Saturday, March 18, 2006
Titicaca...neither slang for female parts, nor feces.
You liked that title, didnt you? I thought you would.
Well, we had an amazing adventure on Lake Titicaca. Thursday morning, we arrived to the lake port early, and boarded a small motor boat with about 20 others, including a Peruvian guide, Alexander, with the worst intonation when speaking English that I have ever heard and a driver. The small boat had a cushy covered section, toilet closet, cushioned outdoor seating area in the back, and an upper deck with bench seating. Immediately (and by immediately, I actually mean after we deposited our packs and listened to our guided orientation to the boat and our 2-day excursion), we set sail.
Our first stop was only about 30 minutes away, and was one of the many Uros Islands, or floating islands on Lake Titicaca. We arrived, docked the boat, and disembarked onto a spongy, reed-like ground that covered the island (and added a spring, literally, to my step). The island was covered with small huts, comprised of the spongy reeds, lines of hanging clothing, and many women and small children, outfitted in (again, but different) brightly colored embroidered clothing. Men wore dull, faded clothing, and floppy hats with round brims pushed against their heads and necks. The island natives seemed un-phased by our arrival, and continued with their business of fishing, hanging clothing, playing, and of course, preparing a spread of their hand-made goods for us to purchase. The people looked rugged and weathered, but warmly greeted us...their tourist friends.
It was here we sat in a circle, on large bamboo screens twisted into wheels, and listened to some introductory information about this vast lake. Turns out, Lake Titicaca is the highest navigable lake in the world, at 3810 meters above sea level. It is in the shape of a puma or cat (although I still do not see it), and displays water in a shade of gray from a distance (although nearby, it is a deep, algae refelecting turquiose, that sparkles in a nearly blinding manner). The lake is 18 meters deep, at the deepest point and 8517 kilometers squared (this is the part where you are incredibly impressed that I took notes during this discussion), and while Alexander reports that 60% of the lake belongs to Peru and 40% to Bolivia...he informed us that the Bolivians might say the opposite. Silly them, apparently. Living a lie is rough.
The floating islands are an absolute wonder. There are about a dozen, and they only last about 30-40 years. Made of reeds and dirt, the natives actually can saw sections of the island off, should it suit them. In fact, the island that we visited used to be double the size, but due to a family tiff, the people we visited decided to split with their kin, and seperate islands. Now, there were only about 30 people there. This meant that they can change the island whenever they plase, using a saw, and the stationary tools of rope and wood, which they put into the lake bottom for stationary purposes (when they so choose). Those who have the finances, own solar panels, but do not have electricity. And, when one another traveler inquired about the abundance of children and adults, and lack of teenagers of adolescents, we learned that once the children age into the teens, they prefer to move to Puno. Sometimes they return, but mostly, they head off to the cities.
As we listened to more information, the natives handed out fresh versions of the dried spoongy reeds we rested on, and we were told to ignore the long, skinny, green section, and peel off a few layers of the white, thick bottom. This was to be eaten like a banana, and tasted bland...like sugar water. This plant was found surrounding the island, and is used as a sweet treat.
Our next destination was another floating island, a short ride from the original. We had the option (and seized it) of riding in a local boat. These boats were long, narrow, and held about 30 people. They looked like swans, with a beak and tail rising in the front and back, and made of the dried version of the spongy reeds, which seem quite popular and useful to these people. Two of the men from the islands paddled for us, and because Amy and I boarded a little late, we had to sit in the back, leaning against the tail (if you will) of the boat. We were reclining quite a bit, and Amy made this hysterical remark that there, on Lake Titicaca, she had to ask, why was this night different from all other nights? This is funny because...A-it was 10 am, and B-this is a question that the youngest child at the Passover seder must ask in order to bring up the Passover seder...so, yeah, funny Jewish joke.
The next floating island we visited was much more established than the first. There were substancial buildings, made with cement and wood, and a small, reed surrounded phone booth, with a sign for international calls. The phone even rang when we were there. The children on this island were eager to see us, and two of the little girls ran to braid Amys hair. I took pictures. One of the few buildings on the island, surrounded by the reeded huts, was a church. Apparently, while some American tourists came through a few months ago, they actually built this structure.
Our next boat journey was longer, and a bit more extensive. We rose in the motor boat for about two and a half hours at this point, and as I sat in the covered section of the boat to sheild myself from the pungent sun (ah, my poor, pale, Michigander skin), I basked in the deep, clear, blue sky, and the fluffy, distinctive cloud formations. The scene was picturesque, to say the least, and I leaned back to soak in the variety of mountainous islands and cotton-like cloud dustings. The islands were occassionaly sprinkled by corrugated tin roofs (few in number, but notably inhabited) and dusting by the shadows of clouds.
At this point, I started to make conversation with some of our travel partners. The boat was rather international, and Amy and I were two of four Americans. There were also many people considerably older than us. Two Aussie guys in their 30s, a Spanish woman and her Peruvian friend in their 40s, an Argentine couple in their 50s, two French women in their 40s, and the list goes on. People who have been traveling for a few days, a few months, a few years...lots of stories, and trading of travel advice. Classic South America.
We reached Amantani Island after about 2 hours, and from the dock, we grabbed our packs and headed out to meet the group of near 20 assembled women in traditional dress. We stood in our respective lines, the women in theirs and the tourists facing them in an overwhelemed greeting sort of way. A few words were exchanged, and our guide began pairing us up and sending us off with one woman each. These were our island mothers, and we were told to be mindful of their names, where they lived, and what time dinner was.
Amy and I were paired with a petite woman, with a warm face and embrace. Her name was Innocencia, but she told us that we could call her Inno. She immediately strapped Amy´s large pack into a manta on her back, and motioned for us to follow her. With that, we began to ascend deeper into the island. It was a challenging climb, but we knew that all of the small, cement homes with corrugated tin roofs were built toward the center of the island, which was incidentally uphill. We walked up the rocky paths, huffing a little here and there (Amy was both grateful and impressed that this women could carry her near 18 kilo backpack without problem), and admired the sparkle of the lake and the lush greenery surrounding us. Without much sound, other than the calling of other tourists and the warm greetings of passing natives, this island was such a peaceful haven. No cars, few animals, no electricity, content faces, amazing scenery...seemingly, something was right here.
Innocencia´s home was probably a little more than half-way up, and we were excited to finally reach the front door. The house was small, and without frill, which was what we expected. It was two floors, with a room through a four foot doorway that we were presented as our space. With our packs, we climbed to the top of a ten rung, wooden ladder on the side of the cement hut, and ducked as we entered the room. We found a quaint space, decorated with posters from tourists sites throughout Peru (and also, a large poster of Jesus), three (sunken) beds in the shape of a C, bordering the walls of the room, with woolen, weaved blankets in dark hues draped over the edges. At the end of one bed, in the corner space next to the wall, a small wooden table with two matching wooden stools sat.
While we sat down in our new room, admiring the strange Peruvian permits that hung over the door acknowledging that Innocencia could indeed take in tourists, Innocencia dissapeared for a few moments. She returned with our lunch, which was quinoa soup (a favorite of ours at this point), and a potato, rice, egg conglomeration that was actually delicious. We inhaled our lunch, and our muña tea (mint), and relaxed for a while.
Without having left the room much, we got antsy around 4 pm, and went out to the nearby school-like structure (seemingly, the only organized, established structure on the island), which happened to be nearby the house. A few of the other tourists, both from our group and from others who were spending the night on the island, ran around playing a game of soccer with the tour guides and a few of the native males. Wrapped in the hats and scarves we had both purchased in Puno and recieved from Innocencia for our stay, we waited for the afternoon to pass.
Just before sunset, our group began a hike up, up, up, to the top of the island. We walked along a brick pathway, alongside well-organized stone walls to our waists, and through pastures of green, brown, and small potato flowers. Darkness began to set in, and the sky turned a steel gray, sinking the fluffy clouds together. By the time we reached the top, which was the site of a large, stone, ceiling-less temple, the sun had nearly set. Our guide called this temple, Pachamama, which means father earth in Quechua, and told us that for good luck, we needed to walk around the periphery of the temple three times and then make a wish. This temple is apparently used by the islanders for special festivals and observances throughout the year.
As Amy and I began our first round, and I felt the bite of what I had heard was the traditional cold of the evening on Lake Titicaca, I took deep breaths into the wool wrapped around my mouth and neck. Thinking about wishes, I slowed my breathing and opened my eyes widely. The site...the purple shade of the water, gray of the sky, the green of the land, the scattering of natives retiring to their homes in the hills below, the quiet of the evening setting in...everything was clear from the top. We walked around three times, and when we reached the front of the building, I closed my eyes and made a wish. No, I will not tell you...it is like a birthday wish and I couldn´t write it on my blog. Rediculous.
We retired to our homes after the swift climb down, and joined Innocencia and her mother in the small, suplemental, stone building next to her home, which was the kitchen. This structure, with a dirt floor and stools surrounding a large fireplace (which served as the only light) with stewing pots the size of your lower body, had a few utensils, and a few plates and bowls. A far cry from what US citizens call a kitchen, Innocencia greeted our return warmly, and invited us to sit on the stools before the piece of furniture in the room that resembled a table. We sat, noticing a short, yelping noise coming from the burlap bag nearby. As Innocencia admired our flashlights, we inquired about the noise. She told us that on the island, there is not enough money for meat (nor any refridgeration system), but they buy guinea pigs from Puno and sell them to others for money. We then learned that the bag was full of five guinea pigs, a Peruvian delicacy. Amy and laughed, agreeing that if we were inside a burlap bag with 4 of our friends, we probably would make a lot of noise too.
Dinner was more vegetarian options, with potato, quinoa, egg, vegetables, and the works...I loved it. And, we spoke to Innocencia more and more about her life. Her mother could not speak to us, as she only spoke Quechua, and we learned that the family has three others...a father, and two children, but they had made the three hour journey to Puno for the night to pick up supplies for the month and the beginning of school. Innocencia told us that she, like many other teenagers on the islands, left Amantani when she was a teen for Lima and the hope of a better life. However, when she learned that her mother was a little ill and living alone on Amantani, she decided to come back and has been here ever since. I asked her where she lived in Lima, thinking that I might just recognize the neighborhood. She said, you know Lima? I told her that I used to volunteer there. And, she said, I lived in Villa El Salvador. I smiled, and told her that I worked there. Suddenly, things felt as though they had somehow come full circle. At that moment, I really lived in Peru.
We spent the rest of the evening allowing Innocencia to dress us up in traditional clothing, matching her outfit, and accompanying her to a small party at the schoolhouse, complete with reed instrument music and all of the other tourists. We laughed, in our new outfits, and took some pictures. The part felt a little touristy, as Innocencia swung us around and we noticed the ¨indigenous musicians¨ wearing a sideways baseball cap, which he surely had purchased in Puno. Innocencia confirmed these sentiments, when she admitted to us that this is not at all how they celebrate festivals normally. We laughed it off, and danced until the ripe hour of 9 pm, when the tourists retired to bed.
I was awoken at 4:30 am by the pounding of monsoon raindrops on the tin roof, and thought to myself, this has got to be a joke. Oh no, no joke here. I layed there, allowing my watch hands to continue their natural progress, and the rain fell and fell. Finally and exhaustedly, at 6:30 am, Innocencia knocked on our door, with four small pancakes and tea, letting us know that in a half an hour, we had to descend back to the dock to meet our boat. Sadly (and cold), Amy and I got up, got dressed, and prepared to brave the rain. And, with a stuff of the pancakes into our faces, and a smear of some sweet jam that sat in a bag on the tray, we put on our packs and raincoats and headed down to the dock. Giggling as we descended, we met our mostly delirious and equally exhausted group, and kissed Innocencia goodbye, with a large thank you.
Our boat set sail again, in rough, rough waves and furious rain, for the final island on our tour, Taquile. This island is known as the most touristy, and most established, and after crashing into a few enormous waves and soaking the majority of the boat, we found that to be true. I was less than impressed with this island, which had a lot of the beauty of Amantani, but lacked all of the character. Strewn with small vendors, larger buildings and plazas, and restaurants, this island was lacking the uniqueness to be memorable.
We walked around for a short while, watching the rain slowly pass, and met up at a restaurant for our 11 am lunch. Waiting for the food, I discovered the topic of conversation that South American travelers can discuss for hours...our digestive systems. There I stood, with the others below 30, talking about diaherria and vomit, and the stories surrounding such plagues. The Aussies told us about when it hit them at the inopportune moments, and the other American girls talked about their slang key words for the different forms of the plagues...it went on and on. I laughed. Laughed, and laughed, because only on an island in the middle of Lake Titicaca with other tourists in South America can you literally talk more freely about your bowels and bodily functions with total strangers than you pretty much can anywhere else.
The boat ride back to Puno was in the sun, thank goodness, and as soon as we docked, Amy and I ran to catch a cab, and thereby, our bus to Cusco. The ride was long, cold, and although we were sitting on the top of the bus for view purposes, it was dark. All we cared about was that we got there, which we did. We made it to Cusco, my last destination in Peru, and the one I have been waiting a long time to reach.
I have heard a lot about it here, mostly about the number of tourists and the congestion of it, but I have actually found this place to be rather quaint, endearing, and unique. Amy and I decided to spend our only day in Cusco wandering the streets, stumbling into markets, and getting ready for beginning the Inca trail (tomorrow), so we passed tours of ruins and the Sacred Valley, which are major tourist attractions. The city streets are narrow, made of stone bricks entirely (if not unpaved), and are bordered by wooden doors that open during business hours to show off small storefronts and entries to courtyards with art schools, historical sites, churches, and markets. The city is classic of the Andeas, in that it is completely built into the hills, but seems to have more money then the other Andean cities I have visited, and is full of people and noise, but in a way that seems to feel accessible and delightful.
We met at our tour group office this evening, at 7 pm, for our Inca trail breifing. Here, our group of 15 English speaking, under 30 years old (coincidentally) gathered, and met with our two guides, Rueben and Ernesto. Rueben is our main guide, and he led the breifing. I have to admit, it was a little bit of a struggle to follow him, in that his English has seemingly developed from collecting accents from Austrailians, Brits, and Americans over his ten years leading groups on the trail. In addition, this man is really one of the most enthusiastic, crazy, random Peruvians (or people in general) I have ever met. I had to take deep breaths at a few points, to stop myself from busting out in laughter. And, as I looked around, I noticed that the others in our group were also giving off the, ¨is this guy for real?¨ eyes. It was hysterical. And, made me even more excited for the trip than I was before.
So, I got my below zero, down sleeping bag, my matress pad, and the sack for the porter to carry my backback. I have to pack still, but this is it. As of tomorrow morning at 5:45 am, I am off. I am going to hike the Inca trail to Machu Picchu.
Well, we had an amazing adventure on Lake Titicaca. Thursday morning, we arrived to the lake port early, and boarded a small motor boat with about 20 others, including a Peruvian guide, Alexander, with the worst intonation when speaking English that I have ever heard and a driver. The small boat had a cushy covered section, toilet closet, cushioned outdoor seating area in the back, and an upper deck with bench seating. Immediately (and by immediately, I actually mean after we deposited our packs and listened to our guided orientation to the boat and our 2-day excursion), we set sail.
Our first stop was only about 30 minutes away, and was one of the many Uros Islands, or floating islands on Lake Titicaca. We arrived, docked the boat, and disembarked onto a spongy, reed-like ground that covered the island (and added a spring, literally, to my step). The island was covered with small huts, comprised of the spongy reeds, lines of hanging clothing, and many women and small children, outfitted in (again, but different) brightly colored embroidered clothing. Men wore dull, faded clothing, and floppy hats with round brims pushed against their heads and necks. The island natives seemed un-phased by our arrival, and continued with their business of fishing, hanging clothing, playing, and of course, preparing a spread of their hand-made goods for us to purchase. The people looked rugged and weathered, but warmly greeted us...their tourist friends.
It was here we sat in a circle, on large bamboo screens twisted into wheels, and listened to some introductory information about this vast lake. Turns out, Lake Titicaca is the highest navigable lake in the world, at 3810 meters above sea level. It is in the shape of a puma or cat (although I still do not see it), and displays water in a shade of gray from a distance (although nearby, it is a deep, algae refelecting turquiose, that sparkles in a nearly blinding manner). The lake is 18 meters deep, at the deepest point and 8517 kilometers squared (this is the part where you are incredibly impressed that I took notes during this discussion), and while Alexander reports that 60% of the lake belongs to Peru and 40% to Bolivia...he informed us that the Bolivians might say the opposite. Silly them, apparently. Living a lie is rough.
The floating islands are an absolute wonder. There are about a dozen, and they only last about 30-40 years. Made of reeds and dirt, the natives actually can saw sections of the island off, should it suit them. In fact, the island that we visited used to be double the size, but due to a family tiff, the people we visited decided to split with their kin, and seperate islands. Now, there were only about 30 people there. This meant that they can change the island whenever they plase, using a saw, and the stationary tools of rope and wood, which they put into the lake bottom for stationary purposes (when they so choose). Those who have the finances, own solar panels, but do not have electricity. And, when one another traveler inquired about the abundance of children and adults, and lack of teenagers of adolescents, we learned that once the children age into the teens, they prefer to move to Puno. Sometimes they return, but mostly, they head off to the cities.
As we listened to more information, the natives handed out fresh versions of the dried spoongy reeds we rested on, and we were told to ignore the long, skinny, green section, and peel off a few layers of the white, thick bottom. This was to be eaten like a banana, and tasted bland...like sugar water. This plant was found surrounding the island, and is used as a sweet treat.
Our next destination was another floating island, a short ride from the original. We had the option (and seized it) of riding in a local boat. These boats were long, narrow, and held about 30 people. They looked like swans, with a beak and tail rising in the front and back, and made of the dried version of the spongy reeds, which seem quite popular and useful to these people. Two of the men from the islands paddled for us, and because Amy and I boarded a little late, we had to sit in the back, leaning against the tail (if you will) of the boat. We were reclining quite a bit, and Amy made this hysterical remark that there, on Lake Titicaca, she had to ask, why was this night different from all other nights? This is funny because...A-it was 10 am, and B-this is a question that the youngest child at the Passover seder must ask in order to bring up the Passover seder...so, yeah, funny Jewish joke.
The next floating island we visited was much more established than the first. There were substancial buildings, made with cement and wood, and a small, reed surrounded phone booth, with a sign for international calls. The phone even rang when we were there. The children on this island were eager to see us, and two of the little girls ran to braid Amys hair. I took pictures. One of the few buildings on the island, surrounded by the reeded huts, was a church. Apparently, while some American tourists came through a few months ago, they actually built this structure.
Our next boat journey was longer, and a bit more extensive. We rose in the motor boat for about two and a half hours at this point, and as I sat in the covered section of the boat to sheild myself from the pungent sun (ah, my poor, pale, Michigander skin), I basked in the deep, clear, blue sky, and the fluffy, distinctive cloud formations. The scene was picturesque, to say the least, and I leaned back to soak in the variety of mountainous islands and cotton-like cloud dustings. The islands were occassionaly sprinkled by corrugated tin roofs (few in number, but notably inhabited) and dusting by the shadows of clouds.
At this point, I started to make conversation with some of our travel partners. The boat was rather international, and Amy and I were two of four Americans. There were also many people considerably older than us. Two Aussie guys in their 30s, a Spanish woman and her Peruvian friend in their 40s, an Argentine couple in their 50s, two French women in their 40s, and the list goes on. People who have been traveling for a few days, a few months, a few years...lots of stories, and trading of travel advice. Classic South America.
We reached Amantani Island after about 2 hours, and from the dock, we grabbed our packs and headed out to meet the group of near 20 assembled women in traditional dress. We stood in our respective lines, the women in theirs and the tourists facing them in an overwhelemed greeting sort of way. A few words were exchanged, and our guide began pairing us up and sending us off with one woman each. These were our island mothers, and we were told to be mindful of their names, where they lived, and what time dinner was.
Amy and I were paired with a petite woman, with a warm face and embrace. Her name was Innocencia, but she told us that we could call her Inno. She immediately strapped Amy´s large pack into a manta on her back, and motioned for us to follow her. With that, we began to ascend deeper into the island. It was a challenging climb, but we knew that all of the small, cement homes with corrugated tin roofs were built toward the center of the island, which was incidentally uphill. We walked up the rocky paths, huffing a little here and there (Amy was both grateful and impressed that this women could carry her near 18 kilo backpack without problem), and admired the sparkle of the lake and the lush greenery surrounding us. Without much sound, other than the calling of other tourists and the warm greetings of passing natives, this island was such a peaceful haven. No cars, few animals, no electricity, content faces, amazing scenery...seemingly, something was right here.
Innocencia´s home was probably a little more than half-way up, and we were excited to finally reach the front door. The house was small, and without frill, which was what we expected. It was two floors, with a room through a four foot doorway that we were presented as our space. With our packs, we climbed to the top of a ten rung, wooden ladder on the side of the cement hut, and ducked as we entered the room. We found a quaint space, decorated with posters from tourists sites throughout Peru (and also, a large poster of Jesus), three (sunken) beds in the shape of a C, bordering the walls of the room, with woolen, weaved blankets in dark hues draped over the edges. At the end of one bed, in the corner space next to the wall, a small wooden table with two matching wooden stools sat.
While we sat down in our new room, admiring the strange Peruvian permits that hung over the door acknowledging that Innocencia could indeed take in tourists, Innocencia dissapeared for a few moments. She returned with our lunch, which was quinoa soup (a favorite of ours at this point), and a potato, rice, egg conglomeration that was actually delicious. We inhaled our lunch, and our muña tea (mint), and relaxed for a while.
Without having left the room much, we got antsy around 4 pm, and went out to the nearby school-like structure (seemingly, the only organized, established structure on the island), which happened to be nearby the house. A few of the other tourists, both from our group and from others who were spending the night on the island, ran around playing a game of soccer with the tour guides and a few of the native males. Wrapped in the hats and scarves we had both purchased in Puno and recieved from Innocencia for our stay, we waited for the afternoon to pass.
Just before sunset, our group began a hike up, up, up, to the top of the island. We walked along a brick pathway, alongside well-organized stone walls to our waists, and through pastures of green, brown, and small potato flowers. Darkness began to set in, and the sky turned a steel gray, sinking the fluffy clouds together. By the time we reached the top, which was the site of a large, stone, ceiling-less temple, the sun had nearly set. Our guide called this temple, Pachamama, which means father earth in Quechua, and told us that for good luck, we needed to walk around the periphery of the temple three times and then make a wish. This temple is apparently used by the islanders for special festivals and observances throughout the year.
As Amy and I began our first round, and I felt the bite of what I had heard was the traditional cold of the evening on Lake Titicaca, I took deep breaths into the wool wrapped around my mouth and neck. Thinking about wishes, I slowed my breathing and opened my eyes widely. The site...the purple shade of the water, gray of the sky, the green of the land, the scattering of natives retiring to their homes in the hills below, the quiet of the evening setting in...everything was clear from the top. We walked around three times, and when we reached the front of the building, I closed my eyes and made a wish. No, I will not tell you...it is like a birthday wish and I couldn´t write it on my blog. Rediculous.
We retired to our homes after the swift climb down, and joined Innocencia and her mother in the small, suplemental, stone building next to her home, which was the kitchen. This structure, with a dirt floor and stools surrounding a large fireplace (which served as the only light) with stewing pots the size of your lower body, had a few utensils, and a few plates and bowls. A far cry from what US citizens call a kitchen, Innocencia greeted our return warmly, and invited us to sit on the stools before the piece of furniture in the room that resembled a table. We sat, noticing a short, yelping noise coming from the burlap bag nearby. As Innocencia admired our flashlights, we inquired about the noise. She told us that on the island, there is not enough money for meat (nor any refridgeration system), but they buy guinea pigs from Puno and sell them to others for money. We then learned that the bag was full of five guinea pigs, a Peruvian delicacy. Amy and laughed, agreeing that if we were inside a burlap bag with 4 of our friends, we probably would make a lot of noise too.
Dinner was more vegetarian options, with potato, quinoa, egg, vegetables, and the works...I loved it. And, we spoke to Innocencia more and more about her life. Her mother could not speak to us, as she only spoke Quechua, and we learned that the family has three others...a father, and two children, but they had made the three hour journey to Puno for the night to pick up supplies for the month and the beginning of school. Innocencia told us that she, like many other teenagers on the islands, left Amantani when she was a teen for Lima and the hope of a better life. However, when she learned that her mother was a little ill and living alone on Amantani, she decided to come back and has been here ever since. I asked her where she lived in Lima, thinking that I might just recognize the neighborhood. She said, you know Lima? I told her that I used to volunteer there. And, she said, I lived in Villa El Salvador. I smiled, and told her that I worked there. Suddenly, things felt as though they had somehow come full circle. At that moment, I really lived in Peru.
We spent the rest of the evening allowing Innocencia to dress us up in traditional clothing, matching her outfit, and accompanying her to a small party at the schoolhouse, complete with reed instrument music and all of the other tourists. We laughed, in our new outfits, and took some pictures. The part felt a little touristy, as Innocencia swung us around and we noticed the ¨indigenous musicians¨ wearing a sideways baseball cap, which he surely had purchased in Puno. Innocencia confirmed these sentiments, when she admitted to us that this is not at all how they celebrate festivals normally. We laughed it off, and danced until the ripe hour of 9 pm, when the tourists retired to bed.
I was awoken at 4:30 am by the pounding of monsoon raindrops on the tin roof, and thought to myself, this has got to be a joke. Oh no, no joke here. I layed there, allowing my watch hands to continue their natural progress, and the rain fell and fell. Finally and exhaustedly, at 6:30 am, Innocencia knocked on our door, with four small pancakes and tea, letting us know that in a half an hour, we had to descend back to the dock to meet our boat. Sadly (and cold), Amy and I got up, got dressed, and prepared to brave the rain. And, with a stuff of the pancakes into our faces, and a smear of some sweet jam that sat in a bag on the tray, we put on our packs and raincoats and headed down to the dock. Giggling as we descended, we met our mostly delirious and equally exhausted group, and kissed Innocencia goodbye, with a large thank you.
Our boat set sail again, in rough, rough waves and furious rain, for the final island on our tour, Taquile. This island is known as the most touristy, and most established, and after crashing into a few enormous waves and soaking the majority of the boat, we found that to be true. I was less than impressed with this island, which had a lot of the beauty of Amantani, but lacked all of the character. Strewn with small vendors, larger buildings and plazas, and restaurants, this island was lacking the uniqueness to be memorable.
We walked around for a short while, watching the rain slowly pass, and met up at a restaurant for our 11 am lunch. Waiting for the food, I discovered the topic of conversation that South American travelers can discuss for hours...our digestive systems. There I stood, with the others below 30, talking about diaherria and vomit, and the stories surrounding such plagues. The Aussies told us about when it hit them at the inopportune moments, and the other American girls talked about their slang key words for the different forms of the plagues...it went on and on. I laughed. Laughed, and laughed, because only on an island in the middle of Lake Titicaca with other tourists in South America can you literally talk more freely about your bowels and bodily functions with total strangers than you pretty much can anywhere else.
The boat ride back to Puno was in the sun, thank goodness, and as soon as we docked, Amy and I ran to catch a cab, and thereby, our bus to Cusco. The ride was long, cold, and although we were sitting on the top of the bus for view purposes, it was dark. All we cared about was that we got there, which we did. We made it to Cusco, my last destination in Peru, and the one I have been waiting a long time to reach.
I have heard a lot about it here, mostly about the number of tourists and the congestion of it, but I have actually found this place to be rather quaint, endearing, and unique. Amy and I decided to spend our only day in Cusco wandering the streets, stumbling into markets, and getting ready for beginning the Inca trail (tomorrow), so we passed tours of ruins and the Sacred Valley, which are major tourist attractions. The city streets are narrow, made of stone bricks entirely (if not unpaved), and are bordered by wooden doors that open during business hours to show off small storefronts and entries to courtyards with art schools, historical sites, churches, and markets. The city is classic of the Andeas, in that it is completely built into the hills, but seems to have more money then the other Andean cities I have visited, and is full of people and noise, but in a way that seems to feel accessible and delightful.
We met at our tour group office this evening, at 7 pm, for our Inca trail breifing. Here, our group of 15 English speaking, under 30 years old (coincidentally) gathered, and met with our two guides, Rueben and Ernesto. Rueben is our main guide, and he led the breifing. I have to admit, it was a little bit of a struggle to follow him, in that his English has seemingly developed from collecting accents from Austrailians, Brits, and Americans over his ten years leading groups on the trail. In addition, this man is really one of the most enthusiastic, crazy, random Peruvians (or people in general) I have ever met. I had to take deep breaths at a few points, to stop myself from busting out in laughter. And, as I looked around, I noticed that the others in our group were also giving off the, ¨is this guy for real?¨ eyes. It was hysterical. And, made me even more excited for the trip than I was before.
So, I got my below zero, down sleeping bag, my matress pad, and the sack for the porter to carry my backback. I have to pack still, but this is it. As of tomorrow morning at 5:45 am, I am off. I am going to hike the Inca trail to Machu Picchu.
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
Kicking it off, with exhaustion
I really left Lima and hit the road, Jack. Sunday afternoon, I got out of the Cross Cultural Solutions van for the last time at a main bus station of Lima. Sitting on the steps outside was a girl who looked like she could be a gringa, and when our eyes met, I knew that she was Amy, the friend of a friend (who is currently living in Buenos Aires) who I have been in contact with for a few weeks and convinced to join me in travel through Southern Peru. I approached her immediately, and we started talking and talking. As it turns out, she is from Ann Arbor originally, went to college with a few of my friends, is Jewish, and has very similar eating patterns. So, engaged in much conversation, we boarded the bus to Arequipa.
As a night bus, departing at 5:30 pm and continuing on for a grand total of 15 hours, we were glad to find our bus seats rather large, confortable, and easy to recline. The food served for dinner was a strange quiche, that I unfortunately ate, and a shockingly savory piece of chocolate cake, that resembled banana bread from the outside. Truthfully, I prefered crackers and the small jar of peanut butter which I purchased in the Lima grocery...a quality find. We talked a bit, ate a bit, considered playing Bingo a bit, and as the evening rolled on, I felt my eyes growing more and more heavy. As I had slept for three hours the night before, and Amy had not slept at all (en route from Argentina), we nodded off.
I slept a lot more than expected on the bus, but as we rolled into Arequipa at 8:45 AM, I could not believe how my eyes burned and my limbs ached. But, I settled into my pack and we headed off to the hostel. The city was quaint, but much more of a metropolis than Ayacucho, or myriad other Peruvian cities I have visited thus far. The architecture on the single lane, cobblestone roads of one floor buildings was ornate and unique, and mostly light in color. I was impressed with the overall cleanliness and commercial aspect of the city, as it seems to be in the middle of barren land (without wildlife, or greenery, but lined with rocky mountains) and be home of a largely impoverished population.
We decided that after hitting up the buffet breakfast of tasty delights at our beautiful hostel, we needed to wander through the city a bit. Interested in booking a tour to the nearby Colca Canyon, we walked with our eyes out for travel agencies. This was no problem, considering there are literally hundreds (seemingly) who are just DYING to take you and your mom and your grandfather and his mom and everyone else you can possibly imagine on a trip to this nearby canyon. And, they do not just have trips to the Canyon...everyone tour group offers a, we will take you here first for breakfast to see the little city, here to see people in typical outfits dance, here for shopping, here to see a spectacular view, here for photos, here to see the condors fly around, and here to see the canyon, and then back through it all. Well, as much as Amy and I may look like tourists, we are not really into the whole tourist walk through this Canyon. Additionally, the tours are traditionally two days, as the Canyon in a near 6 hour drive from Arequipa. But, we wanted a one-day tour. All of them have these tours, but they begin at the early hour of 2 or 3 AM...just in case I thought that the 4 am wake up in the jungle was early.
We booked one. Randomly. Because we were delirious and could not compare the tours or listen to the promoters for these agencies anymore. Anyway, it felt a little less commercial, and said they would pick us up at 2:30.
Well, since we were exhausted already, we spent that first afternoon in Arequipa sleeping in our hostel. In the evening, we wandering through the streets, taking pictures of the adorned Cathedral and Plaza de Armas in the bustling center of the quaint city, and dining in a fabulous vegetarian restaurant with all the soy and tofu dishes you can possibly imagine. After eating, I was energized, but knew that I had to call it a night at 10 pm, as I would soon be getting up again.
1:30 am...the alarm went off. It was almost as if I were planning some kindo f strange activity at camp when we have to wake the kids up in the middle of the night, but no. I was going to see Colca Canyon, the third largest and deepest canyon in the world, with one of the most spectacular views on the continent. Although I was having a hard time talking due to my thorough exhaustion, I was able to say to Amy, this better be the coolest thing I have ever seen.
We got into a small van, which held about 10 people, and was full of an international group (Japanese men, a Peruvian couple, an Italian man, and another Peruvian man...and of course, us) and an English speaking guide. We began our drive, heading out of Arequipa and onward toward the Colca Valley, the area surrounding the Canyon. Wrapped in my multiple t-shits and sweatshirt, I leaned against the window of this van freezing, yearning for the sunrise.
As the sun cast a red and purple shadow on the sky, my watch read 5:15 am. And, around us, the mountains boasted gigantic rocks and large spans of greenery...small bushes and patches of tall grass. The valley below was mostly fields of purple and yellow flowers, which we learned were some of the 2000 varieties of the potato found in Peru. Although wanting to soak in the sunrise, I lost the battle against my eyelids, and slipped back into a now warmer sleep against the window.
We stopped at 6, and were told that we could get out of the van. I heard the stirring and awoke, to see that we had arrived at a small, dark, local restaurant, where we would be served bread and tea for breakfast. The restaurant was located in Chivay, a small, flat town of 5000 people planted in the valley. The few square blocks were organized by narrow, dirt roads and low rising, cement buildings. Inside the restaurant, we sat silently, in an early morning comotose. The only sound was the ice cream truck wanna be, child-like tonal garbage truck, making rounds.
We continued on to the next local town in the valley, called Yanque. This was more like a rolling stop, where we drove past the main square and stopped momentarily for pictures only. This town was much like Chivay, in the simplistic style of the buildings, and many indigenous residents busily wandering in the early morning. A group of women sat on the curb off the main plaza, adorned in traditional, brightly embroidered dress. They watched our van pull up, and seemingly were not bothered by the foreign footsteps on the plaza or the intrusive cameras. The sat on the curb, quietly talking to one another, enjoying a breakfast of bread and jam. Right there.
Next, we continued on for another two hours. Now, at this point, I was pretty awake (I think), because outside the windows of the van began the sensory overload that I heard happened upon reaching the Canyon. We ascended, through burrowing rock formations, alongside greenery kissed steepes, and fields of small yellow and purple flowered plants, which we later learned were indeed potato plants. At the very bottom of the valley flowed a lively river, clearly (meaning the water was clear) and calmly passing over thousands of rocks.
Finally, 6 hours of diving and two national park entrances later, the van stopped. We had reached the Cruz del Condor at Colca Canyon (tourist center of canyon, where condors are supposedly flying regularly). This place was magnificent. As a person who had never seen the Grand Canyon, or any canyon at all, I really had no frame of referrence. But, it was vast, deep, and seemed like a marvel. Rocks of red, yellow, and black lined the walls, and thick clouds moved through (obscuring pictures a hint).
Our small group met up with near 200 other tourists wandering off of giant charter buses at this point, which was a bit overwhelming. They were the people who approached the local women and children, again dressed in the typical embroidered skirts, blouses, and hats, selling water, snacks (Western snacks...like Oreos, Snickers, Milky Ways...oh, capitalism), and the presumably hand-made crafts that seem to flood Peruvian markets (hats, belts, scarves, the like...). Amy and I decided to sit down and soak up our surroundings, and searched for a nearby nook. As we sat on a set of nearby stairs, Amy and I noticed a girl, of likely 7 or 8 years old, dressed in the typical clothing, crouching behing a few rocks and imidly licking the creme filling out of two seperated Oreo cookies. Amy and I giggled to one and another, careful not to disturb this little girl, clearly taking a moment to indulge.
By the time we had left the focus of this little girl, the clouds had gotten thicker. It was nearly impossible to see a few feet in front of you, let alone see the Canyon or spot any condors. Very displeased with the weather, we headed back to the van and with that, we started to head back. That was it. View, people, little girl, clouds...fog. My canyon experience.
A few hours later, we returned to Chivay for some more coca tea and lunch, which I somehow swallowed down, and eventually, after many hours and a few stints of closing my eyes, we finally reutned to Arequipa. It was 5:30 pm. I am glad I went, but overall (as you can likely tell), I was pretty dissapointed.
After having a 15 hour excursion on three nights without sleep, we needed to relax. But, as this was our final night in Arequipa, I somehow convinced my glasses wearing, droopy eyed, heavy boned seld slowly out of the hostel. Amy and I breifly explored Arequipa. This is what I have to report:
-Crowded streets
-Excess of taxis
-An unfathomable number of bakeries displaying Barbie dreamhouse style birthday cakes
-A wonderful charm
I woke up this morning, feeling a bit stronger after closing my eyes under real covers for a few hours, and settling with the conclusion that traveling from now on will probably just mean exhaustion (and stealing the opportune moments of rest). We headed off to the bus station by 8 am, and by 8:45, we en route again. Our destination: Puno, one of the Southern-most cities in Peru and the gateway to Lake Titicaca.
The drive was a mere 6 hours, and I was proud of my IPOD for making the whole journey. We passed through the lushy covered and sparsely distributed Andean peaks, riding again on a winding, mountainside road. After passing a few large lakes and getting excited (and the bus stewardess consistantly assuring us that we had not yet reached THE lake we were all waiting for), we drove through Juliaca, Punos neighboring city. This was a small, extremely impverished city that haunted me a bit..barren, with dozens of stoic people enslaved by pushcarts (for trade or sale).
Puno was the next stop. From the surface, the bus rolled in and we arrived at the hostel, we were going on the largely popular backpacker judgement that this city is, at large, lame. To quote, a shit hole. Well, I have now been here a few hours and I already feel safe that I find it endearing. I recognize these small streets lined with Quechua people, selling their trade, craft, bread, or phone card. There is a plaza half the size of that of Ayacucho, and carries a bit less of the charm. But, where the plaza may lack, the view of this enormous, sparkling lake exceeds my expectations.
However, this is certainly where the tourists are. We have officially entered the Peruvian tourist curcuit. There are Aussies, Americans, Canadians, Europeans, and wealthy South Americans flooding the main, stone paved pedestrian street. I even spot them in the gringo restaurants...the ones with Spanish and English menus...that Amy and I seem to keep wandering into (oh, Lonely Planet...taking all of us tourists to the same places).
Tomorrow, we will wake up early and head out on a two day excursion exploring Lake Titicaca, and a few of its 30 islands. We plan to spend a night with a local family on the island of Amantani in the middle of the lake, a 3 hour motor boat ride from Puno. I will surely have much to report upon my return.
As a night bus, departing at 5:30 pm and continuing on for a grand total of 15 hours, we were glad to find our bus seats rather large, confortable, and easy to recline. The food served for dinner was a strange quiche, that I unfortunately ate, and a shockingly savory piece of chocolate cake, that resembled banana bread from the outside. Truthfully, I prefered crackers and the small jar of peanut butter which I purchased in the Lima grocery...a quality find. We talked a bit, ate a bit, considered playing Bingo a bit, and as the evening rolled on, I felt my eyes growing more and more heavy. As I had slept for three hours the night before, and Amy had not slept at all (en route from Argentina), we nodded off.
I slept a lot more than expected on the bus, but as we rolled into Arequipa at 8:45 AM, I could not believe how my eyes burned and my limbs ached. But, I settled into my pack and we headed off to the hostel. The city was quaint, but much more of a metropolis than Ayacucho, or myriad other Peruvian cities I have visited thus far. The architecture on the single lane, cobblestone roads of one floor buildings was ornate and unique, and mostly light in color. I was impressed with the overall cleanliness and commercial aspect of the city, as it seems to be in the middle of barren land (without wildlife, or greenery, but lined with rocky mountains) and be home of a largely impoverished population.
We decided that after hitting up the buffet breakfast of tasty delights at our beautiful hostel, we needed to wander through the city a bit. Interested in booking a tour to the nearby Colca Canyon, we walked with our eyes out for travel agencies. This was no problem, considering there are literally hundreds (seemingly) who are just DYING to take you and your mom and your grandfather and his mom and everyone else you can possibly imagine on a trip to this nearby canyon. And, they do not just have trips to the Canyon...everyone tour group offers a, we will take you here first for breakfast to see the little city, here to see people in typical outfits dance, here for shopping, here to see a spectacular view, here for photos, here to see the condors fly around, and here to see the canyon, and then back through it all. Well, as much as Amy and I may look like tourists, we are not really into the whole tourist walk through this Canyon. Additionally, the tours are traditionally two days, as the Canyon in a near 6 hour drive from Arequipa. But, we wanted a one-day tour. All of them have these tours, but they begin at the early hour of 2 or 3 AM...just in case I thought that the 4 am wake up in the jungle was early.
We booked one. Randomly. Because we were delirious and could not compare the tours or listen to the promoters for these agencies anymore. Anyway, it felt a little less commercial, and said they would pick us up at 2:30.
Well, since we were exhausted already, we spent that first afternoon in Arequipa sleeping in our hostel. In the evening, we wandering through the streets, taking pictures of the adorned Cathedral and Plaza de Armas in the bustling center of the quaint city, and dining in a fabulous vegetarian restaurant with all the soy and tofu dishes you can possibly imagine. After eating, I was energized, but knew that I had to call it a night at 10 pm, as I would soon be getting up again.
1:30 am...the alarm went off. It was almost as if I were planning some kindo f strange activity at camp when we have to wake the kids up in the middle of the night, but no. I was going to see Colca Canyon, the third largest and deepest canyon in the world, with one of the most spectacular views on the continent. Although I was having a hard time talking due to my thorough exhaustion, I was able to say to Amy, this better be the coolest thing I have ever seen.
We got into a small van, which held about 10 people, and was full of an international group (Japanese men, a Peruvian couple, an Italian man, and another Peruvian man...and of course, us) and an English speaking guide. We began our drive, heading out of Arequipa and onward toward the Colca Valley, the area surrounding the Canyon. Wrapped in my multiple t-shits and sweatshirt, I leaned against the window of this van freezing, yearning for the sunrise.
As the sun cast a red and purple shadow on the sky, my watch read 5:15 am. And, around us, the mountains boasted gigantic rocks and large spans of greenery...small bushes and patches of tall grass. The valley below was mostly fields of purple and yellow flowers, which we learned were some of the 2000 varieties of the potato found in Peru. Although wanting to soak in the sunrise, I lost the battle against my eyelids, and slipped back into a now warmer sleep against the window.
We stopped at 6, and were told that we could get out of the van. I heard the stirring and awoke, to see that we had arrived at a small, dark, local restaurant, where we would be served bread and tea for breakfast. The restaurant was located in Chivay, a small, flat town of 5000 people planted in the valley. The few square blocks were organized by narrow, dirt roads and low rising, cement buildings. Inside the restaurant, we sat silently, in an early morning comotose. The only sound was the ice cream truck wanna be, child-like tonal garbage truck, making rounds.
We continued on to the next local town in the valley, called Yanque. This was more like a rolling stop, where we drove past the main square and stopped momentarily for pictures only. This town was much like Chivay, in the simplistic style of the buildings, and many indigenous residents busily wandering in the early morning. A group of women sat on the curb off the main plaza, adorned in traditional, brightly embroidered dress. They watched our van pull up, and seemingly were not bothered by the foreign footsteps on the plaza or the intrusive cameras. The sat on the curb, quietly talking to one another, enjoying a breakfast of bread and jam. Right there.
Next, we continued on for another two hours. Now, at this point, I was pretty awake (I think), because outside the windows of the van began the sensory overload that I heard happened upon reaching the Canyon. We ascended, through burrowing rock formations, alongside greenery kissed steepes, and fields of small yellow and purple flowered plants, which we later learned were indeed potato plants. At the very bottom of the valley flowed a lively river, clearly (meaning the water was clear) and calmly passing over thousands of rocks.
Finally, 6 hours of diving and two national park entrances later, the van stopped. We had reached the Cruz del Condor at Colca Canyon (tourist center of canyon, where condors are supposedly flying regularly). This place was magnificent. As a person who had never seen the Grand Canyon, or any canyon at all, I really had no frame of referrence. But, it was vast, deep, and seemed like a marvel. Rocks of red, yellow, and black lined the walls, and thick clouds moved through (obscuring pictures a hint).
Our small group met up with near 200 other tourists wandering off of giant charter buses at this point, which was a bit overwhelming. They were the people who approached the local women and children, again dressed in the typical embroidered skirts, blouses, and hats, selling water, snacks (Western snacks...like Oreos, Snickers, Milky Ways...oh, capitalism), and the presumably hand-made crafts that seem to flood Peruvian markets (hats, belts, scarves, the like...). Amy and I decided to sit down and soak up our surroundings, and searched for a nearby nook. As we sat on a set of nearby stairs, Amy and I noticed a girl, of likely 7 or 8 years old, dressed in the typical clothing, crouching behing a few rocks and imidly licking the creme filling out of two seperated Oreo cookies. Amy and I giggled to one and another, careful not to disturb this little girl, clearly taking a moment to indulge.
By the time we had left the focus of this little girl, the clouds had gotten thicker. It was nearly impossible to see a few feet in front of you, let alone see the Canyon or spot any condors. Very displeased with the weather, we headed back to the van and with that, we started to head back. That was it. View, people, little girl, clouds...fog. My canyon experience.
A few hours later, we returned to Chivay for some more coca tea and lunch, which I somehow swallowed down, and eventually, after many hours and a few stints of closing my eyes, we finally reutned to Arequipa. It was 5:30 pm. I am glad I went, but overall (as you can likely tell), I was pretty dissapointed.
After having a 15 hour excursion on three nights without sleep, we needed to relax. But, as this was our final night in Arequipa, I somehow convinced my glasses wearing, droopy eyed, heavy boned seld slowly out of the hostel. Amy and I breifly explored Arequipa. This is what I have to report:
-Crowded streets
-Excess of taxis
-An unfathomable number of bakeries displaying Barbie dreamhouse style birthday cakes
-A wonderful charm
I woke up this morning, feeling a bit stronger after closing my eyes under real covers for a few hours, and settling with the conclusion that traveling from now on will probably just mean exhaustion (and stealing the opportune moments of rest). We headed off to the bus station by 8 am, and by 8:45, we en route again. Our destination: Puno, one of the Southern-most cities in Peru and the gateway to Lake Titicaca.
The drive was a mere 6 hours, and I was proud of my IPOD for making the whole journey. We passed through the lushy covered and sparsely distributed Andean peaks, riding again on a winding, mountainside road. After passing a few large lakes and getting excited (and the bus stewardess consistantly assuring us that we had not yet reached THE lake we were all waiting for), we drove through Juliaca, Punos neighboring city. This was a small, extremely impverished city that haunted me a bit..barren, with dozens of stoic people enslaved by pushcarts (for trade or sale).
Puno was the next stop. From the surface, the bus rolled in and we arrived at the hostel, we were going on the largely popular backpacker judgement that this city is, at large, lame. To quote, a shit hole. Well, I have now been here a few hours and I already feel safe that I find it endearing. I recognize these small streets lined with Quechua people, selling their trade, craft, bread, or phone card. There is a plaza half the size of that of Ayacucho, and carries a bit less of the charm. But, where the plaza may lack, the view of this enormous, sparkling lake exceeds my expectations.
However, this is certainly where the tourists are. We have officially entered the Peruvian tourist curcuit. There are Aussies, Americans, Canadians, Europeans, and wealthy South Americans flooding the main, stone paved pedestrian street. I even spot them in the gringo restaurants...the ones with Spanish and English menus...that Amy and I seem to keep wandering into (oh, Lonely Planet...taking all of us tourists to the same places).
Tomorrow, we will wake up early and head out on a two day excursion exploring Lake Titicaca, and a few of its 30 islands. We plan to spend a night with a local family on the island of Amantani in the middle of the lake, a 3 hour motor boat ride from Puno. I will surely have much to report upon my return.
Sunday, March 12, 2006
This is it.
My bags are packed, and I am ready to go...for the most part. I am not quite ready to stand outside my door...a few more things to do, but you get the drift. Goodbyes have been said, e-mail addresses exchanged, I preformed a ten song medeley with another volunteer for the group last night as a way of saying goodbye (not normal...just random...and funny), a night of very little sleep and much packing has passed, and I have made it down my street to my favorite little, blue barred internet cafe (which has a handy punch card) for one last blog posting in Lima.
At 5:30 this afternoon, following my final English teaching session (which really turns into finding random songs to sing to exemplify English pronounciation and vocabulary) at the center for Limas domestic workers, I will load a 15 hour bus to Arequipa, a city in southern Peru.
In case you did not get my plan via e-mail, the next few weeks will look as follows:
March 12-24---Peru (Arequipa, Lake Titicaca, Machu Picchu)
March 24-April 4---Ecuador (Galapagos Islands)
April 4-May 1---Southern Chile and Argentina
May 1---return to Lima
May 2---return to the United States
Remember, my internet access is about to become a bit more limited. There will now be some stretches of days in which I will not be near a computer. Please understand that I will update the blog as much as I can, and continue to greatly appreciate all correspondence.
This is the part where I end this entry (making it of record short length for me) and remind you (and probably remind me a little bit too) that the real adventure begins now.
At 5:30 this afternoon, following my final English teaching session (which really turns into finding random songs to sing to exemplify English pronounciation and vocabulary) at the center for Limas domestic workers, I will load a 15 hour bus to Arequipa, a city in southern Peru.
In case you did not get my plan via e-mail, the next few weeks will look as follows:
March 12-24---Peru (Arequipa, Lake Titicaca, Machu Picchu)
March 24-April 4---Ecuador (Galapagos Islands)
April 4-May 1---Southern Chile and Argentina
May 1---return to Lima
May 2---return to the United States
Remember, my internet access is about to become a bit more limited. There will now be some stretches of days in which I will not be near a computer. Please understand that I will update the blog as much as I can, and continue to greatly appreciate all correspondence.
This is the part where I end this entry (making it of record short length for me) and remind you (and probably remind me a little bit too) that the real adventure begins now.
