Month: March 2010

The days pass steadily and as March nears its end the ancient city of Cusco is readying for festivities in spring. The few people with whom I was traveling briefly have dispersed about their way leaving me a day to reflect and wander about through this most romantic of cities. The bulk of the day was visited by constant drizzle, which, leaving a wet glisten over the cobblestones only added to its charming beauty. Having spent noon times consuming a most delicious meal with to British girls, I parted with them to enjoy some quiet time to people watch along Plaza de Armas. The slow procession of life here is as all other places on earth; the local culture has its distinctive curiosities, but the clash of cultures between the tourists and the locals is unavoidable. Some how, it all adds to the color that is now Cusco… so far removed from its ancient roots when it was ruled by Incas.

Into the evening, to avoid all the Gringo revelers, I wander the lit corridors of the city for some reflection and to marvel at the architecture of the city. Walls upon walls from ancient times still stand, though their original purpose and splendor is long lost. The Spanish colonialist razed all but a few of the Incan palaces and temples in order to build their own churches in their conquest. What remains only hint at what incredible culture must have flourished here; but sadly, the extinguished pass cannot be revisited.

For a few hours I randomly wound through the dimly lit streets pass children still playing, restaurant windows with rich tourists inside enjoying fine dining, poor locals trying to sell souvenirs, police, taxi drivers, etc. in a city quietly winding down the night. Despite the chaos in the world, the peace we find is always our own – no matter where and what the circumstances.

I ended up in front of the main cathedral in appreciation of all that dazzled my eyes today. In a few days, massive throngs of people will be out in celebration of Easter in this now Catholic country; it’s a pity I will miss the scene as, having been delayed here longer than expected, I must venture on.

I’ve found myself unexpectedly delayed in Cusco while the chaotic coordination (or not thereof) of the re-opening of Machu Picchu is being sorted out by the Peruvian government and tourist agencies. A couple months  ago torrential rains and landslides caused massive damage to trails, rail, and roadways leading to Machu Picchu; what’s more, a few people died and thousands were left stranded on the mountain. As the situation is developing, no one really knows when it will re-open, but we can be sure there is a backlog of thousands waiting around Cusco ready to march en mass to the mountain.

Luckily, this ancient bastion of the Inca rulers is literally packed with sites of interests to keep one busy. Yesterday I followed one of the many tour operators day trips and visited the ancient Sacred Valley of the Incan Empire and visited the ruins of ancient royal estate and citadel temples at Ollantaytambo and Pisac (both altitude about 10,000 ft) before visiting the town Chinchero. Again, the temple ruins were most impressive, if not for their architecture then definitely for the magnificent location and vistas that they command. It’s a wonder that they didn’t make use of the wheel even in the late stages of their civilization before the Spanish conquest; yet, they were able to transport 50 ton monolith granite blocks up to incredible heights over steep terrain and fit them with surgical precision. The construction and astronomical importance of these temples are truly stunning.

Though Ollantaytambo was used as fortress stronghold during civil wars and as a based during the Spanish resistance, its main function was for religious purposes. The massive fitted rocks are simply awe-inspiring even though the Temple of the Sun atop the terrace complex was never finished. Even after centuries of exposure and natural destruction, these ruins stand in testament to the once mighty civilization ingenious enough to dream them into existence.

En route hiking to Pisac, the weather suddenly turned and rained briefly over the lush, emerald valley. This sudden blessing resulted in a rare site of a double rainbow over the entire valley! Further, we arrived at the peak of spring with all the flowers blooming along the trail.

After a day and a half of rest and feasting some of the finest foods in Arequipa, I awoke at 2:45 in the morning to prepare for a 2 day and 1 night tour down Colca Canyon, the “world’s deepest canyon”, … or rather, formerly the world’s deepest canyon at 3191 m (10469 ft) deep. By recent measurements, this title has been ceded over to neighboring Cotahuasi Canyon at some 3340+ meters. Both canyons are more than twice as deep as the famed Grand Canyon. The collectivo bus picked a small group of us up at 3:30 in the morning for a 5 hour drive to the famed perch of Cruz del Condor; a location high above the canyon floor renowned for the splendid views of scenery and wild Andean condors.

As with much of the views over the Andean peaks, it is impossible to capture a picture, even with a panoramic camera. The vistas simply stretch from horizon to distant horizon, and down the dim depths of the canyon.  The hazing clouds drift midway up the canyon floor from peak to peak, casting shadows that slowly flicker across the sloping cliff sides.

It took a full days hiking (9 hours total) to descend all the way down to the river and then partially up the opposite canyon wall before reaching the “oasis” where we would shelter for the night. These centuries-old paths wound and zigzag through many a geologic marvel. Though the volcanic formations are relatively recent, they are home to hundreds of species of fauna and flora that carpet the canyon during the latter stages of the wet season. The most famed of all species here is, of course, the Andean condor that soars high above the canyon floor on the thermal updrafts without so much as flapping their wings once. It is truly a site to behold standing on the cliff edges at Cruz del Condor as these rulers of the high heavens swoop by with nary a sound.

The remainder of the hike down was difficult, but shy of grueling. Even with full acclimatization, it took us over 8 hours of walking; what’s more, we’re told that the locals can do this hike in 3 hours. Sure enough, as the tourists march down drenched in sweat, the local people pass us with not so much a heave or a sigh, wearing three layers of clothing, with heaven burdens on their backs. One can’t help but be amazed by their strength and stoutness.

After a much needed night’s rest on Isla del Sol (replete with some evening revelry with tea and conversation at the “tavern” with fellow travellers), it was duly time to take the 2 hour boat ride back to Copacabana for the scheduled bus to cross into Peru. Although this drifting life has some detractions, not for a moment will there be regret for seeing the scenes and cultures visited. All the splendors of Bolivia will forever live on in memory and lore to be retold.

The journey through Bolivia has lasted a month now, longer than I had planned but unexpectedly rewarding in many regards; including one unnerving experience where one of the girls got a horrible case of dysentery and I had to help her to the “hospital”. I felt very uneasy about leaving her at the clinic, but was re-assured by her that the best place for her was near the doctors and that I should go catch my bus. With that, I made a mad dash down the hill just in time to hop on the bus bound for Puno, Peru.

The immediate disparity between Bolivia and Peru is rather salient. For two countries that border each other and share so much commonalities in culture and history, the differences between them are quite astonishing: foremost, being that Peru is noticeably more affluent than Bolivia, which utterly seems quaint and behind in so many senses. Much of the wealth disparity is due to the trouble political history and misrule of Bolivia. At the same time, it was more comforting as a traveler to be on paved roads and less makeshift accommodations. Peru is well shy of luxurious itself, but by comparison things are three times more expensive than Peru. The people are just as amicable and ready to mingle with the foreigners, though I’m sure there is room enough to admit that some must be jaded by the massive influx of tourists trampling all over their cities, all the wild behaving badly.

Another interesting observation is the quality of the vehicles drastically improved. Whereas poor Bolivia (it is the poorest of all South American countries) had to content itself with 3rd-rate, used and decommissioned scrap vehicles purchased on the cheap from industrial countries, Peru had proper modern buses that were fully functional. The journey from Copacabana to Puno was on a chartered Peruvian bus with working lights, air conditioning, and actual seat belts in contrast to Bolivia. The majestic journey rounding the rim of Lake Titicaca, passing mostly rustic settings was simply beautiful beyond words. Towards the end, we passed a series of low farms, and, gazing out the yellow tinted window was akin to viewing a Monet painting in motion.

The plan was to go immediately from Puno to Uros, the famed, ancient floating islands of Lake Titicaca, built by Aymara inhabitants who escaped to the lake to avoid conquest by the Incans. They’ve aptly adapted themselves to surviving on this highest of lakes by making use of every resource availed them. Complete villages are built with reed stalks on a floating island, itself made completely from reed stalks. The local people have their traditional village government structure still intact, and mostly live as their ancestors have for 700 years off the bounty of the lake. Their local customs, crafts-work, song and dance were out in full display for the passing tourists. Despite the warm welcome and fanfare, one couldn’t help but think the whole scene a bit contrived as their culture seems to have been commercialized as a living artifact of times gone; and to some extent their whole culture exploited to this end. I’m not sure how much of it is authentic, and how much a show as their main economic engine is now dependent on tourism.

Still, people do live here: they cook, launder clothes, and fish off their little floating abodes. The
indigenous tour guide (who actually lives on the island) says that conditions have improved a lot. In the high altitude, the driving wind and rain used to cause constant destruction on their abodes, but at least now they have blue, plastic tarp to cover their roofs in the rain. And so their culture survives, and little toddlers and children run about in colorful clothing as the adults sell traditional crafts to the tourists. Some things do change.

The evening passed into dusk as we boarded one of Uros’ traditional reed boats, for 5 Soles of course. I suppose this had to be the highlight of the visit – to journey to an adjacent island and, well, be tempted to buy more trinkets. After bantering and fun haggling prices with the locals, we all left with our requisite pendants and weavings bound on the boat back to Puno. We stopped only long enough to wander the main streets of town and have a much needed meal before being packed on an over-night bus for Arequipa.

Some pics of the sacred island of Isla Del Sol, which according to Incan lore, is the origin of their people. More details when time permits.

The wending road continues through this mystical land of ancient peoples and colorful vistas. By whatever means availed me, I’ve traversed high and low into distant lands few have ventured. After sweating profusely through the Bolivian Amazon, I’ve wander north to the small port town of Copacabana with intent on cross the majestic Lake Titicaca bound towards Peru. Although the town itself is not much to speak of save for a colorful street touting to the transiting tourists, the lake itself is truly a magnificent sight. At 12,500 ft (3,800 m) it is one of the highest lakes in the world and the largest in all of South America. It’s crystalline blue waters stretch for miles into the vanishing distance, only to merge with the expansive clouds. Last evening seemed like most with a calm breeze blowing, but everything seemed dreamlike as I gazed at the sunset from a makeshift dock along the shore.

The best rewards are sometimes completely unplanned and ventured on a lark. Some how, despite having been to tropical jungles a few times in Central America and having suffered the heat and humidity, I got convinced to visit the remote pampas of the Bolivian Amazon. Consequently, 2 full days were wasted getting to and from Rurrenabaque,  a remote town in the Bolivian Amazon. Getting there required a 22 hour bus ride through the Road of Death in a double-decker bus on a road 9 feet wide (in total I’ve traversed this stretch 6 times), then a 3.5 hours of bouncing through non-existent roads in a Land Cruiser fitted with seven passengers plus our driver, then finally a 1.5 hour boat ride through tributaries to the pampas to get to the ecolodge. The heat is unbearable, the humidity drenches every article of clothing within minutes, but the greenery and wild life are astounding. To see this vast swath of fluvial plains of the Andes mountains is indeed memorable for the sheer wild life experience.

Day one was spent on the boat cruising a three hour tour of the pampas watching the various wildlife, then mounting a scaffolding built atop swamps to view the glorious sunset amid vast fields of lush vegetation. After dinner, we took another boat ride through the pampas to stargaze and hunt for alligators. As we quietly glided over the waters, the stars draped overhead while gathering fireflies flickered on both sides; occasionally we would spot the intense red glow of alligator eyes floating atop the waters.

The second day was spent treading through the remote pampas swamps on foot looking for the anaconda snake! Even though the temperature was not too high, the intolerable humidity and direct sun made the 3.5 hours long march through knee high swamps unbearable for everyone.  The boots they provided for us was insufficient and most of the group became completely soaked in  rich fluvial mud.

Alas, due to the high waters, none had been seen for 15 days. We had to content ourselves with spotting a boa constrictor up-close — which incidentally bit one of the girls, leaving quite an indelible mark. After a short rest, we went swimming with pink river dolphins in the river (away from alligators). This too was an idyllic experience as the curious dolphins would swim close and rub their fins on our legs.

The third day we went perranah fishing in the remoter river areas.  Their reputation is well-deserved; indeed, they are more cunning than imagined as they kept stealing the bait and leaving my hook tangled in the brambles below the water. As this was an ecologically friendly tour, all the fish caught were immediately released back to the water.

The journey back to La Paz was just as grueling, not the least that I had misgivings about going on the stretch of the Death Road at midnight in pitch blackness with a tired driver at the wheel.  But, we all made it safe… and this coffee break from the Witches’ Market is over… I’m off to Lake Titicaca.

There are some places in the world so remote and beautiful that it´s best that they be kept secret lest the world descends upon it to despoil its essence. This wandering heart feels a tinge of guilt by barely mentioning their whereabouts; but for the pleasure of those willing to venture afar in search of true paradise, I shall spin a rough portrait.

2 days ago, I took a microbus headed for Coroico… the 3rd time on the ¨Death Road¨. The scenery is even more spectacular than when I flew down on a mountain bike two weeks ago as the flowers have started blooming. The last portion of the trip was literally death-defying as the driver races up the mountain towards Coroico at insane speeds on a unpaved road barely wide enough to fit a single car. The ledge drops a few hundred feet on the right as oncoming traffic in the form of people, cars, buses tractors and such head at us from total blind curves ahead. On several occasions, we almost collided. In the end, we survived enough to emerge midway atop a hill in the small town. After searching a bit, we settled on a ¨hotel¨with the most amazing view (no exaggeration) of the Yungas valley, complete with swimming pool and excellent coffee at a more than reasonable $7 per night. The remainder of the evening I spent on the balcony spying over the distant valley overlooking the Death Road watching the clouds slowly drift by to the sound of town life.

Life is very slow here. People are exceedingly friendly and nothing much happens; mostly minor commerce and old citizens lazing around to watch the younger children at play. It is the essence of unspoiled and unfettered human existence. The few tourist that trickle in marvel at the simplicity, some even opting to stay permanently.

The second day was spent hiking to the chapel behind the town atop the hill, and then following an old trail that traced the mountainside. Slowly I wounded the paths under the searing sun, turn after turn to marvel at the unfolding hills and scenery. Here and there, a coca field appeared along the path tended by an old woman or some young boy. Eventually, the trail dipped into ravines with a few minor waterfalls from which the town receives its water supply. After returning, I spent the night again perched on the balcony star gazing with other travelers well into the night.

Today, along with two others, we hired a taxi and drove to a quaint town of Afro-Bolivians, descendants of former slaves brought by the Spanish to farm the fields here. The town is so small (250 people at most) that it is almost forgotten and inconsequential. The people here are faced with a severe identity crises as they have no idea of their origins, do not inter-marry with indigenous Bolivians, and sadly up until very recently, not even counted on the national census. Yet, they seemed happy and content on this lazy afternoon playing drums of their distant ancestors on this lazy Sunday – perhaps a small solace of their lost identity.

Tomorrow I leave this paradise for unknown destinations. Who knows where the wending way will lead.

Today saw a tortuous bus ride lasting 10 hours over a dirt road into the Bolivian high plains towards the remote town of Uyuni. With a population of roughly 14,000 people, there really isn´t much here to see. Arriving at dusk, I scrambled to find accomodation for the night and quickly tried to book a ticket for a tour of the Salar de Uyuni and the southwest circuit. I can only report that there isn´t much here save strewn plastics near the outskirts of town and extremely dusty air that blows with a sense of sad abandonment. The folks who do live here seem to subsist mainly on the thriving tourist trade of those coming from far flung to see the Salar salt flats. The only other viable economic activity is the harvesting the bountiful salts here for consumption and industrial use.

I dont´plan to stay long, but this is one of those strange towns where one has a good sense that many are just drifting by with no sense of home rooted here. In any case, the excursions to the Salar begin tomorrow and should offer plenty feast for the eyes.

The road behind us is never as far as the one in front of us. All that has happened will eventually lapse into the recesses of memory, and like a faded nostalgia, linger enough to remind us of this human experience. Though our paths differ, we are all the same, each and every one, in so many ways.

This is not so much realization, but natural understanding by gradual experience. An apt example being today´s venture out of Sucre into Tarabuco. Again I boarded a packed mini bus and followed the road as it lead through almost virgin land that stretched hundreds of miles in all directions. This is pristine country, and its people still smile with dignified mien despite the onslaught of history. I´m often left questioning how different they are from myself, and the answer is the same: there is no difference.

Culture and history maybe divide people, but this curious lot between life and death binds us. And here, in Tarabuco, the descendents of the Yampara people walk proud and ply their trades and earn honest living, removed from the troubles, mechinations, and politiking of the world at large. Some are happy, some not so much, some suffer along with much of the world. But are they any different from elsewhere?

The last two days have been spent transiting from Petosi (world´s highest city) to Sucre and then subsequently laying low wandering the town in hopes of staving off further lung complications from the foul air. The road from Potosi literally wound through some of the highest roads in the world with splendid views of this daedal earth stretched from horizon to horizon. The rough folds of ancient mountains that once laid on the ocean floor are visibly thrusted to the high ranges. The epochal stretch of eons from which this majestic display of unfolding nature has played out makes this human existence inconsequential. The splendor unfolds with every turn down the road, each image flickering too fast to be captured by camera. Still, sweet is this experience on the way to and from Sucre.

The city of Sucre itself is a beautiful relic from the colonial era – onsidered the most beautiful city in Bolivia. The appellation is well-deserved. By luck, or dint of obstinacy, we manage to find a hotel that is situated right next to the central market – private rooms for $6 per night. After wandering the streets and numerous parks For the next two days my palate was treated to some of the finest marke food the world has to offer, with each meal with large portions of soup and main costing only one dollar or so. Such experiences of exotic market food are some of the best pleasures of travel.

Today, I took a microbus to the outskirts of the town and then wended 30 minutes further up the road on foot to visit Parqueo Cretacico, a minor museum of sorts built way atop the Andes mountains with spectacular views of the city below. It turns out the location is not accidental as local cement factories nearby quarrying for rock unearth preserve dinosaur tracks that have been turned vertical, eroded over millenia, and now exposed as a mountain side. The paths and tracks of these great animals remain visible here from a perched barely a few years old. Yet, the paths they left millions of years ago remain… and I, wandering, crossed their path for the briefest of moments.

The morning dawned to another clear day in high altitude of Potosi (13,420 ft, 4,090 m) and surrounding region. This is an old town dating back to 1544, known for its productive and rich silver mines hidden under Cerro Rico, AKA Rich Mountain hosted up very, very high (15,827 ft, 4,824 m). In fact, it was these mines of Potosi that financed munch of the Spanish empire. Although production has steadily declined over the years, these hills are still rich, and many an industrious hand still join the dangerous mining cooperatives to secure their livelihood in this thin and forbidding air.

Today I joined a tour venturing deep into the dusty, dark  world of these Bolivian miners who ply the trade as their forefathers. It is grueling and dangerous work that evokes sympathy from this outside observer. Some of them make less than $10 a day for risking their life and limbs. The vast majority succumb to siliconosis or other afflictions and die by age 35. The effective working life of these miners is no more than 10 to 15 years before inevitable lung trouble end their career. It is a sad reality of existence, and the miners mitigate their harsh existence by chewing coca leaves, smoking and drinking 96% industrial strength alcohol. The tunnels are dangerous, everything seems makeshift with rudimentary supplies. Even having braved some of the most harrowing adventures, Cerro Rico has to be one of the most intimidating of conditions, especially for those who might be claustrophobic.

I climbed down over 250 ft. below ground through dark, dank, and dusty mazes to see first hand their working conditions. It is extremely dangerous as at any time the shafts can cave in as they are supported by flimsy beems. All work is done by manual labor still with very scarce aid from modern heavy machinery.  The silver and silica dust have cause me to cough a bit after exiting – not good for these lungs when consider how bad the pollution in Bolivian cities are.

Having arrived at Petosi this morning via an extended night bus, I, along with an Israeli traveler, decided to stay and explore the city as the situation with with the bus strike is uncertain, and there is reported no water in Uyuni. I settled to explore the town today, and then visit the famed cooperative mines tomorrow before heading to Sucre.  The salt flats can wait a couple days.

By the looks of the bus terminal, this city didn’t seem like much to write about. However, once afoot and winding through the streets of town, a whole new appreciation presented itself. For a better part of the morning, I lost myself wandering through the narrow warrens of the city, all the while admiring all the colorful portals along the way.

As it turns out, the local governor was having a political campaign rally and throngs of supporters followed his entourage, at once playing loud music, waving flags, and showering him with confetti. Myself and the Israeli happened on the scene and was crowded into the parade. Soon, some of the supporters handed us flags and we too began to chant along to what seemed like a happy celebration. The local women looked on and laughed at the crazy tourists partaking in their politics. It was only later on when a local middle age man pull us aside and told us “Put those away, you don’t know what’s happening” that we came to our sense.  However, it was still a lot of fun. I have no idea who or what ideology I was lending support to. Such is the crazy adventures of random wandering.