we havent heard boo from the western press. I guess its not news until people start dying, or western tourists are affected in a way betond the inconvienience of delayed buses and road blocks.

Anyway, were heading up to Cuzco tomorrow (By train! Supposed to be one of the lovliest train rides in the world.) so I guess well see whats going on first hand. Dont worry, we wont seek out trouble or do anything (too) stupid.

A Herzogian Descent...

I'm back in La Paz again as our flight to Rurranabaque (the jungle) got canceled due to inclement weather. Apparently it rains in the rain forest. Who would have thunk it? We'll try to leave again tomorrow, but if the flight gets canceled again we'll just head back up towards Peru. We cannot possibly fill another idle day in La Paz. The only reason we made it through today is that they kept us at the airport for seven hours before finally announcing that the flight was canceled. We only had a half day to occupy ourselves with this time. I bought some presents and got a shave, a simultaneously fascinating and terrifying experience.

Anyway, for the last couple of days ago we had been on a backpacking trek called El Choro, because it loosely follows the Choro River Valley in between La Paz and Coroico. After days sitting around getting jostled in the jeep in the salt flats we were ready to get out and start moving under our own power again.

Leaving La Paz, itself almost 3800 m above sea level, we headed for El Chumbre, also the start of the Death Road that we descended on mountain bikes a couple of weeks ago, 4700 m asl. From here we drove an additional bumpy, agonizingly slow couple of kilometers (seemingly) straight up to the trail head. The trail that we would be following for the next couple of days was an ancient Inca highway. Other than the Romans, the Incas had more miles of paved roads than any other civilization in the ancient world. Lacking the wheel or horses, the Incas communicated throughout their vast empire by sending messages via couriers over these series of roads. I knew the trip would be awesome when, while posing for a picture at the top, a llama train (two girls, ages MAYBE six and eight, walked behind, shooing and hissing at the animals to keep them moving) walked right past us, much the same way they have been doing evey day for a thousand years or so now. We gathered up our packs and our group (Chris, myself, two dutch girls, Dieuw and Renee, and our two guides, Guzman and Alberto) set off down the trail.

Now, I enjoy the back country, and have engaged in some pretty rugged treks in my time, but I want to go on record here and say that there is no way I could have done this trek from the opposite direction. We started walking downhill at 11:00 on the first morning and didn't even reach level ground until almost 24 hours later, well into the second day of hiking.

As you start, you are surrounded by snow capped mountains and the jagged rock edges of the valley. Our descent was slow going (very hard on the knees and the toes) but we made good time despite being awestruck by our surroundings. By about lunchtime we had hiked into the mist that perpetually seems to shroud these peaks above a certain altitude. It was like being inside of a cloud.

As we advances, we began to hike on the actual Inca highway itself. We would be following the route for the entire three days, but for certain large stretches we actually walked on the cobblestones that the Incas themselves had put down sometime between 500 and 1000 years ago. The road was surrounded by stone walls and llamas grazed eveywhere in the valley. Occasionally the mist was so thick that you could only see the road in front of you, but I could always feel a certain weight surrounding us. Then, the wind would pick up, and that tingling feeling would be revealed to be some 6000 m peak gazing impassively down upon us.

The farther down we walked the warmer the weather became and the more evident the vegetation. At one point I thought that the mist had finally burned off for the day until I looked up and realized that we had merely descended through it and it still lay above us, concealing our starting point and any tangible signs of progress we had made.

By the end of the third day we were in a sort of cloud forest that you see a lot in Central America. There were trees and green green green life everywhere. After the arid sparseness of the Salar and the insane urban sprawl of La Paz (google image search it sometime, because I still don't think I've captured the insane assylum like way the slums are just built right up the sides of cliffs. It looks like someone built a city inside of South Dakotas Badlands, that is if the Badlands were all 15,000 ft high) it was a welcome relief to be surrounded by vegetation again.

We spent the first night in a village by the river we had followed since that morning. We were at about 2700 m, well over a mile lower than we had begun the day. While it was nice to see trees again, I did not relish the return of biting insects. However, Chris had some New Zealand Army issue insect repellent that was 100% DEET and that seemed to do the trick. (Unfortunately, we would run out before the end of the trek, and my lower legs can attest to the voraciousness of the appetites of the local entemological population.)

Up early the next day to continue our descent. Now that we had entered a little more lush environment, I can give you a bit of a description beyond my own meager expository abilities. Watch the opening scene of Werner Herzog's classic Aguirre, Wrath of God, and you'll have a pretty exact picture of what that second day looked like. In the movie, Spanish Conquistadors, and their Indian slaves descend the eastern slope of the Andes into the Amazon. I know Herzog shot his film somewhere in Peru, but for all intents and purposes, it might as well have been Bolivia. Beautiful, awe-inspiring, almost to the point of numbing us to its grandeur. There were so many spectacular vistas on that initial part of the second day that we almost couldn't appreciate them anymore. THAT'S how beautiful Bolivia is. Its majesty can beat you into submission just through sheer consistency.

We finally leveled off at about 10 that morning and had a wonderfully refreshing swim in the river next to a village almost too picturesque to be believed. (Thatched roof huts, chickens wandering about pecking in the dirt, a shirtless boy practicing, how could I possibly make this up?, kickboxing with a two liter bottle as a punching bag.) After that, it was time for our first ascent. It was relatively tiring, but since we had left the truly thin air of the high Andes and altiplano, it wasn't too bad. The sun was high in the sky by now and I was sweating freely. (Thanks Dad, if our overwhelming physical similarities weren't enough to prove our paternal bond, our proclivity towards perspiration eradicates even the most miniscule shadows of doubt)

At lunch, Chris and I managed to mismange our water supply and ran out two hours away from the next resupply opportunity. Fortunately, after our ascent, we had been following a relatively flat ridgeline that not only made for easier hiking, but also continued to afford us spectacular views. The farther we walked, the more were were able to look back upon the trail we had already covered, an opportunity denied to us the first day due to the perma-mist of certain altitudes. We can also see across the valley to waterfalls, crashing down hundreds of feet into the river clearly visible in the valley floor below. The main drawback of Bolivian scenery (other than its occasionally mind numbing consistency) is that most of the time you need to watch where you're putting your feet. This trail was not one where you would want to misstep while contemplating the juxtaposition of shadow and light upon a moss covered rock jutting out from the side of a sheer cliff covered in tropical vegetation.

Ended the day with the Subida de Diablo (Devil's Climb) a series of about 20 Incan stairs arranged in a series of switchbacks. By this point in the day (a solid 8 or 9 hours after we set out) I was less concerned with the fact that maybe I was putting my feet on the same stones that Tupac Amaru had done while leading resistance against the Spanish, and more concerned with just getting to camp.

We made it no problem, although to call our camp a village was to be a little generous. It was, in fact, one family's home on the side of the trail. According to Alejandro, they made their living through subsistence agriculture, but they seemed nice enough and let us set up their camp in what was essentially their backyard. Like Alejandro and Guzman, they spoke Aymara better than Spanish.

Last day we descended even further into a region known as the Yungas. Not a rainforest proper, but definitely semitropical in nature. We hiked two hours to The Japanes House, the home of a man of, surprise, surprise, Japanese descent who had been living in Bolivia for close to 60 years. We tried to figure out what would bring him to the middle of nowhere Bolivia, and because were dispassionate and callous at times, the best we could come up with was on the lam war criminal.

Regardless of imaginary past misdeeds, he was a wonderful man who, despite his advanced age and rather enormous hunchback, kept an immaculate garden full of flower entwined trellises and sober, reflective pathways that eventually lead to a panorama of the entire valley where for the first time we could see our complete route: the snow capped peaks or origen, the first days valley, and then the ridge that we had been following for close to 25 miles at that point. From there it was another two hours down (An interesting question for the backpackers out there, which is worse, up or down? I find that up is harder muscularly and cardiovascularly, but the wear and tear down puts on your body, once again, especially the knees and toes, is pretty intense.) to the end. We had another wonderful swim in the river, and after lunch headed back to La Paz.

Much like the Tupiza Tours Salar de Uyuni trek, I highly reccomend El Choro to anyone who is ever lucky enough to find themselves in Bolivia. Hopefully, when you next hear from me I'll have narrowly survived an encounter with an annoconda, or wrestled a caiman, or some other could only happen in the jungle proper type of escapade. If not, its more Inca stuff from Isla del Sol as we head back to Titicaca and Peru.

Salt Flats

Where to even begin about the salt flats? Well, I should first preface this lengthy (you've been warned) email with the fact that we didn't even arrive in the salt flats proper until the last day of our four day trip. As I believe I mentioned last email, we began our tour in Tupiza. Now usually these tours are run from Uyuni in a giant loop. We arranged ours to start in Tupiza and end in Uyuni. In choosing this route you not only avoid the hordes of people doing these tours out of Uyuni, but you also get to save the best scenery (salt flats) for last.

In Tupiza we signed up with the reputable Tupiza Tours (excellent service across the board, I highly recommend them) and met our guide, Mario, and our cook, Daylia (sp?) and our traveling companions, a surprisingly non-terrible group trio of French-Canadians. (Seriously, in all my travels only the Israelis top French-Canadians for sheer arrogance, annoyingness, anti-American snootiness, or some horrifying combination of the three.) Our transportation was a 1994 teal Toyota Land Cruiser which looked in surprisingly good shape given the wear and tear it must have absorbed over the years. It even had a tape adapter for the ipod. We spent the first day driving through the badlands of southern Bolivia listening to the likes of Stereolab, Dan Deacon, Panda Bear, and Johnny Cash. It was every hipster music nerds (which in the interest of full disclosure, I must somewhat sheepishly admit myself to being) wet dream come true. Our traveling companions were very nice in their tolerance of the more esoteric choices. (We threw on the Johnny Cash to ease down the pill of the more experimental electronic music we played) When pressed one admit ed "It was....OK."

The vistas were amazing, once again very reminiscent of the American SW. This time, some of the redrock areas of Colorado and Arizona coupled with some of the more surreal rock structures of a Zion in Utah or Badlands in South Dakota. As we were taking in the majesty, we were flagged down by a man in a ski mask. Theres no polite way to describe what was happening in my pants as we slowed down in answer to his urgent waves, but lets just say that he had my full attention. It turns out he just wanted some coca leaves, which if you'll remember from previous emails, are a huge part of the culture down here. Mario happily handed some over from his personal stash (Daylia consistently fed him leaves every fifteen minutes or so for the duration of the first day, but his wad never reached "Killer from the mines of Potosi" proportions.) and we were on our way!

Next stop was the tiny mining village of San Vicente. This collection of mudbrick houses and prefab trailers is little changed in 150 years. It has endured constant cycles of booms and busts since its inception and since zinc prices are currently high, San Vicente is currently booming.

But Ben, what the hell are you doing in a tiny mining village 4700 m above sea level, and hours by jeep from any settlement of significant size? Ah, great question, I knew there was a reason I kept writing to you all. San Vicente, aside from being one of Bolivia's leading zinc producers, is notable for being where the law finally caught up with Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. They pulled one job too many and were gunned down (or committed suicide depending on whose version you believe) not too far from the locked cemetery gates through which we vainly searched for their actual graves. Amazingly enough, Butch and Sundance didn't have a lot of friends and family in southern Bolivia so they were buried in unmarked pauper's graves at the back of the cemetery. We did find a sign commemorating the occasion. It reads "Here Deaths Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid." Awesome.

That night we slept in the spare room of a village (San Antonio de Lipez) that subsisted through llama farming. Seriously, the things are everywhere down here, kind of like cow meets deer back home. The room was spartan and freezing, but it did have generator powered electric light, and was a shelter from the merciless wind. Up at 4:30 the next day as we had a full day of driving ahead of us...

EARLY the next day we hit the road. About 800 m higher up the mountain we stoipped to view some ruins. Interestingly enough, they were also called San Antonio de Lipez, after the Volcano Lipez that towers over it. (I know what you´re thinking, "Ben, is there any locale in Bolivia that doesn´t have some sort of mountain or volcano ´looming´or ´towering´over it?" The answer is no.) 500 years ago, this village was inhabited by 400 Spanish conquistadors and their 400 Inca slaves. The slaves were forced to work in the Lipez silver mines. One winter was particularly fierce and over three meters of snow fell in just over a week. The pass the village lay situated in was completely cut off, no supplies could be brought in, and no one could get out. The entire village perished, and it is still said that you can hear their plaintive cries to this day. While exploring this Pueblo de Fantasmas (Ghost Village) I didn´t hear the voices of the departed, but I certainly felt the weight of history.

Other highlights of the day included a series of lagoons. These lagoons are really alpine salt ponds completely cut off from the ocean they were originally part of millions of years ago. We visited Laguna Verde (Green) which, due to the winter season was frozen solid in a delightful shade of seafoam green (Mainly wrote the preceding sentence to use the word "seafoam," something I don´t get to do too often) and Laguna Colorado (Red) so named because of a particular species of algae that lives there giving the lagoon its distinctive tint. Also, despite the frigid temperatures and biting winds, we observed many flamingos, which apparently are not naturally pink, but that color because they ingest the algae that colors the lake.

Also geysers. I expected something lame like Old Faithful (I know that´s sacrilege, but admit it. It is kind of lame, especially now that it´s irregular.) where we would stand around in the cold for fifteen minutes, watch an eruption for 30 seconds before getting back in the car and driving away. These geysers were much more proactive. You saw the billows of steam before you got close, and once we got out of the car we were overwhelmed by a roar like a jet engine eminating from the earth itself. Mario literally had to shout to make himself heard. Plus there was boiling volcanic mud which I think might have been the coolest thing of all. Very hypnotic watching bubbles form and pop from a gurgling hole in the ground.

The next day we visited rock formations the size of houses that just begged to be climbed upon. Even with several jeeps full of tourists present there were still enough for everyone to have their own. Upon ascending mine, I set aside the initial displeasure I felt at finding a bootprint ahead of me and simply looked out over the desert plateau and the snow capped mountains beyond. As I thought about just how far off the grid I was at the time (at least a bumpy 20 hour jeep ride from any sort of civilization) I felt happy that there are still places on earth that are miles away from eveything. It´s an interesting feeling to be so isolated, but one that I think we should all undergo at some point. Life is possible without cellphones, internet, even showers or mirrors, and I think we (be we I mean I) have forgotten what that is like.

Last day was the salt flats themselves. The Salar de Uyuni used to be an inland branch of the Pacific ocean waaaay back when they Andes were young. As the Andes rose, the Salar got cut off from its source and eventually dried up, leaving the barren expanses of pure white salt that remain today. Each year during the rainy season, flow from the mountains returns and replenishes the materials of the Salar long after the water has evaporated. It is estimated that the salt is 20-25 meters thick in places, and despite the fact that 20,000 tons of salt are removed each year, the surpluses remain vast.

That night we reached the edge of the Salt Flats, the Salar de Uyuni. We stayed in the Hotel del Sal (Hotel of Salt), where, true to its name, everything was made from blocks of salt, the walls, the bedframes, the tables, the chairs, eveything. I dutifully tasted several different items in the hotel and can somewhat queasilly vouch for the authenticity of their chemical compositions.

We awoke before dawn to catch the sunrise over the Salar. As the sun poked its head up over the distant mountains we were treated to fantastic interplay of light, shadow, and the intense white of the salt. (Thus ends my feeble attempt at artistic description. I think I´ll just take the H.P. Lovecraft copout and call it "indescribably beautiful" The pictures will do it more justice than I ever could)

We then headed to the "island" of Incahausi (Inca House) It rises out of the salt just like a real island rises out of the sea. Speaking of, the whole island is proof of the geological history of the Salar, as you realize when you begin to walk on it that it is actually petrified coral that you are treading upon. It is also home to thousands of cacti, the oldest and largest of which is 1200 years old and over 12 m high. We ended our tour by passing through a town on the outskirts that made its living harvesting and exporting salt. An interesting and much more pleasant (although equally demanding physically) job than working in the mines of Potosi.

Took another all night bus back to La Paz (as equally pleasant as the one down from Potosi) only to find La Paz virtually shut down today. Apparently there is a bit of friction between Bolivia´s two capitals, La Paz and Sucre. La Paz is the executive and administrative capital, while Sucre is the judicial capital. La Paz is home to more of the indigenous population while Sucre houses the more European (White) Bolivians. The current president, Evo Morales, is the first indigenous President in the history of the country. He is beloved by the poor, but due to his social programs he is not very popular among the upper class, especially in the Sucre area. Today there was a massive rally in support of keeping the government in La Paz. Thousands of people in the streets chanting "La sede no se muve!" (The seat shall not move! At least that´s as close as our pigdin spanish could translate it.) The people marched to El Alto, which used to be an outlying burrough of La Paz but has grown so much over the years that it has become a city in its own right boasting the largest indigenous population of any city in the world. Everything was closed all day so we weren´t able to run a lot of the errands we wanted to (or see Harry Potter), but things have calmed down now and we´ve successfully booked a backpacking trip for tomorrow.

Once again I´ve droned on forever and I congratulate your dilligence if you actually made it this far. I´ll try to be pithier in the future.

It's Dark as a Dungeon Way Down in the Mine

Finally got out of La Paz. Due to some festival or another going on, three consecutive buses to Potosi sold out, se we had an extra day to kill. Still smarting from the loss of my camera (all that trying to really "see" nonsense was really just my attempt to smother my explosive rage over whoever took my camera) we decided to visit the ruins of Tihuanacu, about an hour outside of La Paz.

They weren't all that impressive, but I dont know if our overall sour mood was due to the fact that the ruins weren't that great or that we were just pissy because we lost a day due to circumstances beyond our control. Either way, we saw them. The Tihaunacu were a pre Incan civilization who controlled an enormous empire before falling due to reasons that are still a mystery today. When the Spanish first rolled through they used a lot of the rocks from the temples to line railway beds and build churches. We even saw one church where you can still see the idols used as bricks in the construction. The Spanish really knew how to vanquish a foe physically, mentally, and spiritually.

Right now the internet cafe is playing "I Will Survive," is there anywhere in the world I can go to escape this wretched song?

That night we caught a 8:00 bus to Potosi, a place that bills itself as the world's highest city. I dont know what they consider a city to be, but at 4067 m its high enough for me. Fortunately we've been at altitude long enough to not be overly affected. The bus was just as pleasant as one would expect a 10 hour all night bus in Bolivia to be. We actually made great time and got in to Potosi a little early, 5:30 AM. Found a hotel on our second try and crashed for a couple hours.

We got up in time to see what really makes Potosi famous. Forget about its height above sea level, Potosi is all about silver, or rather was all about silver. No one knows for sure how much silver the Spanish took out of the mountains around the town before the veins were exhausted, but one fantastical tidbit I read stated enough to build a solid silver bridge back to Spain and still have silver left over to bring across. Suffice to say, a lot of silver. Today the mines still function, but mainly the miners look for zinc and tin. For a nominal fee we signed up for a tour.

First we stopped to get kitted out. Pants and jackets to protect our clothes, wellington boots, and an honest to god helmet and headlamp combo that every miner in every picture (mental or otherwise) you've ever seen has. Our next stop was a local store. Since we would be touring actual functioning mines with actual functioning miners, it would be important to bring them gifts. We all contributed 10 Bolivianos (about $1.20) to our guide Oswaldo. He bought cigarettes, orange soda, some sort of 192 proof alcohol that smells like what I use to clean the white boards back at school, work gloves, and lots and lots of coca leaves. As I believe I reported from the Coca museum in La Paz, chewing coca leaves has always gone hand in hand with working in the mines. In fact the Church reversed their stance on their diabolical nature once it was determined that (slave) indigenous labor could work for 48 consecutive hours while chewing the coca leaves. I bought some cigarettes too (not to smoke, don't worry, Ill get to their significance...) as well as a stick of dynamite, a fuse, and a bag of ammonium nitrate which intensifies the explosion. My total bill? 15 Bolivianos.

We were finally ready for the mine. As we headed in it imnmediately became dark and wet, although not too cramped. In most places I could walk completely upright. Daylight disappeared behind us as we ventured deeper and deeper into the earth. As we walked Oswaldo explained a bit about the life of a miner. The avg. life expectancy was about 45 due to particulates inhaled on the job. He went on to say that as dangerous as the job was, its still pretty much the best job Bolivians can get in terms of salary. They harbor no illusions as to their longevity of the safety of the job, which is one of the reasons they all drink heavily on the job. (And why we bought the hooch back in town).

Each group of miners we passed, Oswaldo gave some sort of gift to, coca leaves, a shot of booze, work gloves etc... For each shot he offered, he did one himself, sometimes two or three. We met one guy named "Killer" whose job it was to drill holes to place dynamite in to extend tunnels. He had a wad of coca leaves the size of a racquetball jammed into his cheek, and while we were talking he did at least three shots of super booze, Oswaldo matching him shot for shot. He then proceeded to drill the holes without apparent ill effect. (Remember, Im observing all of this with a layman´s eye)

We were supposed to meet with some other miners who would drill holes for Chris and I to put our dynamite in. Oswaldo, who I now suspect was quite drunk, kept calling for them, but to no avail. Finally he just took Chris and I around the corner where we just lit the fuses and left them at the end of the tunnel, just on the ground, not in any pre-drilled holes. He assured us that they were 5 minute fuses and that there was no need to hurry. We moseyed back around the corner, and about 3 minutes later, just as Chris was putting in his ear plugs, there was adeafening boom! followed shortly by another. Our group was rather horrified, but I believe its a fairly common occurence on these tours.

On our way out we stopped to visit Tio, the devil-like guardian of the mines. On their way in each day miner´s leave offerings like coca leaves, alcohol, Oswaldo helped himself to Tio´s booze (which I believe may be bad voogum, I kept thinking about Jo-Boo needing a refill in Major League), and I gave him the cigarettes I bought. (See, I told you I´d get to those.)

We left Potosi after just 24 hours, heading further south to the suprisingly pleasant town of Tupeza. We have descended to about 2900 m, and everything looks like Arizona. We got into town on a sleepy sunday afternoon and it was virtually deserted. The old west vibe continued and I kept thinking we were going to get in a shoot out. You can see how Butch and Sundance ended up down here when the heat got too much for them back in the states. Tomorrow, we´re taking off on a 4 day jeep tour of the salt flats around here so I´ll be out of interneting range for a while (I suspect a break from my seemingly ceaseless emails will be a welcome relief for more than a few of you), but I´ll let you know once I get back to civilization.

Camino del Muerte!

Still in La Paz, although we´re heading out tonight on an all night bus to Potosi to begin our conquest of Southern Bolivia. Yesterday signed up to do a mountain bike tour of the ¨world´s Most Dangerous Road¨from La Paz to Coroico. I know it sounds terrorfying, but the uniqueness of the venture is called into question when every agency in town (of which there are many) offers some sort of excursion there.

It works like this: From La Paz you are driven about an hour outside of town to an area known as El Cumbre, at 4700 m. It´s freezing and you´re surrounded by snow covered mountains. These tours utilize what is known as ¨gravity-assisted" mountain biking, which is to say they are mostly downhill. At this point, the road is fine, well paved asphalt, and easily two lanes wide. Once we set off, you immediately pick up speed to the point of being uncomfortable. You really have to resist the urge to ride the brakes as you are essentially riding your bike down a mountain. Scenery whips by almost too fast to appreciate, but fortunately we took many breaks to take in the vistas, as well as snap a few photos. We were so high up that we literally descended into clouds as we went further and further down the mountain. There were two drug trafficing checkpoints along the road, although we weren´t hasled at all, we just had to walk the bikes through them. At times we were going so fast that we actually passed trucks who were making their own slow, laborious way down the mountain.

After this part of the ride there was a brief (30-45 min) uphill portion which the tour guides cinviniently forgot to mention to us. It actually wasn´t too bad, and like on El Misti, I really appreciated all those gym sessions and stadium runs I did in preparation for this trip. After the brief ascent we were ready for the ¨Death Road.¨ This road, at one time, was the only way to get from the city of Coroico to the capital. All gravel, muddy, wet, (Coroico is at 1700 m, practically the jungle, especially in comparison to La Paz), completely devoid of guard rails with a drop of anywhere between 20 and 600 m at any given time, and barely as wide as a single bus, much less two, at points; it earned its reputation as the world´s most dangerous road due to the frequency and severity of fatal traffic accidents on it. Indeed, on our way down, we stopped no fewer than five times to view either wreckage of previous accidents or memorials to people who had perished, including mountain bikers on package tours from La Paz. (interestingly enough, another factoid the agencies neglect to tell you.) On this road, uphill traffic drives on the left while down hill traffic hugs the cliffs to the right. The logic being on a road where cm can mean the difference between life and death, the people on the outside going uphill have a better view because of where the driver´s side is positioned. For some reason we were also instructed to ride on the left even though we were going downhill (I thought you were supposed to ride a bike with traffic and run against, but what do I know?), so we did get some interesting views on the way down. At times I was actually moved to laugh aloud that this road was ever at any point an acceptable way to get from A to B in anything bigger than a mini cooper.

Author´s Note: In the interest of full disclosure, a new road from La Pazto Coroico was built six months ago, drastically reducing the ammount of traffic on the ¨World´s Most Dangerous Road.¨ In fact, these days, the road belongs, almost exclusively, to the mountain bike tours. I believe the title of the ¨World´s Most Dangerous Road¨now belongs to the one connecting Bagdhad and the airport in Iraq.

The farther down we went, the more lush and tropical the scenery became. Off came the fleeces and the wind resistant shells, and on came the bright yellow spandex bike jerseys. I´ve never felt lamer, but I do have to admit that we all looked cool decked out in the same uniforms. Wait until you see the pictures...

Coroico was a welcome respite from the chilly weather in the highlands. At 1700 m we had descended 3000 m in just over four hours. Our tour arranged for lunch and showers at the Hotel Esmeralda overlooking the town. Chris and I enjoyed it so much that we think we´ll return in a couple of weeks for a vacation from our vacation, lying by the pool and playing scrabble for a day or two in the tropical muggines before returning to the Alpine chilliness of the Cuzco and Sacred Valley areas.

On a less happy note, my camera was stolen today in the market in La Paz. I´m pretty bummed out about it, but it was my own fault, I had it in the giant pocket of my fleece jacket, a fingerless man could have probably gotten in there without me feeling it...Fortunately, Chris still has his camera, and the tour agency provided us with a CD of all the pictures they took on the trek. Having a valuable stolen in a market is just as much a traveler´s rite of passage as offering a bribe, so on that note I´m trying not to view it as the end of the world. I´m also interested to see of losing my camera will help me better take in my mind-blowing surroundings rather than having me always try to frame them in my viewfinder in order to look at them later. Perhaps losing the camera will help me focus on the present, and at the very least, it will save a lot of you the burden of sitting through my vacation slide shows...

Gringos to the left of me, hippies to the right, here I am...

First of all, Im disappointed in you all. Youre all fine people whom I love dearly, but your cultural literacy leaves a lot to be desired. Last emails subject line came from an episode of the Simpsons where Bart sells his soul for five dollars. After doing so, he can no longer venture the breath to write something obscene on the ice cream cooler door at the kwik-e-mart. The line comes from a comment by Jimbo upon observing Bar{s efforts. Honorable emntion goes to Rob Miller for at least venturing a guess.

Anyway, we managed to get safely out of Arequipa to Puno, on the Peru side of the worlds most hilariously named place, Lake Titicaca. There were no miner strikes or roadblocks, so other than a folk musician playing his guitar-ukele hybrid and pan pipes on the bus shilling for change, the ride was fairly uneventful.

Puno was terrible. Dirty, touristy, expensive, loud, full of half-finished brick buildings where construction seems to have been abandoned, smelly, depressing. However, it is the main town on the Peruvian side of the lake, and therefore has a monopoly on any sort of excursions you might want to undergo. We booked a tour to the Uros floating islands, and then Taquile island further out in the lake.

Uros Floating Islands- The Uros are a fascinating story. They are Aymara speaking and predate the Inca in Lake Titicaca. Once the Inca came to power, they fled to the lake to avoid being enslaved. For the last 1000 years they have lived on literally floating islands that they make out of reeds that grow in the lake. Today, there are over 40 islands, each housing anywhere between a single family to an entire community depending on the size. The bottom layer of reeds is constantly rotting, so a new layer needs to be added on top every 15 days. There lifestyle today seems to be a shell of itself. Literally everyday boatloads of tourists come out to visit and take pictures. The Uros all go along with it because theyve become dependent on tourist money. The whole thing was awkward and off-putting, it felt very long. If you ever visit Lake Titicaca I don't recomend the Uros, no matter how interesting the idea of an artificial floating island may be.

Taquile- Next was Taquile, an actual island farther out into the lake. We arrived by 10 in the morning to see a group of people whose lifestyle, unlike the Uros, seemed largely unchanged from the time of the Inca. The islanders are also Aymara speakers who learned Quechua to bargain with the Inca. Like the Colca Valley, they too are still farming using the same terraces theyve used for the last 1000 years. Since the island operates largely under self-sustaining agriculture, it seemed much more idealic, and nowhere near as dirty or depressing as other poor agrarian communities Ive had occasion to observe in Latin America. Plus the walk from the top of the island back down to the boats is like something out of the Aegean, or at least what Ive always imagined the Greek islands to look like. Highly reccomended, especially for washing the ickiness of the Uros out of your psyche.

Next we pushed on to Bolivia, hoping to get more off the beaten path and away from all the other backpackers we kept seeing everywhere (Im well aware that me disdaining western backpackers is the pot calling the kettle black, but what are you going to do?), but unfortunately our bus from Puno to Copacabana on the Bolivian side of Titicaca was literally filled with nothing but backpacking hippies. The border crossing was smooth as can be. I was actually expecting a lot of hassle given Morales' obvious disdain for Americans. Copacabana is a charming little lakeside town, everything we wanted Puno to be. The weather did turn on us, even though it is not the rainy season, so we werent able to get out much. Played some scrabble in a little cafe to wait out the storm, and then climbed the local mirador (lookout) in the late afternoon. After about 200,000 (a rough estimate based upon how my calves felt at the top) stone steps we reached the top and were rewarded with stunning views of the lake at sunset, although it was still a little cloudy, so I imagine they could be even stunninger on a clear day. Copa has avery interesting Moorish style Cathedral that the Vatican commanded the locals to build to commemorate some miracle or another. Kind of strange to see cuppolas on a cathedral, but we did get to see some SUVs decked out in flowers and ribbons, the result of having been "blessed" in the cathedral. Awesome. Other than that, Copa didn{t have much to offer, but we enjoyed a relaxing day after several hectic travel days. The weather still looked a little cloudy, so we elected to push on to La Paz, rather than visiting Isla del Sol, the place where the Incas believe the first humans were born. Hopefully well get there as we loop back into Peru.

La Paz- The bus ride here was mind blowing, along the lake for the first third or so. At one point we stopped at a small town and got off the bus. The bus had to cross the lake on a vehicle ferry that you had to see to believe (it looked like it was made of scrap wood) while the passengers would cross on seperate ferries. Even though we werent leaving Bolivia they asked to see our passports. Unfortunately, mine was underneath the bus which at this point was about halfway across. I showed the guard my photocopy, but he said it was no good and had me come back to the office with him. I was quite excited to try and offer him a bribe (sort of a right of passage for Latin American travelers), and I asked him something to the effect of "isnt there some sort of fine I can pay here? Now? To you?" He said yes, that it was 150 Bolivianos, (about 20 dollars) but then showed me the official notice stating specifically that people without their passports would have to pay a 150 Boliviano fine. alas it would not be a bribe I would be paying (although rest assured, it was a bribe that I offered to pay in the first place), but rather an officcially sanctioned government fine. It all worked out in the end, however, and he then did an about face and said that photocopy was fine and sent me on my way.

La Paz takes up an entire valley below the towering Huyanapotisi mountain. As you begin to descend it stretches out into the smog past where they eye can see. Unlike most western cities, the nicer areas are farther down the valley, and the slummier areas are closer to the top. We got to our hotel all right and set out to explore the city. Saw a manafestacion (demonstration) a couple of blocks away and went down to check it out. There were plenty of riot police decked out in helmets, shields, and teargas guns, but we couldn{t really see any demonstrators, only a few young men shooting bottle rockets into the air. I tried to talk to one of the riot policemen, but he seemed very less than interested in speaking to me, and after a couple of blank stares as responses to my questions, I took the hint and we got the hell out of there. Wandered back to our hotel through the witches market and the cocoa museum. Market had lots of awesome things like dried lama fetuses (apparently bury one under the cornerstone of a new house youre building for good luck) and fake fossils for sale. Cocoa museum did a lot to dispell myths about cocoa leaves (which are chewed by about everyone around here, they help with the altitude) and how their use differs from cocaine. For instance, when the Spanish first came, they considered the leaves to be diabolic due to their religous signifigance to the native people, however once it was found out that chewing the leaves could allow slave labor to work gold and silver mines longer and with less rest, then they were suddenly in favor of it. I could go on and on but...

it seems that Ive written a lot again. For those of you still reading, thank you. Tomorrow were going to mountain bike on "the world's most dangerous road," and after that I think we are a mere 14 hour bus ride from Bolivias other capital, Sucre, from where we will begin our conquest of the southern portion of the country.

Way to Breathe, No Breath

After a seemingly interminable showcase, Chris and I are finally ready to push on from Arequipa. I´m going to miss this place, today I bought Sunshine, a movie that, to the best of my knowledge, isn´t even out in the states, for one dollar. You can´t really beat that can you?

To top off our trip, Chris and I signed up to climb the mountain that leers over all of Arequipa like that one uncle that no one wants to invite for family dinners, the volcano El Misti. At something like 5820 meters (over 18,000 feet. To convert, multiply 5820 by three. Then multiply it by three inches (about how much longer a meter is than a yard.) Take that number (the product of 5280 and three inches) and divide it by twelve to get a number in feet. Add that number to the original product of 5280 and three and viola! you have meters converted o to feet! I think. That´s what I did, but any math heads (I´m thinking particularly of you Dad) please feel free to check my arithmetic.

Anyway, the trip. Chris and I signed on with four other people, a Brit, a Dane, and a French couple. For some reason when I do these tours with Europeans instead of Americans, they feel less touristy, even though they are exactly as touristy. Our trip, two days up El Misti. The car drops us off at 3400 meters (over 10,000 feet, I´m not going to do anymore conversions. As citizens of the world, we should all be metrically savvy.)

From there we ascend 1200 meters to our base camp. We carry tents, sleeping bags, warm clothes, 5 liters of water each, and food. Now, Arequipa is about 2300 m, so we were already feeling the altitude from when the car dropped us off. Immediately, you feel the burn in your calfs, and I´m super glad about all the time I forced myself to do stair master sessions, stadiums, and calf presses in preparation for this trip. The trek to base camp took about 5 hours, and we reached it by about 4 p.m. After setting up camp, our guides, Alberto and Tio, began to prepare us dinner. They made a not-bad, especially for the circumstances, chicken soup. And we were literally ready for bed after dinner, around 6:00. That´s how much the altitude affects you. It´s good that we went to bed early, because the next day´s schedule was up at 1:00 (A.M.!), and on the trail by 2. We set off, sans packs this time, thank god, for the summit, another 1200 vertical meters above our heads. The pace seems to be both way too slow and impossible to maintain at the same time. We trudge onwards with a three quarters moon and brilliant stars above our heads. Arequipa is lighted like a museum exhibit below us. From this altitude, and with the lights on, you can really see how sprawling the city is, taking up a good portion of the valley floor. For those of you not aware, south of the equator it´s winter right now, and as an additional newsflash, winter in the Andes is COLD! I haven´t been that cold in a long time, despite the physical exertion we were undergoing, I was still freezing, and no matter how much my body craved the break, I almost didn´t want it because slowing down meant freezing up. We hiked like that for a good 4 hours until the sun came up. Unfortunately, the sun didn´t make it much warmer (although it was a huge psychological boost) because the wind remained as biting as ever. I´ve got to say, for all my REI fleeces, patagonia expedition weight long underwear, and goretex shells, it was the 10 dollar down jacket from Target that kept me warmest. Score one for the bargain hunter!

By this point, I´m really starting to feel the altitude, and I´m lagging farther and farther behind the group (with the exception of the afore-mentioned Brit who did the whole hike at his pace, took breaks when HE wanted to, and was not afraid to stop and take in the view). I can´t seem to catch my breath, and although El Misti is not a technical climb, requiring, ropes, carabiners, ice axes etc..., it is tough. In addition to the obvious problems the altitude present, the entire ascent was either scrambling over medium to large sized boulders, or up sand paths that really seem to collapse under my weight (the last thing in the world I am is a small man). Imagine walking up a sand dune, but now imagine that that sand dune is 18,000 feet high. For each step I took, I was literally expending the energy of five or six steps, not the most efficient system in the world. was literally stumbling up the mountain. Now I know how kids with motor control issues feel.

Anyway, it´s now 10 in the morning and we make it to Misti´s Crater, 5740 m. I'm totally spent by this time´. I practically crawl the last couple of feet, and pause to take in a Panoramic view of the valley that makes your jaw drop. Chris shoulders on the additional 80 m to the actual summit, marked by a 10 m high iron cross that some Peruvians were nuts enough to haul up there. Said the view was even more incredible from there, but unfortunately, I´ll just have to take his word for it.

If this email seems a bit altitude sickness alarmist, I want to reassure everyone that I´m fine. Back in Arequipa for one more night with nothing but a faint headache as a reminder of my issues earlier today. Tomorrow, assuming striking mine workers don´t block off the road in protest of their atrocious wages and working conditions, we´ll be in Puno, the Peruvian gateway to Lake Titicaca.

So what do you all think, did a make it to 18,000 feet. Convert 5740 meters using the method I showed earlier and let me know. Also, one dollar to the first person to email me and correctly identify the subject line of this email, void to Chris Willard who I know knows, plus I told him how I was going to use it.

Arequipa 2: La Venganza!

I'd be remiss if I didn't write some things about Arequipa before we push on from Peru's "White City" so named, depending on who you ask, for the white volcanic rocks that many of the colonial buildings are made of, or for the white people (The Spanish) who built it into to the semi-metropolis it is today.

Traffic: At least 7 out of every 10 cars on the road is a tiny little yellow taxi. They'll take you anywhere in town for a bout a dollar, and they drive wrecklessly to the point of being suicidal. In fact, I think the only reason that the streets of Arequuipa are not choked with burnt out husks of abandoned, ruined taxis is that all the drivers are equally nuts. Stoplights seem to be respected for the most part, but stop signs are universally ignored. At intersections they just honk the horn and hope for the best. Right of way is determined by whichever traffic stream is most aggressive. Cars on the perpindicular street just wait until the lead can force his way into the middle and grant his street the right of way. There seems to be a perverse sort of logic to it, I suppose because everyone plays by the same insane rules. Nowhere have I seen a place (and I've traveled relatively extensively in latin america) with less regard for the pedestrian right of way, or even the pedestrian right to not get run down like a dog in the street. You know how sometimes when you are waiting to cross the street and a driver will slow down and wave you across? Well, the earth will crash into the sun before that ever happens in Arequipa.

Restaurants around the Plaza de Armas: Like many colonial cities, Arequipa was built out from a central square. The Plaza de Armas is surrounded on one side by a beautiful double-steepled cathedral, one side by munincipal buildoings, and on two sides by restaurants that have second floor balconies overlooking the square. None are particulary good, or cheap, but the balconies do offer a hard to beat dining environment. Each of these places employs a menu pusher whose sole job is to put fannies in the seats, so to speak. They aggressively pursue as you walk by, pressing menus into your hands, boasting of their platos tipicos , and varied drink selections. If you are walking down the block, no matter what you say to one, the next one will be on you instantly. If you say no, they'll say maybe later and thrust business card sized menus into your hands. You can literally come out of one (Chris and I like to take our desert and coffee there in the evenings because they let us play cards and backgammon, and, for all their faults, the ambience and the view can't be beat) and be accosted by one urging you to come to another. If you're in the plaza (across the street), and you even remotely look like youre trying to find a place to eat, they become even more agitated, reacting like sharks to the struggles of a wounded fish. They yell, they wave their menus, some will even actually cross the street in an effort to preemptively engage you. I dont know how I'll decide where to eat back in the states without people yelling the benefits of their particular establishment .

People Complimenting our Spanish: We realize we aren't fluent. We realize we speak like children, we are relatively self-aware, and we certainly aren't stupid. However, at various restaurants and travel agencies, they compliment our Spanish in a vaguely patronizing way, kind of like the 6 year old in the tuxedo at the wedding who looks just like a handsome little man! I can almost feel my cheeks stinging where theyve been metaphorically pinched.

Garbage Trucks: Blare a tinny, synthesizer version of Beethovens Fur Elise as they make their rounds around the city. It never stops (must be some sort of continuous loop) and it is LOUD. Chris and I had occasion to walk along side one for several blocks as its constant stops matched our walking pace nicely. Question: How awesome is it that Arequipa has managed to connect Beethoven and garbage in every citizen's mind? Answer: Mega-Awesome!

Bums: have megaphones, and weve seen not one, but two drunken Santa Clauses in the street. One was particularly forward thinking and wore a nifty green and white outfit as opposed to the traditional red and white. He earned additional points for having a real giant white beard.

Well, to those of you still reading this bizarely long-winded email, congratualtions youve reached the end. Thats all Ive got for Arequipa, and well be out of here by the end of the week. By the way, I sent out a round of postcards yesterday and the stamps cost two dollars each. Suffice to say, I will be sending out no more postcards (unless stamps in Bolivia are cheaper) so youll just have to get your Ben fix from these posts.

un Viaje Increible al Canyon de Colca

Just got back from a weekend excursion to Colca Canyon, the world¢¥s second deepest canyon. After it took our tour group a good hour and a half to round up everyone at their various hotels we were well on our way. The terrain outside of Arequipa reminded me a lot of the less actractive parts of the American southwest. Barren mountains, dusty, occasional splashes of green. The main difference was we were a LOT higher up. That, and we were able to see wild herds of Vicuna, and domesticated herds of Alpaca. Both are related to the Llama. From Arequipa at about 6,000 feet we climbed as his as 15,000 feet before descending to the town of Chevay at about 10,00 feet. Chevay used to be in the middle of nowhere before tourism in Peru started to blow up. Now it is used as the basecamp for all excursions into the Colca Canyon, and believe me you can't spit in Arequipa without it landing on someone offering to take you to Colca. Now Chevay is full of little girls in traditional dress who will let you take their picture for about 15 cents. I paid a couple (they are unbelievably cute, especially when they had baby Alpacas with them), but I also surreptitiously snapped a few picks when they weren't looking.

Once in Chevay we set out on a hike to some pre-Incan tombs. On the way we bore witness to the entire valley floor carved into step like terraces. The original inhabitants of the valley even before the Incas) created these terraces in order to grow crops in a region where flat land is at a premium. Not only is the land still farmed today, but these terraces are still in use, despite the fact that they're over 1,000 years old!

The tombs, built into the side of a cliff face were bizarelly open to the air. Bleached white bones were clearly visible, left where they had been initially excavated. It seemed kind of strange to be able to reach out and touch the bones (I did see one member of my group actually pick up a skull, hopefully the rest of my trip won¢¥t be cursed Brady Bunch-style), but I was mainly preoccupied with my head at the time. Hiking at altitude (we had not had enough time to properly acclimatize) can lead to some splitting headaches. We capped the day off with a trip to some of the nicest hot springs I've ever been to, usually hot springs are the biggest tourist trap in all of latin america, before retiring for the evening in order to meet our 5:00 am(!) wake up call to see the Andean Condor.

We dragged ourselves out of bed and into the bus, and I was a little apprehensive. Noone was willing to conclusively say that we¢¥d see this condor, and after a rather rough night of little sleep I was more than a little pessimistic. I pictured something akin to the emergence of the bats at Carlsbad Caverns in New Mexico if you¢¥ve ever seen that. Impressive enough sure, but hardly awe-inspiring. I threw all those thoughts out the window once we arrived at the Cruz del Condor. Once the Condors began to emerge (they leave for the day around 9 in the morning to begin their search for carrion) I nearly wet myself. One, they're huge, their wingspan nearly 8 feet across. Two, of the 20 or so condors that I watched fly for the better part of an hour I saw maybe 2 wing flaps collectively. They are perfectly designed to ride these Andean wind currents with a minimal ammount of effort. After a while I swear they knew all the people were there to see them. Occasionally one would lazily glide by and almost hover motionlessly in front of an orgasmic crowd and set off an explosion of flashes, camera clicks, and whatever you call the random artificial sounds generated by digital cameras. I could just picture on saying...

"Hey Fred, watch me go mess with those weird things that come out here every day. This'll drive them crazy..."

as it sped towards the waiting hordes.

Anyway that was the last couple of days . We're in Arequipa for a bit longer before we push on to Lake Titicaca and then Bolivia!

Arequipa

To recap any first timers, I´m currently taking spanish classes in Arequipa Peru, the country´s second largest city. At first glance, it´s your typical latin american urban center, crowded streets, and diesel fumes, but as you get to know the place it really grows on you..

We´re at about 2300 m here, for those of you less metrically inclined suffice to say we´re higher than Demver. Altitude isn´t that noticable, although this is the lowest we´ll be all trip by a good 800 feet, so if the altitude isnt a problem now, it will most likely be in the future. Arequipa makes sense as a place to acclimatize our selves before pushing on to Titicaca, Bolivia and Cuzco.

Last night I enjoyed a typical Peruvian dish called Cuy, which you may know better by its english name Guinea Pig. I kind of thought they had different guinea pigs here (I was picturing something like a Capyberra) but when they brought it out it was just about the same size as the millions of animals running around on wheels in cages back in the states... It was spretty good, tasted like, suprisingly enough, chicken, although as you can imagine, there wasn´t too much meat on it!

Classes are going well, it never ceases to amaze me how quickly my broken, childlike spanish returns to me. This weekend, we´re touring Colca Canyon, the world´s second deepest, and next week we´re looking to climb an 18,000 ft mountain. After that we bid Arequipa goodbye and push on to Lake Titicaca, the world´s highest navigable lake.
(Last sentence was from the original email. Actually, there are plenty of higher navigable lakes throughout South America. Apparently, they always say that about Titicaca because it's the highest lake of significant size.)

Finally...

It´s only been a year, but here are some new posts from a trip to Peru and Bolivia I took with Chris

After 29 consecutive travel hours Chris and I finally arrived in Arequipa. Every flight we took was delayed by an average of 2.5 hrs. Apparently we can not fly in the rain, and if it is raining in Atlanta, then the entire eastern seaboard gets shut down. Will not bore you all with the tedium and misery of all night flights, suffice to say, Im glad it will be six weeks before I have to do it again.

Right now were just looking to check in with loved ones, get something to eat, and hit the hay. Will report back later after something actually happens...