When I last wrote, I was healing emotionally from the (unsolicited) sexual advances of a wild monkey.  I suppose it’s nigh impossible to imagine a more inopportune time to leave the readership hanging.  My profound apologies.  But the memory of that dreadful episode is fading, like a very bad, banana-induced dream.  I will survive.

Anyhow, I left Ecuador’s jungle region and took a bus to its capital, Quito.  I’d heard all sorts of horror stories about traveling in Quito.  Not involving monkeys but people.  Supposedly, robberies are a common occurrence there.  One backpacker told me no fewer than half of the people he’d met who had visited Quito told him they’d been mugged there.  So I was on my guard.

This contrasted to the security I’d felt in places like Tena and Baños, places where children played in the streets at night, laughing and skipping about.  But no one attempted to rob me in Quito.  Thankfully, I was not the victim of crime of any sort.

 My good fortune in this regard could be attributable to the fact that I spent a good deal of time bedridden.  By the time I reached Quito, I was definitely sick, coughing and snorting my way through piles of kleenexes and TP.  Later, when I returned home, I learned I had bronchitis and a couple other -itises and had to go on antibiotics.  In Quito I had to force myself to wash and dress and leave the room just to go get something to eat. 

 Fortunately, since I was staying in an area called La Mariscal, a touristy part of Quito’s New Town (known affectionately as Gringoville), there were restaurants aplenty.  I never did get to Old Town and see its colonial splendor.  I also didn’t make the 2.5 hour bus ride up to a town called Otavalo in Ecuador’s northern highlands.  Otavalo is on everyone’s short list of places to see in Ecuador because of the acclaimed indigenous crafts and clothes sold there.

 The only site of any interest I managed to visit was the Mitad del Mundo, which translates roughly to “the midpoint of the world.” The equator.  Latitude zero degrees zero hours zero minutes.  After straddling the equator, conveniently marked with yellow paint, I ascended the Ethnographic Museum and took in the elaborate displays surrounding ethnically adorned mannequinns.  Then I hopped in a cab for the airport and flew up and out of Quito, out of Ecuador, out of South America and out of my adventure.

Above:  Outside the Ethnographic Museum; one foot in the northern hemisphere and one foot in the southern; a church in the Mitad del Mundo complex; Quito from the plane.

It was over.

But I was ready for it.  After 25 countries and almost six months away, I had had my fill.  In a way, the fleeting taste of home I’d had during the stopover between Fiji and South America had never completely disappeared.

Home did not disappoint.  I relished seeing family and friends again.  My buddy Adam hosted a homecoming gathering where I reunited with the Beth Ariel gang.  Mom and Dad let me stay with them while I recuperated.  A week after returning, I left town to visit my sister Andrea and her husband Paul and my three nieces.  (You’d never have known my sister had suffered such a dramatic malady only a few months earlier.)  My colleagues at work enthusiastically welcomed me back.

All in all, I felt, and continue to feel, tremendously blessed.  People have asked me what I learned or how I’ve changed from the trip.  I have yet to come up with a deep or even interesting answer.  I will say that I’ve returned with a more abiding gratefulness for what I have.  As trite as it must sound, the most valuable thing I have, besides a personal relationship with God Himself, is a devoted circle of family and friends.  Besides this, I appreciate afresh the benefits of living in the good ‘ol US of A.  My native tongue happens to be the primary language here; I can speak and be understood on my first attempt.  Traffic is regulated.  Laws are enforced and, for the most part, honored.  Grocery stores are stocked full of fresh, safe food.  There is a perpetual flow of drinkable water.  Living is easy.  So, gratitude was the big take-away experience for me.

Another thing is a firmer resolve to make the most out of life.  This trip had been just a dream, then it became a goal, then a plan and ultimately a reality.  Why not chase other dreams toward realization?  I’d always thought about trying to generate income through writing but never pursued the prospect.  It’s time to try stuff like that.  A lifespan is much too short to squander.

Finally, the trip stirred within me a heightened desire to find a wife.  Independent travel is great.  I’d do it again in a heartbeat.  Calling my own shots, setting my own pace, socializing with whomever I want is hard to beat.  But it is beatable.  Being able to share experiences with a likeminded companion is better.  I’ve been on my own for long enough, and I’m not just talking about the travel time but about my life overall.  I’m overdue to get married.  And it didn’t take a yenta bus driver on a mud-blocked mountain pass in Ecuador to convince me of that.  Although that did help.  More so, though, were the dinners eaten alone, the very long bus journeys ridden in silence, the hilarious moments left unlaughed at.  There’s so much adventure to be had.  Better it be had with a partner.

(Hey, and I’m not saying that just to wax philosophical.  Readers, if you’ve got someone in mind for me, lay her on me.  Let’s get on with it!)

So, that’s it, folks.  That’s my blog.  Thanks for coming for the ride.

Below:  Around Tena–where the rivers merge, local art, the view from my room, bovine-themed jewelry stall.

When I woke up today, I still had a cold and didn´t feel well enough to do somethng as exhilarating as river rafting.  So, instead, I strolled over to Parque Amazonico La Isla.  A tropical forest covers the island that sits at the confluence of the town´s two rivers.  You gain access by way of a bamboo bridge.  I paid the lady on the town´s side, walked across the bridge and stepped onto the island.  No one was around.  No tourists.  No staff.  No one.

I came upon a variety of animals confined within fences–pigs, boa constrictors, parrots, jungle cats, an ostrich, a porcupine.  But much of the wildlife was not so confined.  I encountered giant insects–a butterfly as big as a bat, a grasshopper the size of an upright bar of soap and ants as long as matchsticks.  Like the insects, some of the birds roamed free–geese, turkeys and chickens.  To my chagrin, one other type of animal roamed free–monkeys.

As I walked alone along a quiet path that weaved through the knotty jungle, I discovered that, in fact, I was not alone.  A short distance away I saw a good-sized monkey standing in a clearing to the right.  He was spindly, had a very long tail, was black and gray in color and stood about as tall as a kitchen counter.  And he was watching me.

In order to acknowlege him and signal that I am a friend, I turned and faced him, took a few slow, confident steps in his direction and whistled and made clacking sounds with my mouth.  This proved to be a mistake.  Inadvertently, I must have sent him a salacious invitation.  Evidently, in monkey language I communicated, “Let´s get it on.”

He pranced over to me, bared his behind in my direction and peered suggestively at me over his shoulder.  Now, I don´t know much about monkey anatomy, so I don´t know if this is normal, but when he made that gesture his male member was in plain view, and that seemed to be the point.  I said, “Whoah, whoah, whoah.  Nice monkey, but that ain´t my bag, man.”  (I´m paraphrasing because I said this, of course, with whistles and clacks.)

Then I continued walking down the path.  Here in Latin America, males making advances aren´t known for being easily dissuaded.  Apparently, this is not limited to homo sapiens.  I stopped and turned around, and there was my suitor directly behind me.  He rotated around to flash his hind quarters at me again, gave me that coy look and then backed up into me and wrapped his long tail around my right leg.  “Hey!” I yelled.  He backed off.  “No!  No!” I said, as if scolding a dog.  He sat down and pouted. 

But as soon as I turned my back on him and began walking away, he followed and tried to sneak up close again.  So I turned and faced him to let him know I wasn´t afraid.  But I was afraid.  I kept thinking about that chimpanzee in captivity that went beserk a few years ago and mutilated a man, tearing off one of his testicles.  My trip is almost over and I´d like to return home with both of mine.  Besides, didn´t AIDS start with monkeys?  Maybe in a scenario much like this one?  And how exactly do you defend against a monkey anyway?  Judo chop?  Hammerfist to the groin?

Below:  Innocent-looking entrance to the Parque Amazonico La Isla; the sicko aggressor flashing a “come hither” look (appears much bigger in real life); in the jungle, the mighty jungle; just friends.

I´d take several steps and put some distance between us, then he´d scamper right up to me and stop beside me.  I switched directions a few times but he continued to pursue no matter the direction.  Finally, I decided to reason with him.  “Look, I´m sure you´re a very nice monkey.  But it just wouldn´t work out.  We´re too different, you and I.  And this isn´t a good time for me anyway.  I´m taking a break from dating right now.  Really, it´s not you.  It´s me.”  Actually, I don´t remember what I said, but I said it in a stern tone.  Then I braced myself for his reaction.  But he didn´t throw a fit.  And he didn´t throw feces.  I continued walking, and this time he didn´t follow.

At least not visibly.  As I passed trees, some of them shook.  And at one point, a cluster of palm branches came crashing to the ground onto the path a step or two from me.  I guess he doesn´t take rejection well.  Finally, to my deep relief, I saw two people not far from me.  I approached them quickly, ascertained that they spoke English, and then unloaded my tale of sexual harassment.  (It´s good to tell someone.)  As the afternoon went on, I came across other people and didn´t feel so alone and vulnerable.  And I never saw the primate predator again.

I met an employee and told him, as best I could with my limited Spanish, about the tenacious monkey who violated me.  He just laughed.  I walked with him for a while.  When we came upon some small, shy monkeys observing us from the trees, he coaxed two of them onto his shoulders.  They must have figured they now had carte blanche on human shoulders, because then they pounced onto mine.  This I didn´t mind a bit, actually.  It was completely platonic.  But I was hoping the rapist monkey wasn´t hiding in the trees watching this.  If so, he was liable to go into a jealous rage.  And that definitely would not be good for my testicles.

In the end, I made it off the island in one piece.  And, you know, in retrospect the entire incident was really quite flattering.  I mean, who can blame the beast?  He took his shot.  And when ya got it, ya got it.  It looks like I still got it, folks.  Even with a cold.

Before long, the route flattened out somewhat.  We were no longer hugging the mountain but jetting by farmland on smoother, wider roads.  The usual rural sights whizzed by–men and women in colorful dress working, children playing, horses and donkeys standing, dogs lying down, and cows and sheep and chickens and pigs eating.  The unfortunate pigs found themselves on display in front of roadside eateries, dead, shaven and basted shiny golden, rotating on spits or dangling from ropes by their snouts.

In the bus, I learned that although I was the only gringo, I wasn´t the only English speaker.  A congenial guy named Felix struck up a conversation, which ended up taking as many turns as the bus had, covering such topics as ecology, travel, work ethics, coincidences and bestsellers like The Alchemist (Paulo Coelho), The DaVinci Code (Dan Brown), Evidence that Demands a Verdict (Josh McDowell), and the Bible (God and friends).  The time flew by.

Around dusk, there was a new sight in the distance:  the volcano Tungurahua.  It was emitting a plume of black smoke.  A reputation for being tempermental, Tungurahua had severely damaged the nearby town of Baños in 1999.  Of more immediate concern, just about two weeks ago the volcano had belched up a fountain of ash so substantial that Baños supposedly had to commence evacuations.  But I´d heard from a tourist agency rep and some travelers who had just come from Baños, my present destination, that the town was up and running as usual and safety concerns had subsided.  Still, passing the smoke-spewing giant more closely during the final descent into Baños was a tad unnerving, like walking past a growling dog.

Below:  In or around Baños–Volcan Tungurahua, a street, the ubiquitous garbage-eating clown, a park.

We arrived on schedule, seven hours after leaving Cuenca.  Baños, named after its thermal springs, is on the short list of places to see in Ecuador because of its unique location, situated where the mountainous Andes highlands and the tropical jungle meet.  A curtain of steep mountains surround the town, behind which Tungurahua fumes.  At night, the basilica glows in neon purple and yellow.  Every street seems to have one or more clown-headed trash cans, a pleasant indicator that Baños discourages littering.   (I also saw identical cans in many of the towns we passed on the way to Baños.)   Monkey murals and oversized toucan carvings decorate the quaint town.  Outdoor excursion agencies outnumber the colorful public art displays, vying for the opportunity to take you on a hike or into a cave or river.

Independent of any agency, I spent the day on Thursday, February 21, in the Rio Verde area, a short bus ride away, hiking over footbridges and past waterfalls that plummet over black volcanic rock.  In many places along the paths, there were trash cans and signs forbidding littering.  Afterwards, several kilometers away, I visited an open-air “cable car” that carries locals (for transportation) and tourists (for fun) across the Rio Verde at a staggering height.  That night, I joined a group driving up to the illuminated Cross that overlooks the town.  Unfortunately, clouds obscured the view of Tungurahua, but we could clearly see compact Baños lit up below.

Below:  the lush Rio Verde area, the Rio Verde, a bridge over the river, the basilica.

The next day (today), I traveled four hours into the jungle to sleep in the penultimate town on my evolving list:  Tena.  With thick flora leaning in on us from both sides, we jiggled and bounced along the unpaved portion of the road.  This was definitely not a road suitable for putting in contact lenses or applying make-up or performing a bris.  (All three of which I attempted en route.)

One editorial comment about bus travel in South America–at least Peru and Ecuador.  Most of the time, the operators play a video, and all of the time the video is an action film.  Two aspects of this irk me.  One is that the volume is invariably deafening.  Yelling, guns firing, tires screeching are not at all conducive to sleep or reflection anyway, let alone at such an unbearable volume.  The other irksome thing is that these films inevitably contain a graphic sex scene.  That means that all of the wide-eyed underage passengers are exposed to a sort of sensory overload they are much too innocent to see and hear.  If you´re planning a family vacation to South America and intend to take children along, don´t travel by bus.

Okay, got that off my chest.  I arrived in Tena a few hours ago.  The dense foliage, humidity and occasional squawking of an exotic-sounding bird indicate that this is, in fact, the jungle.  I have yet to look around much, but my first impression as the bus entered town was:  Am I in Jurassic Park?

I came down with a cold yesterday, but if my health permits, tomorrow I hope to go river rafting, the most popular recreational activity in these parts.  In the meantime, mucho orange juice and an early bedtime.  By the way, Hall´s throat lozenges now come in blueberry.

So I left Mancora, Peru on Friday, February 15, on an overnight bus bound for Ecuador. The bus was supposed to leave at 9:00 p.m. but didn´t leave until about 9:45 p.m. (Peru is on Fiji time.) Then, after we drove a short distance, the bus stopped and remained stationary for some unknown reason. We finally reached the Peru-Ecuador border at something like 12:30 a.m. All of us on board had to file out of the bus, form a line in a Peruvian government outpost, present our passports, and gain permission to leave Peru. It was raining, but I had my raincoat. I didn´t notice anyone else so fortunate.

Maybe about 30 minutes down the road, the bus stopped again at another government building, this one Ecuadoran. The bus emptied and the passengers lined up under a tarp and awaited permission to enter Ecuador. But the government computer crashed at 1:30 a.m.–apparently not an uncommon occurrence–and didn´t begin functioning again until 2:30 a.m.

This delay gave me plenty of time to get to know some fellow blue-eyed gringos on the bus: Tim, a professional glass artist from California, who had the seat beside me; and three delightful women Tim had met earlier who only recently began traveling together (perhaps because they have similar short and sassy hairdoes?)–Ciara from Ireland, Daniela from Sweden and Lauren from Wisconsin.

We all successfully made it into Ecuador, took our seats, drove another 20 or 30 minutes and had to disembark a third time, this time at the Ecuadoran customs building. (I believe we were then in a town near the border called Machala, which you´ll hear about again later.) This stop entailed baby-faced, serious-looking, gun-toting soldiers half-heartedly rummaging through our luggage. Finally, some time after 3:00 a.m., we could recline in our seats and get some sleep, secure in the knowledge that none of us were carrying contraband. We arrived at about 9:30 a.m.–2.5 hours behind schedule–in Ecuador´s most populous city, Guayaquil. This would be the 25th and final country on my global itinerary.

Guayaquil is a port city in Ecuador´s southern lowlands. Ecuador has essentially three primary regions: the lowlands along the western coast, the Andean highlands that run north-south across the middle of the country, and the jungle–or “Oriente”–in the east. The slow-moving, brown Rio Guayas cuts through Guayaquil beside the Malecon 2000 riverfront walkway and empties out into the Pacific Ocean.

Below: Around Guayaquil–some new friends, some boat on the Rio Guayas, some building in the city center, and some nutritious grubs.

My planned route was still evolving–I hadn´t been able to find a guidebook on Ecuador in the English language in Peru but finally met a girl traveling in the opposite direction who traded me hers for my Peru guidebook. I decided I would travel over to the highlands and then head north toward Quito, the capital city, taking an excursion into the Oriente along the way. Time permitting, in Quito I would try to connect with the uncle of my friend Rich.

I joined Tim and the sassy girls for breakfast in the bus terminal in Guayaquil. The terminal itself was quite impressive. It was built into a gleaming, modern shopping mall, and onward travel was made easy by clearly displayed color-coded regional diagrams. I was surprised to discover that Ecuador´s currency is the good ol´ USA dollar. The dollar replaced Ecuador´s “sucre” (named after Jose de Sucre, a national independence hero) in 2000, by which time inflation had skyrocketed out of control–so much so that $1 was then worth 25,000 sucres!

I used familiar currency to buy a surprisingly good latte. In Peru, coming by a good cup of coffee was a challenge. When you ordered cafe con leche–coffee with milk–you found yourself on the receiving end of one of two sets of fluids: either (1) a mug full of boiling water, accompanied by a glass full of milk and another glass (or tiny pitcher) full of black coffee; or (2) a mug full of hot milk, accompanied by a glass (or tiny pitcher) full of black coffee. It was up to you to properly mix the two or three fluids. Lacking a chemist´s skill or a bartender´s finesse, I inevitably concocted weak, cloudy beverages less like coffee and more like cat urine.

After breakfast, Tim had to leave, so I rode with the girls to their hostel in Guayaquil, then we wandered around a bit and had lunch. Daniela ordered a cafe con leche and found herself with a mug of hot milk and a glass full of black coffee. Maybe things in Ecuador aren´t so different from Peru afterall.

I returned to the bus depot after lunch. I had a ticket to a city called Cuenca, which lies in Ecuador´s southern highlands, southeast from Guayaquil. The key point to remember, people, is that the journey from Guayaquil to Cuenca is four hours long. Four hours.

The bus departed on time at 3:10 in the afternoon. We would arrive in Cuenca at about 7:10 in the evening. Or so we thought…

The beginning of the journey involved driving past flat agricultural areas, many supporting banana trees for as far as the eye could see. Some of the villages we passed were flooded. It had rained hard recently, and it continued to rain that afternoon. Then we began to head uphill, ascending windy roads, with steep mountains to our left and a steep drop-off to our right. Sitting on the lefthand side, I was able to observe numerous patches of hillside erosion, chocolatey waterfalls and piles of rocks and boulders collecting on the road´s edge. I had to consciously snap myself out of visualizing a rocky avalanche plummeting toward us and crushing the bus.

But I took comfort in my neighbor´s attitude. Earlier in the ride, she, an older woman, had taken out her Bible to read. When she saw me looking, she told me in Spanish how important the Word is. I agreed and she recognized me as a “hermano,” or brother. I don´t believe in coincidence; I believe she was handpicked to be in the seat next to me, and I next to her.

Almost exactly halfway through our journey, the bus came to a standstill behind a row of stopped vehicles. In front of the first one, a wide, brown mudslide raged into the road and over an embankment, completely blocking traffic. A guy with a tractor appeared on the scene, but he wasn´t using it. From what I could gather with my limited Spanish, he didn´t have any diesel. After a few hours, our bus driver executed a daredevil U-turn and began to head back in the direction from which we came. We weren´t in motion very long before we encountered another, new mudslide obstructing our descent. After some time, the bus driver decided to turn the bus around again–with window passengers gasping and rear seat passengers yelling to the driver during back-ups. The lady next to me prayed audibly. She would do this often in the hours to come.

We pulled onto a shoulder where a tiny, isolated restaurant somehow managed to stay in business. As far as I knew at the time, the restaurant was not serving food. By now it was nightfall. Most of the men watched soccer on the restaurant TV and most of the women and children tried to keep warm inside the bus. I seemed to be one of the few who had brought much luggage, so I lent one lady a fleece jacket and a guy a fleece vest and gave my rain poncho to someone. I had a few granola bars and shared them. Upon receiving one, a lady removed half a cooked chicken and some biscuits from a plastic bag and insisted I take them. That was dinner. (I later learned that the restaurant was serving a small portion of food during the soccer game, one plate at a time.)

Below: Scenes from the muddy, rocky road.

Later, the bus driver and his assistant called everyone into the bus, and we proceeded to drive downhill again. On the way, the bus stopped several times, and each time a group of men disembarked. Ultimately, one of them took up a collection for the purpose of paying the tractor driver to clear the mudslide roadblock below us. It seemed the tractor driver, an employee of Cuenca, sought to exploit a desperate situation for personal gain. I resented paying the guy anything, but the request was for a mere quarter from each of us, and since everyone else was paying, I wasn´t going to be the lone hold-out standing on principle.

The profiteer cleared the road and we finally began moving downhill again. Along the way, we encountered other hazardous piles of rocks and mud, but the driver was able to maneuver around and over them. But eventually, we came upon another impenetrable rocky roadblock. The bus stopped. And there the bus remained. For hours and hours. Until morning.

I discovered the assistant spoke some English. I asked him why the tractor driver wasn´t clearing this part of the road. He said he had probably gone home and gone to sleep. This infuriated me. If he wouldn´t work his tractor as part of his paid government job, why on earth wasn´t he doing it in light of the bonus he extracted from a busful of innocent people. It was wrong; this guy is a criminal.

The bus driver chuckled at my protestations, which I tried to translate into Spanish as well. He and the assistant told me I just didn´t understand how things worked in Ecuador. The man was paid to work and his workday had ended. If we wanted him to do more, we had to pay him. We, in fact, paid him, and he, in fact, did more. Now he wouldn´t do even more still until he had had a good night´s sleep. No one could fault him for that. This spin on the situation struck me as unreasonably charitable. The profiteer was looking out for himself and couldn´t care less about all of us.

Meanwhile, the 47 passengers–including small children and a baby and some old folks–had contorted into sleep positions in their seats and on the aisle floor. I had no illusions about falling asleep myself. So I stayed up front with the driver and the assistant.

As the hours wore on, we got to know each other. At times, the rain stopped or fell lightly, and we took the conversation outside. When Luis, the driver, learned I was single, he found this unacceptable at my age and took it upon himself to find me a mate from among the women in the bus. Osvaldo, the assistant, egged him on. At one point, a small group stood outside chatting. The conversation circle included one woman. Luis kept motioning to me to do something. I shook my head. The other men present caught on and joined Luis in goading me on. Luis turned up the radio, blaring salsa music. They wanted me to ask her to dance. They told me she wanted to dance with me, which I doubted but then began to believe. I told them–and the woman, who was now listening–I didn´t know salsa. “She´ll teach you, she´ll teach you.”

I held my ground for quite a while–literally hours. But as time passed, I became weak. And I relented. And there on a muddy mountain road in the highlands of Ecuador, in the wee hours of a rainy night, I found myself dancing salsa with Isabel, an infinitely patient math teacher from Guayaquil. The men who surrounded us laughed uncontrollably at my feeble attempts at the hip-swerving moves. The bus was dark, but from time to time I saw a hand inside swipe the fog off a window for a better view of the clumsy gringo. Unwittingly, I became the night´s entertainment, a source of levity in this miserable predicament.

During breaks, Luis, Osvaldo, Isabel and I fantasized out loud about the inevitable wedding and the ceremony that would have to take place inside the bus itself, given that it felt like we would be up there on that mountain forever. Luis would officiate, Osvaldo would be the best man and the children could lead the procession down the aisle–the bus aisle–tossing, not rice, which we did not have, but rocks, which we had in abundance. We agreed the rocks would have to be thrown with considerable care.

Eventually the sun came up. The tractor driver never showed. A second bus drove all the way up from the other direction and stopped on the other side of the obstruction. In clusters, we traversed through the mud to that bus. My boots and pants were filthy brown.

At the bottom of the hill, I had lunch with Isabel, her sister and two guys, one of whom had borrowed my vest. (The lady who had borrowed my jacket disappeared with it. My poncho met with the same fate.) Fortunately, those two guys were heading to Cuenca as well, so they showed me which other buses we´d have to take to get there. I said adios to my dance maestra/esposa and her sister. It was now about noon.

We had to take two more buses. The first took us to Machala, the border town I had stopped in the night before. I´d gone without much sleep now for two nights, and once that first bus began moving, I was out. The second bus arrived in Cuenca shortly past six p.m. A trip that should have taken 4 hours took 27 hours.

I found a nice hotel and went to bed early. Before falling asleep, I saw images of mudslides obstructing mountain roads on TV. The next morning, I saw the same sort of images in the newspaper. Osvaldo had told me that in all his years of working for the bus agency, he had never before been stuck in the bus overnight. This was a first.

As for the city of Cuenca, it´s really quite attractive. Ecuador´s third largest city, it was built on the ruins of an ancient city called Tomebomba, inhabited by a civilization ultimately conquered by the Incas in one of their northern campaigns. It´s bisected by the Rio Tomebamba. Parque Calderon sits in the heart of the colonial city and is flanked by two impressive churches. One of them, and several others in town, date back to the 16th century. Many museums, hotels, shops and restaurants line the cobblestone streets.

I´ve been here now two nights and plan to stay a third. I’m dallying because I want to make sure the route from here to my next destination, Baños, is clear. That route, like the one I found myself trapped on, is also a mountain route. If I hear a negative report when I check in the morning, I´ll have to come up with a Plan B. So, stay tuned!

Finally, I want to follow up on a promise I made last time. As I mentioned, there had been a request for more pictures of me. Well, you asked for it, so here you go. This is what I now look like. Not wanting to be stingy, I give you four–not one, not two, not three, but four–photos of me. And I think you´re gonna, well, flip!

Dotting the landscape throughout Peru, the remnants of ancient civilizations can be found, although now in ruins.  For example, many years ago, around 200 B.C., a culture of people called the Moche began to dominate Peru´s north coast.  They built massive mud brick pyramids and generated elaborate ceramics decorated with realistic scenes of everyday life–things like, you know, harvesting, royal processions, decapitations, etc.  Since the Moche, like the many other similar ancient Peruvian civilizations, didn´t keep written records, these scenes were vital in understanding the culture.

One of the Moche temples, dubbed Huaca de la Luna, is situated near Trujillo.  I paid it a visit while I was staying in Huanchaco.  Even today the brightness of the colorful friezes that adorn the temple walls is astonishing.  The Moche´s demise in the 9th century A.D. remains a mystery.  Archeological excavations of Huaca de la Luna and neighboring Huaca del Sol continue.

Below:  At the Huaca del Sol.

Two noteworthy civilizations followed on the heels of the Moche.  One was the Chimu, who were around from the 9th to the 15th centuries A.D.  They created a sprawling urban society–including Chan Chan, the largest adobe city in the world–that thrived until the Incas conquered it in 1471.

My guide at Chan Chan and another Chimu site called the Dragon Temple, both of which are in Trujillo, told me that hunchbacks and dwarves functioned as priests because their physical deformities were believed to signify divine endowment.  These priests led the human sacrifice rituals of young victims–young victims who were physically flawless.  Hmmm.  Pure religiosity or quasi(moto)-jealousy?

Below:  Inside Chan Chan.

Another civilization that followed the Moche was the Sican culture.  Their gift was in metallurgy.  Recent excavations of royal Sican tombs are housed in the fantastic Museo Tumbes Reales de Sican, considered by at least one source (namely, my museum guide) to be the eighth best museum in the world.  The museum is located in Lambayeque, which is next to Chiclayo, and I traveled across the desert by bus and spent a night in Chiclayo for the sole purpose of visiting that museum. 

Inside, one finds both the actual shiny burial relics uncovered as well as recreations of the tomb sites as they looked when first encountered by archaeologists.  The Sican believed that when a king died, he needed provisions and a personal entourage–his wife, concubines, an adviser, a couple llamas, a dog–to accompany him into the next world.  So, all of those other people and animals, who were not necessarily dead themselves at the time, were buried along with him.  And so as to leave nothing to chance, a guard was posted on top of the tomb, his feet were cut off so he couldn´t run away, and he was also buried along with the others.  Consquently, the tombs looked a lot like grisly crime scenes.  Unfortunately, photography is not allowed of the interior, but the red exterior sure is pretty.  Evidently, El Niño spelled the ruin of the Sican people in the 14th century.

Below:  The Museo Tumbes Reales de Sican.

Then came the Incans.  Their empire begin expanding in the early 1400s and only a mere century later was gone.  The achievements of the Incans were built on those of the aforementioned earlier cultures.  But they took stone work to a new level, as anyone who hikes the stone-paved Inca Trail to stone-made Machu Picchu can attest.  The Incan empire grew from just another tribe in the Cuzco Valley to become the dominant force in the Andes, ultimately spreading from Bolivia in the south to Ecuador in the north.  But in 1527, a smallpox epidemic wiped out half of the population (of 25 million).  Then a civil war between the north and south ensued.  These occurrences made the 1532 conquest of the Incans by the Spanish–lead by Francisco Pizarro–all the swifter.  Three years later, Pizarro founded Lima as the new colony´s capital since Cuzco, the Incan capital, was too far inland to serve as a suitable communication center with Spain. 

As for Peru´s modern history, in the early 19th century two revolutionaries who had won independence from Spain for other Latin American countries, Jose de San Martin and Simon Bolivar, met in Guayaquil, Ecuador, and afterwards Bolivar led efforts to liberate Peru.  In 1826, Spain surrendered.  Thereafter, Peru fought separate wars with Chili and later Ecuador over border issues.  For much of the 20th century, dictatorships and coups ran Peru´s government.  Its history in recent decades has been characterized by corruption scandals and human rights violations.

Below:  Around Trujillo.

Anyway, from Huanchaco to my present location in Mancora, you could say I was ruined, seeing muchas ruinas.   Remarkably, such amazing cultures, capable of ingenious architecture and brilliant craftsmanship, consistently drew the false conclusion that a causal connection existed between the weather and human sacrifice.  It just shows that a culture, no matter how advanced otherwise, can have its blind spots (to put it euphemistically), sometimes with horrific consquences.

In Huanchaco last Sunday, I sat on the beach to take in a glorious sunset.  Silhouettes of surfers played on the waves as the tide rolled in.  The crowds who had earlier covered the sand had now cleared the beach.  But their litter remained.  Oodles and oodles of plastic bags and paper all over the shoreline.  And as the tide rose, it swept the garbage, piece by piece, out to sea.  Appalling!  Inexcusable.  How can people be so thoughtless?  Another example of a blindspot.

Littering is not limited to the beach, mind you.  I´ve seen piles of trash near every little town a bus has driven me past, with so many plastic bags caught in tree branches you´d think the bags grew on the trees.  There was litter on the switchback trail in Cañon de Colca and litter even on the sacred Inca Trail.  Peru is a beautiful country, the people are lovely and have reason to be proud of their land, but c´mon Peruvians!  Don´t make me stand on my green soapbox here!

That Sunday at dusk, I was of a mind to start collecting all of the trash on the beach and imagined the local newspaper writing a story about my eco-consciousness, which in turn would inspire the townspeople to stop littering from then on.  But I did no such thing.  The task was too monumental, I rationalized.  I put no feet to my indignation .

Below:  Around Mancora.

I will say I haven´t seen that sort of littering in Mancora, but I haven´t been here over the weekend.  On a lighter note, while here I´ve enjoyed my favorite meals in all of Peru:  shrimp burritos, tacos con carne and sushi (not a one traditional Peruvian!).  And this is my last stop in Peru.  Tonight I board a ¨sleeper¨bus to Ecuador.  So, after 25 days, to Peru I must say, “¡Adios!”

One final thing.  My good buddy Bill requested in a comment to the blog that I post more pictures of myself.  What a flattering request (and unexpected, coming from Bill), especially only days before Valentine´s Day!  Surely, Bill´s sentiment represents the unspoken (yet painfully deep) desire of many, um, other women who follow this blog.  Once technical difficulties are abated, I´ll be sure to abide this request, even if bashfully.  So sorry you all couldn´t enjoy a big picture of me on Valentine´s Day itself.  But then, of course, for all other men, every woman who would have beheld my countenance would have been forever ruined.

I set out on the three-day/two-night excursion at 5:00 a.m. on Wednesday, February 6, with a little trekking agency located in Arequipa called Eco Tours.  There were four trekkers total, plus our young guide Roy.  The others were Kevin, a New Yorker living in Argentina teaching English, and Simon and Marie, a young French Canadian couple.  A cab took me and the four twenty-somethings to the bus depot and we boarded a bus that hauled us five hours into canyon country, stopping at a pueblo called Cabanaconde.  There we ate lunch in a little restaurant and then began the trek. 

Below:  Shots from the Canon del Colca trek.

We spent the day hiking downhill to the bottom of the canyon.  When we reached the river below (the Rio Colca), we hiked along it to a beautiful tropical village comprised of bamboo huts.  That´s where we ate and slept and enjoyed a solar-heated, bamboo-and-stone outdoor shower.

The next morning we trekked further into the canyon, taking sharp ascents and descents up and down.  The extended downhill hiking from the day before had ruined one of my knees, and on the second day I had to use two bamboo poles to allay the pain, just as my brother did on the Inca Trail.  But, thankfully, my stomach gave me no problems at all.  The poor Canadians weren´t so fortunate, though, each having to stop and vomit multiple times along the trail.  We stopped for lunch at a popular palm-fringed spot by the river called Sangalle, AKA the Oasis.  Then we spent the afternoon hiking all the way back up a neverending set of switchbacks to the rim of the canyon.

This took about three hours.  By the time we reached the top, the sun had set and we were hiking in the black of night through fields and over stone walls back to Cabanaconde.  I was exhausted, hungry and cold from the chilly wind blowing against my sweaty clothes.  I´d perspired so much, my moisture-wicking shirt had given up wicking moisture altogether and clung to me like a frightened baby chimpanzee.  When we finally traipsed into town, Kevin and I beelined it for the first shop we encountered and ate the best tasting Snickers bars ever sold.  Even after dinner, I couldn´t get warm, probably because my body had no energy left to heat me up.  So I went to bed early, happy to crawl underneath the heavy blankets.

As it happens, the good people of Cabanaconde were celebrating a festival that weekend, and, much like the good people of Puno and Copacabana, they displayed their merriment by marching and dancing through the town´s streets to the beat of several marching bands.  Bands that marched right past my hotel window.  Over and over.  Fortunately, I´d brought my ear plugs, and I fell asleep anyway, but that was primarily because of my fatigue and not the ear plugs.

Below:  Shots from around Cabanaconde (a Nacho Libre-style cart, the main street, a condor statue and a church archway).

In the morning, I awoke to the pulsating cacophony of one of the marching bands that had apparently been going at it all night long.  The boom-booming eased me into the new day like a mallot to the cranium.  Occasionally, the band slowed the tempo, creating what could´ve been the soundtrack to a scene featuring a mob of drunks struggling to coax a reticent mule team along a dusty cobblestone alleyway.  Maybe gravity is stronger in canyon country, but it almost took a spatula to pry me out of bed.

After a quick breakfast, we boarded the bus back to Arequipa.  We made two stops on the way.  The first was at Cruz del Condor, a look-out area for condor spotting.  We actually saw two condors glide by, but they were far away and not within photographing distance.  Our second stop was in the town of Chivay.  There we stopped for a dip in the local hot springs, Aguas Calientes, and then had lunch.  We arrived back in Arequipa at dinnertime and stuck together for one more meal.

Below:  Shots of central Lima.

The next morning, I took a plane to Lima, explored the capital city´s central area for a few hours, and then took another plane to Trujillo in the north.  I spent last night in a beach town near Trujillo called Huanchaco.  I´m still in Huanchaco and I really like it here.  It´s nice to be away from urban sprawl, and I just feel more at ease near the coast.  I´ve got a great room at Hotel Rivera with a view of the ocean.

Below:  Shots from around Huanchaco.

Today is Sunday.  This morning I was walking along the main beachfront street when I recognized the tune of a praise song–but with Spanish lyrics–coming from the second floor of a building.  I found my way inside and ended up joining a group of about a dozen people, half of them small children, who were having a worship service.  As soon as I sat down, one of the men handed me a Spanish-English Bible, so I was able to understand the sermon that followed the music.  Afterwards, I chatted with an older guy named Gustavo.  A self-described “old surfer,” Gustavo told me how much his life has changed since he began following the Lord, having abandoned a lifestyle of drug abuse and wanton partying.  The young pastor and his helper also came over to me and said “hola” and offered to let me keep the bilingual Bible, but I left it there for other tourists to use.  The instant bond among fellow “believers” is always so heartening, like meeting family I didn´t know I had.  And the camaraderie, even if brief, refreshes the soul.

I don´t know what is to blame for my ailment.  It could be the tap water, which I don´t drink but do use to brush my teeth.  It could be the alpaca kebob I bought from a street vendor with a sidewalk grill.  Or it could be the guinea pig I ate.  Yes, guinea pig. 

Don´t ask me how eating a guinea pig got on my list of things to do, but my thinking was that traveling adventures need to include adventures in dining, guinea pig is considered a delicacy here, blah blah blah.  I did eat it at a reputable restaurant.  When the waiter served it, he said I must eat all of it.  To my ears that sounded like a personal challenge.  But there was no mistaking what I was eating.  The entire body was intact.  It had little ears and little eyes and little teeth.  Stretched out over the plate, it looked more like a high school biology project than a meal.  As I chewed–and quite a bit of chewing was required–I felt like a contestant on Fear Factor.  I worked my way to the head and ate the ears and one of the eyes, but I couldn´t bring myself to consume the teeth.  That seemed too close to kissing the thing.  When the waiter returned, he asked me what I thought. ¨Interesante,¨I said neutrally, ¨but I don´t think I´d have it again.  Then he told me he doesn´t like it at all.  Thïs from the guy who said I must eat it all.

Parting shots from Puno:

I left Puno two days ago.  I took a bus to Arequipa, Peru´s second largest city and the place from which I now write.  For the most part, the journey was beautiful.  I watched from my window neverending green farmland and green hills, crude stone walls divvying up the landscape, adobe structures with thatched roofs and with politicians names spraypainted on the sides, farmers hunched over their crop lines, grazing groups of alpacas and llamas and pigs and cows. 

We made a bathroom stop at what I guess constituted a roadside diner, but the bathrooms were just three adobe outhouses in a row, none of which had a proper toilet or even a roof.  And it was hailing.  If you´ve never used a roofless squathole wearing a raincoat, well then, I´m afraid you haven´t really lived.

We passed through villages along the way, some of which seemed to be in abject squalor.  One town, Juliaca, was nothing but mud when we drove into Puno from Cuzco, and was now nothing but dirt when we drove through again from Puno to Arequipa.  The people seemed happy enough, but I couldn´t help but ask myself rhetorically how people could live like this.  (Then again, some might reasonably question how a person could eat a guinea pig.)  When our five-hour trip was coming to a close, the outskirts of Arequipa seemed like a nuclear fall-out zone.  Buildings were half built and arranged haphazardly and all seemed to be an eyesore.  Of course, beautification costs money and that´s one thing a poor country most lacks.

Below:  shots of Juliaca.

But the center of Arequipa is beautiful.  Like the other Peruvian cities I´ve visited, the center of the city is a plaza and the plaza is named Plaza de Armas.  The most prominent building along the Plaza de Armas is La Catedral.  El Misti, a volcanic peak, towers in the background.

Below:  shots of Arequipa.

Because of my confused gastrointestinal status, my get-up-and-go got up and went, so I´ve managed to see only one sight a day here.  Yesterday I visited the Museo Santury where I saw a 500-year-old frozen corpse.  The corpse–a little girl´s–was found on one of the nearby freezing mountaintops and recognized to be a human sacrifice offered by the Incans to placate the mountain god.  The body was remarkably preserved and, significantly, is not a mummy.  Mummies are disemboweled; this little girl was not.  Not that that was apparent to me–she was wrapped in a shawl–but that´s what the museum guide said.  Her cause of death was not exposure to the elements but a sharp blow to the temple.

Shots of Monasterio de Santa Catalina.

Today´s sight bore no traces of brutality.  I visited the Monasterio de Santa Catalina, a nunnery, founded in 1580 but still under construction or reconstruction in the 1900s.  It occupies a full city block and is painted in eye-pleasing blues and reds and ash-whites.  Apparently, the girls that joined this monastery were privileged and their parents had to pay a substantial dowery to gain their admission.  The nuns had servants and musicians and emphasized partying over self-denial.  Then in 1871 there was a new Sister in town, and she cleaned up shop.  Nuns still inhabit the monastery today, but I didn´t hear any music.

As I mentioned, tomorrow I´ll leave the confines of urban Arequipa and head to the country.  Near Arequipa are the deepest canyons in the world, twice as deep as our own Grand Canyon.  Not knowing how I´ll fare with my wonky stomach, for the next few days I´ll be the guinea pig.

While I´ve been here, the mornings and evenings have been rainy but the afternoons clear and sunny.  The evening rains can be fierce, though, turning the slightly sloping streets that run perpendicular to the lake into instant rivers that themselves are practically navigable.  Tonight is mildly rainy and is my fourth night in Puno, although my four nights here have not been consecutive, as I´ll explain.

A couple days ago, I took a day excursion onto the lake and visited two of the many islands that dot the huge expanse of water.  The first stop was on one of the tiny Islas Flotantes, man-made floating islands populated by the Uros people.  Many years ago, the Uros people created the interwoven reed islands as a means of escaping the more warlike people who inhabited the shores.  They still live there today, traveling by means of reed’woven boats and selling their handmade crafts to the many tourists who visit.

Below:  Lake Titicaca, opportunities for fun on the lake´s shores, a Uros vendor on an Isla Flotante, reed boat hulls, el presidente of one of the islas Flotantes, Uros dancers, the sloping hillside of Isla Taquile, my new Swiss amigas.

The second island I visited was Isla Taquile, where the men wear woolen Wee-Willie-Winkie-style flopcaps, solid red if they´re married and red-and-white striped if they´re single.  The direction in which the tall cap falls indicates whether the single man is available or has a serious girlfriend.  The women wear pom poms on their belts, and if they´re single, their pom poms are bigger and more colorful.  I presume this means at least a few of the single guys have been known to instantly change the flop of their caps at the sight of a girl with big, attractive pom poms.

I had the fortune of meeting two sweet Swiss girls on the island trip, Sarah and Vera.  I ran into them again the next day, but in a completely different country.  You see, on Friday I took an overnight trip to Bolivia, to visit the little town of Copacabana.  The town is definitely NOT ¨north of Havana,¨so it can´t be the Copacabana sung about in Barry Manilow´s famous song.  (That song was actually based on a nightclub in New York, which was named after the Copacabana in Rio De Janeiro.  At least that´s what Mandy told me.  Oh, Mandy.  I can´t smile without her.)

After buying a bus ticket to Copacabana from a company that´s supposed to smooth the border crossing process, I learned, moments before the bus was to leave, that Americans now have to obtain a visa to enter Bolivia, and that that visa costs $100.  (This is contrary to the information in my guidebook and apparently a new policy instituted by Evo Morales, Bolivia´s president, who is as much a fan of the USA as Venezuela´s lovable Hugo Chavez.)  I sure didn´t want to fork out $100 for an overnight stay in a place called Copacabana that isn´t even the Barry Manilow Copacabana, so I demanded a refund on my bus ticket.  As things turned out, there was a more, shall we say, improvised, unofficial alternative to crossing the border, and I chose that alternative, which set me back only $20.  Gotta love South America.

I´ve been blessed with perfect timing while in this part of the world.  My two-day stay in Copacabana coincided with the annual fiesta of La Virgen de Candelaria.  I don´t know the religious significance of the event, but for the two days, around the clock, marching bands and dancers circled the town, with the menfolk stopping only to drink ample quantities of beer and to urinate in plain view.

Below:  shots from around Copacabana during La Virgen de Candelaria fiesta.

I returned to Puno today, happy to be back in Peru after an “incident” at the border with an official who disapproved of the improvised approach to border crossing championed by my bus company representative.  Today in Puno, the townsfolk happen to be beginning the festival called La Virgen de la Candelaria.  It lasts for several days.  The procession marched right in front of my hotel and featured many military personnel and bands that sounded as polished as high school marching bands from very small towns.

Below:  shots from around Puno during La Virgen de Candelaria fiesta.

Tomorrow, Sunday, I board a bus for a destination that will remain undisclosed until I arrive.  After that, my plan is to continue north to Equador.  Adios!

(WARNING:  This entry is insanely long.  Not for the faint of heart.)

I awoke this morning to the earplug-muffled sounds of honking horns and yelling voices and car alarms emanating from the narrow street five floors below.  It was a cold, rainy night, but my very thick blankets kept me warm enough and I was refreshed.  I slept in Puno, elevation 3830 meters, or, at 3.3 feet per meter, 12,639 feet.  That´s high.  Puno is a harbor town on Lake Titicaca, South America´s biggest lake and the world´s highest navigable lake with passenger boat service.  The lake splits Peru from Bolivia like Lake Tahoe splits California from Nevada.

From my strolling around Puno so far, I like the place.  It´s compact and bustling in a compact, almost cute, way.  Men in suits intermingle with women in traditional Peruvian dresses and bowler hats.  My encounters with hotel and restaurant personnel have been pleasant.  Mercifully, Puno is fairly flat in its center, a very welcome terrestrial feature at this altitude.  I seem to be breathing better here than I had been in Cuzco, the last town I stayed in. 

I arrived in Puno late yesterday afternoon after a six hour bus ride from Cuzco.  Although Cuzco (at 3326 meters/10,976 feet) isn´t as high up as Puno, it´s hilly, and my hotel there was up a steep incline from the city center.  I found myself huffing and puffing, and even hyperventilating, as I meandered through Cuzco.  Sometimes the hyperventilating kept me from sleeping.  Maybe my respiratory problems were compounded by an allergic reaction to something there–the dander of llamas or the haunting reverberations of the pan flute perhaps.  Anyway, it´s nice to be back in a place where hyperventilating doesn´t seem to be as much of a problem.

Allow me to turn back the clock a few days.  As I mentioned last time, after a 10-hour flight from Fiji to Los Angeles and a stop-over in L.A. for about the same length of time, I boarded a plane to South America.  That plane departed late, at 2:00 a.m., and took me only as far as Panama City, where I switched planes.  I was in the air for a combined total of about 10 hours before reaching Lima, my destination.  By the time I hopped in a taxi in Lima, the sleep deprivation had begun to take its toll and I felt a migraine coming on.

Below:  Lima´s Parque Central, two Cuzco locals, Cuzco´s Plaza de Armas, a steet vendor.

The Lima airport is on the outskirts of town, and the drive from there to the tourist-friendly Miraflores neighborhood was not a scenic one, especially not at first.  The roads and buildings beside them appeared ramshackle and dirty, leaving no doubt this is a third world country.  Eventually, though, we hit the coastline and ascended a steep grade similar to the California Incline in Santa Monica.  After a 30-minute journey, the cab dropped me off at Hotel Monte Real, a pretty hotel my brother Daniel and good friend Perry had found.  They arrived in Lima the day before and would be joining me on the Inca Trail trek to Machu Picchu.

It was late afternoon, and Perry and Daniel were eager to take me into town.  They had hired a guide who showed them around the day before.  Among other places, they visited a museum that had on display all sorts of ceramic fertility statues, and my compadres spared no memory card space in capturing images of the ancient smut with their digital cameras.  After the porn viewing, we walked to Parque Central, which is beautifully illuminated at night.  After some shopping and horseplay with mannequinns, we ate a lavish seafood dinner, including ceviche and pisco sour.  Unfortunately, that was the extent of my experience of Lima, because the next day we flew from there to Cuzco.  We were in bed by 11:30, but I couldn´t sleep, maybe because, as my mom often hypothesizes, I was “overtired.”  Perry had the same problem.

Some hotel reps converged on us at the airport in Cuzco and ultimately took us to a really nice hotel called Midori, just up the cobblestone street from the Plaza de Armas, the hub of city activity.  The Plaza de Armas is bordered by impressive Spanish colonial buildings and churches and a grand cathedral simply called “La Catedral.”  Cuzco was once the center of the Inca empire and is built on Incan stone foundations.  Hills surround the city, and at night the blue and yellow lights of the hillside houses twinkle like a second, horizon-hugging night sky.  Well beyond those hills, some three hours away, towers the Andes mountaintop in which awe-inspiring Machu Picchu is embedded.

Our plan was to spend one night in Cuzco, complete the four-day Inca Trail trek, and return to Cuzco and spend another night together there.  I would end up spending two more nights in Cuzco after Daniel and Perry had left.

Everyone who decides to take the Inca Trail into Machu Picchu must do so as part of an established trekking group.  Ours was Llama Path, a group I´d recommend.  At our orientation meeting, though, we learned that we would not be departing at 9:00 a.m. the next day, as scheduled.  Rather, because of an impending bus operator strike, we would be departing at 2:00 a.m.  This was not welcome news to my travel-weary ears, nor to the ears of my sleepy companions.

Below:  the start of the Inca Trail, the porters plus our wonderful guide Americo, sights en route on Day One.

At this point we had a number of strikes against us.  First, it would be wet.  January is the rainiest month of the year.  (The trail would be closed completely for the entire month of February.)  Second, it would be strenuous.  We would be hiking continuously for four days, mostly uphill.  This was more daunting to Daniel and me since Perry is as fit as a racehorse.  Third, it would be literally breathtaking.  We would be hiking at very high altitudes and did not have sufficient time to acclimatize.  The Llama Path people “strongly recommend” that hikers arrive in Cuzco three or four days before the trek in order to get used to the thin air.  Because of work schedules, we´d be starting the day after arriving in Cuzco.  Fourth, we would all be woefully sleep-deprived.

We arose at 1:40 a.m., a meager three hours after we had gone to bed.  I know I for one didn´t sleep a wink because I had to get up three times during the night.  Maybe the high altitude shrinks one´s bladder, but I think a combination of nerves and the imbibing of much too much coca tea explains that freak phenomenon.  (Local wisdom says that coca tea helps to energize high altitude trekkers, and I tried to get a jump on my intake.)

Our mini-bus was about 40 minutes late.  When we crawled inside, a group of seven Peruvian men sitting in the back, dressed in matching red parkas, applauded us.  They would be our porters for the next four days and they would applaud us a lot, no matter how pathetic our performance on the trail.

On the way out of town, we picked up another hiker, Sean.  Sean would round out our small group into a foursome.  Raised in Arizona, he now hails from Washington, D.C., and works for a government watchdog agency.  He made an ideal addition, holding his own in the incessant banter and proving to be so extremely fit he was able to keep up with even the superhuman porters.

Below:  my rugged brother, a local, a footbridge, me arriving at Dead Woman´s Pass.

We drove for over three hours in the night darkness, up over the hills that surround Cuzco and down into and across what is known as the Sacred Valley, an area chock-full of significant Inca sites.  The driver was apparently as sleepy as we were and had to stop the mini-bus several times and walk outside in order to jolt himself into alertness.  Once we were supposedly beyond the bus strike zone, the driver abruptly stopped the vehicle near a building in a small town somewhere, stirring up a cloud of dust, and promptly fell asleep at the steering wheel.  Our guide, Americo, suggested we all take the opportunity to sleep.  The porters heeded that suggestion–after a short while a chorus of deep breathing rose from the back.  My brother swears he heard them breathe out the melody for “Smoke on the Water.” 

We tourists weren´t so fortunate in flinding slumber.  A number of concerns swirled through my head, some of which I whispered out loud for my brother´s amusement:  I hope we´re not parked on train tracks.  The angry strikers can´t find us here, can they?  This isn´t a flash flood zone, is it?  (The area bore an uncanny resemblance to the simulated flash flood zone at Universal Studios.)  There´s been no violent coups here lately, right?  Do they have zombies in Peru?

We survived the night and arrived at the starting point for the Inca Trail.  The porters unloaded the provisions and made us breakfast, including abundant coca tea.  (During the course of the trek, we downed so much coca tea not a one of us would´ve passed a drug test.)  Day One, we had been told, would be easy.  Fairly flat with some moderate “ups and downs.”  As we began, the excitement surged.  We were finally doing this!  I felt momentarily confident.  Until the first short “up,” that is.  That reduced me to a panting ninny.  Of our group of four, I struggled the most.  But we all made it to lunch, albeit drenched in sweat.  We still had another three hours to go, though.

Below:  me, a porter, our chef and porters performing a culinary miracle, Daniel keeping on keeping on.

A word about the meals.  They were simply incredible.  Each morning, a porter named Silverio, who played the role of waiter, came to our tents while we were still in our sleeping bags, and served us tea.  For every meal, when we had all managed to lumber into the dining tent, we would be fed culinary concoctions as pleasing to the eyes as to the stomaches.  The chef, Wilber, did all of his cooking on the dirt floor over an open flame, yet presented us with hearty dishes like stuffed trout adorned with fancy-sliced vegetables and heaps of pasta and rice, plus breakfasts like vegetable omelettes and pancakes, and desserts like cream cake and chocolate pudding.  We could never eat it all, as hard as we tried.

The second half of Day One was nothing short of punishing.  Sean did fine.  But the rest of us were hurting.  I found myself counting off paces before stopping to catch my breath.  Fit-as-a-racehorse Perry slumped over his walking stick at every break, practically falling asleep while standing.  Over dinner, he expressed doubts about being able to continue the next day.  Day Two is reputed as being the hardest day of all.  And we had just finished the “easiest.”

But a night´s sleep did wonders and we hit the trail again somewhat reinvigorated the next morning, although roundly humbled.  We would attempt to ascend two peaks that day.  The first, ominously known as Dead Woman´s Pass, marks the highest point of the entire four-day pilgrimage, looming at 4200 meters or 13,779 feet.  The second stands at 4000 meters or 13,123 feet.  (We would descend to 3580 meters, or 11,700 feet, between the two.) 

Below:  me on the 3rd day descent, Perry and Daniel, an Andes Mountain vista, an anonymous porter.

We gained Dead Woman´s Pass by late morning, I clearly the least macho in the group.  One person after another passed me on the way up–phenomenally fast porters wearing open sandals, guides, young athletes, thin 30-somethings, fat people, the elderly, the crippled, newborn babies, people in wheel chairs, the handicapped with prosthetic legs, spare prosthetics hopping upwards although inanimate, a legless gumselling beggar who pushed himself along on a canvas mat, a talking alpaca, a herd of bandicoots who jeered at me with high-pitched Munchkin laughter.  Okay, maybe the coca tea made the experience a bit David Lynch-like, but the point is I was really slow.

It rained heavily after lunch that day, and that part of the journey entailed hiking up a small waterfall.  At camp, we were soaking wet and cold.  Worst of all, our boots were wet and stayed wet all night.  The next morning, we followed Sean´s lead in wearing plastic bags over our socks to keep them dry.  Actually, Perry didn´t need to do this.  His boots miraculously remained dry.  I don´t know how.  Mind you, he had by far the heaviest backpack, carrying in it I don´t know what.  All I know is that during the trek he seemed to have a different outfit to change into for even the slightest variations in temperature or precipitation.

Day Three was scenic, enjoyable and not terribly taxing.  But it did involve a very long descent over stones of different shapes and sizes, which was murder on the knees.  My brother had it the worst, eventually using two walking sticks to temper the pain.

Below:  at Machu Picchu

On Day Four, we got up at 4:00 a.m. and began the final, relatively mild climb up to what is called the Sun Gate, from which one can catch a first glimpse of Machu Picchu.  But when we reached the Sun Gate, we did not see Machu Picchu.  All we saw was a big white cloud.  My brother, whose knees were still killing him, let loose with a sarcastic diatribe about the unbearable sacrifices he´d made to get to this point only to be rewarded by the unremarkable view of something as mundane as a cloud.

But as we ambled our way down toward the famous Inca site itself, the clouds partially cleared and we had our reward.  By the time we reached the site proper, the sun was blazing in full glory, and we gratefully peeled off layers of sweaty or rain-soaked clothing and basked in the warmth.  Americo led us on a tour, displaying his considerable command of the history and culture of the Incans and explaining the significance of some of the structures.  Amazingly, the ingenious Incans managed to build Machu Picchu–its many temples, tombs, houses, plazas and terraces–in under 80 years.  The “lost city” remained unknown to all but a few indiginous Quechuas until 1911 when American historian Hiram Bingam stumbled upon it.  Now it´s the most popular archeological site in South America.

Below:  drying off at Machu Picchu, on the rails, the river beside the train tracks, Perry and Daniel say goodbye.

After the tour with Americo, Sean and Perry, who had now found his stride, opted to ascend yet another peak, Wayna Picchu, which looms behind the ruins.  Once they returned, the four of us took a bus down the snaking road to the town of Aguas Calientes, which sits at the base of the mountain.   There we met Americo for celebratory food and drinks, said our goodbyes to him, and hopped the train back toward Cuzco.  The train followed a mesmerizing, violently churning, chocolate-milk colored river.  We alighted the train and took a mini-bus the rest of the way in order to save time.  We drove under a big, vibrant blue sky through brown adobe villages and past yellow fields and over rolling green hills.  These majestic colors of nature seemed to fade into the status of a backdrop whenever local Andeans came into view, their traditional garb dominated by unmissible reds and pinks, dotting the villages and fields like sprinkles on a cupcake.

As for the four-day Inca Trail trek to Machu Picchu, I´m sure glad I did it, I´d recommend others consider doing it, but I´m never doing it again.  Next time I´ll take the bus.

When I last wrote, I was about to board an overnight bus back to Sydney from Byron Bay.  While in Sydney, I walked across the Harbour Bridge again and poked around zany Luna Park.  Here are some shots from the latter.

When I left Sydney and flew away from Australia, I envisioned an entourage waving goodbye down below.  In it were Paul Hogan and Scott the Ayers Rock tour guide and a bush ranger and the surf instructors and Kidman and her friends and family and the ghost of Steve Irwin and the Coober Pedy bus driver and a kangaroo and a koala (uninfected) and an aborigine and an Australian Rules football player and the two Aussies from the sailing trip and the Adelaide church group.  The Down Under chapter of this global spree–the longest chapter of all–had come to a close.

My plane landed in the middle of the South Pacific, in a city called Nadi on the main island of Fiji.  I´d booked a hotel online for one night and a representative from the small establishment was there waiting for me at the little airport holding a sign with my name on it.  She said “bulah” (similar to “aloha”), placed a shell necklace around my neck and took me to an office where I considered my options and decided where I´d stay for my remaining three nights. 

No one stays in Nadi itself longer than necessary.  Rather, everyone heads for one or more of the luscious smaller islands.  My plan was to head for one of the island groups to the west of the main island.  This was for two reasons.  First, this was the wet season, but the weather (allegedly) improved as one moved westward.  Second, there had been incidents of civil unrest in the past year in the capital city, and that city, Suva, is on the southeast edge of the main island, far from the island groups in the west.

The Mamanuca Islands are the closest to Nadi and can be reached by boat in under an hour.  I chose a hostel called Ratu Kini on the island of Mana, one of the Mamanucas.  Another island group, the Yasawa Islands, lies just to the north of the Mamanucas and is reputed to be more picturesque.  I considered splitting my short time between the Mamanucas and the Yasawas.  But it seemed prudent to stay closer to Nadi since I´d have to catch a flight in just four days and I had doubts about the reliability of the boat transportation system.  The islanders operate on ”Fiji time,” a pace that exalts relaxation over efficiency.

When we had finished in the airport office, we drove to the hotel.  A big cow sat on the lawn next door.  I settled into my room and noticed I wasn´t alone.  A gecko clung to one wall.  A few times during the night, he demonstrated his chirping skills with impressive volume.  In the morning, I awoke to a light tapping on my door and the words, “Your tea is ready, sir.”  My “tea” consisted of toast, peanut butter, coffee and tea, which I ate on a plastic table on the patio outside.

I was supposed to be picked up and taken to the boat to Mana at 8:30 a.m.  The driver arrived instead at 9:20.  Fiji time.  On the way to the boat, we picked up two girls from Montana and one girl from England.

The self-contained hostel was one of four places offering accommodations on Mana.  Upon arrival in the transport boat, the Fijian staff greeted us by singing local songs.  A group of local children played in the ocean nearby.  I later discovered that just over the hill behind the hostel sits the abandoned set of one of the Survivor TV series, essentially a row of thatched-roof huts and a foux temple.  The hostel grounds blend imperceptibly with the surrounding little village where the staff lives.  A generator provides electricity from the early evening until morning, enabling the all-important fans to run while the guests attempt sleep in the humid climate.  The shower water is not heated and doesn´t need to be.  Our canteens can be filled at one of the huge vats that catch rain water.  There is only one computer and if it is up and running at all, it is for only a few hours each day and must be shared by all of the guests.  (A set-up not conducive to blog writing.)

The activity, to the extent there is any activity at all, takes place on and around the front deck.  That´s where all of the meals are served.  The meals are necessarily included because there´s nowhere to go for food otherwise.  At low tide, there is just enough dry sand in front of the deck to play beach games, especially volleyball.  But inevitably, half the players on the volleyball court find themselves standing in the ocean and drenched in salt water after a few plays.  The hostel guests can occupy themselves with snorkeling, walking around the island and sunbathing, but most just plant themselves on the deck and read or talk or play cards or fall asleep until the next meal or round of kava drinking.  Kava is a native drink, reputedly ¨narcotic,¨but only in the sense that coffee is ¨narcotic.¨  It´s about as flavorful as rice cakes mixed with water in a blender, and in my experience, no more narcotic.

When I first arrived at Mana, I began to reconsider moving on to the Yasawas.  But after I got to know some of the guests and the staff, I decided to resist my normal practice of trying to see as much as possible and to just stay put at this hostel on Mana and practice Fiji time living.  As at most hostels, the crowd was young, single and very international and I gained some new friends–the two fun-loving girls from Montana, a brother and sister from Holland, a woman from Germany, two girls from Canada, a good number of Brits, four girls from Ireland and a whole host of Scandinavians, including two beautiful Swedish girls, two Swedish guys and two Danish guys.  One night the Scandinavians changed the name of their drinking game to ¨Captain Spence¨in my honor.  Brings a tear to one´s eye.

Unfortunately, we had lots of rain and wind.  Trees fell over and muddy puddles covered the path around the island.  On one or two days the transport boat never left the main island, leaving several people stranded on Mana and unable to catch their flights out of Nadi.  I was considering taking a helicopter if necessary, but the weather cleared and the transport boat came as scheduled on my last day. 

As we pulled up to the shore in Nadi, we cruised past the bobbing upside down hull of a boat that had been completely overturned and had sunk in the storm.  The water was so full of dark debris, disembarking and walking to shore was like wading through Turkish coffee.

I got to hang out briefly with the Scandinavian girls when we arrived in Nadi, and then for a few hours with the girls from Montana and Canada.  Then I caught an evening flight in the direction of my next destination–South America.

But my flight from Fiji stopped in LAX, where I´d catch another flight to Peru about 10 hours later.  So, my parents met me at the airport.  I hadn´t seen them for five months and the reunion was sweet–all beaming smiles and hugs.  We had lunch at one of my favorite spots and then visited my apartment, which was now full of the feminine belongings of my female houseguest.  There, my parents sat patiently while I purged my backpack and replaced some things.  Then we went back to my parents´house.  I did laundry and used the computer to finalize plans for Peru, then we ate one of my mom´s delicious home-cooked meals and watched episodes of Curb Your Enthusiasm and Flight of the Conchords.  The time flew by. 

Being back home with my parents felt surreal, more divorced from reality than the string of destinations I´d visited and had yet to visit.  There was so much to tell them and so much to ask, but the conversation just jumped from topic to topic in headline fashion without sufficient time to dig deep or complete a line of thought.  Then, at an hour I would´ve preferred to have crawled in between the sheets on the bed in my old bedroom, it was time to drive back to the airport and fly off again.

So we parted in much the same way as we had reunited, and my parents drove away.  I took my place in line at the airport, waiting for a departure to Lima, Peru on a flight that ended up being delayed until 2 a.m.  Fortunately for me, I would be greeted in Lima by my brother and a close friend, which would help take the sting out of the goodbyes I had just said to Mom and Dad.