Teasers Because I Am Too Sleepy to Write

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Puno, Peru, Lake Titicaca



Market, Arequipa, Peru



Wide angle shot of ruins on Taquile Island, Lake Titicaca, Peru. Knitted hats and friendship bracelets are the most common handicraft on the island. According to Wikipedia: Knitting is exclusively performed by males, starting at age eight. The women exclusively make yarn and weave. (From what I saw, this is true!)

3 Uses for Hiking Poles

Fingers purple from poor circulation at altitude and legs wobbly and weak from our sloth holiday season, Will and I set out, bound for "somewhere nice" in the canyon. It was my first time using hiking poles and our first overnight trip with packs. The transition from bipedal to quadrupedal was awkward but short, and I was immensely grateful for the poles as they spared my knees from suffering from the 3,000 ft descent. Sliding down the scree laden trail, we contemplated the many uses for hiking poles, including fighting condors and dogs. The former has not happened. The latter will happen. Poles are much preferable to a water bottle (our weapon of choice upon our last unfriendly encounter).


Descending to Sangalle, a tropical oasis resting on the roaring river bank of the Colca canyon, we eyed the pristine swimming pools. Our bodies were groaning under the weight of our packs, and our mouths were pasty and dry from the dry desert air and brutally powerful sunlight. Once again I debated the practicality of such a heavy hobby as photography and wondered if I should just take up knitting. I forgot about my decision to ditch photography for knitting once I slid into the clear, cold water of a swimming pool. What a delight it was to watch the light fade from the clay colored canyon walls. Grabbing my camera, I scouted out the lush property, seeking out other travelers for company and photo ops before dusk. It wasn't long before I was deep in conversation with Joaquin, an Argentinian traveler, relaying the state of agriculture in the USA and swapping travel stories. Our conversation stalled only when the light changed and I would scamper up a boulder or around a tree to take another shot.


The unspoken knowledge between us was that down was hard. Up would only be harder, and though it was only a 3,000 ft gain, it was at altitude (10,000?) there is no telling how far we walked thanks to the ENDLESS switchbacks. Andeans know how to walk about the mountains. It is part of day to day life. Aside from the packs of mules carrying gear for tourists or supplying food to these roadless towns, we encountered an older Peruvian couple on the trail who appeared to be in their late 60's. The man used a stout wooden pole for support and the woman used an aluminum broom stick. Carrying no more than a small bag (no water), they were on their way home. Home was Cosnihua, a village with no access apart from the very trail we were bemoaning our sore bodies for climbing. A walk home meant descending 3,000 feet, and then ascending the same distance. On Maine standards, this would mean that to walk home, you would have to ascend and descend Mt. Katahdin (don't forget to add altitude)!

Condors

Will debated whether or not he should pretend to be dead so as to attract the great, scavenging condor. He decided against it. The five hour bus ride to Cabanaconde proved to be uneventful, but wonderfully scenic. We arrived after dark, climbing off the bus with a group of French travelers and wandering the silent streets in search of accommodations. Low and behold, we came across a delightful hippie hostel, packed with travelers who, like us, had shirked the tour companies to spare getting ripped off by exploring the canyon independently. It's an easy place to explore alone and plenty of backpackers are seeking companionship and interesting conversation.


A blurry but a nicely framed shot by Will when the one (and only) condor flew by. Catching the 6:30 am local bus up the mountain, Will and I visited the Mirador del Condor. The first to arrive on scene, we basked in the sunshine, wearing down coats to keep out the wind chill despite the warm sun and keeping a sharp eye for the world's largest bird (by wingspan). Fact: They can weigh 17.5 kilos and have a wingspan of 10.5 feet. According to Will, condors eat elephants which explains why there are no elephants in the Andes. I haven't checked my sources on that.

Emerging

At last! We are healthy enough to hit the road. Time for a 6ish hour bumpy bus ride. We are off to the Colca Canyon, one of the deepest canyons in the world...allegedly. The deepest canyon in the world is the Cotahuasi Canyon (a neighboring geological phenomenon)....still allegedly. There is a fair amount of controversy over what defines the depth of a canyon. Is it the top of the highest mountain in the range from which the canyon tumbles, or is it the level plateau from which the lowest point of a canyon can easily be measured. The Himalayas certainly may have deeper canyons than the Andes--it is a close call as both ranges host rather formidable peaks--yet the Himalayas are largely unpenetrated, unlike the Andean range. It is likely that nobody has measured the depth of all its hostile and impermeable canyons.

Fortunately, no statistical competition will dissuade me from whether the canyon is worthwhile or not. Rather, its superlative as one of the best trekking locations in the world magnetizes our interests. Time to see what it is worth!

Another Time-Out for the Team

One of the unfortunate aspects of traveling in third world countries is the inevitability of contracting traveller's diarrhea. One has to seek fiber in this meat, noodles, and potatoes world eventually, but this usually involves eating vegetables--which happen to be washed in local non-potable water. Alas, Will was the first victim of a day in bed with mint tea, soda crackers, and the book, The River Why. Shortly thereafter, he contracted the cold which I had finally purged from my own body. Now that he has returned to health (mostly), it's my turn for soda crackers! Luckily we are staying in a hostel with comfortable beds and pillows for this round of reading and sleeping around the clock. Earlier this afternoon, I received a wake-up call. Crawling out of bed, I stood up too quickly and was dizzied by the rush of blood draining from my head. I walked over to the wall to press my forehead against the cold tiles to help regain my senses before finishing the 15 foot trek to the bathroom. Instead i found that my legs had buckled and I was convulsing on the floor.


Conveniently, Will's backpack and sleeping pad were sprawled across the hard tiles, so my landing was gentle. Terrified at the inexplicable downturn of events and at the fact that this happened to be the one moment Will had left my side throughout the entire day for a bite to eat, I struggled to grasp what had just happened--that is, until I smelled burning hair. Apparently I missed the wall and pressed my forehead against the light switch, giving myself a healthy dose of voltage. Moments later, Will returned from lunch and scooped me gently from the floor, showering me with the comfort I so desired. Thank you, Will!

Rainy Season

Traditional Andean women wear colorful wool leggings, hoop skirts, multiple wool sweaters, and black bowler hats. Sheep are abundant so the reason for wool is obvious, but European style bowler hats and hoop skirts?! "it is interesting to note that all bowler hats you see worn..trace back to the 1880's, when an enterprising British hat salesman, anxious to dispose of a factory overrun, convinced indigenous leaders that the hats were considered the rage in Europe. As European fashion was considered the ultimate word in civilized standards, the hats (and, incidentally, those ubiquitous billowy hoop skirts) became--and remain--the style norm for indigenous women in the Peruvian and Bolivian Andes." (Doing Business in the New Latin America: A Guide to Cultures, Practices, and Opportunities, by Thomas H Becker).


We are in Arequipa now, though by no means was the trip from Huancavelica to Arequipa a walk in the park. Leaving Huancavelica at 7 pm, our rickety bus took the trip in stride--a mere 11 hours of rough dirt roads between us and Ica, our coastal transportation transfer location before the 12 hour ride (on paved roads!!!) to Arequipa after a five hour nap in a hostel with pillows that may have been made with rocks. The dirt road through the Andes is not for the faint-hearted. The steamy bus which smelled of wet wool and body odor, had to make three point turns to navigate the curves down the treacherous single lane "highway", and passengers who couldn't afford seats sat on the isle side armrests, making for a rather cozy environment. Later, as we crossed a 5,000+ meter pass around midnight, our proximity to our wool clad highland neighbors proved to be a godsend because the bus windows leaked the frigid mountain air, dropping the already damp and cool temperature of the unheated vehicle. The bus stopped every ten minutes or so to pick up highlanders waiting for transportation on the side of the pitch black road, and again to drop off others who would walk away from the bus in to what appeared to be a wasteland, the darkness enveloping them long before anyone could tell if signs of life were about.

Despite the vulnerability of obviously being tourists, no one took advantage of us. Our bags were untouched, despite the ample opportunity for pulling them from the luggage compartment--even with my persistent window-seat night watch, I could have easily missed our packs in the constant luggage shuffle. Most people smiled at us. Others spoke to us, but I suspect that many people who might have said something, did not, because they only spoke Quechua and not English or Castellano (Spanish is referred to as Castillian, rather than Espanol/Spanish). Arriving at Ica around 5 am, we snagged a hostel, took our first shower (oh my gosh, there was hot water!) in several days, and slept for several hours before heading back to the bus terminal to see how soon we could escape the scalding hot, dirty, dusty tourist trap for the pure mountain air. Ten minutes later we were on a bus bound for Arequipa with tickets for the last two seats. This time we actually had the option of first class, and gratefully accepted, in part for the cushy seats, but mainly for the security of our baggage. The extra 15-20 USD is well worth knowing that you won't lose camping gear!The route took us South along the Panamerican highway, frequently in sight of the crashing waves, and sometimes seemingly on the waterline itself. Navigating rocky cliffs, and coasting along the desert highway, we were occasionally greeted by a shock of bright green farmland. These farmland oases lined trickling rivers, supporting small towns along the highway. Their precarious existence depends on water availability, but the soil and small amount of water supports cattle, asparagus, banana, and cotton.


If only the highway had been this nice....

Ano Nuevo

January 1, 2012


Calendars are a popular gift thanks to the imminent approach of the new year. They're used to advertise restaurants, gas stations, lawyers, and so on, though the visual aides used in this handy marketing scheme don't quite correspond with the subject matter. Airbrushed women donned in scandalous panties decorate these glamorous 2x3 ft calendars. We were the recipients of such a gift thanks to our last taxi driver who miraculously delivered us to the remote mountain town, Huancavelica. As it was not reflective of our tastes, we managed to leave it in the taxi without the driver noticing. Fortunately, she (yes, a female taxi driver!) will probably assume that we left it because I had no idea what she was saying and therefore, won't be insulted. I had trouble understanding her--in part because she spoke so quickly but mostly because she kept mixing Quechua, the Peruvian indigenous language, into her sentences. Or maybe I just didn't understand her....?


The ride to Huancavelica from Huancayo was fairly uneventful. We only broke down once in the 3 hour, 80 mile trip through the mountains. A kind group of men stopped to tow us to the top of the ridge with a rope tied to their bumper, so as to jump start the car. The driver was possibly the worst I've ever met in all of my travels, but the phenomenal scenery was captivating enough for me to drag my eyes from the land-slide piles around each 300 degree blind turn that she took with one hand--the other hand was occupied either with her cell phone or crossing herself. Nonetheless, she was a kind woman, as was the older Peruvian couple in the colectivo with us, and gave Will and I an empanada de calabaza (squash stuffed empanada). They were highly curious as to who we were, how many babies we had, and what we did for a living. as we have entered a more conservative region, it seems prudent to say that we're married, but that we don't have kids because we intend to continue our education.


We are quite a spectacle for the locals, creating cause for much giggling amongst groups of friends as some daring soul says "hello" in English. In Huancayo, we saw two other foreign families. So far, we have seen none in Huancavelica, and that seems unlikely to change considering how many friendly shouts we heard from the taxi: "Mira! Extranjeros!". (Look! Foreigners!). So far, the town appears to be a major gem, well off even the lightly treaded tourist paths. Though it is difficult to get here, it's worth the time for the thermal springs, boulder laden cliffs, neatly terraced fields, and a $12 dollar room with a panoramic view of the impossibly steep mountains. We will venture out tomorrow, but today we will stay buried under thick woolen blankets nursing high heart rates and short breaths thanks to our 13,000 ft elevation. It was dizzying even to walk the single block from the town square, giving us a brief sense of what it might be like to be an obese asthmatic.


I am always astonished at the availability of fresh water. I've noticed that some people are more likely to buy water for the sole purpose of slicking back their hair rather than for drinking. When buying water, I must differentiate between still water and carbonated water. Yesterday, I asked for a bottle of water and the cook pointed to a case of Inca Kola, which happens to be a shade of yellow on the same spectrum as Mountain Dew. I clarified my needs, but in doing so realized that soda is actually considered carbonated water. Oy ve!


While the majority of the world understands that it is summer in the southern hemisphere, highlanders are bundled in thick woolen coats to ward off the chill of what they call winter. It is the rainy season, and with rain once or twice each day comes much cooler temperatures than those that I experienced during my brief stint in the highlands in August, four years ago. Yet the hills are vibrantly green, whereas I had only seen what appears to be a Mediterranean desert.