Machu Picchu: the Salkantay Trek (9/21-9/26)

Since arriving in Cusco, Scott and I were relatively sure we´d like to visit a nearby site of Incan ruins, accessible via various treks or by bus-train combo. The site, which the Peruvian people will tell you was definitely not ¨discovered¨ in 1911 by Hiram Bingham, but rather has been known to the local people almost since the fall of the Incan Empire, is called Machu Picchu. You may have heard of it.

To get to Machu Picchu, one can choose to take a one- or two-day bus and train to Aguas Calientes - the painfully touristy town at the base of Machu Picchu mountain, then hike or bus to the actual ruins, or one has the option of hiking. There are three hiking routes to access the ruins: (1) the infamous Inca Trail - 3 nights, must be booked months in advance, features arriving through the Sun Gate; (2) the newly-popularized Inka Jungle Trail - 3 nights, favored by young adventuresome types, can feature rafting and downhill biking segments; and (3) the Salkantay Trek - 4 nights, least popular of the access routes, features summitting a 4,200 meter pass over the Salkantay glacier one day, then dropping to the jungle at only 1,300 meters the next, passing through various eco- and climate systems.

We booked the Salkantay Trek one night at 5pm, and left the next morning at 4am.

deluxe hot lunch - ready when you are

Now, Scott and I both consider ourselves to have more camping experience than the average bear, and we spent some time seriously considering doing the Salkantay Trek by ourselves. When we added up the costs of going solo versus going with a group, though, the two were fairly comparable (solo may have actually been more expensive), so we decided to forgo our prejudices against organized tours, and go with a company. In a moment of defiance, however, we brought our own tent along for the ride...we never used it.

the (shorter) mountain next to Salktantay

In retrospect, we may have preferred doing the trek solo, but what we did do ended up being a completely new experience, at the very least. Mules and horses carried our bags the first 3 days. We slept in tents under roofs. We were woken at 5 or 6am each day to a steaming mug of hot coca tea. At lunch time, we´d stop at building or shacks along the trail, where a team of cooks had already prepared a hot lunch of soup, rice, meat, vegetables and tea. Part of one meal was comprised of delicate, sushi-like rolls of polenta stuffed with fish. There were cold beers to be bought along the trail. It was like a distant sister of camping who had never stepped in a puddle without proper rainboots had decided to organize the trek, and while we enjoyed the amenities thoroughly, the constant complaining of the majority of the group tried our patience.

Hayley, Juancito, and Scott, hot on the trail

As you can imagine, the guides and the group affect the fluidity and enjoyment of a trip to an enormous degree. Our guides, Juancito and Javier, had opposite but complementary styles. Juan was quiet, funny, shy but engaging, and marched along stoicly no matter the conditions. Javier was loud and outgoing, but disappeared frequently and inexplicably, and only interacted with the group to say, ¨Ok, Super Amigos...ok guys...ok. It is a tradition...to give a little tip. So we all give a little tip. Ok? Ok Super Amigos...ok.¨ The guides, then, were fine. It was the other 16 people on the trek that made it truly interesting.

Nearly half the group was Israelis who had recently finished their time in the army, which meant they were all in beastly good shape and enjoyed jogging down the trail and complaining in Hebrew. While they were uninterested in interacting with the rest of the group, we did manage to catch their names: Angry Boy, Captain Israel, the One that I Don´t Like, the One Who Looks Like the One I Don´t Like, the Boyfriend, and Silent Girl.

Goofing off while waiting for the rest of the Crew to catch up

Another large subset of the group was the effervescent Commonwealth Crew. This group of med students was so-called because of their various nationalities: Australian, Scottish and English. While generally friendly and cheerful, they were also rather cliquey, and always situated themselves as far from the Israelis as possible at breakfast, lunch, tea and dinner tables, creating a strange constrained space for those of us in neither clique, of which there were only five of us. Scott and I mostly associated with the Canadian couple on their honeymoon and the German girl traveling by herself, as well as the less-entrenched members of the Commonwealth Crew.

Overall, it was an enjoyable crowd, and the more people complained about the daily eight hours of hiking, the more Scott and I reveled in our physical fitness and our stoicness in the face of adversity. We did climb to and snow-camp at 4,800 meters on a snow-capped volcano in Ecuador, after all.

Ghost-Hayley climbing the stairs in the fog-rain to Machu Picchu

The trek itself was mostly upwards at the start, then once we crossed the snow-capped Salkantay pass it was almost entirely downhill; we dropped over 3,000 vertical meters in the span of a day and a half (Fun Fact: according to Juancito, no one has ever summitted the Salkantay mountain itself, and the only people who tried were caught in an avalanche with no survivors). While the first night was rather cold, the second was positively temperate, and the third slightly warm. Also on the third night, we visited the Santa Theresa hot springs, which lie alluringly at the edge of a river, and in which I met a girl who went to Rancho Cotate High School in Rohnert Park (she knew a girl I played volleyball with in high school, small world). I also sustained some incredibly bizarre insect bites on my ankles, which bubbled up into delicious-looking blisters by the next day, and later oozed into my socks.

Dawn at Machu Picchu

The final (4th) day of hiking before Machu Picchu saw us laden with our packs, since horses can´t cross rivers. The morning was desolate, and our path was a scorching, dusty highway running too high above a roiling river replete with hydroelectric spillways. When that ended, we hiked several hours along railroad ties, and only once were we obliged to jump into the bushes to avoid an oncoming locomotive. The track was interminable, broken only by the occasional glimpse of a terrace high above the valley, veiled in clouds, that marked our final destination.

We spent the night in Aguas Calientes, avoiding the 4-for-1 Happy Hours and - with the practiced idiocy that rears its head whenever hikes are involved - bought six tiny rolls and a package of wafer cookies to sustain us the entire following day at Machu Picchu.

Path up Huayna Picchu - sacred city in background

4:30am saw our entire group eating Oreos and - having lost Javier again - picking our way up the treacherous ¨trail¨ (read: vertical stone steps), our skin slippery with the early-morning fog, which couldn´t decide if it would actually become rain, but drenched us nonetheless. We entered Machu Picchu at 6am alongside the dry, well-dressed, non-sweaty tourists who had opted to take the bus up the vertical incline. One member of our group verbally assaulted a woman smoking a cigarette nearby, so thirsty were we for air and respite from the ascent.

Our first impression of the infamous Incan site was...foggy. We couldn´t see much, and our group´s tour guide, Horatio, was more interested in expounding upon his theory that South-pointing triangles in Machu Picchu must indicate that the Incas worshipped the Salkantay glacier than elucidating us on any of the actual theories about the site. His book will be coming out next year. He also had a charming way of rambling incoherently in a mixture of Spanish and English for several minutes, then announcing, ¨Ok boys and girls, girls and boys, clear the understand?¨ At which point we all giggled nervously and shook our heads.

Machu Picchu from Huayna Picchu

At 8am, having crossed most of the city, yet - due to the fog and Horatio´s unintelligible babble - having seen and understood very little, Scott and I finally detached from the group to hike Huaynapicchu (Waynapicchu), the peaky mountain that rises above the city. Only 400 people can hike the peak each day, and our reservation was for 8am, while the rest of the group went later.

Strenuous. Uphill. Cables on the path to keep you from tumbling to your death in the jungle thousands of feet below. As we climbed higher, we were able to see much of the route we´d hiked the day before. And as though the Incan gods wanted to impress upon us the beauty and sacredness of the site, a brilliant rainbow cut through the fog to illuminate the valley and river below. The ruins at the top of Huaynapicchu seem to indicate a lookout point or stronghold, although someone told us that the location was simply used by the city´s astronomers. Near the top, I met a fellow Bruin on a spiritual retreat. We giggled about comparing Machu Picchu and Los Angeles. We also ran into a South African couple we´d been leapfrogging the whole trek (they´d gone solo), and took one of the funnier MySpace-style pictures of all time (four heads and the lost Incan city captured on an iPhone on top of the world - not bad).

post-napping in the Picchu

While the mountain was relatively peaceful and scenic, upon reaching the very pinnacle, we found ourselves surrounded by about 30 Japanese tourists, all tittering and giddy. It was probably the most surprising location for a party atmosphere I´ve ever imagined. Scott and I tried to wreck their pictures by making faces in the background, but we got caught and were obliged to participate in a Japanese jumping-spinning video I hope we get to see someday.

Yep! We were there...Either that or I´m good at Photoshop

From Huaynapicchu, there were signs indicating something called the Gran Caverna, and we decided to take the challenge and check it out. We climbed down stairs for the next hour, and I would guess that about 1% of all people who visit Machu Picchu even know this place exists. Because of this, we thought we were sneaking off the Gringo Trail to see a hidden treasure at Machu Picchu...Instead, we briefly peered into a cave with some brick structures, and then spent 30 minutes being spiritually uplifted by a bored park caretaker. The spiritual uplifting involved having our earlobes rubbed, massaging our own buttocks, and sitting in the back of a cave pretending to meditate while secretly keeping my eyes slightly open to ensure out backpacks weren´t being pilfered. When we finally escaped his relatively innocent clutches, he suggested we tip him. Having essentially been kidnapped and forced to meditate (seems counterintuitive, I know), neither of us was particularly inclined to do so, but I ended up reaching into my pockets and giving him the only thing I encountered, which was a Canadian two dollar coin, or ¨toonie,¨ the Canadian honeymooners had given me the night before (sorry, guys!). Reflecting, I was strongly reminded of last summer in Morocco when I bought a couch from a man named Couscous (¨they call me Couscous because I am very fat¨) for some quantity of dirhams plus one U.S. dollar. Bafflingly, the man at the Gran Caverna was thrilled upon receipt of the coin.

Double rainbow on our way down from Picchu

Back in Machu Picchu several hours and sweaty stair hiking later, we´d finished our meager snacks and it had started to rain. Many of the more fickle tourists left at the first drops, so when the sun broke out stunningly 30 minutes later, Scott and I were sharing the place with a fraction of the thousand tourists who enter each day. Being hungry and warm, naturally, we took a nap on the precipitous walls of the sacred city.

At around 4pm, and 8 hours in the infamous place, we made the (now-rainy, but also rainbow-y) hike back to Aguas Calientes, where we managed to convince a restaurant to give us a 45 sol pizza and a 1.1 liter beer for only 30 soles. Our negotiating is getting muuuch better.

Back to Cusco meant taking a train (with gourmet snax - parmesan crackers and chocolates!) to Ollantaytambo, where - of course - Javier had abandoned us, and we had to pay a colectivo (shared taxi) to take us back to Cusco. I was annoyed, and took it out on a Peruvian man for not making space for me on his row of the colectivo.

Cusco: a break from the norm (9/6-9/21)

22 hours and many films (El Campeon, Beer Fest, Unknown, The Switch, Meet the Fockers, Gifted Hands...I really cannot figure out how they choose films to show) after we left Lima, we found ourselves pulling into the Terminal Terrestre de Cusco. Naturally, I wanted to go to an internet cafe to watch the ¨Cuzco Theme Song¨ from The Emperor´s New Groove, but instead we decided to get a bit of food and walk the mile or so to the Plaza de Armas, otherwise known as ¨the place where you can´t walk more than two feet without being offered a massage, having wool hats shoved in your face, or accidentally ruining a tourist´s ideal photo op.¨

We found the hostel we´d be working at for the next several weeks, checked in with the bar manager, and by 7pm that night Scott was already working his first shift. It´s somewhat difficult to characterize our time working at the bar, as routine is always harder to sensationalize than constant new experiences, but I´ll do my best. We each worked either during the day (a 5- or 6-hour shift) or the night (a 7- to 10-hour shift, depending on if the bar closed at 2am or 5am), and spent the rest of our time in the city sleeping, eating, visiting various attractions (the infamous and incredibly difficult to find Choco Museo and the nearby Incan ruins of Saqsaywaman (see picture), or ¨sexy woman,¨ being the highlights), buying costume pieces for the various parties at the bar, or hanging out in the meat aisle of the nearby warehouse-style market (I think it was all those years as a vegetarian, but I am completely entranced by the pig heads being chopped to bits, mysterious entrails lying on dirty counters, the old women sipping soup contentedly in the midst of horror-movie gore...).
At the hostel, we worked almost entirely with some groups of traveling Aussies, who often convinced us to go out until the morning light. The nights were filled with boisterous guests and weird, 6-year-old-boy antics, while all the while we tried to save money - and inevitably failed - by resisting purchasing giant beers for beer pong or as pool bets. Some of the more notable incidents:

- One night, for lack of anything better to do, several (all?) of the male employees doused their heads in sambuca, then stood in a row. Someone lit the first guy´s head on fire, which he then rubbed on the next person´s head, and so on, until there was a row of seven or eight troll-like fire-heads behind the bar. Scott´s almost didn´t go out, and his eyelashes definitely got burned.

- At some point most nights, there would be a mass exodus for the backyard, where someone would each time come up with a stupider, more dangerous way to set off large amounts of fireworks.

- I was apparently the only person in the bar who could make a chicano, a pisco-based drink that two girls from Lima ordered about five of everyday for the entire week they were there. Of course, I only knew how to make it because they showed me...but it meant that even if I wasn´t working, I was making chicanos.

- Various theme parties, which systematically meant all of the employees and one or two long-term guests dressed up in any of the myriad costumes from the secret costume boxes. Some themes: Ladies Night (featuring boys in dresses and cartoonishly oversized balloon breasts), toga party (reminiscent of my college days...ahh), 80s Night (ideal because when I put on John Farnham´s ¨You´re the Voice,¨ all of the Aussies actually sang along, also because everyone had drawn-on facial hair by the end of the night), and Fetish (lots of feather dusting).

- For about a week, I tried to put together a Pub Quiz. I had the questions. I had the enthusiasm. It got written on the theme board about five different times...and each time it got killed by the bar manager in favor of things like lighting each others´ hair on fire or making people drink beers with cigarette ash in it. I ended up asking my 125 questions to Scott and one other guest on a slow night.

- Movies. Scott and I relished the nights when someone would cut the crazy techno music, turn off all the lights, and put on a film. Those were the easiest times to work, since even the lights in the beer fridge were turned off. Films usually featured Mila Jovavich, the weird Russian chick from Resident Evil.

- One of the many strange items at the bar was a tazer, which - for the first part of our stay - had no batteries, and was therefore harmless. At some point, however, someone invested the 4 soles in order to terrorize the rest of us - I got tazed while sitting at the bar drinking tea one afternoon...
- Towards the end of our stay, both the numbers of guests and workers began to dwindle, and Scott and I began to wonder what we´d be doing to occupy the nights. As it turned out, we needn´t have worried. An alarming trend of taking large quantities of Jaeger bombs in a row (a shot of Jaeger dropped into a glass of Red Bull, then consumed with maximum speed) and then receiving tattoos developed. The tattoos occurred throughout the bar - on tables, couches, stools - and ranged from Incan Sun God faces to BACKWARDS initials (JB inadvertently received ¨BJ¨ in 6-inch tall letters on his shoulder. Whoops).
- One day, when Scott and I were feeling a particular urge to be outside of the hostel, we walked to the Plaza de Armas, and took a seat on the sidewalk near some ladies selling massages. After listening to their lackluster ¨masaje-masaje?¨ for a few minutes, we decided to help. We began aggressively and somewhat furtively offering massages in Spanish to all the white tourists, who were somewhat nonplussed by our apparent inability to speak English. Several of them tried hard to understand us, saying loudly, ¨Only English, sorry!¨ then getting upset when we continued repeating ourselves. Scott started offering people his California driver´s license, whispering enticingly in faux-broken English, ¨...to look is free...¨ Whenever anyone got frustrated and walked away, we´d call imploringly after them, ¨mai-bee lay-ter?¨ Needless to say, the masaje-masaje ladies loved it. We started thinking that perhaps we should come up with our own ¨hustle,¨ since people all over the city sold small batches of everything from papas rellenas to bruschetta. I decided to see how well it would work if we sold brownies, by suggesting ¨brow-nees?¨ to a passing Peruvian man. It got confusing when he thought I was referring to his skin tone...I decided to change my tactic and instead offered him ¨pan kekes,¨ and he was incredibly relieved that apparently all the gringa was trying to say to him was the word for pancakes. It was this day that we also developed the incredibly effective ¨spin tactic¨ - when someone offers you something and you´d rather not have to be persistent in your refusal, simply continue walking past them, but start spinning in a slow circle. It has the effect of both perplexing and amusing them, while removing you from an awkward situation.

- One day, we decided to actually put one of our ¨hustle¨ plans into action. We bought cake mix and a pineapple, and built an incredibly burnt cake in the hostel kitchen, using Rita Smith´s painfully sweet water-and-powdered-sugar frosting recipe. The piña cake was good, but didn´t hold together too well, so we ended up feeding it to everyone at the hostel, who unanimously agreed it was ¨muy rico.¨ (This is what you say when you don´t know what else to say about a food item.)
- Gambling. As I´ve mentioned, Scott likes to gamble, and there were two casinos directly next door to the hostel. One of them specialized in delicious cappuccinos, tiny but scrumptious sandwiches, and little plates of delicate chocolates, so we played lots of roulette in exchange for these ¨free¨ treats.
- As a parting gift, Scott and I signed my Cuenca jersey and wrote various ridiculous but signature sayings on it (including a rendering of the BJ tattoo, the saying ¨Rest in Piss,¨ and ¨Pete! Pete! Pete!¨), then hung it on the wall above the bar for all to see. Wonder how long that´ll stay there...
Overall, it was quite an experience, and although it wasn´t difficult working at the bar (it mostly consisted of handing out beers, watching TV, making a mojito once a week, and running down to the kitchen to bring people food), it was nice when we finally broke out of the routine of going to sleep after 3am and waking up after 11am. It just felt like a healthy decision the morning we woke up at 4am to leave for a 5-day hiking trek to Machu Picchu.

Huaraz & Lima (9/1-9/6)

After being dropped off about a half-mile past the Chimbote bus station (whoops) at 8:10am, we made a quick turnaround, and by 8:30am we had snacks and were on our way to Huaraz via Cañon del Pato (Duck Canyon).

Now, we weren´t sure exactly why they´d specified the route, except that perhaps there were multiple routes up to the secluded mountain town and trekking oasis. As it turns out, this was exactly right, and the Cañon del Pato manifested as an incredibly bumpy, dusty dirt road that wound through a deep canyon, the towering cliff faces devoid of vegetation, dropping steeply to the river far below. The bus moved slowly (no movie this time, categories were ¨Tom Cruise Movies,¨ ¨Bill Murray Movies,¨ and ¨Famous People with the First Name John¨), frequently ¨ducking¨ through rough tunnels hewn out of the sandstone.

We passed a hydroelectric facility, but other than that few inhabitants lived in the shadows of the canyon walls - we only saw a few roadside stands, made of fiberglass sheets that glimmered faintly through the all-consuming dust. We stopped briefly for lunch, then continued on, completing the 8-hour trip late in the afternoon. We threw ourselves from the bus, but didn´t have enough energy to fend off the myriad locals who descended upon us immediately, offering lodging and special deals on the most famous trek in the area, the 4-day sendero (trail) de Santa Cruz.

We wearily followed one of the men to a hostal, then set out, determined to make plans for the trek the following day. We´d initially heard of the trail from a British man in the refugio on Cotopaxi, who´d recommended it as an introductory or training trail before trying the more challenging Pisco peak, located nearby. However, our brief research that evening revealed that the Santa Cruz trail was usually done in large tourist groups, and that to hire a car to drive you to the start of the trail would be comparable in price. Our malcontent at this information dissipated slightly when I discovered a Scotia Bank nearby (Scotia Bank is the only sister bank to Bank of America located in South America, though I´d read it was only found in the French Guianas. Those who have traveled with me before know that I will go to great lengths to avoid the international ATM fees, and that I am an expert on the B of A sister banks in more than 9 countries).

That night, to avoid making any decision on the Santa Cruz front, we decided to try some local delicacies. We had some type of rice pudding, with bits of raisin and cinammon mixed in. We tried chicha (in Ecuador chicha is a corn-beer, made from human-chewed corn, but in Peru, chicha moreno is a bubblegum-flavored purple beverage that is served either hot or cold, and reminds me a bit of Irn Bru - a bizarre orange soda favored by the Scots that we encountered on our journeys last summer). I think Scott had another street-vended papa rellena (potato stuffed with meat, lettuce, and various sauces). And to top it all off, we had chifa, or Chinese food, which is always drowned in MSG, and ice cream, thankfully not drowned in anything.

We got back to our hotel room, and that´s when I realized that I had not yet overcome my illness. I spent the entire next day and most of the following one bedridden. I finished Dharma Bums, then moved on to the incredibly disappointing White Fang, which I think I would have enjoyed if I were a 12 year old boy (this hypothesis would be confirmed later by two American boys I met, who both loved the book when they were in middle school).

The problem with me getting sick, besides being awful in general, was that we were actually on something of a tight schedule - we arrived in Huaraz on September 1st, and we needed to be in Cusco (29 hours of bus rides away) by September 6th, to start our job as bartenders at a hostel. Me being totally incapacitated for 48 hours, therefore, effectively eliminated any chance of doing the 4-day Santa Cruz trek. We did, however, visit a trout farm and do laundry while in Huaraz, which, of course, is much cooler anyway.

Also, when I was feeling better, we were out for an evening stroll when Scott spotted the unmistakeable sight of a gymnasium through a recessed doorway. To our great surprise and delight, it turned out to be open gym volleyball! Pretty soon, we were engaged in hitting lines with a mixture of young girls, women, and two men. There was even a coach! After the hitting lines, we played a 6-on-6 match with them, and it was the highest-quality volleyball I think I´ve experienced at an open gym. It felt good to move around, to sweat, and to get our hands on some good old-fashioned sports. A fantastic evening.

But we couldn´t leave without doing any trekking. Our Cotopaxi Refugio friend had also told us about an incredible day hike, up to Laguna 69. Fortuitously, the day after I recovered mostly, a bus was leaving from our hostel at 7am, driving to the trail, then offering rides back in the afternoon for 40 Peruvian soles (approximately 2.65 soles per one USD, or one sol equals approximately 40 cents). In typical Scott and Hayley fashion, we decided we could probably do the same trip for cheaper, on our own. Plus, we knew we could catch a bus to Lima that night (the only viable route to Cusco involves traveling all the way to the coast, before returning to the mountains) from a town further back down the road towards Lima, which was the direction of Laguna 69 anyway.

Sendero de Laguna 69
We set out around 9am, took a colectivo to Yungay (about 1.5 hours) for 5 soles each, then shared a taxi (another 1.5 hours) to the trailhead with a German couple for 15 soles each (we also had to pay 5 soles each to enter the Parque Nacional de Huascaran)...it began to look like we may have made a mistake in forgoing the hostel bus. However, the taxi driver was jovial, interesting, and informative, and humored my Spanish with gusto. He also stopped to let us gaze upon a beautiful, incredibly azure lake along the way, then gave us good advice about the trailhead. When we arrived, at about 12pm, he warned us that the last buses and cars along that road would be leaving around 3:30 or 4pm, and offered to wait the 6 hours he though the hike would take us, in exchange for 80 soles.

We thanked him, but were determined to beat someone back down the trail, then beg them for a ride back into Yungay to catch our night bus to Lima. And so we began a race to the top. The trail led down into a valley and along a small river, sloping gently upwards until the valley tapered out, with dark, snowy mountains looming at the end. The taxi driver had advised us to stay to the right of the river, so - of course - we immediately found ourselves on the left side, with no clear point at which to cross. Furthermore, a few rowdy-looking mules quit their grazing to follow us at a slow and ominous stride...

Eventually we realized we really needed to cross the river, or else we might be obliged to backtrack all the way to the trailhead, an option clearly ill-advised if we were to make it to the lake and back. Scott went for the bold step-on-the-slippery-looking-rock-and-hope-its-not tactic, which left him with two soaking shoes and wet pant legs, which was worrying, since temperatures were clearly low enough for snow (giant glaciers overlooked the trail throughout). I tried the throw-myself-across-at-the-narrowest-point-and-land-gracelessly-on-my-face tactic, which worked a bit better. Since I´m the whinier and sicker of the two, it´s probably a good thing I didn´t get wet, but Scott did.

From our crossing, the trail wound gently up the valley´s rise, passing horses, bulls, and mules grazing in the scrubby grass. The broken boulders were reminiscent of the High Sierras, the gnarled trees indicative of the harsh and windy conditions. At the end of the valley, the trail began relatively manageable switchbacks up the hillside, opposite a roaring, 200-foot cascade that looked more like rapids turned on their side. We overtook a European couple, but they were planning on camping that night at the lake, so we couldn´t beg them for a ride back. I was struggling a bit with the pace Scott was setting, breathing hard and feeling lightheaded (I certainly wasn´t at 100% health yet, but I also wasn´t about to miss this hike), so when we met a pair of Peruvian men on their way down, I must´ve looked haggard. We asked them if we could make it to the top and back down, and the man gave me the most encouraging slap on the back I´ve ever received. ¨Fuerza! Fuerza! Rapido!¨ he counselled, then pushed me on my way.

The switchbacks levelled out right beneath a surprisingly blue glacier, whose rounded leading edge teetered precariously a hundred feet above us. At the next steep uphill, which led through a gap of crumbling rock, we passed three Israelis, who said that although they didn´t have much space, we could probably catch a ride back with them.

The gap opèned onto an enormous high-altitude grazing field; a small lake opened onto the wet, cold, grassy field, cow pies decorated the trail, and a group of what appeared to be sherpas with firewood relaxed in a rocky outcrop, protected from the biting wind. We crossed the field easily, and other Israelis we passed coming down told us there was just one more incline before the Laguna 69. At the start of the incline, we´d been hiking for only about an hour and a half, thanks to Scott´s indomitable striding and our lack of breaks. Each of the switchbacks of this final set brought us closer to the impending snowy peaks, and to better vistas of the meadow, the waterfall, and the lower glaciers. And with nearly every switchback, we encountered hikers who could not summon the courage to summit, but instead sat, bug-eyed, salty-mouthed and gasping, at the edge of the trail.

We reached the top at around 2:10pm, which was fairly impressive for a supposed 6-hour round-trip hike. And it was worth it.

The trip back down only took us about an hour and a half, and we hiked with two Israelis who confirmed they would give us a ride in their bus. Apparently, South America is one of the primary destinations for Israeli youth to travel after they´ve done their time in the army, and we should expect to find a true bounty of them in Bolivia.

When we got back to the trailhead, however, we noticed a familiar-looking taxi...our driver had decided to wait for us anyway, as he was worried we´d get stuck! We had a choice: we could ride down to Yungay with the Israelis for free (although we´d have to wait for all of their group to make it down the mountain), or we could pay our driver 15 soles to drive us back to town. In a shocking and uncharacteristic display of not being cheap, we went with our driver, as I think we were both a bit touched by his loyalty.

On the drive, we passed a British couple about our age, who gladly hopped in, and turned out to be hilarious. Then, just outside the park entrance, we stopped and picked up three young Peruvian men, bringing the total in the five-seater sedan to eight. Needless to say, the ride down was greatly amusing, and when we arrived in Yungay, we were in such good spirits that we invited the Brits, Abby and Tom, to grab a beer with us, before heading back to their hostal in Huaraz.

This ended up being quite the misadventure, since we couldn´t find anywhere that sold cold beers, but we did catch the tail-end of some type of street festival, replete with a brass band and a drunk smashing full beer bottles in the street. Abby and Tom left as night fell, and it turned out that - for whatever reason - all the electricity in Yungay was out for the evening. There also seemed to be some shortage of candles, so we spent about two hours wandering unfamiliar streets by the (blinding) light of my headlamp.

The bus to Lima was uneventful, and we arrived at 4:30am just in time to nap at the bus station.

Lima

Once the other bus companies opened, we shopped around until we found a 3:30pm bus that would take us to Cusco in 22 hours. For the buses, there are three options in Peru; you can take a cama, or bed, which is the most expensive option and features a large chair that reclines entirely, you may opt for a semi-cama, which is similar but only reclines most of the way, or you can go cheaply with the economico option, which is a normal bus seat, with incredibly limited leg room. So far, we´ve ended up in semi-camas, which are plenty comfortable for a night´s sleep.

Just like in Guayaquil, we had some time to explore the city, and only one real idea owf where to go - Miraflores. This region of the otherwise congested, dirty, and supposedly dangerous city is where all tourists are found, replete with MacDonald´s, Starbucks, Scotia Bank, and an all-inclusive waterfront mall, where prices rival that of Hollywood. We took a harrowing journey in one of the city´s tiny buses (think a 15-passenger van stuffed with about 30 people, with a man hanging out the doorway shouting the destination as the driver maneuvers the vehicle past the other careening buses and various pedestrians) to Miraflores, then spent an hour trying to find somewhere for breakfast, which apparently is completely unavailable at 8am. By 9am, we´d eaten some unsatisfying sandwiches (¨caprese¨ in Peru apparently means two thin slices of mozzarella and a paltry tomato on white bread) and were seated at one of the many casinos in the area.

[aside] Now, those of you who know about Scott and my trip last year in Europe will know that Scott´s casino radar is on-par with my Bank of America partner bank radar, and that we had some unusual good luck at casinos in Amsterdam. By ¨unusual good luck,¨ I mean that when we arrived in the city, before looking for food or a hostel, we waltzed into a hole-in-the-wall casino, accidentally bet two Euros on 31 black, and won 72 Euros. Later, we discovered that if we made minimum bets at the casino near our hostel around closing time, it was easy to snag several pre-wrapped sandwiches from the front desk as we left, and hence we spent almost no money on food in Amsterdam.

After some casino betting (and winning!), we headed to the malecon for some fresh sea air. As it turned out, the malecon was an expensive beachcliff resort-style affair, and it took us quite some time (and lots of sitting on benches, half-asleep) for us to actually figure out how to get down to the beach. I was on the verge of falling asleep on my feet, since waking up at 4:30am after an intense hike is not exactly the most restful of scenarios. However, should you ever travel to Lima, you should know that, at least in the Miraflores region, lying on patches of grass for a quick catnap is extremely frowned upon. If you simply wish to sit on the same patch of grass, though, you are entirely welcome to do so.

We made it down the cliffs and across the beachfront freeway thoroughfare to find a beach riddled with large stones, facing a breakwater featuring a few kilometers of slowly-curling waves. Scott made some friends with the local surf bums, promising to return in a few weeks (empty, empty promises). Then, to keep ourselves entertained, we made a 20-minute-long film of our hike back up to the city, featuring shouting at cars and me making grotesque faces in the background of Scott´s serious commentary. We watched it on the bus, later, and found it to be less than hilarious.

We made it back to the bus station with minutes to spare (Scott had stopped in another casino), and settled down to a quiet, 22-hour bus ride to Cusco, and to our new home.

Mancorà (Special Guest Writer: Scott) featuring Sick Boy and the Truck (8/28-9/1)

Mancora was essentially the exact same thing as Montanita (see earlier blog entry where Hayley wasn´t too lazy to explain the subleties of a cocaine-fueled South American beach party town, as I currently am).  The only significant difference was that Mancora looked like it had been planted on top of a large-scale strip mining operation.  Sitting charmingly amidst a barren `Hills Have Eyes`-type landscape, Mancora is recognized by Planet as `Peru`s worst-kept secret`.

We spent the first night at a dumb hostel where the owner kept tricking us into thinking that there was either a public computer or a kitchen that we could use.  After we agreed to stay there, she coyly revealed that there was a restaurant upstairs, and that we could ask them if we could use their kitchen.  Sneaky.  The public computer issue is still a mystery.

The next day, as Hayley began her food-poisoning-induced coma prompted by the previous night´s disgusting soup of chicken feet and fish eyes served at a discreet menu-restuarant located in the back of a t-shirt shop, I searched the town for an alternate hostel that absolutely had a kitchen and internet.  We had already discovered that the result of being Peru`s worst-kept-secret was inflated food prices on everything that wasn`t ceviche (or cebiche; the town was divided on how to spell it`s primary food).  Consequently, we needed a kitchen (we would later find out that the town didn´t sell anything that you could cook... like pasta, or food). 

I finally found a hostel recommended to us by Planet, a bit removed from the main Pan-American drag.  Although it was a little farther from the beach, it did have both a kitchen and two free computers.  I was sold.  I walked back to the dumb hostel, summoned Hayley from her stupor, tried to avoid the other hostel owner on the way out (unsuccessfully), and carried our stinky packs the quarter mile down the road to the Posada hostel, where we were let in by the Eegore-like housekeeper slash nightwatchman slash hayley-hand-and-face-kisser (I can`t figure out how to make an actual slash, sorry).

On the way to the hostel I was approached by several cocaine-vendors disguised as rickshaw drivers, who would walk up to me, say `taxi taxi` and then, without waiting for a response, offer `weed weed` or `cocccccaaaaaiiinnee` in their most convincing spanglish accent with apprarently no regard for the cops a mere ten feet away.  

Anyway, the reason to go to Mancora is to surf, and when we arrived at the beach after checking into the hostel I was supremely dissappointed; Lake Tahoe has more waves than what we were greeted with.  After several conversations with local surfing lumaries (including a Peruvian man who owned a surf shop and had lived in Burlingame for 20 years working as a painter), I was convinced that the much-anticipated swell that would generate waves would indeed generate waves.  After all, their information was from the internet.

We spent that day doing something, then returned to the hostel to find that there was someone else sharing our dorm room with us.  This was noteworthy because we had been unable to find dorm-style rooms for a couple weeks, and Hayley and I had been getting mild cabin-fever sharing the same room with exclusively one another.  Our new companion was a stinky, lemur-like kid from Belgium who spoke French, was relatively uninteresting, and always traveled with a German guy who Hayley was absolutely convinced had the voice of a woman. 

That night, in our attempt to avoid interacting with the stinker and the the squeaker, we practiced spanish.  It would be the first and last time we would ever do this.

The next day, the waves started to pick up, and I went down to the beach to rent a surfboard.  I rented an eight-foot funboard (thicker, with more foam than a typical epoxy-based board) in the morning, and paddled out to the small point-break style waves.  The problem with a point-break is that there is really only room for one surfer on each wave, and the heirarchy of who has priority on each wave is determined by seniority and localism, although ignorance of surfing etiquette also helps get waves.  Anyway, I sat squarely at the bottom of the seniority and ignorance heirarchy, and consequently had a difficult time edging my way into the line-up.  I caught a few waves, and was amazed to find that the slow, perfectly curling lefts were incredibly easy to ride.

I went back out in the afternoon after the tide had come in, trading my board for a smaller six foot six funboard.  It was hell of fun.  My surfing confidence had returned and I was able to catch something like ten waves, getting 20 second rides and even making a few little turns.  The beach setup itself was somewhat daunting by this time, as the rocky point that created the waves´ shape was now covered by two to four feet of water.  Consequently, I had to move my location from directly next to the rocky point, to actually hovering over the point as the waves broke over the shallow rocks.  It was so shallow that at times when I was sitting on my board waiting for waves my feet would touch the rocks underneath.  Luckily I never crashed...

Sick Boy

By the way, Hayley was sick this whole time; her Mancora blog entry heavily features a hostel bed and the inside of her eyelids...

Other interesting things about Mancora:

-One morning as I was walking into town to buy a cake (I found a decent cake shop - not what I had become accustomed to in Ecuador, but cake nonetheless), I heard a loud screetching sound on the freeway overpass above me.  I glanced up, and saw a flat-bed truck carrying dozens of tanks of gas careening along the overpass.  Attributing the screetching to the roadwork that was being done on that section of the overpass, I continued walking up the dirt road to the freeway that I would follow into town, lost in thought.  

When I was about 15 feet from the freeway, I looked up again to see the truck swerve towards me and slam directly into the front wall of the Cocopelli Hostel bordering the freeway 20 feet to the right of where I was standing.  The front of the truck was solidly planted in the wall of the hostel as the driver got out dazed but unharmed.  I walked up to the freeway and looked at the guard rail from where the truck had come.  It was scratched and mangled, and I realized that, had the guard rail broken, the truck would have plummeted from the overpass to the exact place where I had been walking.  As a crowd of Peruanos gathered around the wreckage (there was apparently no need to be concerned that the tanks of gas and the crushed truck would react with eachother), and speculations about whether the driver had fallen asleep or the brakes had gone out were offered, I solemnly considered this chilling reminder of my own mortality.

-Walking down the main drag of Mancora one afternoon, Hayley and I noticed a familiar face on a semi-familiar body walking towards us.  After some scrutiny, we realized that it was Mike, the kid who had been punched in the face in Cuenca, Ecuador (see Hayley´s entry).  As he neared us, flanked by two pretty Peruvian girls and looking tan and confident, we realized that he too had seen us, and was trying not to acknowledge us.  It was a particularly startling coincidence to see this kid, as he had told us that he was headed north through Ecuador (having already been in Peru) while we were on a southern trajectory from Ecuador.  Nonetheless, there he was.  

As our continual eye contact forced him to acknowledge us, he offered a casaul Ïmagine seeing you guys again¨as he continued past us into his new cool-kid persona.  Confounded by this snubbing, Hayley and I finally realized that the face-punch he had received weeks before had completely removed his prominent mole, and that this had triggered an entire personity renovation. He was tan, stronger, cooler, and completely uninterested in interacting with anyone who had know him in his pre-punch mole days.

-We also spotted Dorf, the Australian surf-bum whom we had met in Montanita and jokingly suggested must also be its Peruvian sister-city.  Casually strolling down the Pan-American highway in search of the perfect wave, I wouldn´t be surprised if Dorf still thought he was in Montanita.

-One day as Hayley and I were enjoying a pleasant ceviche lunch on the waterfront promenade overlooking the main beach, a small gollum-like Peruvian man sat down in the empty seat at our table.  Having already consumed a few beers, we were entirely receptive to his company and welcomed him to our gathering.  After a few lame attempts at convincing us to kitesurf, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded-up piece of white paper.  Furtively glancing around, he held the paper next to me my leg below the white plastic table, and unfolded it to reveal several rocks of crack.  ¨50 soles¨ he suggested jovially, to which I equally jovially declined.  

He continued sitting with us for several minutes, talking about crack rocks, surfing, kitesurfing, and the state of the world (which we had recently been lectured about from an older Ecuadorian man at the very same lunch - a lecture that covered everything from the treatment of the indigneous peoples of Canada to class inequalities in Peru), until a Serbian killer who coldly wouldn´t bely the fact that he spoke spanish scared the gollum back into seclusion.  When we asked the Serbian killer spoke if he spoke english, he responded with any equally-severe face that he did not.

-Although there weren´t many cheap food options in the bourgeois town, we did discover the magical papa rellenos (filled potatoes) that street vendors would sell for 1Sol (about 35 cents) each.  Filled with chicken and splayed open to be topped with your choice of lettuce, onions, tomotoes, ketchup, mustard, mayonaise, or aji (hot sauce), these delicacies provided the cornestone of my diet for the next week.

-As we attempted to leave Mancora, we found ourselves the victims of a second Peruvian scam after being in the country for less than a week.  After questioning the various bus agencies in search of the cheapest ticket to the moutains of Huaraz, we found one that offered cama seats (fully-reclining  - cama means bed) for 20 Soles less than its competitors.  We immediately purchased the tickets for this great offer, and returned to the hostel to pack our things.  

As we boarded the bus, we were shooed to the upper level where the semi-cama seats were located, and were told that we did not in fact have tickets for the cama beds.  We had paid the exact same price that every other agency had offered for the same product, tricked into buying it from the Flores lady by her scummy false-advertising.  

Thus, we began nursing our healthy grudge against Peru, as visions of Ecuador danced through our heads and four-day-old parasites danced through Hayley´s intestines...

¨The most dangerous border crossing in South America¨ (8/27-8/28)

There are several ways of crossing the border from Ecuador into Peru, most of which can be accessed via Loja. When we arrived at the bus station, we were presented with two options: (1) we could take a bus directly to Piura, a town several hours south of the border and slightly inland; or (2) we could take a different bus to the coastal border crossing at Huaquillas, take a taxi across the border, and catch another bus on the other side.

Option 1 meant the bus would wait for us to take care of our border paperwork, but it would put us a few hours south of where we were headed (Mancora, a small surfing and party town), and we`d need to backtrack. Option 2, according to our guidebook, is considered ¨the most dangerous border crossing in South America,¨ due to the likelihood of encountering ¨shady business¨ in the Peruvian border town of Aguas Verdes.

We took the (cheaper) 6 hour bus to Huaquillas, determined to avoid Aguas Verdes.

About five minutes before the bus stopped in Huaquillas, a closer look at Mr. Planet told us that Huaquillas and Aguas Verdes are actually the same city. And so we arrived, after dark, with no lodging and no real plan, in this incredibly dangerous city.

The employee at the first hostal we entered told us that all the hostals were full in the city that night, except for one (how he knew this, I have no idea). When we asked if there were a special event going on, he told us that there was a party in the city, which would last until September 8th. It was August 27th.

We checked in, got some food, and fretted about the next day`s border crossing. However, the first part, which involved taking a taxi to the northern part of the city and getting our Ecuadorian exit stamp, then taking a taxi to the southern part of the city and walking across a bridge into the Peruvian part of town, went smoothly. It was only after we´d gotten a colectivo (shared taxi, only this one wasn´t shared), gotten our Peruvian entry stamp, and were being driven along a desolate road to Tumbes, that we got into trouble.

There were two guys about Scott´s age who were driving the car (ok, only one of them was driving), and up to that point, they´d been amiable and chatty, and Scott and I were having fun practicing our Spanish. However, that all changed rather abruptly when the one in the passenger seat turned to face us and - with  practiced nonchalance - informed us they´d be expectingt $20 per person as payment. This, of course, came after Scott and I had agreed to the $1.50 per person, which Mr. Planet had told us to expect. In fact, the book said something along the lines of ¨the crossing should cross $1.50 in a colectivo, beware of overcharging.¨ And here we were, being overcharged.

I was angry. And somehow, to the great surprise of everyone in the car, my Spanish skills increased commensurately with my anger. I told him paying $20 per person was ridiculous. I told him that in the book we had been warned about dangers such as these. I told him we´d agreed on a price, and that now he was backing out of a contract we´d already entered into. To his argument that gas prices were high, I actually told him it was his own problem, and he should have thought of that before agreeing to $1.50, to which he responded bitingly that if he´d known we´d be such terrible passengers, they wouldn´t have taken us in the first place.

We arrived in Tumbes at a bitter stalemate. For the better part of 30 minutes, the four of us sat, enduring periods of silence alternating with heated debate between the passenger and me, while Scott and the driver waited uncomfortably. Finally, Scott jumped in, and suggested a compromise, which, eventually, was taken. However, it didn´t exactly leave us with the best first impression of Peru.

We arrived later that day in Mancora (after having to be fingerprinted to ride the bus...), which is almost exactly the same place as Montañita.

Loja, Zamora, y Parque Nacional Podocarpus (8/23-8/27)

We flagged down a cheap bus on the side of the road at Cajas after 45 minutes of Categories (Things That Smell Bad - lasted the whole 45 minutes), heading for Cuenca. As a general aside, our driver on that bus was the least hell-bent and suicidal of any driver we´ve had in this country. Such a relief.

We spent a few hours in Cuenca taking care of some business (ahem, ahem - Sappy Birday), then took off for Loja, the first town we´d visited that was not necessarily on the Gringo Trail. The general idea was to check out the Parque Nacional Podocarpus, which, by Mr. Planet´s description, should have absolutely beat the pants off of Cajas (as you can probably guess, and as we probably should have guessed, Mr. Planet was wrong again).

Our bus driver from Cuenca to Loja, a ride that took about 5 hours, was perhaps the most hell-bent, suicidal driver we´ve had yet. It was the first time I could´t sleep on a bus, since it was necessary at all time to have two firmly planted feet, so that you didn´t go careening off into the aisle. At one point, Scott tried to play jello with me, and if he hadn´t changed his mind and grabbed me at the last second, I would´ve gone face-first into a large, shoe-less woman´s stomach.

Loja

Upon arrival in Loja, we took our strained nerves to the internet cafe in the bus station, in order to look up cheap hostels. This may have been the low point of the trip so far. I was peeved, because I thought we should just listen to Mr. Planet´s hostel advice, and because there was nowhere for me to stand with my pack in the internet cafe. Plus, I hate bus stations, because I constantly feel like I am being robbed by people brushing against me (last summer, when Scott and I slept in a bus station in Alicante, Spain, we saw a man rob a drunkard by cleverly cutting his entire rear pocket off while he was sleeping, then pretending to sleep right next to the man. Our attempts to expose the situation were futile). Scott was annoyed because the internet was slow, and because I was annoyed, and we both already hated this town, and because it was dark already, and because there shouldn´t be tattoo parlors next to internet cafes in bus stations.

We eventually got over ourselves when the google search ¨cheap hostels Loja¨ returned no relevant results, and just took a taxi to one of Mr. Planet´s hostels in the heart of the city. Right on schedule, we were ravenous, so we threw our bags down and dashed out into the street, looking for food. It was fairly late, and we almost settled for eating Kono Pizza, when a kind sangria-drinking fellow told us where we could get a cheap merienda.

It was the best merienda I have ever eaten. The soup was full of choclo (corn) and queso. The rice was sticky and warm. The chicken was marinated, juicy on the inside. There was a salad (!). The beans had enough sauce, so that you could mix all the rice into it. The juice was parcha-flavored. The beer was cheap. We asked when they opened in the morning, and went back for an early almuerzo.

The strange thing was, this incredible restaurant, called Vallto´s, was located at the back end of a strip mall - in fact, the entire street (and city, for that matter!) seemed to be made up of minimalls, stretching back into dark recesses. It was a strange place, and in my mind, not a place I would return to, but for the delicious food.

Zamora

The following day, feeling as though we needed a day without much transit or hiking, but with much rest and reading, we took off for the small jungle town of Zamora, which is of note because it is both ¨Land of the Birds and Waterfalls,¨ and also home to the world`s largest watch. We dropped about 3,000 m of altitude, arriving in the early afternoon. In trying to find a map of the city, we were given a ride in the pickup bed of a police truck to the tourist agency (which actually didn´t have any maps of the city, just a guy who really liked shaking hands).

We spent the afternoon with Pilseners (I´m really going to miss that beer!) in the central square, watching some young hooligans scoot around on BMX bikes, and accidentally befriending a number of bold 5-year-olds (one of them very astutely told Scott that he must like the color red - he was sunburned and wearing a red hat. She also complimented his flip-flops, saying they were ¨hermosos¨).

We found some good, cheap food, and then - against the normal trend - I bought a cake. However, Scott´s cakes are almost always disappointingly dry and stale, while I had recognized this cake as the famous dulce de tres leches, which some of my high school friends will remember from a cooking video for our sophomore year Spanish class. This type of cake, which I believe originate in Mexico, is made spongy, then doused in a mixture of whole, condensed, and powdered milk, for a result that is moist, springy, and incredibly rich.

I went to bed early while Scott took over the hostel´s TV, and the next morning, after some perfunctory grocery shopping, we headed to El Parque Nacional Podocarpus with high expectations.

Parque Nacional Podocarpus

The park is apparently named for the only conifer that exists in this part of the country (still no idea which tree it was). To access the park, it is necessary to hike a short, jungle-y trail past the parking lot, which winds pleasantly along the Rio Bombuscaro. Butterflies alight everywhere, in stunning colors, but it was definitely hot and humid. We arrived at the park headquarters, a small bungalow with a tiny office, two unoccupied rooms, and a kitchen, and paid our $2 entry and $2 camping fees. The incredibly (and, later, oppressively) cheerful park ranger told us we could camp anywhere, that we could use the kitchen, and indicated extensively the few trails. We took a picture of the map mural, for later reference.

The first trail we took was about 5 minutes long, and dropped us on the banks of the Bombuscaro. We ate a simple lunch of avocado sandwiches, bananas, and cookies, then jumped in (literally, off a 10-foot rock). It was freeeeezing, and the current was strong, but we found a lovely rock for sunning, Scott found some other places to jump in, and I explored up the far bank towards some rapids. After that, we tried a second trail, which ended up taking about 20 minutes. So we went for a third, which was 10 minutes and took us to a fairly impressive waterfall. From there, we decided to tackle the Mirador (Lookout) Trail, which we´d been warned against, given the late hour.

On the map, La Mirador was a perfectly straight line, 85 minutes out, 85 minutes back. In reality, that translated into an incredibly straight hike up a narrow ridge. And when I say up, I mean up. Like the trail at Cajas, we used our hands half the time, and paused frequently, as the trail offered no respite from the ascent. We started the trail at 5pm, thinking we´d reach the top by 6pm, then make it back to camp by sunset, around 6:30pm. At 5:45pm, we were still climbing. What´s worse, because of the dense tree cover on the ridge, we had no real way of knowing what sort of progress we were making. As the light grew lower, we started thinking of the snakes, pumas, and other creatures who might become more active at the close of the day. I had to force Scott to turn around at 6:10pm, and we literally ran down the mountain. Well, Scott ran...I mostly fell down the mountain.

We were starving, thirsty, and had destroyed all the cartilege in our knees by the time we got back to camp. There was no light in the kitchen, so our entire dinner preparation was done at the mercy of our headlamps. This wouldn´t have been a problem, except that we weren´t alone. Three Argentinians and a half-Ecuadorian girl from Toronto worked around us, sharing the one propane stovetop and cooking a several-course meal that made our meager rice-and-avocadoes look positively paltry in comparison.

Eventually, they warmed up to us and our (my) blinding headlamps, and even shared their mate with us (Argentinian tea-like beverage, which is shared by passing it after each person has consumed one cup´s worth of mate). I think they thought it was funny, also, that we made about 10 cups of plain white rice, and had to eat the rest for breakfast (with banana and sugar, but still).

We also bonded over the several mice who lived in the bungalow, whom the Argentinians had named, respectively, ¨Coco¨ and ¨Coco´s Mother,¨ (assuming there were only two of them, which I highly doubt), as well as the ubiquitous funny, huge cucarachas with little camoflauge eyes on their wingtips. Did I mention that Scott and I decided to forgo our tent, and instead actually slept in this pest-infested bungalow? Lots of sounds that night...

In the morning, we went on one more hike, the longest of them all, which loosely followed the Bombuscero into the heart of the jungle. At first, it was a normal trail. Then we had to jump a few small cascades. Then a few huge fallen trees. Finally, we were trekking along an essentially unmarked patch of jungle, Scott leading the way with a stick to ward off spiders (there were lots), looking down to avoid stepping on snakes, and halting every 10 minutes or so to assess whether or not we´d passed the point of stupidity yet. A few times, we heard large, crashing animals nearby (pumas?), to which I responded with singing and rather obnoxious clapping. We finally turned around on what was perhaps the most disappointing hike ever.

Podocarpus to Zamora, Zamora to Loja again, the bus station to our favorite restaurant - which had somehow plummetted in quality since our last visit, two days before. Bummer. We gave the restaurant one more try in the morning, and I received almost-raw, fatty pig-skin with the hairs sticking out prominently as my main course (see left). We decided Loja had lost its one redeeming quality, although we did spend a fun night drinking canelazo (a hot, cinnamon-y, alcoholic drink we´d searched for since Quito, and finally tried in our last hours in Cuenca) at the Tiku Bar, and watching 90s music videos (mostly Metallica and hip hop).

And that was our last night in Ecuador!

Parque Nacional Cajas (8/21-8/23)

The pivotal decision that put Cajas in contention for my favorite National Park of all time (huge claim, I am aware), was the fact that Scott finally convinced me it would be a good idea to carry a frying pan with us on our journeys.

But first we had to get there. From Cuenca, getting to Cajas means buying an $8.00 ticket for the 3-hour trip to Guayaquil, then getting off after 45 minutes (on the side of the road, naturally) at Cajas. Mr. Planet, however, told us there was a cheaper way...Following the ever-incorrect advice of the book, we decided to take a taxi to the Ricardo Darque parada at Av. de las Americas and Calle Victor Ambato, where we would be able to catch the direct Occidental bus to Cajas for $1.50. We stopped a taxi, and gave him our destination. Blank look. So we asked in a cell phone shop. Another blank look, a phone call to a friend for our benefit. We were told to take bus #20 or #16. The bus driver on #20 gave us a blank look, and dropped us at Av. de las Americas. Just at that moment, a bus bearing the destination placard ¨Cajas¨ zoomed by in the opposite direction. We walked down Av. de las Americas, with our heavy packs, asking in every store about the parada, or about the cross street, with mixed responses. Clearly no one knew what we were talking about (we´ve gotten the impression most of the places we ask about are fictional), but their responses differed in how long it took them to make something plausible up, since they really wanted to be helpful.

We walked down the Av. de las Americas, and spent quite some time grilling a woman in a gas station convenience store about how to get to Cajas, but everyone just kept telling us to take the Guayaquil bus. At one point, we saw a bus with the placards ¨Cajas¨ and ¨Guayaquil,¨ but when I hailed it and told the man we were going to Cajas, he shook his head forlornly and the bus drove away with no explanation.

We were getting frustrated. One of the gas station attendants (all of whom now had a vested interest in getting us to Cajas, or at least out of their station) called us over to a van that was filling up. When pressed, the man told us he was driving a group to Guayaquil at 3pm, and if he had room after he picked them up, he could drive us to Cajas for $4 each. He indicated a corner for us to meet him in 20 minutes.

But while we were sitting on that very corner, an Occidental bus coming from Cajas stopped on the other side of the road! They informed us that, should we wait exactly where we were, our bus would come by at 4pm. So, we bought some cheesy rolls, warmed them in the gas station microwave, bedecked them with the gas station condiments, and had a relaxed lunch, waiting for our bus.

Parque Nacional Cajas

We arrived at Cajas around 5pm, just as the late afternoon sunshine was illuminating the placid waters of the myriad high altitude lakes. The landscape was barren, sparse, with craggy pinnacles of rock pushing up through dry grasses and glittering waters. We paid our $2 entry fee and $4 camping fee, then set out around the nearest lake to find a camping spot (where we built a fire and made tea! with our dinner of avocado and tuna sandwiches).

Diary excerpt, morning after our first night camping:
¨Sitting in the incredibly cold, early, can I call it sunshine? The paramo lake and its surrounding monolithic, mossy rocks are gently hemmed in by the clouds, which filter the cold rays and strain away their heat.
We chose to camp on a tiny, loamy ¨island,¨ thinking the soft, contiguous plants would cushion our weawry bodies for sleep. What we didn´t factor in was thatby exerting constant pressure on the near-saturated ground, we´d force the cold groundwater up and out - into our tarp, our sleeping bags, and our socks.
We´re wet. It´s cold and foggy. But the loam was an incredibly comfortable bed...Trying to make a fire with the wet wood now, reflections of mountains in glassy lake.¨

That day, while the sun remained veiled throughout, we both got sunburned again. We laid our sleeping bags out to dry and stashed our packs in a ¨stash spot¨ behind a rock off the trail. We went on two hikes, the first of which was estimated at 5 hours, and which took us a little over 2. It started in this strange, silvery forest of trees that are invisible until you walk right up to them; their trunks like sunset-colored madrones, flaky and deliciously snakelike, slithering past one another slyly, their leaves as grey and drear as elven cloaks. The rest of the hike was filled with long gullies and slowly unfolding views of rolling hills and glittering, shallow lakes, all decorated with alien plants - spiky artichoke bushes with razor edges, strange, cold bushes that caught the light through the clouds, delicate cactus-like bursts of strange, rounded flowers. We meandered, losing the trail and following others briefly, jumping over sudden brooks that spent half their lengths dipping beneath loamy land bridges.

The second hike, Cumbre del Cerro San Luis, which came after a nap around 1:30pm, took us longer, because it was extreme. Above the lake where we were camping rose a giant of a mountain, shooting straight up something like 1,500 feet, all granite faces and tufts of rough grass that sliced our hands when we grabbed it wrong. There were no switchbacks. It was the kind of trail it would be inconceivable to have on any map, yet there it was on the glossy trail map we received at the entrance. It was also the kind of trail where in certain places we found ourselves climbing up mud faces, looking for hand- and footholds, and praying that those sharp grasses would hold out. Completely exhausting, completely worth the 360-degree panoramic lookout on the highest summit.





That night, we camped on a much drier patch of ground. We collected firewood, stoked our fire well, and used our pan to cook the following:

-tuna sandwiches (with ahí, or pepper sauce, of course)
-rice with avocadoes (this took about an hour and a half, but was completely worth it)
-fried bananas with caramel sauce
-tea!

We also took advantage of our water purification gear to drink some of that high-altitude water, and it was always crisp, fresh, and bitingly delicious.

That night, sleeping in the open (we didn´t pitch our tent either night, since we´d been told there was little chance of rain), I woke around 3am and thought it was morning - the clouds had gone and the moon was bright. It was only a quarter moon, but it shed such light that I could see when Scott woke up a few moments later, and we laughed at the cold brightness.

In the morning, I awoke to frost everywhere - my sleeping bag, our packs, our firewood - and no Scott. But the clouds and fog were gone, and I could see the boiling sun starting to illuminate peaks on the far side of the lake. I sat for maybe 30 minutes, meditating in the morning chill, watching the sun thaw the day, until it thawed me.

The city felt loud and impersonal after the solace of Cajas.

[Note: I´m reading Dharma Bums by Jack Kerouac right now, which definitely played a role in how I was feeling at Cajas...we recently traded in Edward Abbey´s The Monkey Wrench Gang for Jack London´s White Fang, to continue on the wilderness/journey mindset]