tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-55248681534842761542023-11-15T22:30:39.721-08:00Viajes en Nica y PeruEmma Lodeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16592002908904167336noreply@blogger.comBlogger44125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5524868153484276154.post-42693429543345851002012-07-17T11:56:00.002-07:002012-07-18T08:21:34.853-07:00Back Home- The End.22 hours: The length of my last, very last bus ride in Peru, from Mancora to Lima. It was bittersweet. No, it just sucked. I consider my last few day sin Lima to have been cultural acclimatization; the city is so big and Western it made for a smooth transition back to the U.S.<br />
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Nir and I spent the last night at the famous "Parque Reserva", running around in brilliant and colorful fountains.<br />
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On my last day we explored Lima's ritzy oceanside barrios, and forgot every five minutes that we were still in Peru.<br />
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On the evening of the 12th I packed for the last time, said a quick goodbye, jumped in the taxi, and roared off to the Lima international airport. I almost missed both planes and had to sleep the night light in the "these seats do not recline" row, but nothing mattered any more, I was home.<br />
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Back in Good ol Fitchburg. You'd think that after traveling the world, after being in unimaginable landscapes, after being accompanied by an interesting entourage of international and worldly companions, after finding myself at the craters of active volcanoes, high in the Andes mountains, deep in the Amazon rainforest, and in the crashing surf of a desert coast, you'd think I'd find Fitchburg quite boring. Contrarily, I have need been less bored in Fitchburg.<br />
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In June of 2010, my family got up and left beautiful Seattle; moved 2,000 miles East to a slow, wholly Mid Western suburb of Madison, Wisconsin. I had the misfortune of being forced to spend 6 months there between high school and leaving for my trip. I was often bored out of my mid and spent my days biking to downtown Madison (which is actually pretty cool) to work as a barrista.<br />
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Now, in Fitchburg again, I find myself appreciating the little things. The broad, green, leafy trees lining the streets, the green green lawns, the simple comforts. There are all sorts of exciting things to do even right inside the house. I am very proud and excited to announce that I have retained the ability to operate: An iPod, a coffee machine a washing machine, a dishwasher, a boombox, and a microwave, even a toaster, among other really cool and exciting machines I get to use.<br />
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I'm aware that all the won't last long. And I'm sure it helps that I'll be running off to Seattle in 2 weeks, then road tripping down to L.A. to start college in that big crazy city. The adventures won't end, can't end.<br />
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It's been a big year. Needless to say, I can't express how glad I am I took a gap year. When I was planning this trip in the spring of my senior year, I struggled. I pulled up a map of the world, looked at every continent, every little green country, and started to cry. I wanted to go EVERYWHERE. I knew I couldn't. It was overpoweringly overwhelming. I thought not about what I could see, but what I would miss seeing my making a decision.<br />
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I know now to measure my experiences with plus signs: Every experience is a bonus, and you're lucky as hell to get each and every one.<br />
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And in the end, what stays with you are the experiences you've shared with others; The amazing people you've met, the friends you've made. Now, when I look at a world map, I don't just see the little green countries, I see little pinpricks of light and love scattered across the UK, Europe, the mIddle East, Africa... Dear friends from across the globe I met thousands of miles away from any of our homes and families, down South in exotic Latin America. And I know that any time I get the chance to cross the great oceans and visiting the other half of the world, I'll have great people to visit wherever I go. They are what I'll remember. In the end, human connection trumps all.<br />
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My year wasn't what I expected it to be. My other big experience in Latin America was through Amigos de las Americas- I spent 2 months living with one host family, in one small, rural town in Nicaragua. My Spanish drastically improved; I got a real Nicaraguan experience; I came home FEELING Nicaraguan. This time around, I was initially disappointed: Although I was working to help the community of Leon, I was living with a group of white, English speaking europeans, spending all my waking hours working with white English speaking tourists. I tried my hardest, but it was hard to get out and speak Spanish, hang out with locals, and get a genuinely cultural experience. The same situation repeated itself in Pisco, at PSF. I probably spoke the most Spanish while traveling Peru.<br />
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But you know what? It's ok. I still got to speak Spanish. I still got a million unique cultural experiences. I got to see far more of Latin America then I did during Amigos. And more: My friends were not from the U.S. At all. They were from Germany. Holland. Israel. England. South Africa. Sweden. I was friends with a half Sudanese, half Polish girl who grew up in Germany and now lives in Britain. A guy who was born in French Belgium and spent his childhood in Zambia, South Africa, Tansania- he says he's from Belgium but only goes there for Christmas. There was a half Jewish, half Chinese Buddhist girl living in Canada, and then a handful of devout Peruvian Hindus. And if they were boring like me and were raised in a comfortable first world country, they could still tell me cray stores of adventures in India, Burma, Antarctica, Patagonia, Egypt, Namibia....<br />
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I know that I've accumulated so many perspectives from so many corners of el mundo; lifestyles, ideologies and cultures, that I see the world in a new, more comprehensive, empathetic light. I know what parties are like in Holland. How you have to dress in Iran. What chavs are in the U.K. The places to go in Televiv, in Berlin. And in such an increasingly globalized world, that's worth something.<br />
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Right before I left Lima for the last time (for the seventh time), I thought about whether I've changed. I couldn't think of anything, so I figured I'd figure it out once I was back with people who knew me before I left. Now the I'm back, I still don't know. I do know that I've learned to be confident with my decisions, because someone will always question your choices, no matter what they are. And that its ok to make the wrong decision sometimes, because you'll learn from it.<br />
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I've begun to really appreciate the power of our minds. You have more control over the atmosphere of a situation or place than you'll believe; you can change a social environment just through your attitude. And if you think good things will happen to you they probably will. And anything you want, reach out and grab it, because anything, really anything, is possible.<br />
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Most of all, the world is an effing incredible place. But so is home. A good friend of mine from Pisco coined a singular, poignant phrase that will stick with me for the rest of my life: "Roots and Wings". Roots: Your home, your family, your base; Wings: The ability to fly away, escape, adventure, and chase your dreams. They are of equal importance. Exactly equal importance. And that's a beautiful thing to think about and to know.<br />
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Like Chris McCandless says at the end of "Into the Wild", "Happiness is only real when shared". So thanks for reading this blog and sharing my ventures. Special thanks to my dear Mama, Oma, and Alia Payne for reading every word; you're awesome :)<br />
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But whatever. I'm home now. And even if my reader audience may have been small, I'm glad I wrote about it because I don't remember shit.<br />
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Thats it, I'm signing off now.<br />
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Shalom <3<br />
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<br />Emma Lodeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16592002908904167336noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5524868153484276154.post-67207902899398486212012-07-12T12:00:00.003-07:002012-07-18T08:16:46.469-07:00Mancora, the beach, blissful downwindings<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; text-align: -webkit-auto;">Set against a cerulean sky: A slick white, fluid collection of rounded balconies and french doors: a building right out of Cyprus. Beachside pool. Cluster of palms, sagging hammocks, a common will wafting on the seaside breeze: To do nothing. Nothing at all. </span>
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<blockquote class="gmail_quote" style="border-left-color: rgb(204, 204, 204); border-left-style: solid; border-left-width: 1px; margin: 0px 0px 0px 0.8ex; padding-left: 1ex;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">This is Mancora, and this is the warmest place in all of Peru. Hence me being here. I have ben doing a lot of two thing sout of many: Running around, and being cold. For my last four days in Peru, i have decided to exempt myself from those familiar past times. And I've been serious about it. My last few days have gone something like this.</span></blockquote>
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<blockquote class="gmail_quote" style="border-left-color: rgb(204, 204, 204); border-left-style: solid; border-left-width: 1px; margin: 0px 0px 0px 0.8ex; padding-left: 1ex;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Nir wakes up early to loyally watch Wimbleton. I sleep for abit more, wander down to the pool, get breakfast. I lay around next to the pool. Not IN the pool, NEXT to the pool. I told you, I'm serious about not being cold. At all. I'm not taking any chances. For the whole rest of the day, Nir plays ping pong. This is no exaggeration. I write, draw, adn read. </span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Once, we walked all the way to the beach. It was a big effort, about 100 meters away. Once we were there, we stayed until it got cold. On the beach, Nir played beach ping pong, which he calls matt ball or something. I lied around. At one point, I made a sign for Alia in the sand. That was the hardest I worked in Mancora. (Love you Alia!)
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Finally done with mattball<br />
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Kite surfing is popular in Mancora instead of surfing because there is wind but no waves.<br />
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love!<br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I actually got compliments on the extent and commitment for my laziness. I accepted them gladly and proudly- I think I'm getting good at this! Of course, we continued to hang out with very cool Israelis. That includes Eli, Pola, and Gal from the Huaywash trek and about half a million others who know Nir from about half a million places throughout South America. The most prominent seem to be a) seeing him dancing on the bar in Cuzco (these people seem to know him: he has no idea who they are), and, b) Ping pong (I'm pretty sure Nir has played every gringo in South Americ at this point). Then, there are those who I asssume he knows but later find out he's just met them. That's how it goes- I think Israelis are the friendliest people in the world. We spent one evening on a rustic porch overlooking the ocean, laughing and listening to a piar of talented musician friends: it made me miss my buddies on Vashon. </span>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The idea of all this relaxation is to recharge for coming home, which is coming up really, really soon. I can tell from the mountinas of college emails that are swamping my inbox that I'm going to have to hit the ground running when I get home. So, now is my chance to clear my head, transition smoothly, and enjoy my last few moments in Latin America comfortably and in the sun. Nir and I bus to Lima on the 10th, arrive on the 11th, and my flight home is on the 12th. He flies to Colombia a few days later to finish his trip there; school in Israel doesn't start until October. I still have two days in Lima, so it's not goodbye to Peru quite yet....</span></div>
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<br />Emma Lodeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16592002908904167336noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5524868153484276154.post-53591710826423273302012-07-12T12:00:00.002-07:002012-07-18T08:15:45.222-07:00The Great Huayhuash Pt. 2<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">Day 5 dawned doomlike, a frigid and iced over camp and a shaky group icy with nerves. The night before, Nir and I had laid our bathing suits over the tent, and that morning they were stiff, solid blocks of ice. We breakfast in silence and then gripped our hiking sticks with white knuckles.</span>
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Our bathing suits were literally stiff as rock...<br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">The hike started off gradually enough. In the morning the clouds were incredible: they swirled around the sky on invisible air currents, tossing and merging and exploding out with incredible speed. They were the streams of color that coil out from a paintbrush tip when you dip it into a cup of water, the swirling white shapes that blossom when you pour a thin stream of cream into a mug of hot coffee.</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">We took a break on a grassy hill and behind us, a fan of clouds splayed out over the line of white mountains. Matan, who still had diarrhea, went off into the hills while we waited. It took him quite a while to come back, and his whereabouts turned into something like “Where’s Waldo”. Where is Matan shitting now? Erez pointed out that the campasenos should be paying Matan for passing through instead of the other way around, because he was fertilizing all their fields beautifully.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">We passed by flatter glacier topped bergs that looked ideal for snow sports, and Nir and I couldn’t stop gazing at the perfectly smooth snow and reminiscing about skiing and snowboarding. The first pass, 5,000 meters, was a gain of 500 meters in three hours, so we didn’t sweat. At one point we came to a swampy field and lake at the foot of a mountain peak; the trail hugged a cliff that rose up and around the field. Eli, like always, decided to find a better alternative route, and was traipsing through the field and up the grassy cliff to meet the trail.</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">Usually his short cut attempts are nonsensical, or just really long cuts, or are just complete diversions from the main path. But this one seemed logical, so a group of us followed him. The Peace Corps trip cut through the field too, but made a beeline to the lake where they proceeded to get naked and skinny dip in the glacial waters. Apparently, there’s a long running competition among Ancash Peace Corps volunteers of who can skinny dip in the most glacial lakes. These guys each have almost 10 under their belts, a very impressive and brave umber. We were invited to join in, but politely declined… maybe if it was 50 degrees warmer and there wasn’t a serious chance of catching hypothermia.</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">We found our own surprise in the field though: a full horse skeleton, complete with main and tail hair and skull. I don’t think I’ve ever seen such an intact and connected skeleton just hanging out in nature; usually they’re much more scattered.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">About a half an hour later, we made it to the pass. 5,000 meters! My first reaction was that there were just way too many beautiful things to look at and photograph at once, so I sprinted around with my camera for 15 minutes, taking in everything at once like a kid with serious ADD. Right before us, a mountain peak stared face to face with the pass. In the distance, a line of peaks were swathed in sweeping coils of plumy vapor and capped with gossamer clouds that swept across like angel wings. On the opposite side, our donks and our donkey man, Nikol, were already skipping down a steep deserty descent marked with curious orange rock formations.</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">Jess, who can’t keep herself away from the horses, had mounted one of ours and was trotting about the pass in front of the mountains, framing herself perfectly for stunning photos. Which was exactly the point. Nick had his long zoom out and was crouched at a distance, wildly waving his arms and shouting out directions to Jess, who expertly steered her steed to suite his creative image. They were both completely in their element.</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">Ten meters away, Nir, Matan and Eli were in their element too: they had stripped completely naked and were posing for the camera with nothing but gloves to cover the sensitive areas; Eli had a popular Israeli magazine splayed out instead. It’s a game among teenage guy sin Israel to take funny pictures with this magazine in interesting places.</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">Us girls decided we needed to step up and make a comeback: there were 4 Israeli girls in the other group, Gal, Pola, Bar and Dana, and all of us but Gal grouped up in a more secluded spot and did a shirtless shot.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">The descent was hellish: 300 quick meters on slick dusty paths. I spent a lot of it on my ass. The valley below was gorgeous, green and vast, but it kept on teasing us by appearing as if it was leveling of and then dropping down again like giant steps. We had lunch at the very lowest spot, around 1. Clouds began accumulating and brooding and then temperature flaked as the sun pulled on and off its cloudy robe. </span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">We were nervous; we knew what was next. San Antonio. San Benedeto. Over 500 meters of almost vertical climbing, to be finished within the hour. Or we´d have to pick our way to camp in the dark. It turned out that the famous pass was in fact completely removed from our way to camp; it´s just a mirador off to the side. So, we had the option to go up or go straight back to camp. Erez passed by, shaking his head. “No San Benedeto hoy. The gates are closed. The gates are closed to San Benedeto.” I assumed he wouldn´t be coming.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">As we began the death march towards the cliff we were to scale- it literally looked vertical- he strolled beside us, lamenting his predicament. “I really wanted to climb San Benedeto, but they just won´t let me in! They closed the gates on me!” I was genuinely surprised and delighted when Erez continued on and started to crawl up the death pass with us.</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;"> It was a huge challenge- I don´t think I´ve ever climbed anything steeper without using my hands. I did have the hiking poles, and looked absolutely ridiculous hunkering over and stabbing the ground with them like an old man on his last few steps and breaths. All the other girls trotted by on the emergency horses (cheaters) as I gasped and wheezed and crawled over gravel and up the small waterfall that bisected the landslide we were climbing. It took us just under an hour. When I got to the top, I wasn´t quite exhausted to the point of tears, (which means I should have worked harder), but I did plop down on the ground, incapable of speech and pretty sure that I would never be able to stand up again.</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">Unfortunately, the invading clouds covered much of the view. Siula Grande was right there, and the face that Simpson and Yates climbed should have been in clear view but it was covered in clouds. You could see the lake where they had set up base camp (and where Yates started to burn Simpson´s clothes as he crawled down the moraine field on a broken leg).</span></div>
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Siula Grande is to the right of the lake- the lake is was the camp spot from Touching the Void.<br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">The boys took another naked picture, which was really brave, because this time it was really cold and windy. After a half an hour or so, we spotted Erez´s form, huffing his way up towards us. We gathered at the edge of the ridge and cheered him on to the top. I was so proud! San Benedeto conquered! We sat watching the lowering sun, and deepening clouds cast the mountain and three lakes in dramatic shadows. It wasn´t the clearest, but the brooding sky made the view all the more captivating. I was satisfied.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">Nick wasn´t. He had been determined to get ideal, detailed shots of these mountains. We weren´t at all surprised when, around 4:30 when we decided to head down, he and Jess elected to stay at the pass to wait for sunset. Thus commenced another loooong descent. Once we got down to the valley, we still had 2 hours to walk to camp. Like a barrier between the main valley and the swampy arm that led to camp, a mammoth rounded rock wall spanned between the two cliffs. In the center, it dipped into the earth, looping down to provide a passage; on either side it looked like it had been pushed apart like an accordion, or a crooked caterpillar. Through the middle ran a stream, and it dropped off into a waterfall. We down climbed along the waterfall and found that at the bottom, the water dispersed into a lattice of intersecting streams; between, the water seeped up through the grass. Time to get my feet wet. My hiking boots weren´t waterproof to begin with, but now they have gaping holes in the sides, and if I step in a puddle, I´m done for. Of course there was no path, so we had to hop across a small steam every five minutes, some of them not so small, most of them lacking bridges or stepping stones.</span></div>
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Cheering Erez up the pass!<br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">After a bit we ran into Erez and Bar (they both had ridden horses back down) and Angel (the other group´s guide) who was in charge of the caballos. Erez was concerned. “Donde Scotland?” Hmm. True, we hadn`t seen Nick for quite a while, and usually if he stays behind he`s capable of catching up right quick. “Foto,” we guessed. “Always foto. Todas las cameras de Scotland, aqui en Huayhuash,” Erez explained to Angel, who cracked a rare smile.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">Nick and I hurried on- we wanted to make it to camp before dark. A bit later we ran into Matan, Eli and Asaf, and walked with them the rest of the way. I was getting more and more exhausted. About a half an hour from camp, we had to cross a wide part of the river. I was so tired and frustrated, I couldn`t believe I had to jump across. I took the boys around 10 minutes to convince me to run and jump. It wasn`t even that far (I`m, a longjumper, mind you) but it was the last straw. I barely straggled to the tents for the last gasping breaths of what was a beautiful sunset- thick clouds dipped in blood red light- and by the time we had dropped our backs by the tent it was dark.</span></div>
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Coming into camp<br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">Complete and utter exhaustion, Nir scolded me, is no excuse to skip our daily stretches. But this time we asked Marco if we could stretch in the warm kitchen tent. I crawled under the flap into the steamy, warm kitchen, dark but fore the glowing red of the stove and Marco`s dim headlamp. Nikol pulled up a thick wool blanket to sit on and I collapsed on to it. I handed Marco my sopping shoes to dry and tried to stretch. This time I cried, quietly, simply out of exhaustion. I don`t know if I`ve ever been so exhausted from a day.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">Over dinner, the question remained: Donde Scotland? It was 8 and the couple was still missing. We were getting worried- how would they cross all the streams in the dark? Marco geared up with a headlamp and went out looking for them.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">Dinner was mashed potatoes, and I slurped them down with a scowl until everyone forced me to go to bed. It wasn`t until after I drifted off that we heard Nick and Jess tromp into camp. Apparently they had explained their plan to Angel, who hadn`t passed the news to Marco, and they were upset that Marco had felt the need to go out searching.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">That night we got a solid 10 hours of sleep- we didn`t have to wake up until 7. It was an easy day. Four or so hours downhill to a little town for lunch, and then another 3 uphill to camp. It was the hottest day yet, and I stripped down to a T shirt and hiking pants (NO long johns!) We climbed down a waterfall towards a valley carpeted in messy patchwork fields in different shades of green, and took a break on sun soaked rocks in the valley.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">The village was a genuine little mountain village, and right as we walked in we ran into a traditionally dressed family doing their washing in the river. Next to them were the toilets- planks with holes in the middle so you shit right into the same river. I sure hope the family was doing their washing upstream from the baños, but I didn`t think to check at the time. Whatever the case, we were sure to make a note not to fill our water bottles in this one.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">Lunch was in a small, dark, cavernous restaurant, and as soon as I was full I ran off to explore the sunny town. It was tiny, poor and slow; I barely saw another out on the dirt road. I ran into Jess and Nick, who were looking for a traditional style hat for Jess. We wandered around town hunting for hats from one dead end to the next. “Si, mi hermana tiene gora! Si, mi esposa tiene!” and once we found the sister, the spouse, the daughter, the mother, always the answer was “No tengo!” I gave up before them and was greeted back at our meeting spot by a video of Matan shitting in the river potty complete with an explanation of how the system works, all in Hebrew.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16px;">The proceeding climb was the most pleasant of the whole trek- gradual and warm. About half way up, I looked back and saw Erez sprinting after a horse, one that he had just been riding. What? There was a fork in the path, and the horse was running up the wrong trail. Apparently Erez had dismounted, and the horse had continued on its way; it`s own way. Up ahead, Marco noticed and galloped past us in a storm of dust to rescue the situation.</span>
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MAAARCO!<br />
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See our tents below?<br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">Mountains began to rise up in front of us and we found our camp right at the foot of the glacier. That dinner, Matan entertained us with his special talent: On the go translations of cheesy Arabic songs to English, in a wavery but expressive voice. It was hilarious. Asif had been making friends with the Peace Corps trio, and had been invited over for some whisky before dinner, so he came back a bit tipsy. Apparently, Michael had brought along whisky but was the only proponent of consuming it. They had three donkeys, and one seemed to have a small but heavy load; we joked that it was Michael´s booze donkey.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">Asif was tipsy but clear headed and ready to talk, and we had a good serious chat about Israel. Despite the hopeful stories we`re told; the happy documentaries on Israelis and Arabs bonding over their differences and striving for peace, he told me that the reality is the two loyalties just don`t mix. There are Muslim Arabs in Israel who have full nationality, and full rights, but they mostly live in cities separate from the Jews. There are a couple cities where the tow mix, but it`s extremely rare. Apparently, the only place in Israel where an Arab is like everyone else is in the army, where rich and poor and Northerners and Southerners alike wear the same clothes, have the same shaved heads, sleep in the same tent.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">The conflict is as deep seated as a conflict can get. It`s rooted in religion and ancient history. No one sees the end of the conflict any time soon. Every Israeli I`ve talked to about it insists that their sons and their son`s sons will be in the army to protect the country against Muslim terrorists. Against the “enemies on all sides”. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">And it`s true, literally every country in the Middle East is a danger to Israel. They used to be able to visit Egypt`s Sinai Peninsula, but not any more. They used to be able to visit Turkey, but not any more. Hostility surrounds tiny Israel on unimaginable levels- on, literally, atomic levels- no wonder they are so protective of each other. In the Gaza strip, which has its own sovereign government, missiles are constantly fired into Israel. I couldn´t imagine growing up with such inborn fear and hatred.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">I`ve been told, though, that it`s relatively peaceful now, and none of the Israelis I`ve met have had to actually fight in the war, on the front line, during their time in service. It`s all training.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">As a commander, Nir had to march up and down the Northern desert mountains, loaded up with heavy artillery, and practice strategies in surrounding the hills and zoning in on the enemy- just in case the war spreads there. If you don`t sign up to be a “fighter”, you can watch video cameras on the border, do “field intelligence”, paperwork, be a trainer for the fighters, or a myriad of other positions.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;"> Every Israeli I`ve talked to insists the army was an amazing growing experience, and singularly turned them into adults. And how could it not? At 18 years old, you`re given a gun, thrown into a war; in one millisecond you are handed responsibility over the life or death of thousands. At 18 years old, Nir was in training as a commander of the army. By the time he was my age, he had his own soldiers. How can you wrap your head around that?</span></div>
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In the dining tent.<br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">That night, we were given two choices for our last big day- One passes or two passes. “The first one`s nothing,” Nick cut in- “I just climbed it to take pictures of the sunset.” No surprise there. Of course I was in for both. Matan was of a different mind. “There is absoluntely now ay- if a helicopter came right now I`d take it straight to Israel. It`s been great, but…” You really couldn`t blame the poor guy, with his digestive problems. Eli struck with his friend, even though we all know he could climb both passes 5 times before we did it once. Asaf also declined dude to his hacking cough. In the end we split both groups. The Two Passers ended up being Nir and I, Nick and Jess, Gal, and two Israeli guys from the other group.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">The first pass started off by a climnb straight up the side of the cliff nedxt to our camp, but wasn`t challenging. We climbed up and over rolling green hills strewn with gigantic boulders from some sort of ancient eruption- Nick kept mentioning it reminded him of Scotland. </span><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">We passed by the mountian Diablo M</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">udo, skirted a lake, and lowered down into a grand yellowed valley facing layers of serrated mountain ranges in fading deep blues. </span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The second pass was straight up a vertical looking wall of gravel, but it wasn´t quite as difficult as day 5. And I could chant a new mantra as I wheezed: Last climb! Lat climb! Half way up we came across a pristine glacier lake, perfectly still,with a distant mountain´s triangular peak reflected perfectly in the water. Nick was already down there taking pictures; it was a real catch.</span>
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Nir and Marco, best friends. At every break, Nir tells him: RESPETO AL CIGARILLO. And then Marco caves. And our breaks last about 5 times longer than they would have.<br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">And finally, we made it to the pass. There they were! The real, huge, celestial, mystic peaks of striated ice and cornices, brilliant white ridges and heavenly summits. The clouds were just starting to lower, but we could till see the line clearly. Just below the snowline, smaller ridges formed perfectly triangular spikes of deep reds, like spike collars protecting the mountain´s pristine white faces. Red, yellow, black and white sediment flows streamed down, striping the sides. The range flowed up and down across the horizon.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /> We climbed up to a better vantage point to take some pictures, and then continued along a ridge to the mirador. The sun was sinking; the wind whipped; we were on the top of the world. On one side of the ridge, the line of ice queens, on the other, layers of spiked mountains from brown to sky blue, white capped in the far distance. It was incredible. I think the walk along that ridge was the most beautiful stroll I've ever taken. And when we got to the Mirador, our jaws really dropped.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />We were looking down at three bright turquoise lakes, lined up under a spectacular peak. The cliff our group sat on dropped off sharply into the valley below, so it was as if we were balancing over the view. We were floating on a golden field in the center of the crown of the world: The sawlike blue lapiz lazuli ranges behind, white diamond spikes to the right, and in front of us, lakes for emerald studs completed the crown´s centerpiece. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />As we sat and watched, clouds started brooding over the mountains, and it got chilly fast. It was an incredible spot, but where in the world do you go from here? The only seemingly walk-able direction was right where we had just come. Everything else seemed to drop off below us in sheer cliffs. But then I squinted down into the valley and vague colorful splotches came into focus, too small to catch in a camera lens- Our tents. They were directly below the mirador and next to the lakes, straight down the cliff. It seemed like the only possible way from here to there was quite literally to fly. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">So when Marco announced that he was going down and took most of the group, my reaction was "They think they´re going down there but it´s obviously impossible. I´m staying here." In retrospect, that was not my best critical thinking moment., If I had been thinking I would have realized that following the guide helps when the way seems impossible.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"> So everyone got off to slipping and sliding down the steep grassy hill and quickly disappeared over the hump,and me, Nir, Nick, Jess and Gal stayed behind. We were probably there an hour or so after they left, and then it just got too cold to stay still. A veil of clouds was lowering slowly and steadily over the mountain, but Nick is a positive thinker and just had to stay up there with his camera until sunset, just in case the sky cleared. Nir, Gal and I started down about an hour after everyone left, and Jess started down about half an hour after that.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">After some careful scouting, we found that there was indeed a trail, but it disappeared after about 2 minutes. Over and over, we would shuffle down sideways, carefully, and all of a sudden a cliff would drop off below us. What now? We would split up, scope out the scene, decide on the path that seemed the least suicidal, and keep sliding down. I assumed that at some point the way down would become clearer, but it just kept getting more and more confusing. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">As we dropped my faith in our survival dropped to near nothing. Below us and to the right, a deep river cut through the V shaped valley. I had assumed that we would be able to lower to the river and then follow it to camp. But 200 meters from the spot we could access the river, it disappeared in a careening waterfall. Even if we got down to the river, there was still an impossible drop off down to camp. Nir climbed a mammoth boulder to get an overview of our options, and it seemed that we might as well slide down tot he river anyway and figure it out from there, because there were cliffs all around.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Meanwhile, the clouds broiled and continued to seep over the mountains pretty face; it looked like rain. And the entire time we could see the tents, tiny but there, right there. Should we just jump? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">We had to cut through a herd of cows, with sharp horns, to get to the river. They freaked me out a bit but fortunately did not use their horns on me. Every 5 steps I slipped on the slick grass and fell on my ass. When we finally got to the river, Nir figured we had to cross it. But how? It wad deep, wide, rushing, and dropped off the cliff less than 100 feet away. He found the best spot to cross- there was a rock in the middle you could step on; only problem, the rock was completely submerged and the river flooded over it with alarming speed. Somehow Nir hopped right over, and then it was my turn. It took me about 10 minutes of flipping out before I made an attempt. I would have to put all my weight on that rock, completely submerging my boot, before I would be able to lean across and grab Nir´s hand to pull me out onto the bank. I was positive I would fall into the river and disappear over the waterfall. Finally I just went for it, and made it to the other side. </span></div>
<div style="color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Gal was next. She stepped into the rock, and slip- whoosh- just what I had feared. She fell completely into the river, and NIr had to drag her and her backpack out and onto the opposite side of the shore. Jeez. Now we were really shooken up. I looked up to the cliff on the now opposite side of the river, and lo and behold, there was Jess, along with the 3 American Peace Corps volunteers. They were walking along the cliff and didn´t seem to be about to come down to the river. Jess waved and I waved back wildly, a gesture she assumed to be an enthusiastically friendly greeting instead of a frantic S.O.S. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">But now were were on the opposite bank, so we continued on our route. No need to cross that godforsaken river again. We climbed up onto the bluff and surveyed the scene. Oh god. These cliffs were even steeper than before. Nir scouted ahead, trying to descend, and shouted back that it wasn't possible, then tried another spot. We slowly crawled across the bluff away from the waterfall, but a way down eluded us. Gal and I were crouched clinging to <wbr></wbr>plants at a steep section and Nir was farther down- suddenly where was a crash and a grunt, and we heard him calling up- "Ok, this one is dangerous, but it´s ok... do it on your ass!" </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Hmmm... From the crash it sounded like there wasn´t much choice. We picked our way towards him gingerly- it was literally a rock face. Guess we would be rock climbing. Nir had fell down it and crashed into a spiky agave plant. It took me about half an hour to figure this one out. It seemed crazy to climb down with my backpack on, but if I dropped it I'm pretty sure it would not have stopped until it reached the valley below. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I don´t know how, but eventually I made it down to Nir. Behind me, Gal was stuck clinging to tiny handholds. Nir reached up to help her and they both topped down, crashing into the same agave plant.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"> The descent continued. From here on it was difficult, but our chances of survival seemed higher. By now the storm blanketed the heavens and it had started to rain. I was so relieved to get to the valley. As we started across the field, Nikol appeared and guided us along. He had been watching us, he said. Nikol, the guardian angel, the sweetest man. We ran into Jess, who had made it down half an hour before. What?! Apparently, there was a relatively easy path on the original side of the river, and the Peace Corps guys had a map. They hdan´t been without problems, though- Sarah´s knees hurt so bad from downclimbing, she had been in tears the whole way. </span></div>
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This is what we were supposed to climb down...........<br />
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Our tents are at the left along the river<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhce-EqLHk_xctgoRUd1orriQmYosub7cmSO5F3qxHT_Gg78M_lhEFBrh0hLyuoI_APeiwwP-iHRklW8kpc06DfhF5VE9xcfNtFl8O4CHUMl43k4VDbjNW9aWJmFJEH7rs1S-ZLCG9TGinR/s1600/P7030696.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhce-EqLHk_xctgoRUd1orriQmYosub7cmSO5F3qxHT_Gg78M_lhEFBrh0hLyuoI_APeiwwP-iHRklW8kpc06DfhF5VE9xcfNtFl8O4CHUMl43k4VDbjNW9aWJmFJEH7rs1S-ZLCG9TGinR/s640/P7030696.JPG" width="480" /></a></div>
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Looking down to Nir<br />
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<br />
The rock we had to climb<br />
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Back alive and looking back up at what we just came down<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">But we were back, safe, and alive. Nir stalked off in a rage to smoke a cigarette alone; Gal crawled shivering into her tent to put on dry clothes; I ran around camp like a chicken with my head cut off announcing to everyone that we had almost died and telling exaggerated <wbr></wbr>stories of our death defying descent. </span></div>
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<div style="color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">It was really raining now, and the mountain was invisible behind a sea of mist. We gathered in the dining tent for tea, and there was a thundering roar. We ran outside, and right in front of us, a giant avalanche tumbled down the mountain face.. At the same time, a rainbow arched brilliantly across the field. We could see its end inside the field- I think that was the first time I saw the real end of a rainbow, close enough to run and touch. Jess joked about finding a pot of gold, and then said she figured here it must really be true, Peru being so mineral rich. NO energy to dig, though. We had also just been informed we would be up at four the next morning. Nir was sleeping, and I went over to tell him the news. His reaction had me in stitches. "WHAT?! Four?! What for? For what? FOUR? What!! What for?!" </span></div>
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<div style="color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">At dinner time, Nick was till on the hill. Donde Scotland?! We were all pretty worried- if the descent had been so hard for us in the light, how would he manage in the dark and the rain? Well, we were all worried but Jess. "He´ll be find," she kept saying. "You´ll see, he´s good at this kind of stuff." And she was right. Around 7, Nick showed up without a scratch. He had admitted that it had been very confusing, but had made it down in 45 minutes in the dark and in the rain. We were very impressed. </span></div>
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<div style="color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The next morning, we really did get up at four. <span style="background-color: white;"> </span><span style="background-color: white;">It was dark and cold. But not too dark, because the full moon lit everything in a sallow glow. And not too cold, because we were at a lower altitude than the previous nights, only just over 4,000.</span></span></div>
<div style="color: #222222;">
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I woke up to Nir's shout: "Where's my backpack?!" It was gone. Very strange. We got headlamps out and searched the tent, around the tent, the whole field. No where to be found,. We went to ask Nikol. "Los perros se llevo," was Nikol's serious reply. What...? The dogs took it? How did they unzip the rainfly and take it from the porch area of the tent, and then re zip the fly...? Never mind, we found the bag all the way across he field, completely ripped up and missing a strap. I immediately knew what had really happened. There was a full moon, and Nir had the look of a werewolf. He obviously had a little episode the night before.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The first couple hours of walking were an eerie wander through the dark landscape. Behind us, the mountains loomed glowing. Our destination was Llamac, a tiny village and our bus stop, and Nikol's home. We followed a trail that wound higher and higher above the river valley, and walked along the cliff edge. It was a total of about 5 hours- our bus left at 11. I was wiped and walked like a zombie. Every 10 minutes or so we had to climb over a brick wall put in place to keep donkeys off the cliff, to prevent them from pooping into the river below, which is used as drinking water. As we descended into town, it got hotter and hotter until I was positively dying. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">When we got into Llamac, 3,800 meters, everyone was there- Matan, Eli, Asaf, Erez... I had missed them. The trek was over. Four hours on the bus would bring us back to Huaraz. I organized a dinner for that night, at Cafe Andino (of course) at 8. I invited everyone, including the Peace Corps guys.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> After 4 windy hours on the bus, and a long walk back to El Jakal hostel, after 8 days of hard core trekking and 8 days of freezing our asses off and after 8 days without a shower, El Jakal didn't have any running water. Was it a joke? No, he even showed us the dry tap personally. Well, it's Peru. Nir scouted up and down the street and came back with bad news- no one on the street had water. The owner of El Jakal hostel- (who by the way is truly the nicest man in the world)- called the water company and announced that it was just our street that had been cut off. Thank god. Nir and I ran off to find a new hostel and ended up in Piramid hotel, a fancy looking building right in a center square I had passed by a million times and wondered about but always assumed it would be too expensive, and it wasn't at all. Gotta love Huaraz. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Then off to our separate missions- Nir was supposed to meet Angel at 6 to fix his dilapidated boots; I was supposed to get back to Andes camp to return gear. After 45 minutes of waiting, Angel never showed up: after inquiring of 15 taxis, no on knew where Andes camp was (including me). A failure of an afternoon. We didn't actually shower until 8, and hurried to our dinner. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">To my surprise, there was quite a turn out- literally every single person showed up. We couldn't all fit into one table and basically took up the whole restaurant, but it was so good to see everyone. Nick and Jess showed up late with beers, Pisco sours, and a jug of wine. They had seen our jugs of lemonade and had assumed it was alcohol, and wanted to "catch up". We had a great chat about the trek, about traveling, mountaineering, boats, skiing,<wbr></wbr> photography, and all those kinds of wonderful things. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">At one point during the evening, I realized it was the 4th of July! After dinner, we moved to the Trece Buhos Pub, right across the square from the Piramid hostel, where Americans got half off on coca beer. Never been so proud to be an American. I thought about home: The family was at Devil's Lake together, laughing and watching fireworks,. swimming and picnicking and road tripping to Culvers, and I missed them and smiled. I thought about here: In the heart of the Andes, triumphant after the most challenging and beautiful trek of my life, surrounded by wonderful, hilarious and kind people I love; a lone American celebrating the fourth of July with a raucous group of Israelis, Englishmen, a Scot... raising a cheer to good ol Amurica. No, raising a cheer to to LIFE. Lecheim! </span></div>
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<span id="goog_22937231"></span><span id="goog_22937232"></span>Emma Lodeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16592002908904167336noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5524868153484276154.post-17761602883524641522012-07-08T14:47:00.003-07:002012-07-18T08:07:02.223-07:00The Great Huayhuash Pt. 1<span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Deep in the heart of the world’s highest tropical mountain range lies a
30 km long knife like chain of diamond peaks like an elongated line of shark
incisors. The delicately corniced mountains, their glaciers, snow flutings and
their high alpine valleys between, are a part of the wild and famous Cordillera
Huayhuash.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The Cordillera Blanca, the neighbor to the North, may boast the tallest
mountain in Peru, but the Huayhuash holds the second tallest (Yerupaja, 6,617
m) and is the setting for the classic adventure story Touching the Void. The
Cordillera Huayhuash is about a 5 hour drive from Huaraz, and is one of the
most popular destinations from the city. The hardcore trekkers among us will circuit
the entire mountain chain. Not summiting any major peaks but rather skirting
around through high mountain passes. It’s a trek known as simply “The
Huayhuash”.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> According to National geographic,
it’s the second most beautiful hike in the world. There is a standard circuit;
the fastest it’s been done is 4 days, and the longest it’s been drawn out is
20, with about as many donkeys. The standard is 8 days. The entire trek stays
high above the 4,000 meter tree line, so the way is rugged and sometimes almost
desolate; huge boulders decorate the gold green hills as a replacement forest.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Somehow, the Huayhuash managed to find itself a prominent (but optional)
step in the Path of the Hummus. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I’m not sure who coined that phrase, but the
Path of the Hummus would refer to the South American Israeli trail, the string
of long debated over, heavily researched tourist destinations that are flooded
by groups of post army Israelis year round. The thing is, the Path of the
Hummus is no secret; it’s the same gringo trail that every nationality bases
their South American circuits on. </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Argentina:
Buenos, Rosario, Córdoba, Mendoza, Bariloche, Ushuaia. Patagonia: El Calafate, El Chal 10, Puerto
Natales. </span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Up to Brazil: Rio, Iguazú falls. Bolivia: La Paz, The Salt Flats,
Potosi, the death road, the jungles… and on to Peru. The difference is that
Israelis seem to give little thought to straying off the path: They know what’s
good cuz it’s been tested. And most importantly, they know other Israelis will
be there.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> Israelis travel in groups, of
other Israelis. Nir was one of the first I met really trying to make an effort to
try something new by traveling with me. But to tell you the truth, if you make
even the smallest effort to get an in with a group of Israelis they welcome you
into their ranks like a long lost sister and will have your back no matter
what. It’s a cultural thing. Always watching out for each other. There are no
pleases and thankyous in Hebrew conversations, only taking, giving and sharing.
As an Israeli you’re safe in South America. If anything happens, you’re not
alone because you’ll have a group of 50 protective friends to fight for you. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">So began my Israeli experience. Despite having assured me he wanted a
different, out of country experience for a while, as soon as we got to Huaraz
Nir went off on a mission to find the Israelis. “They know what’s good.” He
explained. “The good companies, the good tours, good equipment.” Ok, sure.
Fine. We arrived in Huaraz in the morning and spent the day hunting for an adequate
agency. Nir was never satisfied. Around 9 PM, after hunting all day, we FINALLY
stumbled upon the pocket of town where the Israelis were hiding: a little
hostel agency down a winding alley far off the main drag called Andes Camp. It
was, no joke, 90% populated by Israelis; even the signs were written in Hebrew.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Surrounded by his brethren, Nir was finally satisfied, but only after
checking absolutely everything. The tents, the sleeping bags, the flashlights,
pads, photographs, licenses… I was surprised he didn’t feel the need to check
the donkey’s veterinary records or the quality of our van’s tires. Above all,
the entire group was immensely concerned about the quantity of food. “I eat A
LOT,” guy named Ofir explained very seriously to our soon to be guide. “Look,
if we don’t get enough food, I’m eating YOU first.” Of course, as soon as we
booked the trek for the next day, with assurances that we would be very well
fed, Nir went off to buy 10 cans of tuna and 5 gigantic packets of crackers and
cookies. Just in case. Surprisingly, he managed to finish it all off by the end
(true to the Israeli spirit, a lot of it was shared). <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The Great Huayhuash kicked off with at 5 hour bus ride to our first
camping spot. It was a long, sleepy, but beautiful ride: Rich blue rivers and
lakes shimmered below, weaving through rolling hills of yellow velvet, which
faded to a rich brown; then deep royal blue and purple mountains jumped from
the planes, rising in deep shadowed contours, their white tips mingling with
the wind and the clouds. Suddenly not a part of this world but in a shifting,
ethereal passage between earth and heaven.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #222222; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">We arrived around 3, at the closest point the carrartera reaches to the
cordillera. Our campsite was a long valley of rolling yellow brown pampa, and
walling us in on either side rose dramatic granite spires shrouded by menacing,
stormy clouds. It was a scene of deep shades of grays, and the clouds hung low
and hugged the cliffs. Along the valley and scattering the hills were tiny
cottages of sheep herders. Their sheep milled within small round circles of
stone, crude circular rock walls only a meter of so high. Apparently, the
walls are put in place only so that the horses can’t get inside-
their front feet are tied together and they can’t get over the walls and eat
the sheep’s grass. The Huayhuash is a fenceless wilderness, and animals roam
free.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #222222; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">Our campsite was at 4,150 meters. The set up was just like Santa Cruz- individual
tents, a cooking tent, a dining tent. Donkeys. Fourteen people had signed up
for the trek, so we were divided into two groups: I was with Nir, four Israeli
guys: Eli, Matan, Asif and Asaf. And an older UK couple, Nick and Jess.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #222222; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #222222; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">I would grow to really like every single person in our group, and find that
they are each amazing, individual characters. Eli and Matan had been traveling
together and were very blond from being Israeli. I was discovering what a
melting pot the country is. It´s just like the states- a mash up of individuals
come to live in the same land for ideological reasons. In the good ol U S of A,
it was for religious freedom, and now just the freedom to build the life you´ve
always dreamed of. In Israel, it´s common history and culture, as well as
religion. Eli is Russian. Matan is half Polish. Nir´s mom is from Yemen and his
dad from Canada. There are mixes from literally all over the world.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #222222; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #222222; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">Nick and Jess are an interesting couple- they´re not married, but have
different bases, and meet up all over the world. And their base homes are
pretty dang exciting- Nick spends much of his time in Chamonix, as a ski model
turned photographer, while Jess is first mate on a ship in the Caribbean. WOW.
They were hilarious, and constantly joking with each other, especially about
the differences between England (Jess) and Scotland (Nick). They remind me a
bit of Ann and John, which made me happy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #222222; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">Before dinner, I climbed up one of the cliffs beside us to get a closer
look at the cottages and sheep. An old woman stood outside of their home- a
pile of rocks with a thatched roof- watching the sheep. When I approached I
scared them out of their “fenced area” and she got worked up, yelling “QUE
BUSCAS? FUERATE!” I almost tried to walk up and make peace, but she was pretty
terrifying.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #222222; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">I climbed to the point where I could see the whole river valley, and the
sun began to set, orange wisps flowing over the serrated stone like fire
streaming out of a cauldron. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">Night settled in brooding dark purples and grays- When I couldn’t see the
guys milling around outside I started to run down, just as Nir started up to
look for me. We ended up missing each other and he interacted with the same
campaseña woman with his limited spanish. “Donde chica?” “FUERATE!!!”</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #222222; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">With my two sleeping bags, that night I was really warm. My stomach felt a
bit odd though, a sensation scarily familiar to what I felt on Chachani, but I
didn´t think anything of it. The next morning, we gathered in the dining tent
for breakfast, and I noticed coffee was not a part of the array. After a curt
discussion with our guide Marco, I found coffee would not be provided for the
entire trek. “Los Israelitos no toman café normalamente,” he explained. Ok. I
know it´s crazy, but I´m not from Israel. I´m an American coffee fiend who will
not be in a good mood today if coffee is not part of my morning. But there
seemed not to be much I could do, and I haven´t yet mastered the art of
magicking nescafe out of thin air.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #222222; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">So the day got off to a bad start. I had assumed we would be walking along
the river valley like in Santa Crauz; I was shocked when Marco lead us straight
up the cliff I had climbed the night before. In the Huayhuash, the difficulty
of each day is measured by the amount of mountain passes to climb, and the
altitude of each. Day Two was one of the hardest, with two 4,700 meter passes.
In our first two or so hours, we were to climb 600 meters almost vertically, lower
down to 4,200 meters, and then repeat the whole process for a total of around 8
hours of trekking. This was no “Santa cruise”. This is the HUAYHUASH. This was
hard core, and I soon found out, the hard way.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #222222; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">Since Nir and I were short on time and had decided to book the trek as soon
as possible, I wasn’t really acclimatized. Somehow, he was- We started off
walking together, and slowly I fell behind until I was near the back of the
group. Behind me, Asaf wheezed along with a hacking cough that were pretty sure
is pneumonia. The same cough had stopped him from summiting Chachani, around
the same time I attempted the climb.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #222222; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">By the time I was half way up the cliff, I was in rough shape. I staggered
to the landing where everyone was waiting and collapsed. Nir was shocked, and
didn´t hadn´t realized I was struggling. He kindly told me I looked like I was
about to faint and came to help me out. He stuck with me for the rest of the
day, and for the rest of the day my internal mantra was to stay awake, stay
alive, and breathe. The issue was simple: Lack of oxygen. It gave me a
headache, a stomach ache, and most painfully, created lactic acid in all my
muscles and back so that my entire body felt like it was on fire on top of
searing side aches.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #222222; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">We climbed over the tips of the raking granite spires that had towered so
menacingly over our campsite (and which I had never, ever assumed we would
actually climb), out through a bowl of boulders surrounded by more cliffs, and
climbed again to reach the pass around 10. Across the ridge, the green velvet
valley unrolled below and a bright red brown lake, dyed by the sediment flowing
from red mountains above, leaked onto the grass. Our emergency horse (named
Viento), stood statuesque as if in a pose, gazing out at the view.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #222222; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;"> I tried to enjoy it. But really, most of the day was a blur. The next
couple hours were all downhill, and real, glaciated 6,000 meter mountains began
to appear. At our lunch spot, a herd of wild horses roamed on a hill in front
of towering peaks. A handful of them started a fight, rearing and bucking; it
was an incredible sight. Jess saw it too and went wild (she loves horses); Nick
missed it and went wild (he loves taking pictures and missed a good
opportunity). After lunch (sandwiches with avocado, cheese, tomato, tuna and
onion) I passed out while Nir refilled and purified my water bottle. And then
we pressed on for the next pass. Luckily this one was far more gradual, but I
struggled still. Meanwhile, Matan´s stomach was not doing him well, and he discovered
he had bad diarrhea. We were a broken group- me with altitude sickness, Asaf
with his terrible cough, and now Matan with the runs… <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Two horses watching the scene from above<br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #222222; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">I felt better at the second pass, but it was still a long way down. Ten
minutes from our camp site, we came across a giant, gorgeous lake with snowy
peaks rising right out of its reflective water, a mirror for their bright,
chiseled complexions. Our campsite for the night was also along the lake, and
possibly the most beautiful campsite I´ve ever slept at. With the mountains as
a backdrop, the tents lined a ridge above the laguna, and the windless evening
preserved the mountain’s perfect reflection. As soon as we got back, Nir
and the Israeli guys sat down in a line and began to stretch. I´d been through
the sequence before on Macchu Puicchu- it´s the same for everyone who´s been in
the army. Some activities from the army just really seem to stick. Of all that
they learned on the field in those three years, I’m relieved that stretching
and pushups are what they’ve kept in practice.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #222222; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">Throughout that night, we heard regular deep roars from outside- bombs?
Lions? After a while I realized they were avalanches. I was strangely cold that
night, and shivered in my two long johns, sweater and two sleeping bags. Half
way through the night I gave up and put on a couple more layers, assuming it
was altitude sickness. But the next morning, we unzipped the tent and found
everything coated in ice, our water bottles frozen, and a thick layer of frost
on the grass… ah.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Top of the second pass<br />
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Camp 2<br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #222222; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">The morning got off to a good start. It was around 7 and the sun had risen
to my favorite point, where slanting rays make long shadows and everything is
aflame in a high contrast glow. I strolled over to the other group´s tent (we
basically trek and camp together, just two loose circles of tents) to inquire
if they were given coffee. Erez, a 29 year old Israeli guy in South America for
this second time to travel with his brother, offered me a bag of real Israeli
black coffee. Turkish grind, all the way from home. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #222222; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">Erez was one of my favorite out of our two groups; always smiling, he makes
me think of a giant teddy bear, or a Buddha. I gladly accepted his offer, and
when I introduced my newfound jewel to our group, there was a mild uproar.
“This is Real Israeli coffee!!” They were beyond excited. After a session of
lightning speed Hebrew and wild hand gestures, they told me they would make up
the coffee for me, the RIGHT way, and proceeded to stir up mugs for everyone. I
was a little concerned; was that ok with Erez? Did he want 15 people drinking
his coffee instead of one? Of course he did. That’s really just the way they
are. He had already been offering it to his whole group every morning. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #222222; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">Apparently, the trick is to not add milk, just scoop in some grounds with
hot water, and let it steep without stirring, letting the grounds form a solid
layer at the bottom. It was so warm and beautiful outside that we brought the
stools out and sat in a line facing the mountains sipping our Turkish press. It
was amazing. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #222222; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">The first part of the hike that day wound all the way around the lake, so
we got to enjoy the cobalt blue for another hour or so. We walked along a river
valley for a bit and then came across a series of gorgeous lakes, each a new
shade of blue and turquoise. The sun was bright and I didn’t feel the least bit
sick. Amazing people, amazing place. The three hours of mid day were climbing,
and eventually we would reach 4,800 meters. Now was the time to test if I still
had altitude issues. I didn’t. The climb was great; we stopped several times
along the way to look down at the lakes and take crazy pictures. Israelis
really know how to lighten the mood, mess around and have a good time. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #222222; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">Towards the top the climb was tough, but not because of the altitude, it
was just tough. But I reached 4,800 without a headache. When we reached the
pass, Nick pointed out that the massive mountain right in front of our faces
was Siula Grande, the very mountain in Touching the Void! Sweet! I got really
excited; that documentary was actually one of the reasons I wanted to go on
this trek, and watching it with Tom in his apartment back in November, I
realized the story was in Peru and set my mind to seeing that mountain face to
face. And there I was, there it was, complete with avalanches roaring down its
sides. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #222222; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">The way back down is always a bore. You reach the top, celebrate; you’re
done! You’ve made it! And then there are 3 cold hours of slogging downhill on
sore knees. But the descent was broken up by a moment of entertainment: About
half way down, we came across as swampland of strange round balls of brilliant
green high altitude grass rising out of a pond, each green hump about a meter
tall and 3 meters wide. The water between the formations was a deep cobalt, and
reflected the mountains perfectly. It was gorgeous, and Eli and Nir decided to
add to the scene by taking a nude picture. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #222222; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">For the rest of the walk, I was in Hebrew School. Matan and Nir taught me
several useful phrases, such as: (I know the spelling is wrong) “Capara
alecha!” I love you! “Ma sha core Bedrom America nish ar Bedrom America!” What
happens in South America stays in South America! Slowly but surely, I was being
converted into an Israeli. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #222222; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">It seemed to take ages to get to camp; Nir and I were pretty sure we were
lost, had passed camp, and were starting in on day 4. We took a break by
another lake surrounded by dun brown hills and scattered with ducks; the moon
rose in the dusty blue sky. When we finally got to camp, it was after 5, and I
was exhausted. Stretching, tea, and dinner filled the evening and the day ended
in a second. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #222222; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">The next day was our rest day: Only 5 hours of walking! I hadn’t slept well
the night before because of a sore throat and stuffed up nose. So it was hard
to wake up. Our breakfast was gourmet: pancakes, but after eating one I left my
plate for higher priorities. Find Erez and his amazing Turkish roast. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #222222; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">The two groups had camped a bit farther apart. I could just see the tents,
just wasn’t quite sure how to get there. The entire valley we camped in was
scored with deep stream gorges rock sheep walls, hills and random pits: it
seemed as if there were a good amount of obstacles to scramble over and hop
across between me and coffee. But with hearty encouragement and direction from
Jess, and a full mug of boiling water in my hand, I skipped across stepping
stones, almost falling into river s and splashing scalding water on my hands; I
climbed rock walls, feel down gulleys, tripped over grass mounds and slipped
down overhanging stream banks. And finally, with now a half cup of water,
reached the group. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #222222; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">Erez, the angel, served me a healthy amount and then doled it out to
everyone else. Truly a saint. With coffee in hand, I looked back towards our
group and realized in shock that our tents were just about 100 meters away,
straight across flat grass. You’ve got to be kidding. I had created my own
drawn out mission the long way around the other side of the sheep herder’s
cottage which had blocked my view. So be it. I had my coffee now. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #222222; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">There was a 4,600 meter pass that day. Nothing. We didn’t even notice it,
like a pea under a carpet. It took us 2 hours to cross it, and then the rest of
the day was a casual downhill stroll to… the HOT SPINGS! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #222222; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">The highlight of the hike was a massive laguna, the biggest in the entire
Huayhuash cordillera; vast and deep blue and surrounded by brown cliffs specked
with sheep. A tongue of land stuck out into the lake, blanketed with sheep;
they milled about and watched the bright white birds diving over the blue. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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me and Viento<br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #222222; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">After a small climb, we found ourselves looking down at a valley that deepened
into a canyon; with steep, dusty orange cliff walls and horses trotting out
into the distance, it was a scene straight of the wild south west. The cliff
dropped out below us, swept by a rushing waterfall, and beside the river we saw
our cluster of tents and the HOT SPRINGS!! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #222222; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">The hot springs saved my life. My sore and painful shoulders and back were
cured, my muscles relaxed, my headcold temporarily subsided. The springs
consists of two tubs, one for socializing and a smaller, hotter one for
bathing. They were ringed by rock and placed right at the edge of the cliff
against towering red rock across the valley, an idyllic spot. Next door, a
little store sold water, cola, beer, and… instant coffee1 I bought four packs.
Everyone was there: both of our groups and a group of American Peace Corps
volunteers. I chatted with them for a bit and found that they all live between
8 and 10 hours away from Huaraz (that may be walking distance), in the Ancash
region. They were taking a vacation to explore Huayhuash, guideless. They said
the volunteer work is hard, but they really enjoy it. Jeez, I said I wanted to
lie with a host family for a bit, but it’s hard to imagine two years. Good for
them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #222222; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">Nir and I had a good chat gazing over the valley, of our motivations for traveling
and trekking… we had similar conclusions, to be independent, learn about
ourselves and another culture, about different environments and crazy beautiful
nature. I never imagined my gap year would be so centered on the outdoors, but
it really has been. Go figure. When you really get a chance to do WHATEVER you
want, I guess you realize what it is you really want to do. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Camp 4<br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #222222; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">As we relaxed in the steamy waters, the next day, the infamous Day 5, swam
in our heads. It was to be the hardest day of all: Two passes, one 5,000 meters
and one 5,300 meters. We joked about how dumb it was to put us in a spa where
they sold alcohol the day before such a major challenge. Erez was serious about
the issue. The name of the 5,300 meter pass is San Antonio, but he couldn’t
seem to remember the name, (especially after a couple beers) and kept calling
it “San Benedeto”, which is the name of a bottled water company.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #222222; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">He kept repeating “No San Benedeto manana, no es possible, no possible San
Benedeto,” with his big smile. “Aqui San Benedeto. Aqui San Benedeto.” He was
the last to stay in the hot springs, and didn’t come back until long after
dark, and long after dinner. “Donde esta Erez?” Apparently he changed in the
little shop, still drunk. Meanwhile, I had finished dinner and was looking for
boiled water to dissolve cold medicine Jess had given me. I looked in the
cook’s tent but Marco wasn’t there… Partying with friends in the hot springs.
Eventually I got hot water from the other group. I was walking back under the
stars when Erez trooped in, still tipsy. Nir came outside and Erez started to
dance, under the brilliant stars and glowing hill, and we started to dance too,
wildly in the field. I couldn’t stop laughing, at how much fun I was having, at
Erez’s dance moves, at the amazing stars, at where we were, at life. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #222222; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">I slept well that night. Maybe it was the medicine, maybe it was the hot
springs, maybe it was the beer, but something worked. Good thing too, because I
know manana would kick my ass………. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Erez, last in the springs.Emma Lodeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16592002908904167336noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5524868153484276154.post-48708862525914186572012-07-05T17:50:00.003-07:002012-07-18T08:05:17.620-07:00Back to Cuzco for Inti Raymi<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt;">On June 21st, you Northern hemisphere dwellers experienced the longest sunlit hours of the year; the summer solstice. Being so near the equator, for me the change is less dramatic. But technically I just experienced the winter solstice, or the shortest day of the year. In the days of the Incan empire, as winter pressed on, they watched the sun fall farther and farther away and wanted to be absolutely sure Inti, or the sun god, would come back for the new year. So on June 24<sup>th</sup>, the Quechua people celebrate Inti Raymi, the Festival of the Sun.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt;">The people offer Inti food, dance, and animal sacrifices, and in return, the sun brings the people knowledge and predictions for the coming year. And as the sun begins to turn around and return, the New Year begins. The Inti Raymi festival is considered the second biggest annual celebration in South America (after Carnival in Brazil) and is centered right where it should be, in the old Inca Capitol Cuzco. For years, the festival was banned by the Spanish, considered a pagan ritual- now it has come back stronger than ever, as a real show of Peruvian pride and heritage.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt;">Yeah, I was just there. But I had couple reasons to go back. Aside from Inti Raymi, Ed and LB had just left and I was switching gears and traveling with Nir for my last 3 weeks. He was still in Cuzco, and wanted to spend a few more days there before we headed up to Huaraz. I´d been conflicted over whether to explore another country- Bolivia or Chile (because I`d covered Peru`s main highlights), or whether to revisit my favorite spots. Or to go back to PSF, where I spend far less money?</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt;">But my plan with Nir just sounded perfect. Back to Cuzco for Inti Raymi, back to Huaraz for the Huaywash, and then finish on the beach near Ecuador. So in the end I´ll never leave Peru, but I have gotten to know the country pretty dang well. With that motive, it made a whole lot of sense to backtrack and attend Peru`s most important cultural event that weekend.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt;">So I rolled up to the Loki hostel at 6 in the morning on Friday, slept till 10, and wandered down to the bright grassy courtyard to grab some free breakfast. With Nir, you automatically have a group of friends- a couple of the guys we had hung out with a week ago were still there, but he had adopted some new buddies, including two very cool girls from Canada (Leah and Rashana), who were taking a break from WWOOFing around South America.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt;">But at the Loki, everyone is friends. On late mornings, everyone lounges out on the college-esque lawn and on low strung hammocks, sipping coffee and reminiscing about last week´s adventure or last night´s outings.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt;">We decided to join in on the Loki´s free walking tour of Cuzco, which ended up being a really good idea- I learned lot that I wouldn´t have gotten from my own wanderings. The first thing I learned was that Loki used to be a horse stable during colonial times… very strange. We passed by Incan walls and ancient foundations and made a stop at a chocolate factory- chocolate originated in Peru! Not surprising at this point. The delicacy was eventually taken up to Central America by the Mayans, but it´s just one of the millions of crops that originated in the Andes. Peru seems to be the fertile crescent of the New World.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt;">Chocolate didn´t become a consumer product until relatively recently; before then it as considered a luxury product and even a health drink. When the Spanish conquered Peru, of just as much importance as the gold and silver were coffee and cacao beans. Not until that time was chocolate a known substance in Europe.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt;">The museum was a cute, quaint and organized combo museum- coffee shop- chocolate making kitchen- gift shop, overlooking a square with a little balcony. We stood out there to watch the parade below- because of the Inti Raymi celebration on Sunday, there are processions and parades for weeks.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt;">Below us, thousands of Peruvian dancers in a hundred varieties of colorful costumes spun and stepped and enacted scenes of the conquest of the Incas- Actors wearing masks with two foot long noses mimicked the “big nosed” Spaniards, and they danced out a mini battle scene on the road. Like in Leon, there is always some sort of parade or celebration going on in Cuzco, but during Inti Raymi, the city explodes. The already high energy level is raised up 10 notches- Cuzco really is just so much fun.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt;">We wove through the dense crowds through fair like food stands, Cotton candy, Quechua girls cuddling baby alpacas with knit caps on their tiny fuzzy heads, dancers in rainbow skirts, gringos with cameras… through the bustling Plaza de Armas, where you could barely squeeze your way between the dense bodies.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt;"> It was a bright, sunny day; the cathedrals at the square shone and Cuzco´s rainbow flags flapped in brilliant shades. Despite the common first reaction, the rainbow flag of Cuzco has nothing to do with gay pride. It´s simply a bright expression of pride, beauty, and Incan heritage- the rainbow was worshipped by the Incas because of its beauty and because it`s a symbol of Cuzco`s contrasting weather- bright sun and then heavy rain. Everything Incan revolves around nature: they worship the sun, the Earth, (Pachamama), the moon, the fire… The Quechua lifestyle revolved and still revolves around what Mother Nature delivers each year. Agriculture and animals are the center of their livelihood.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt;">Yes, the Incas are not dead- they`re just the Quechuas, and have always been the Quechuas. According to our city guide, “Inca” was the word used for the King of the people and the first born “son of the sun”, not the people as a whole- as a whole they were Quechua, and still are. It`s no coincidence that the bright rainbow colors and patterns in the dancer`s Incan costumes are so similar to the shades and textures worn by the mountain folk today.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt;">Right off the Plaza de Armas is an old Incan palace. Today it´s no longer occupied by people, but it´s become a home for domesticated llamas, alpacas, and vicuñas. In the old days, the animals wandered free with their human companions. Our guide announced that it was time for some “close encounters with llamas”, and I got pretty excited. It turned out we weren´t allowed to actually touch them. It was way too tempting though, and I couldn´t help but reach out and grab one- in return I got the experience of being spat on my a llama.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt;">They were a bit intimidating and even threatening though- they seemed to follow us and appeared to strike out menacingly. I think they´re just a bit odd. One kicked Rahana, but I´m pretty sure it was really just scratching itself and she happened to be in the way.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt;">Our last stop was the market, where dried llama fetuses hung from the rafters everywhere you turned. There was a soup stand that boasted cures to a myriad of illnesses ranging from headaches to liver failure to bladder infections, and the ingredients specific to each ailment included frog, donkey penis, eel, octopus, squid, and other varieties of animal genetalia and internal organs. Frog soup, seemingly the most harmless option, made me gag.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
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Signs in the market are written in spanish, quechua, and english.<br />
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Llama fetuses.<br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt;">After a couple nights of goofing off and enjoying Cuzco to its fullest, the official Inti Raymi celebration began. We met at 8:30 on Sunday for a group tour with a translator- the entire demonstration is conducted in Quechua. The procession began in Sun Temple next to the old Incan palace, made its way through the Plaza de Armas, and ended at Sacsayhuaman, a ruin about an hour up the mountain from Cuzco. No one is entirely sure of its age; Sacsayhuaman is either Incan or pre Incan.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt;">To enact the ancient ceremnony, a “Sapa Inca” or Inca King, and “Mama Occla” are chosen. They´re actors, but they have to have Quechua roots, so they look something like an Incan king and queen might have looked like. It´s a great honor to be chosen for this role, and this year the Sapa Inca happened to be a good friend of our guide from the Loki.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt;">High on a balcony at the Sun Temple, we watched a group of lavishly outfitted actors raise a huge metal golden sun. Like rays, they threw ribbons down the face of the building. The seven strands reach out to the seven main mountains, or “apos” around Cuzco. The sun, symbolizing knowledge, reaches out to the mountains, which symbolize protection. Here, the Sapa Inca calls out blessings to the sun.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt;">From
the temple, the Sapa Inca is carried out on a golden throne surrounded
by elaborately dressed “high priests”, followed by his wife. The throne
is a replica of the original, which weighed around 60 kilos. From there
we walked to the Plaza de Armas. It was pretty hard to see, but if you
pretended like you were in a music festival and pushed through, you got
an okay view.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt;">The
Sapa Inca and Mama Occla processed around the square, and between them
came floods of differently dressed dancers and actors. In ancient times,
the Incan empire was split into four sections, of the North, South,
East and West. Each section was represented in the procession, and each
had a unique costume. For example, the Northerners come from the jungly
areas, so they wore almost nothing but a loincloth and tall feathers in
their hair. There are women who scatter flowers along the street, and
others who sweep the street clean to remove evil spirits. There are
speeches by the Inca and the three suyos: the snake, representing the
underworld, the puma, representing life on earth, and the condor,
representing the heavens.</span></div>
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The queen is carried out on a throne <br />
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Check out the mummy on the right! <br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt;">Finally,
everyone shuffles slowly up the hills to Sacsayhuaman. There are
millions of visitors to Cuzco every summer for the festival, and the
streets that lead uphill are absolutely choked with tourists and locals
alike. At the top, there are stands down inside the ancient fortress,
but if you want to sit in them you have to pay something like 50 bucks.
We did what the locals do- crouch up on the hills for a far off and
average view of the happenings.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt;">The
crowd on the hill was the most ridiculous crowd I have ever been in. As
we pushed up through the masses to be able to see the field below, old
Peruvian ladies pushed back, and one even punched Rashana in the face,
second Peru-inflicted injury of the weekend. When we finally squeezed in
for a seat, everyone was sitting down, and we couldn´t see anything.
The festivities hadn´t started yet though, so we were patient. Five
minutes later, groups in front of us started to sneak into standing
positions, throwing mischevious and sheepish smiles at the crowd behind.
“SIENTATE!!! SIENTATE!!!” the old ladies screamed. (Sit! Sit!) They
would laugh and sit back down. This happened several times, and if the
people didn´t sit down in good time, the angry crowd behind would,
literally, throw bags of garbage, orange peels, chicken skin, or
whatever grotesque food waste item was laying around at their heads.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt;">Eventually,
we got into it. Someone would stand up in front of our group, and we
would scream and make a fuss and throw empty plastic coca cola bottles
at their heads. It was all in good fun though, and everyone was
laughing. It didn´t really get serious until the procession began. At
that point, we decided screw it, we need to see. So we stood up, and
didn´t sit back down. So in return for my view of Inti Raymi, I came
back with all sorts of rotten goo in my hair and down my back, but it
was worth it.</span></div>
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Walking up to Sacsayhuaman <br />
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Leah, me, Rashana, with the silly hats they give out for free for the rain <br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt;">The
procession was similar to what we saw in the Plaza de Armas, but then
there was the sacrifice of the llama. In the corner of Sacsayhuaman was a
corral of llamas. As we watched, priests selected the darkest llama
(the blood is supposed to be richest), wrestled it down, tied it up, and
carried it to the center stage. There, they sacrificed it with an
ancient Incan spear, and the Inca drank the llama´s blood. The sacrifice
is done to ensure the fertility of the earth, and the Inca reads the
blood stains for future predictions.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt;">Contrary
to popular belief, there is no evidence that the Incas sacrificed
humans. It´s said that human sacrifice was practiced in pre Incan times,
but was only used in “very extreme situations” in Incan civilization.
After the sacrifice of the llama, the dancers set bags of straw on fire
to read the directions of the wind. This is to honor Tawantinsuty, or
the Empire of the Four Wind Directions. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt;">The
celebration ends with traditional dancing from each of the four regions
of the Incan Empire. It went on till about five, but Nir and I had a
bus to Lima that evening and I needed to head back. On the way, our
guide brought us past a mysterious never ending cave in an adjacent
ruin- the field is said to have been an ancient aquifer, and the cave
provided water to the city of Cuzco.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt;">It
was sad to say bye to our new group of friends, but Huaraz was calling
us. Back to the Cordillera Blanca! Or really, to the Cordillera Huaywash
this time- we planned to doing an 8 day circuit of the mountain range.
Nir had been in Cuzco three weeks, and although I could have stayed
longer, it was good to move on in the end. My journey´s end was sneaking
up on me… </span></div>
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<br /></div>Emma Lodeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16592002908904167336noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5524868153484276154.post-66465227582086440192012-06-23T18:30:00.001-07:002012-07-18T07:56:52.457-07:00Arequipa, the Colca Canyon & Chachani<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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This is a tale of volcanoes, desert and ice, of failure and overconfidence, of near death experiences.....</div>
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Half way between Cusco and the desert coast , three mammoth picturesque volcanoes dominate the dry, rolling pampa: El Misti, Picchu Picchu, and Chachani. At their feet sprawls the second biggest city in Peru, the "white city", Arequipa.</div>
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After the Spanish empire conquered Cusco, they found they needed an intermediary between the conquered lands in the Southeast of the country surrounding Macchu Picchu, and territories along the desert coast. So they founded Arequipa, a city originally populated by almost solely Eurppeans. As the city grew, he percentage of indigenous inhabitants hovered around 10%. Of course today, everyone is a mestizo, but the city's colonial beginnings show in the strteets, plazas, parks and every building.</div>
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In some ways, Arequipa is similar to Cusco, but the vibe of the city is wholly new. Aarequpa is a quiet city. In the tranquil plazas and parks that scatter the city, families sit chatting on benches and kids feed flocks of pidgeons; tourists sit in sunny cafes and stroll with icecreams in hand. At 2,335 meters above sea level, Arequipa is set at a lower altitude than Cusco, and therefore gets quite hot in the daytime. Her sreets are brght, clean, and polished- once again I really felt like I was in Europe walking around.</div>
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The majority of Arequipa's buildings are constructed of the volcanic rock "sillar", taken right from the flanks of Chachani and its two slightly smaller companions on either side. Sillar creates rough but aeshetic bleached white walls and buildings- the sillar buildings give Arequipa th nickname "white city".</div>
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So I followed the conquistador trail (well, more like the Ed & LB trail) and landed in the colonial city of Arequipa a day or so after returning from Maacchu Picchu. The local day bus was a disaster- in favor of snagging the cheapest transpo option I booked a 25 sole ride that was supposed to be 7 hours long and ended up being 12. Despite the agency assuring me there would be bathrooms on board, there weren't, and I had to fight to get the bus to stop in small villages so I could sprint in and use locals' home bathrooms.</div>
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The busride:</div>
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Thankfully Ed & LB had already booked a 3-bed room in a hostel, so I went straight there to drop off my things. We explored the city a bit that night- it's much bigger and developed than I'd expected. Since Ed & LB didn't have too much time, we ended up booking tours to fill up their remaining days that night: Colca Canyon in one day on Monday, and climbing 6,075 meter Chachani on Tuesday-Wednesday (to finally conquer 6,000 meters).</div>
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It took us quite a while to argue our way into that deal. The Colca Canyon trail is usually done in 3 days, and the agency had never heard of it being done in one, so we had to rearrange and invent strange logistics. The thing is, drawing from our prior trekking experiences we figured we could cut agency's walking time estimates in two. So as they described the three-day Colca canyon option, we madly calculated in our heads, and by the time the man had finished talking, had estimated that we could do it in 8 hours tops.</div>
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To accomodate our strange request, we would take an early, early bus from Arequipa the next morning to be able to begin hiking in the morning; once we got to the opposite end we would catch the soonest bus and arrive back in Arequipa by 10 at the latest. That would give us a solid night's sleep before the next day's adventre: Climbing the 6075 meter peak Chachani. For that one, we'd get up at 9 to trek to the 5,300 meter basecamp for the night, make our summit push at 1 AM, and get back to Arequipa just in time for Ed & LB's 5:00 night bus to Lima. From there, LB flies back to the UK and Ed flies to Rio, where he'll spend a week before going home as well.</div>
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So on Sunday we had a rest day to explore Arequipa. We visited the famous Catalina monestary- It`s consructed completely of porous sillar stone, carved into archways and pillars and painted in bright blues and reds. It was an interesting combination of Latin American and barroque/classical architecture: simple and bright but with ceilings adorned in detailed mosaics. They call it Mestizo Baroque; it`s a style prominant throughout Latin America's colonial cities.</div>
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In the afternoon we went to get icecream and walked to the main square- I stopped to snap a quick photo of the cathedral and Ed and LB dissappeared. I scoured the square for a while but they were gone for the next 5 hours. I spent the afternoon finally getting my camera de wormed!!</div>
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The view from the hostel roof garden:<br />
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El Misti volcano<br />
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Chachani is the highest peak here<br />
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Chachani<br />
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El Misti<br />
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Looking down at the hostel<br />
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The monestary:<br />
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Our 8 hour Colca Canyon day trip somehow ended up becoming a 28 hour ordeal. Middday on Sunday, our guide called up the hostel and explained that the only bus to the canyon was to leave at 1 in the morning the night before our trek; he would meet us in the hostel at 12:30. There goes our sleep. So after an hour and a half of sleep came two 3 hour bus rides, the first of which was windy and cold and I didn`t drift off for a second; on the second I managed to sleep a bit.<br />
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Around 6, the bus stopped in the middle of nowhere and lef us off. A gray dawn was just breaking. In front of us spread a vast open field of mottled patchy grass; on the far horizon the peaks of a distant mountian range began to bleed purple with the rising sun, and in front of us a row of snowy mountains glowed softly. It was cold, and we walked fast. All of a sudden right below our feet, the Colca Canyon dropped 1,500 meters into a black void. At its deepest, the canyon is 4,160 meters deep, making it more than twice as deep as the Grand Canyon and the second deepest canyon in the world. It`s the third most visited spot in Peru, attracting 160,000 visitors annually.<br />
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We began our descent down a series of sandy, crumbly, steep switchbacks, down the desert side of the mountain. At the time we couldn`t see it because the sun`s rays hadn`t penetrated the canyon yet, but the Colca Canyon is divided into two completely different landscapes and climates. The wall we descended, the lower, steeper wall, is of desert. It`s red, orange and yellow stone pocked with spiky cactus and agave; it`s as dry as can be, a scene out of Arizona or Nevada. On the opposite wall, a dense jungle flourishes. The two walls come together with tounges or rock crossing like laced fingers, two hands clasped- one green, one orange. Uniting diverse climates symbolically and litterally.<br />
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Between the two runs the river Colca. The strange phenomenon is easily explainable: the 5,000 + meter peaks we saw across the void are the key to the opposite bank`s lush vegetation. The glaciers melt into rivers and waterfalls that run down the cliffs and are channeled into canals; the clusters of small hill clinging towns utilize the water for small, terraced plots that decorate the slope in steps. On the desert side, there is no water source, so the rock remains bare and sandy.<br />
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The canyon remained bathed in a cool black shade as we scurried down the cliff. The idea was to get down as soon as possible: we wanted to get some sleep before the climb the next day. We figured we could finish the trek by around 3, and after the 6 hour bus ride back, arrive at the hostel by 9 or 10. We had reason to beleive in our itinerary: when we´d signed up for the trek, the agent had confirmed the plan.<br />
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It took us about an hour and a half to get down the 1,500 meter cliff to the river (I think it`s supposed to take 3, so our cut it in half theory proved itself). As we descended we spotted a few condors drifting on the air channels in the blue beyond. The sun licked the tips of the cliff with gold, and minute by minute, snuck down to expose more of the molded yellow rock. We didn´t want to stop for breakfast until it was warm, so we hustled along across the river and to the jungle side.<br />
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We had only been climbing the opposite cliff ten minutes when I stopped to take a picture, turned back, and Ed and LB were gone. Again! I kept walking, assuming they had walked on ahead. I knew that we had planned to eat breakfast at a flat spot on the other side. I passed by a couple gardens, glanced about and didn`t see anyone, so continued on. I assumed that they`d wait for me somewhere on the trail, so if I continued on I`d run into them eventually. So I continued on. And on. And on. The cacti and agave began to blend with banana trees and palms; among them scattered high altitude mountauin flowers. I had seen mountain and jungle come together- this was a three way mix of mountain, jungle and desert. I don`t know if there are many places where you can find such variety.<br />
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I walked and walked. I hadn`t eaten anything since dinner, and since I essentially had been awake since then, I desperately needed food and was running low on energy. Of course our guide, Mario, had my breakfast in his back pack. Weaker and weaker, I started shouting everyone`s name at the top of my lungs. No response. In the distance I spotted a cluster of buildings clinging to the hill and surrounded by flowers. They must at least be waiting there.<br />
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I stumbled into town, really a tourist outpost, to see several groups of trekkers seated at done up tables being served breakfast- they were the 2 and 3 day Colca Canyon trekkers, and they had slept there the night before (I realized how good it was to be trekking the whiole way in one day- what they had done in a day had just taken me two hours). After asking around and scouring the scene for Ed adn LB, I realized that whether they were behind or in front of me, I simply couldn`t go on, so I ordered breakfast. It was rediculous to be spending money on breakfast when it was provided, but I did get to sneak in a coffee, which I couldn´t otherwise have gotten. I dramaticised my tale to the other trekkers and they sympathized, inisisting that it was absolutely unforgivable that I had been left behind.<br />
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After 15 minutes or so. Ed, LB and Mario showed up. I was irrationally annoyed until I had some food in my stomach and felt better. Apparently they had climbed a side trail just past the bridge to eat breakfast, and assumed that I would see them. Well, apparently they weren`t obvious enough. No one really could be to blame, so we shrugged it off and moved on.<br />
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We passed above more and more green terraced plots, so different from our dusty descent. Mario explained that the rock walls built to hold the plots horizonal are the key to creating microclimates: during the day, the hot sun warms the rock, and the rock holds the heat during the canyon`s frigid nights, maintaining the crops. Without the rock walls, the crops would freeze to death. In warmer climates, like the farm of the host family we stayed with the first night of the jungle trek, terraced plots are unnecessary: the crops will stay warm throughout the night. Macchu Picchu city is ringed with similar terraces, and they are said to have served the same purpose.<br />
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We had lowered into the canyon, crossed the river, climbed half way up the other side, and now we climbed down the river again and crossed another bridge. Back on the dry side, I felt like I was in Mexico- strings of donkeys passed us hugging the orange cliffs, clipping past tall candelabra cactuses. At around 11, we reached the famous oasis. It´s a garden and field nestled in the cliffside of the canyon, and has been made into a mini hotel resort, with a little swiming pool and restaurant. It was beautiful, a mini paradise. By that point we were burning up, so we eagerly stripped into bathing suits and jumped into the pool.<br />
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Just as we were getting ready to move on, Mario approached us with a bit of news: We had expected to hike as fast as we could to catch a 3 ish bus to Arequipa- he was telling us that the only bus left at 10:00 PK. The only bus. That meant we would arrive in Arequipa around 4 AM, giving us 4 hours to sleep at the hostel before we would have to get up to climb Chachani. Another sleepless night. We`d also have seven hours to chill in town before our bus if we arrived at 3. With this new information we made a group decision to hang out at the oasis as long as possible; we`d rather be there than in town.<br />
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Hanging out meant sunbathing. We left the oasis around 3:30, lazy and full of lunch and sun. The way up was supposed to take 3 hours, so in our casual arrogance we assumed we`d make it in 1.5. I had run out of water, and I didn`t even bother to buy more. I can deal without water for 1.5 hours no problem!<br />
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Boy did we overestimated ourselves. The first half an hour or so went by fine; at 45 minutes the top looked to be in reach- we could see cables just at the top of the next cliff, which we supposed ran along the highway. I was positive we´d make it in an hour. Fifteen minutes later, the cable post was gone and a new one appeared farther away. What? That`s not possoble. Oh well, it wasn`t too far. I was getting pretty thirsty, but I could last. The sun was lowering and washing the hills in a dusty blue; the pale green cactuses were lit in an evening glow.<br />
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We awalked on. The incline was similar to Macchu Picchu`s steps, but this was after 6 hours of walking and no sleep. My legs started to complain. But we were so close, the post for the cable was right there! We rounded a curve, and it wasn`t. The hill deceived us; a new one appeared form behind with a new post, even farther away. No! But we had to be 20 minutes away tops. Half an hour later, we had a new mountain to climb.<br />
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The sun sunk below the mountain tips and cast the high serrated horizonline in orange. My mouth was really, really dry. We`d been walking for an hour and a half. My legs were failin me. A half an hour later the mountaintop was farther away than ever. Having used up my vocabulary of English curse words, I started to recite every malpalabra I know in German, spanish, French, and Hebrew. I could barely make it up each step.I could no longer swallow. Ed and LB were in the same shape, ansd so was our guide. The valley darkened below. I got loopy. I was giggling uncontrollably, swaying and stumbling over rocks. My mind warped. I was sure I would faint.<br />
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After we´d been walking for two hours, I started to assume the top would never come. "This is harder than Vallyunaraju," I told Ed. "Maybe." 15 minutes later, "yeah, this is definitely harder. I think it`s the hardest trek I`ve done in Peru." Our words were slurred. Five minutes later, "what`s the hardest hike you`ve ever done?" Silence. "This one."<br />
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Despite being the equivalent of doing Macchu Picchu 3 times in a row, the climb really shouldn`t have been that incredibly hard. It must have been the combination of lack of sleep, lack of water, and lying in the sun for 4 hours. During track meets, I was always forbidden to be in the sun- it sucks energy. I started writing my willi n my head. I told Ed to tell my family I loved them if I died. In my delirium I imagined myself fainting, cracking my head open on the rock, and dissapappearing into the depths below.<br />
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Just when I was positive there was no end, the mountain leveled off and fields spread across the horizon.- From above, we saw that the cable posts had been no optical illusion: they were literally slanted almost perfectly diagonal across the hill. They just looked straight from below. We had walked for 2.5 hours, not even thast long. Town was still 20 minutes away, and we crawled through dirt paths through the darkened fields. Actually, I felt great. I was in a stellar mood. Near death experiences always lead to a post high.<br />
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As soon as we got into town, I bought 2.5 liters of water and a snickers bar. I literally groaned with pleasure on the first sip of water. I have never appreciated water more in my life. We collapsed in a restaurant and waited for our meals, thrilled and chatty. I devoured a whole box of 36 oreos and then began the freezing three hour wait for the freezing 6 hour bus.<br />
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That ride was both the most miserable bus ride of my life, and the most miserable night of my life. For the first 3 hours, I shared a seat with Mario and curled up in a fetal position to stay warm, but the window burned in subzero temperature beside me and I couldn`t sleep. Halfway through, the bus made a stop and I realized the whole back seat was empty so I moved back to spread out a bit. It was 100 x worse. Without anyone beside me and the windows surrounding me, I was colder than ever. The extra room makes absolutely no difference when you`re coiled up in fetal position anyways. I rocked, shaking for about 2 hours, going absolutely insane. Finally I had to move back up to the front. I woke up Mario and made him move over and curled into a ball on the isle side- finally I got about 20 minutes of shut eye.<br />
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We arrived in Arequipa at 4:30 AM, stumbled into the room, and dozed off for 3.5 hours. When I woke up at 8, I knew something wasn`t right. I had a massive headache and felt extremely woozy. Ed and LB seemed fine, but then again they had been curled up together on the bus and had slept. I stumbled up for breakfast and told them I wasn´t sure if I´d make it up the mountain. "You`ll be fine," they told me, "just see how you feel when we get to basecamp." Ok. I can do it! We threw our extra things into storage and ran out to meet the group and try on gear at the agency: winter jackets and pants, boots, crampons, ice axe, sleeping bag, matt, gloves.<br />
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We had a 3 hour drive to our takeoff point for day one`s trek. We piled into a 4x4 with me, LB and Ed crammed in the trunk, and rolled through the suburbs of Arequipa, out into the pampa. The path we took can definitely not be considered a road- it was just a boulder strewn line that happened to be grassless, absolute offroading. We slammed about in the trunk, and around us the tan green desert hills rolled and rolled, and El Misti and the volcanic range loomed closer and closer. Among the dry, spiny patches of grass, wild orangey bronwn vicunyas grazed. They`re similar to alpacas and llamas, but have the softest fur of the 3. Because of their pelt they`ve been in danger of being hunted to extinction, so they`re now protected under Peruvian law. Nowadays, a vicunya sweater can cost up to 500 bucks, while llama and alpaca sweaters, which can be hunted for, are only about 15 bucks each.<br />
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Aside from handfulls of grazing fuzzy beasts, the landscape was desolate. Clouds of dust swirled from the road and penetrated the car, making us sneeze every 5 minutes. Just as we were nearing the end of the drive, the rumor got passed along that we wouldn´t be provided lunch. What?! The food I brought along consisted of... one banana. We had been fed so well on Vallunaraju that I assumed bringing extra food would just add to the weight. Also, when we were signed up for the trek I had specifically asked what we needed to bring, and had written it down- Food was not on the list. This weekend was really trying to kill my by whatever means possible. Dehydration, overwork, now starvation...<br />
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We climbed up and up, and finally piled out of the car around 5,000 meters. The wind whipped and seared us. I piled on a couple more layers and we loaded our packs to begin the hike. My head and stomach still ached, but I pressed on, not thinking that it was my last chance to turn back to Arequipa.<br />
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We were surrouned by a strange, eerie landscape, of desert, ice, volcanic ash, and vast, empty patched grassland. Across flat stretches of dust and spiny green, mountains erupted out of the plains and soared thousands of feet into the sky. They`re all volcanoes: the perfectly connical peaks were black, gravely volcanic rock up to the patchy snow at their summits, some dormant, some active. To our right, a monster pile of pitch black gravel rose thousands of meters into the air, like a smaller version of Cerro Negro. Everyone was baffled; it looked so fabricated, like an earth pile from a construction zone. I knew instantly what it was- a singular volcanic eruption frozen in the state it was right after spewing rock across the pampa.<br />
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We walked along a path of dust and volcanic ash, and climbed over bright black and red boulders strewn by volcanic force. We were in a death scene of fire and ice, of frigid cold and the looming power of mother nature`s ferocity. It was a combination out of hell, a cross between antarctica and Telica volcano. But at the same time, the views were impressively beautiful. To our left sloped a hill, the beginnings of another volcano, and old landslides of black, yellow and red minerals striped and flowed down onto our path. Ahead of us, the horizon curved into a bowl of black volcanic sillouette on either side, and in the center a distanct range swept across the sky. Pale blue snowcapped mountians flowed horizontally in soft watercolor brush strokes, waves fading from baby blue to white, layers hovering in the sky like the wind. A gentle contrast to remind us that life flows on in distant lands.<br />
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We stumbled on, and on top of my painful stomach and head, I began to feel the altitude. I couldn`t breathe. I took a couple steps adn stopped, heaving. During the car ride, an Aussie member of our team had commented that you lose your acclimitization after 3 days... oops. At only 2,335 meters, Arequipa is not an ideal place for acclimitization, much less in the depths of the second deepest canyon in the world. Of course, I`m sure it didn´t help that I hadn`t slept the last two nights.<br />
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At long last, we neared basecamp, 5,300 meters. I was struggling. I could barely make the last few steps up to our boulder strewn spot. As I climbed up and over a rock wall, I trippeed on a small boulder and sat. I couldn´t get up, and a guide had to take my backpack off for me and help me up. I was an absolute wreck; I´ve never felt so weak in my life. I sat on a rock and cried. A kind French girl offered me bread, and I realized just how hungry I was; I felt a little better after that. The guides were kind enough to provide an additional "lunch" of a small bowl of soup (although they made a huge deal out of how generous the gesture was).<br />
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I still felt strange. As we huddled shivering, waiting for our early dinner, the sun began to set. I looked up and the breath caught in my throat: the sky was striped in alternating beams of brilliant orange and brilliant turquoise, all over the line of distant blue mountains. It was worth the struggle to weakly climb a pile of boulders for a better view. I took out my crap camera, took a shot, and almsot started to cry again- I know that my real camera would have captured the view magnificently, and now I have to rely on you beleiving my words alone.<br />
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But truly, it was spectacular. To the right, a massive snow capped volcanic mountain rose vertically out of the ash, and glaciers sparkled orange. Right above its summit, a fiery cloud splayed upwards, exploding into the sky as if it were erupting a spray of brilliant lava, like a cartoon volcano iced in snow.<br />
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I crammed down a heaping bowl of spahgetti despite our guides` warning not to eat to much before the climb. I knew I would need the energy if I wasn´t to eat for the next 10 hours. Around 7, we all crawled into bed. Ed and LB shared a tent and I shared one with the French gall. I unpacked my sleeping bag and groaned. I had deliberately not brought my 0 degree F bag because I assumed that they would provide a warmer one. This was probably a 50 degree bag. It was literally a thin fleece blanket. When I saw the size I had assumed it`d be down, but tit was just as thin as a sheet and couldn`t even be classified as a standard synthetic bag.<br />
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I pulled on all my layers: T shirt, thermal, 2 fleeces, alpaca wool sweater, and borrowed winter jacket on top; two thermal leggings, hiking pants and snow pants on bottom; two socks, and a hat. Then I crawled into my silk liner and my sleeping bag, and curled up close to my tent mate. I was still cold.<br />
<br />
I may have spoken prematurely when I said the worst and coldest night of my life was on the bus from the canyon. This was definitely the worst night. Not only was I freezing, but I felt sicker and sicker as the hours ticked by- my headache sharpened into a searing pain, I felt increasingly nauseous, started getting acid reflux, and threw up a little in my mouth every couple minutes. Half way through the night I was sure I wan´t climbing Chachani that day. For the last couple hours, I sat up rocking and groaning and just waiting for everyone to wake up.<br />
<br />
When our guide Jose woke us at 12:30, I told him I was sick and wasn´t going up. He wasn´t surprised and gave me an altitude sickness pill and a cup of coca tea. He told me to sleep and that they´d be back around 10, in 10 hours. 10 hours completely alone, in this windswept barren battlezone of angry and desolate elements, at 5,300 meters, in the dark, sick.<br />
<br />
As I sipped the tea, everyone geared up silently and began the hike. The tea and the pill seemed to help immediately. As soon as the French girl was gone, I pulled her bag over mine. Finally I was warm, and finally I fell asleep. Three hours later, I heard our tent door unzip: the French girl was back. She had made it about half way and then couldn´t go on, and one of the guides had led her back. She collapsed into the tent, muttering "L'énergie vide" over and over; "empty of energy". Of course I had to reluctantly relinquish my new sleeping bag, so I made the effort of crawling to the neighboring tent and stealing their bags for the both of us. The new bag I had was a legit Northface down (obviously not borrowed form the agency) and I really slept now, for a good 6 hours.<br />
<br />
When the group got back around 10, I could have slept much longer. It was light and bit warmer, and they all stumbled silently into camp like zombies, completely wrecked. We fumbled to put together our gear and get on our way. I was thrilled to have survived the night, but as I got out of bed I realized my headache and stomach ache were still there.<br />
<br />
We began the hike back, slowly. Despite my ravaged state, I now had more energy than the rest. We moved like a herd of turtles back past the terrible snowy volcanoes with ice shining like egg white frosting in the sun, to the van, and began the dusty, rattling ride back down. Two thirds of our group had summitted: Ed and LB, the Aussie, a Canadian man, and one guide. Ed and the Aussie had done Vallunaraju, and they told me that Chachani was less physically and technically difficult, but much, much colder, and thinner on the oxygen side of things. They told tales of volcanic gravel extending almost all the way up the mountain: the same crumbly, unstable substance I had to climb on Momotombo. Apparently, the snow line wasn´t until about 100 meters from the top! A 6,000 meter snowline? Hard to beleive. Obviously, they weren´t able to put on crampons until that point, so the 5 hours before were a hell of slipping on gravely landslides- apparently LB almost slid all the way down several times. Nearing the summit they told of diagonal ice spikes peircing the snow, a phenomenon none of us could explain.<br />
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We got back to Arequipa around 2:00. I still felt dreadfully sick. We all showered at the hostel and Ed and LB packed for the last time. I said goodbye to them for the last time, through my nausea and headache, now finally alone.<br />
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As I write this, I sit at Home Sweet Home hostel´s roof garden, at a cafe table in the sun. It´s the perfect temperature, and I feel a bit better. Right in front of me, Chachani`s hulking mass glares at me, reminding me of my failure to summit. I want to punch that mountain in the face.<br />
<br />
Well, I guess it´s what they always say- you learn most from your failures. I definitely learned from this one. The lessons may be obvious: Sleep before you climb a mountain, acclimitize properly, bring food, and don`t try to climb wto mountains in a row without a rest in between... I admit it may all be common sense. But none the less, I`ve woken to the fact that I`m not, in fact, invincible. Go figure. I guess everyone has to make that realization at some point in their adventures. (and then undoubtedly forget it again)Emma Lodeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16592002908904167336noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5524868153484276154.post-6464801313749787262012-06-17T19:41:00.004-07:002012-07-18T07:54:46.584-07:00It's what you've been waiting for, its the Big Daddy, its the Macchu Picchu Mountain<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: small;">(Before you start reading. Every picture in this entry from the actual Macchu Picchu trek was taken with an absolute crap camera because my good one decided to get a virus... really not the best time for that to happen. So the picture are as crap as the camera, although I did try my best through the tears.)</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">I had now seen the desert, the mountains and the jungle; it was time to get a taste of history. </span><span style="font-size: small;">And Peru is a country of a rich, colorful history. Millions of tourists flock to the country just to catch a glimpse of its lingering remaints of ancient civilizations, and to be a part of the discovery excavation of new sites happening every day throughout Peru, even in the center of Lima city. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Everyone knows Peru for the Incas. Lesser known are the many pre-incan civilizations who's ruins scatter the country as well. The Incans are put in the spotlight simply because they were the last, the most recent: When the Francisco Pizarro and the Spanish invaded Peru in the 1500's, the Incans were dominating the scene. So we're able to read texts written by the Spanish that describe the Incas, whereas it's harder to find information about Peru's preceding cultures. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Like Native North Americans, the indigenous peoples of Peru were said to have migrated across the Bering Strait from Asia. You can see the similarities between the Peruvians of more indigenous blood and Native Americans; I even catch flashes of Himilayan-style features in the short mountain peoples. Apparently, many theses have been written of Himilayan genes in Andean folk. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Peru was home to the Norte Chico civilization, one of the six oldest in the world, and civilizations circa 6,000 BC have been uncovered on the desert coast near Paracas. (Ancient humans among the more ancient penguins). The first known city in all of America sits in Peru, just a couple hours north of Lima. For an archeologist, Peru is about as exciting as it can get. I should have started from the beginning, checked out remaints from the Chavin, Nasca, or Chan Chan cultures (to name a few out of hundreds), but like everyone else, I just had to mission down to the Big Boy, Macchu Picchu of the Inca. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">After flying from Iquitos, I stayed at HQ Villa for two
nights to get some stuff done in Lima (send package, buy plane ticket to Cusco).
It`s probably the coolest hostel I`ve stayed in in Peru; it`s literally a mansion
a couple are renting out and have converted into a gorgeous hostel. I had to split
up with Ed and LB- they had booked the Inca trail about a year in advance. (It's the “official”
way to get to Macchu Picchu, a series of stone steps put in place by the Incas to reach the city; there are a limited ammount of spaces and it costs
much more. The trail is protected by UNESCO. Obviously I hadn`t booked it so I
would have to find a separate trek).</span></div>
<div style="font-family: inherit;">
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</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: small;">My day in Lima was both productive and a Miraflores learning
experience- I ran about pretty much the whole neighborhood. (Bank – other bank –
post office – photocopy shop – post office – supermarket – tape store – post office
– Starbucks) (last one was guilty pleasure, had to get it out of my system). </span></div>
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</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: small;">There was a barbeque at HQ Villa on the night before my
morning flight to Cusco. I talked to some up and coming archeologists about the
ancient cultural scene in Peru. I was realizing how much of an archeological hotspot Peru is. The conversation got me excited to travel down and finally see the
mother of them all.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: inherit;">
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</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: small;">I`ve been putting it off. I think it has a lot to do with
that I would love to do Macchu Picchu with a close friend or family; it seems
like a special, almost spiritual experience, and sad to do alone. </span></div>
<div style="font-family: inherit;">
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: small;">I got on the plane again with a pack much lighter than ever
before. After sending home all the souveneirs I`ve bought, all my books, about
half my clothes, and some electronics, I decided I might as well throw out my
guide book, sunscreen and towel as well. I also left my favorite Marmot
rainjacket at HQ Villa (that was NOT deliberate).</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">*** </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Cusco. Every gringo in Peru, probably every gringo in South America, visits Cusco at some point. The likelyhood of you running into someone you know in the city is probably around 300%. During my stay there, I ran into 8 PSFers and everyone from the Santa Cruz trek except for German Sebastian (definitely too touristy for that guy) and Clement. </span><span style="font-size: small;">It`s surrounded by mountains similar to Huaraz, so my
first impression was that they would be comparable, but as we neared the center
it became clear that Cusco is far more upscale and built up, a beautiful colonial city.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: inherit;">
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Cusco is hopping. The city is just like an old European
town: cobblestone streets and narrow alleyways wind up the hills, crude stone
steps form passageways along which decorative lanterns hang. In the center, two beautiful old
cathedrals dominate the square, and a sparkling gold fountain erupts in the
gradens of the plaza.</span></div>
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</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Ringing the square, fancy five star restaurants with
balconies look out and over the life below. At one million residents and over 2 million visitors a year, Cusco is
the tourism capital of Peru.With all the influx of big
spending trousitas, Cusco has bilt itself up to be a meld of luxururious
tourist town and classic Peruvian city. Around its periphery, houses are
classic creamy white adobe with red tile roofs, similar to what you`d see in
Huaraz. </span></div>
<div style="font-family: inherit;">
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Walking along the cobblestone streets I could be in Italy or
Greece. Then ahead of you, you spot a group of Peruivan teenagers clad in
traditional garb and practicing a traditional dance. Then you remember you`re
in South America. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Cusco has been designated the "historical capitol of Peru", and for good reason- the city has been rebuilt three times, foundation over foundation. From 900-1200, the Killke peoples inhabited the city; ruins from their time (Most notably Sacsayhuaman, located right outside of Cusco central) were carbon dated to pinpoint the time period. The Killke were taken over by the better known Inca people in the 1200's, and the empire reigned until the city was raped by the Spanish in 1532 and 1533. </span></div>
<div style="font-family: inherit;">
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: small;">In those years, Cusco was the center of the battle
between the Incan empire and the Spanish. The battle began in Cusco and spread
up the hills into Ollantaytambo, where our Macchu Picchu tour made its
breakfast stop, and continued into the hills toward Macchu Picchu. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Fransisco Pizzaro showed up in 1534 and renamed the city "the very noble and great city of Cusco." Cusco is a tradegy thinly coated in a gold crust. Under the gorgeous colonial buildings, cathedrals and monuments, the foundations of ancient Incan architecture bleed out, squashed under their fancy replacements. </span><span style="font-size: small;">Fourteen churches
are scattered about Cusco; they were each built over an old Incan temple- it's a case similar to the building of Mexico
city over the ancient Aztec capitol. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">The city was retaken by the Incas for a couple days in 1536. Then they all got smallpox and died. From that point on, Cusco became the center of Spanish colonization and the spread of Christianity in Peru.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: inherit;">
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: small;">My first night in Cusco, I met up with Ed and LB for dinner.
It was their last night before the trek and since Ed`s birthday was in a couple
days (he had planned it so he would turn 19 the morning they arrived at Macchu Picchu),
he decided to have his fancy birthday dinner that night.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: inherit;">
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: small;">We went for a three course extravaganza in one of the fancy
restaurants overlooking the square. We sat at a window; I ate a typpical Peruvian
combo of Alpaca and quinoa and watched the lit up square below. It was a
wintery scene; yellow lights lined the streets and illuminated the cathedrals;
people ran about in thick winter coats and scarves. Yes, it is cold here. I was
wearing all my layers (of course that no longer includes my rain jacket). </span></div>
<div style="font-family: inherit;">
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: small;">After dinner we hiked up a steep, cobbly, narrow alleyway to
a mirador that looks over the whole city. It was stunning. Cusco really is a
jewel in the Andes. The hostel I am staying at, Pariwana, is also gorgeous- it`s
built in a square around a center courtyard of stone, and looks like a mini
castle or monestary. The hostel offers free breakfast and coffee, and
essentally a jfull free internet café in a cozy living room with
couches and beanbags and coffee tables. There`s a TV room with a flat screen
and unlimited DVDs and a restaurant- it looks like the cafetería of a ski
lodge, cozy tables and benches and a bar, delicious food. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Cusco at night: </span><br />
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Alpaca steak :) <br />
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And during the day.. <br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">It was more admiring than actual enjoying. The idea was to get out of Cusco and up Macchu Picchu. It was time to get down to business. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">There are two main alternates to the Inca Trail: The Inca Jungle Trek and the Salcantay trek. I was too lazy to shop around (a mistake), so I asked the information station at Hostel Pariwana about the differences. What I undestood was the Jungle trek is a four day combo of mountain biking, white water rafting, hiking and ziplining, while Salcantay is just hiking, and five days; on both treks you arrive at Macchu Picchu on the last day, and the entrance ticket is included in the package. When I looked uncertain, the travel agent (who I`m sure hadn`t done either of the treks), said "If you want more adventure, do the Jungle Trek." Yeah, that sounds about right. So I signed up.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">The Inca Jungle Trek got off to quite a strange start. At six, nine of us crammed into a bus for the three hour ride up to our biking take off point: A big giggly group of five English girls, a quiet English guy, two French and one Argentinian girlfriend of one of the Frenchies. The group of five girls got on my nerves within the first minute. They were not just giggly, I was discovering, but seemed incapable of controlling their shreiking volume of their laughter. They were the type of girl I often had to lead on treks in Nicaragua- the type that thinks it`s normal to trek in convers and feel the need to apply copious ammounts of makeup each day of the hike. One of them even cracked out fingernail polish on the way up. Oh god.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Our stopping point was at about 4300 meters. The mountains rippled like a green velvet carpet thrown over a lumpy pile; on top granite spires raked the sky like forks, slate flames. Snow freckled the upper reaches and down the river valley the hills faded from green to a brilliant turquoise to a carribean blue. Incredible. But freezing. It dawned on me what a terrible idea it is to downhill mountain bike on such a frigid morning- you`re not moving enough to warm yourself up.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">The first thing our guide did was lay out an array of knee and elbow pads. Seriosly? I told him they weren`t necessary because I wasn`t going to fall. First fingernail polish, now elbow pads. What kind of a pussy trek was this?</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"> I froze for the first hour or so. The views were magnificent, and we soared down smooth paved roads cut through the thickly vegetated cliffs in switchbacks, white capped mountains receeding behind us and the blue valley opening ahead. In total, we descended 3,000 meters in about four hours of biking.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">(The following pics were taken with a crappy camera :( ) </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEickiJ3Akq0tBR4sLE4dL3xee9mdSxFGZ9wRziKXjOqFZ39-_vdmIBFJS3aLpXi5FMUL5dxfWsuPsFO9gaYUKlGlrvyZL0Sgc_PJ3bqTuLGpDttE2L2I3pZr0Z8PhyJdl8xzyhNJNLiGpDN/s1600/IMG_0003.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEickiJ3Akq0tBR4sLE4dL3xee9mdSxFGZ9wRziKXjOqFZ39-_vdmIBFJS3aLpXi5FMUL5dxfWsuPsFO9gaYUKlGlrvyZL0Sgc_PJ3bqTuLGpDttE2L2I3pZr0Z8PhyJdl8xzyhNJNLiGpDN/s640/IMG_0003.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">As we zoomed down, the sun shone stronger and I finally warmed up a bit. With the temperature change, the trees around us began to change as well. We were entering selva alta. Selva baja (lower jungle), the term for the Amazon rainforest on and surrounding the river basin, extends up to more or less 800 meters of altitude. Above that the term is selva alta (higher jungle).</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">I didn`t think I`d see the day when mountian and jungle join forces, but it`s a reality. There may not be monkeys in selva alta, but the humidity increases noticabely, parrots squack in bushy trees and burst out into the sky; an abndance of animals and plant species suddenly erupts from the cliffs.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Dr. Seuss must have found inspiration in Peru. As I biked, the trees around me began to sag with moss and morphed into comical shapes: long skinny trunks with a ball of leaves at the tip waved; 30 foot long silly looking ferns hung out and over the road with thin fuzzy leaves; jungly ivy dripped over the rock.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Wild alpaca, maybe the funniest looking animals around, lined the roadside. They blinked at us out of oversized shiny black eyes, their cartoonlike fluffy heads balancing on thin long necks and fuzzy little bodies. Banana trees erupted out of the foliage and palm trees balanced out of vertical soil.Tiny plantations appeared in the valley. It was a dramatic vhange but we were still in the mountains! It was amazing, an ideal combination.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">The paved road became gravel, and flashback of Tom and I`s insane bike ride on Ometepe island invaded my mind. Every few minutes a waterfall flowed down the cliff and over the road; our bikes crashed through the invading rivers and spewed water on our backs.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">The bike ride ended in Santa Maria, a small mountain town which I`m sure is quite dependent on passing Macchu Picchu tours. To be honest, I really had no idea what to expect on this trek- I was sort of picturing tents, hard core biking, roughing it, grueling uphill climbs. Lunch was the next shock. We ate at a very fancy restaurant overlooking the jungly valley and were served an entrada of soup, a drink, and a fancy beef and potato dish. So this is where my money was going. And that is how we ate for the next four days. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">We were supposed to go rafting next, but the group decided against it, and I couldn`t be the only rafter, so I went along. We got back into the van. I was a pain. "Why are we driving? Why don`t we just walk?" I desperately needed to move my muscles. With the sedentary jungle tour, I had been sitting around for more than a week. I thought "jungle trek" might have something to do with trekking.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">The van stopped at a path winding up into the cliffs and we got out for the final piece foir the day- only a 30 minute climb, but very steep. We climbed stairs to rise back above the river valley as the sun lowered, and the leaves around us glowed a soft orange. Our goal was a cluster of houses cinging to the jungly hill ahead, the house and small farm of a family our guide knows.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">The agency I'm with differes from others because we stay with host
families along the trail isntead of in hostels in town. In this way,
they provide sustainable tourism- the beneficiaries of tourism should be
the local people whose land we pass through, so the agency gives money
to the agriculturos along our way. The farming these mountani-jungle
people practice is simply to bring in enough food to survive; they could
do well with some extra cash. So us trekkers and them maintain a good
simbiotic relationship. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Their house, our home for the night, was awesome. It`s an extremely cool combination of typical mountain dwelling and typical jungle dwelling: The main house is the classic adobe and red tiles, two stories, but on the wooden porch hangs a jaguar skin and jungle crafts dangle. The dining shelter is round with a connical thatched roof exactly the style in the jungle. On the wooden beams hang coati and raccoion skins, next to which perched a wild parrot.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">When we arrived I was not done hiking. Our guide "Amoroso" ("if that`s too hard to pronounce, you can call me ´mi amor´,") announced that if we felt like it, we could hike around on the trails surrounding the house. But- we werent allowed to go alone, because there were "snakes, tarantulas, poisonous worms, anacondas, and aliens." I was the only one who wanted to keep hiking- our group was a bunch of potatoes. I told the guide I was going alone. "No you`re not. The snakes can smell a woman because they know women won`t kill snakes; they`ll find you and bite you." Hmm.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">I climbed up the hill, the trail we were to take the next day. I wasn`t paying a guide to babysit me. I was starting back down when I ran into the mom of the family we were staying with. She waved me over. "We`re going down to collect firewood. Come along!" COOL! She was acompanied by her little 5 year old son and the dog. We started down the side of the cliff through little sloped plots of corn, coffee, and cacao. Leafy, luscious platano and banana trees, potato plants, green been trees, mandarin and mango. The ambiguous greenery around us revealed itself to be an incredible variety of produce, and a real, although disorganized, functioning farm.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">The variety of crops gown in the fertile mountian soil is astounding. There are 2,000 variets of potatoes alone, and 500 types of corn. We passed by a platform I`d seen before in other communities; a round stone laid sab ringed by a low stone wall. It`s where they prepare the coffee beans. The woman demonstrated, picking the bright red coffee berries of the trees around us and tossing them onto the stone to dry. As they dry they turn brown; then they`re peeled and sold in town.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">I asked about the sloped plots- aren`t they hard to plant and sew? She explained that the grade actually makes the farming easier: Campaseños working on flat land have to hunker over their fields, breaking their backs; mountain farmers can stand nearly upright as they work.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">I was having so much fun I didn`t realize I was being punished for wandering off. Our guide had told the woman to fetch me and make me collect firewood; she had actually gone looking for me. When we got to the firewood pile she only had one carrying cloth so I carried one lone log up to the house. Sins repented. I dropped off the log, turned around, and walked back up to the viewpoint. I never was bitten by a poisonus worm, but I did see the biggest, fattest, gnarliest catepillars I`ve ever seen in neon colors, spikes and stripes. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Chicken and rice for dinner, and bed. Our room was nicer than any hostel I`ve stayed in, and I fell asleep quickly despite the chattering of the five english girls around me. I drifted off musing that maybe my frustration came from jealousy- it was my first trek without friends, and I felt pretty alone. Groups traveling together are very hard break in to, the Frenchies spoke french, and the Englishman liked his silence. My positive attitude about making friends on the trek was waning.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">We awoke to a valley blue with dawn and pooling around the river was a small sea of dense white fog. It reminded me of the fog that collected with Cosiguina's crater, an earthbound cloud. In this case, the condensation is due to warm Amazon air that travels up the river adn emits steam in teh cool morning air. As the day warms. the fog evaporates and reveals the river again. The river we have been following eventually becomes the Ucuyali, which with the Maranon becomes the Rio Amazona. Thus the humid breezes are channeled through the valleys directly from the depths of the river basin.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">We feasted on a luxurious breakfast under our jungle shelter- bread and jam, omelets, maracuya juice and coffee, and sweet potatoes (probably the 578th variety I've tried of Peru's 2,000 varieties of potato). We started walking around 7, up the trail I'd climbed the night before. The "jungle trail" we walked on was made and used by the Incas, just like the "real Inca trail". It was discovered about 7 years ago and since has become an alternative trek for those unwilling to pay the 500 dollars required for the Inca trail.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">When the Spaniards came to Peru, they seemed pull the names "Inga", then "Inca" or "Inka" out of thin air; no one knows the indigenous empire's true name. We do know that they spoke the language Quechua. Today, 2-3% of Peruvians still speak the language; most mountain people still learn it as their first language. Our guide's first language was Quechua; I asked him to teach me hello and goodbye and he told me that because of the unique mentality of the mountain people, those words don't exist. Instead of saying the impersonal and pretensive hello, Quechua people ask how you are. Instead of goodbye, they say "see you soon". In such small familiar communities, I suppose the sentiment would actually be true. The name "Peru" is not Quechua. It comes from the "Biru river" in Northern Peru, which the Spaniards misunderstood, misopronounced and thus named the country.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">We climbed to the top of a small jungly mountain and ahead of us the mountain Slacntay, meaning "Forever wild", appeared in the distance. I don't think there are many places where you can see a snowcapped 6,000 meter mountain through a frame of tropical flowers and banana leaves. In the Andes, the snowline is at 5,000 meters; because we are so close to the equator, the temperatures are higher at altitude. In Europe, the snow line is around 3,000 meters. Directly on the equator, the snowline is nonexistent: in Indonesia, there is a 5,000 meter mountain devoid of any snow.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">We hiked the stone steps of an old Inca trail until we reached a house where we took a rest; I think our guide just wanted to chat with his friend that lived there. I went into the house to talk to them too. Inside the shady house, the floor was made of ancient looking crude stone slabs. A spot of light played on a white baby guinnea pig: it cleaned its soft glowing fur, tiny round body curled into a ball. All around, dozens of bigger guinnea pigs putted around the room, white, black, gray, brown- all waiting to be eaten.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Their land was breathtakingly gorgeous; an adobe house sits nestled within thick leafy foliage, banana trees, and bright tropical flowers in pinks, purples and yellows. All around span green and blue mountains and cliffs; the river rushes far below in the canyon.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">There are 7 families living in the community: there used to be 16. Many move to the city, to Cusco, fior a better education for their children, for an easier way of life. The woman of the house explained that in Quechua culture, there are three rules of life: to want, to work, and to learn. If you want something, you have to work for it. When you work, you learn. Children in the village walk an hour uphill to get to school (and when I say uphill I really mean uphill- basically vertical). They begin working at age seven.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">In the 80's and the 90's, gangs from the cities invaded the mountain communioties with then intent of robbing them- their open door lifestyle makes them easier to rob than a bank. They went from house to house, demanding money, and then when it wasn't handed over, killing the adults. The army was called to deal with the problem; they arrived with their guns ready to kill the terrorists, and when from house to house asking if anyone had seen them. When families couldn't give a lead, the military shot the adults. This left many children orphans, with no food to eat. A procession of children marched from the moutnain communities down into the cities, where they were taken in.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Naturally, the disaster caused many families to move to the cities, and during the 80's and 90's, the populations of Cusco, Arequipa and other mountain cities increased drastically. The sweet woman explaining all this to me went on to say that she could never leave her moutnain home; the pure air, the simple life, the naturaleza bellisima... the mountain people I've met have been extremely friendly and open, adn seem to have a wonderful philosophy and outlook on life. I'm becoming really interested in the quechua people and how they live; I would really like to come back and live with a host family in the mountains for a while.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">As we continued down the surrounding green became more and more tropical and jungly and began to remind me more and more of Nicaragua. We stopped in another small town for lunch: soup and shagetti with guinnea pig- I treid not to think of the baby one I was watching an hour before. We are truly being treated like kings on this trek. We were allowed an hour long siesta in hammocks strung under a tin roof lean to, nestled amont the banana leaves and flowers. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">The rest of the day was hot, sweaty and exposed, through the open river valley. We stopped often to rest which was frustrating, but got to cross the river twice- once over a swinging bridge and once along a cable car. We passed through fields of coca leaves: Amoroso explained that coca leaves, although not listed in the ingredients, are the secret ingredient in coca cola and the key to coca cola's unique flavor. Of course, coca leaves are also used to make cocaine, but are only a small part of the chemical process.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Unfortunately, the campasenos who grow the coca leaves are repetedly blamed for Peru's cocaine problems by the government. The mountain people don't use cocaine; according to Amoroso they hardly drink either, they practice a pure Quechua lifestyle. The dirty handed are the buyers, dealers and manufacturers in the city, and of course the gringos who buy the cocaine in Peru (yes, this is surprisingly common among travelers). A campaseno knows exactly what's going on when a shady Cusceno shows up in the fields and demands to buy the entire field of coca leaves for triple the price the farmer could get by selling it himself in Cusco.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"> But if a farmer refuses, you know what happens. The same thing that happened when they couldn't give the gangsters some cash. So thus the cycle continues. On top of that, Quechua mountian people have to deal with racism in the cities. There are various darogatory terms for them, most popular being Serano (man of the sierra/mountains). It's obvious who's come to the city from the high plains from their imperfect spanish: mountain people don't learn Castallano until they start school; their primary language is Quechua. Amoroso as well- of course I couldn't tell, but he admitted that his spanish grammar is far from perfect.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Around 3:30 we arrived at the famous hotsprings of Santa Teresa. They're big, stone rimmed pools with pebble floors, nestled up between the cliff and the rushing river. It's a beautiful palce, tranquil and carved out of the land. We had two hours. I actually mde an effor to talk to the English girls, went over and sat with them and gave a friendly greeting, and their response was to immediately request that I watch their stuff while they go shower. (Oh gee, how I'd love to! I was about to offer exactly that, that's why I came over!) I refused and then stole their shampoo. Fortunately I ran into two friends from PSF, in the middle of the Salcantay trek. They commenced to rave and rave about how amazing and hard core it was and how much fun they were having and how accomplished they felt. Great. Now I wished I had done Salcantay.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">The next part of the journey was an option of walk a couple hours or bus to Santa Teresa; of course I wanted to walk. I sat and shared a beer and a laugh with the Frenchies while we waited for the ok to go, and we complained about the lack of actual trekking on the trek. French humor is unique, adorable and hilarious. In regards to the situation, they taught me a useful French phrase: "Nous devez etre burre."</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Santa Teresa was unremarkable but our gourmet meal was augmented with chocolate covered bananas for desert, and fruit and granola for breakfast, so I definitely did not complain.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">The next day was Ziplining. I'd nver gone ziplining before, so I had no idea what to expect. We drove to the ziplining headquarters, where about 75 other trekkers were congregated from different groups and agencies. There were six ziplines of varying lengths and speeds (the longest being 400 meters and the fastest 65 km/hr), extending far, far above the river valley and the jungle from one cliffside to the other. From below, it looked pretty scary. I was one of the first to go, and with my harness clipped into the zipline standing on the edge, it looked absolutely terrifyling. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">It wasn't. I swung over the dense foliage below and sailed along at a controllable pace, watching the jungle beneath. The scariest part was coming in fast to the end (forgot to break). Nice, but not the adrenaline rush I expected. The funnest line was the last, where we were permitted to go upsidedown and spin around and lay out flat hands free. I ended up finally making friends, with an Isreali dude who agreed to head up to Huaraz with me later and do the seven day Huaywash trek; he promised to teach me what it is to be Israeli.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">Lunch was in a cute restaurant along the famous train tracks to Macchu Picchu, which we would walk along for the rest of the day. You could actually see part of Macchu Picchu from that spot, peeking over the mountain. Our walk along the tracks to Aguas Calientes (the extremely touristy town directly beneath Macchu Pcchu that's comprised entirely of hotels, restaurants adn giftshops) was three hours, and one of the nicest. We were bathed in a green shade, and through the banana leaves and across the river the hills rose and rose and rose, towers carpeted in a dense jungle shag rug. It's unbeleivable how the viny trees are able to cling to their verticle ground, their fuzzy emerald skyscrapers.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">Ruins on the last low part on the right</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">We were following the Urubamba river valley. the same valley which Hiram Bingham traveled along when he "discovered" Macchu Picchu in 1911. Not sure if 'discovered' is the right word though- like us, he spotted the first of the Macchu Picchu's stone steps cascading over the mountain top and asked a local farmer what it was. Having been there (hence my hesitation to use the word 'discover'), the farmer gave him directions to the top, where Bingham apparently found a family living among the ancient walls and graphiti from a mule driver. The city was wildly overgrown as well; today, a tree is planted in one of Macchu Picchu's courtyards to exemplify the height of the vegetation at the time of its discovery.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">Aguas Calientes appeared out of nowhere in a garish splash of colorful hotels. It's bigger than I expected, a long strip in a crescent following the S shaped river that snakes around the tall green mountains. We had about three hours until diunner again, so I went to the aguas calientes of Aguas Calientes, the hotsprings, to pass the time.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">And then the moment I had been waiting for over the last three days, the real deal, the World Wonder of Macchu Picchu. We woke up at 4. The chorus of about 15 alarms began at 3:45 in a round of varying ringtones, singing throughout our cluster of rooms in the stanky hostel. It was exciting- we put on warm clothes and walked to cue up by the entrance gate under the bright blanket of stars to await for its 5:00 opening. I was literally skipping.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">As soon as the gates opened, it was a race. I ran up the steps. In total the steps number roughly 2,000 from the river to the ancient Incan capitol, and they're tall. The whole way was a tunnel of pitch black forest. It's supposed to take an hour and a half, but I could not make myself stop (despite asthmatic wheezing) and made it in 40 ish. The record is 16 minutes. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">I had heard that the best time to see the city is during sunrise, so I raced the sun, not realizing that we obviously wouldnt be greeted by the typpical colorful sunrise; the horizon is far, far below Macchu Picchu. It was more of a subtle gray lightening of the sky. As soon as the gates opened, we barged in and without barely giving the magestic city a glimpse, sprinted to the guard tower (the highest point within the city) to get a picture of the city without tourists inside.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">I wandered around for an hour or so and managed to miss the first half of the official tour. I found them around 7:30 and tried to pay attention, but the thing is, nobody really knows the origins of Macchu Picchu. The most popular theories are that the city was the capitol of the Incan empire (it is the largest and most central ruins among 180 scattered throughout the area), or that it was simply a rich Incan's resort. Other theories insist that it was a religious center, an agricultural testing site (they could have tried out different crops in the small terraced field and gardens), a prison, or an outpost for the coronation of kings.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Therefore, when Amoroso insisted that one room was the "dining room" and another the "prayer chamber", I couldn't help but harbor suspicions. Nevermind its function, the city is stunning. It is just like all the picture's you've seen, and we lucked out with perfect weather. Brilliant green courtyard scascade down in terraced steps, stone houses ring the periphery, temples rise in the center and a "sacred rock", said to hold magic energy within the quartz, sits in the center.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">you can just barely see the rainbow flag...</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHtaNRwhJzyNaFcNX-vrT9r0kA6Yvt-KsQomflz9okETesM2uvciKuW4YT7xsqLy8CtKjNXbmrKwwHh5QzB8bEZL36q5RkSdzQWOwzZ3r4H3U702n2UbSNTGPW8nLRDLvt0x3IfCoVHfly/s1600/IMG_0118.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHtaNRwhJzyNaFcNX-vrT9r0kA6Yvt-KsQomflz9okETesM2uvciKuW4YT7xsqLy8CtKjNXbmrKwwHh5QzB8bEZL36q5RkSdzQWOwzZ3r4H3U702n2UbSNTGPW8nLRDLvt0x3IfCoVHfly/s640/IMG_0118.JPG" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">But by far the best part of the day was what followed. You may have heard of the mountain Huayna Picchu, the emerald pinnacle rising directly above the city like something out of the city of Oz. From the top of the mountain, you have the classic overhead view of Macchu Picchu, and any tourist capable of making the extra climb buys a Huayna Picchu ticket. They run out fast though, and when I made my reservation there were no spaces left.So I bought a ticket for the lesser known mountain Macchu Picchu, a bigger mountain farther back from the city.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">I'm convinced it was 100 times better then Huayna Picchu. I climbed up with Nir, my Israeli buddy. It was a repitition of the climb to the city, another 2,000 steps, and even steeper. By then it was hot out and we were sweating and struggling. Below, we watched Macchu Picchu recede smaller and smaller below us.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho3xioim12ful-L0LWr71Ll4a0uZpiVjnEaf85Shrnk3tGnUPeE7Uy-0HvP9LGgowN8vWTmOLLyRiHPqe9j9Hq_mqC0GZ8fZGfnF4_J9JKWPmhfWXv52xE6opNJO5_rPazjVSKdIXDt1So/s1600/IMG_0124.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho3xioim12ful-L0LWr71Ll4a0uZpiVjnEaf85Shrnk3tGnUPeE7Uy-0HvP9LGgowN8vWTmOLLyRiHPqe9j9Hq_mqC0GZ8fZGfnF4_J9JKWPmhfWXv52xE6opNJO5_rPazjVSKdIXDt1So/s640/IMG_0124.JPG" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">At the top, a giant rainbow flag waved in the breeze. It's not the gay pride flag, but the flag of Cusco- it simply symbolized the legacy of the Incan empire. We sat on a perfectly placed rock at the edge of the cliff overlooking Macchu Picchu, and were blasted by perhaps the most beautiful view I've seen in my life. We stayed on Macchu Picchu mountain for 5 hours.</span></div>
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<div style="font-family: inherit;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Below us, you could see the vast layout of the moutains. I realized that the beauty of Macchu Picchu is not the city itself, but its context; the aesthetic folds of the land in which it is placed. I'm sure the Incas selected that exact spot for the natural curvature of the land; I'm sure they scoured the surrounding mountians for miles to finally land on this particular location. The hills rise, fall, and curve around the stones like a sculpture of the most skilled sculpter.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Macchu Picchu sits on a pinnacle in the very center of a vast bowl of moutains. They're arranged in thin green wall-like layers cupping the city like the petals of a rose, lined up spiraling inwards with the river snaking in valleys between- the Urubamba river's exaggerated S shape hugs Macchu Picchu and Huayna Picchu in its contours. Within the crescent Huayna Picchu rises in a verticle cascading spiral. From the hollow center, jungly traees spill out like the fruit of a cornicopia.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Macchu Picchu is a slanted triangle next to the mountain, and to its other side a smaller mountain creates another coil; another rainbow flag waves at its summit. The three complete the spiraling center of the rose. The petals are perfect verticle trialgles just like a saw (hence the word 'sierra'), layered sharp points, a deep green washed in the sky's aqua blue. And above it all, white capped mountins form a diamond lip like the salted edge of a martini glass.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">A picture could never, ever do the scene justice. In the rose bowl of the moutnains, an energy seemed to eminate and wash over us. I was caught in a spell. We stetched a bit after the climb, then just sat and gazed at the scene below for five hours. It felt like one. I even took a nap on the sun soaked rock. I just could not leave. Sitting on the warm rock, bathed in sun, the greens and blues below filled me with the warmest energy I may have ever felt.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj29i6JXenJFt_hg6FEiFmSGfdEbvLD8UQsMKq79VLMEQXSCgXuUGVRel_BjZuPzqR0jXHB4BODyDboOUrp49KJyhUiEqm4yNLjKPJ0HWzCvHBu32mpsq9xedIc9Miiix0PXOV3lxPTP-4z/s1600/IMG_0127.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj29i6JXenJFt_hg6FEiFmSGfdEbvLD8UQsMKq79VLMEQXSCgXuUGVRel_BjZuPzqR0jXHB4BODyDboOUrp49KJyhUiEqm4yNLjKPJ0HWzCvHBu32mpsq9xedIc9Miiix0PXOV3lxPTP-4z/s640/IMG_0127.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">So
all my pics off the top were in the nice cameras internal memory, which
had to be deleted in order to get rid of the virus. sorry... </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: inherit;">
<span style="font-size: small;">In the last hour, a vivid movie flashed in my mind in a montauge, cut by instants of reality- the breeze belw my hair across my face in a gust, the rainbow flag creaked in the wind like a sailboat's mast, the turquoise mountains glowed below- it was like heaven, like the last scene in Into the Wild as he's dying and his memories and the sky throb in an intense sequence.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">The guard on the mountian had to kick us out three times, because I literally couldn't leave; it was like breaking up with someone. Finally we walked down an hour after the mountain was supposed to close and hours after the last tourists had gone back down. Nir and I walked down both mountiains (no one actually does that, everyone just takes the bus, but I figured that if we made it up the natural way we might as well finish the job).</span></div>
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<div style="font-family: inherit;">
<span style="font-size: small;">We got back to Aguas Calientes around 5 and had a loooong extended dinner until our train at nine. I didn't get back to Cusco until 1:30 AM, but I was happy; the trek had gotten off to a frustrating start, but the last day made everything worth the (lack of) sweat.</span></div>
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<br />Emma Lodeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16592002908904167336noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5524868153484276154.post-8396094850628539512012-06-14T14:06:00.000-07:002013-01-11T09:12:02.485-08:00Iquitos & La Jungla<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The Amazon River, at 48 kilometers of churning café con
leche currents at its widest, is the widest river in the world, the second
longest, (or longest-- there is a long running competition between the Nile and
the Amazon for Longest River; I've heard arguments for both.) It has a discharge
volume greater than the next seven largest rivers combined. It accounts for one
fifth of the world's river flow, carving out a drainage basin of 7,050,000
kilometers . The basin is home to some of the world's most diverse and exotic
flora and fauna; more than one third of all the species in the world live in
the Amazon rainforest (sadly not including leopards, tigers, lions or
elephants, as I've been told).</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The Amazon is born in the Pacaya Reserve in Northeastern
Peru, from the joining of the Marañon and Ucayali Rivers, then flows into
Brazil; it empties into the Atlantic Ocean near the city Manaus. Ecuador,
Bolivia and Colombia would love a piece of the Amazon, but the coveted Jungle
Highway lies in the hands of Peru and Brazil alone (it does cut along a tiny
part of Colombia's border but doesn't enter the country). This makes Peru the only
country in South America to boast the desert coast, the Andes mountains, the Amazon
rainforest and the Rio Amazona herself. Complete with Macchu Piccu, Peru holds
one of the 7 New Wonders of the World and one of the 7 Natural Wonders of the
World.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Every year in October through May, the waters of the river
make a sudden dramatic surge of seven meters upward. Plantations flood; the
first floors of houses are under water it rises half way up the tallest Amazon
trees and turns the forests into swamp lands, towns into floating roofs. During
these times, three quarters of the entire jungle is buried underwater. This
part is called “selva baja” or “lower jungle”. The quarter that is elevated
enough to remain dry is “selva alta” or “higher jungle”.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"> The flooding of the
Amazon makes for two drastically different seasons for the jungle people. In
the summer, they farm; in the winter, they fish. As the river basin dries, one
crop at a time comes into season, flooding the market with a single, dirt cheap
product at a time. (First yams, then watermelon then bananas etc.) Futbol,
the sport of the Amazon, is put on hold during the floods and rowing becomes
the only form of exercise.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">This year, the Amazon rose a record nine meters, two meters
higher than the previous season. Actually, it`s been rising more and more every
year. The obvious cause is global warming. Snow and ice in the Andes is a major
chunk of our water system held in reserve- each year it melts more and more,
flowing from glaciers into streams and eventually into the Amazon. Whether the water is flowing directly into tributaries or evaporating into the clouds to
become precipitation, the melt is simply adding to the system. At the very end
of the line, the oceans are affected; thus we hear or the rising oceans.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">A week ago, I stood on top of one of the world´s greatest
entrapments of the water cycle, a glacier in the depths of the Andes mountains.
Today, I float down the muddy waters of what that glacier has become.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Ed left to pick up his sister the night we got back from
Vallunarahu, and I spent an extra two days in Huaraz to go rock climbing. I had
Heard Hatunmachay is the place to go, one of the best spots in the world even.
I was halfway through booking a ride to the nearby village when the phone rang.
There`d been a strike- no one could leave Huaraz. Oh god. I knew that strikes
could last a week at times- I could be stuck in Huaraz, and I had a flight
booked from Lima to Iquitos in three days- Ed had my ticket in Lima. Of more
immediate concern, I would have to find closer rocks to climb.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">After some hunting around, I found two climbers, a
Venezolano and an Argentino, who planned on visiting the local spot the next
day, just a 20 minute walk from the outskirts of Huaraz. They said I could
borrow their rope.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We met at 8 thirty and walked over to the climbing area
really just messy rock outcrops with
some good pockets and bolts drilled in. The easiest route was probably a 5.9,
and it was all sport climbing. I have never sport climbed before, and I have
never belayed someone leading a route. Of more concern was the fact that I
didn't even realize that lead belaying is very different from top-rope belaying
until my climbing partner, the Venezolano, was roped up and on the wall. Let's
just say it was a harsh lesson, and these guys really said it like it was.
(Especially harsh after being taught by
kind and mild Wisconsonians all fall).</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I made it up the 5.9 no problema, but the next route was a
5.10 plus overhang, and after 3 tries I called it a day. The fact that I had climbed nearly 6,000 meter Vallunarahu the day before was considered a lame excuse. Men of the
rock and mountains are a hard core bunch.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">That night and the next morning, I made half a dozen trips
to the bus station to see what the deal was with the strike. Finally at around
10 the roads were announced clear, and I began my descent of 3090 meters to
zero. The first three hours or so were incessant, nauseating switchbacks; the views were
incredible, but I don't think I've ever been that car sick. Sherlock Holmes was
playing in the background. I wasn't watching, but the dramatic operas were the
ideal soundtrack for watching the majestic cliffs and mountains out the window-- my type of movie screen. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The plan was to meet Ed and his sister (LB) at HQ Villa
Hostel that night and then taxi together for our 6 o clock flight to Iquitos. I
checked into HQ Villa around 10 and they weren't there. Where were they? They had
my plane ticket and I had zero information about the flight except the time it
was leaving and my destination.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">HQ Villa is in Miraflores, the richest section of Lima- a
city of 9 million I walked down the boulevard past the American, French, and
German embassies and half a million international banks to get dinner. It's the Peruvian
Manhattan-- the streets were alive and lit, teenagers in posh Brand name outfits
milled around laughing with friends-- an outdoor mall with flashing lights gave
me the options of the fanciest McDonald's I've ever seen, a Starbucks, a
Pinkberry… What a strange interlude between the quiet indigenous mountain
people of Huaraz, and the jungle.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I didn't find out that Ed and LB were staying at a completely
different hostel until about midnight when I checked my email. So we decided to
meet at the airport. I didn't realize how incredibly vague our plan was until I
arrived at the Lima International Airport at 4 thirty the next morning.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I walked into the Domestic Flights section, expecting to see
their faces pop out of the crowd, or to find a gigantic flashing arrow floating
in the air pointing at them… or maybe I just though I'd be psychic that
morning. I had never seen Ed's sister and had absolutely no idea what she
looked like; also I knew Ed had just gotten a haircut so I probably wouldn't
recognize him either.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I went up to a security guard to ask for assistance. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I have
a flight to Iquitos in an hour," I said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"> “Ok, what airline?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"> “I don't know.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"> “Where's your boarding pass?” </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Don't have one."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"> “Itinerary? Check in number?
Flight number?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I was starting to
realize that I may be a bit screwed “My friends have my ticket," I explained.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"> “Ok, then you have to find your friends!” </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Very helpful man. </span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">They would be in line to get their bags checked, but I
wasn't allowed in; you needed a boarding
pass. I walked around the outside and snuck in a different way, then started
scanning all the lines. No cigar. Maybe I can check in using my Passport
number? I was just discovering that wasn't working either when Ed jumped out
behind me with my ticket and not much time to spare. Fyoof. Going to Iquitos
after all.</span></div>
***<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Iquitos is a bustling and growing city sandwiched between the natural boundaries of the Itaya and Nanay rivers, both of which flow into the Amazon, a 10 minute boat ride away. It's an international hub, just 12 hours out of Brazil and
about 8 from Colombia (by boat of course). It's the biggest city in the world that
can only be accessed by boat or by plane; it's in the middle of the jungle and
there are no roads. (Hence us flying). Most residents of Iquitos were born
there and have never left, only gone an hour or so up or down the Rio Amazona.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The river truly is the Interstate Freeway of the jungle-
ferries, barges, tugboats, container ships and motorboats chug up and down its
waters to pass between the many jungle villages that line the river and into
the surrounding countries. Traffic is rarely a problem- there are 50
kilometers of space to fit a good amount of lanes.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I expected Iquitos to be a charming, interesting yet
comfortable mix of city and jungle, sort of like the Rainforest Café. Not
quite. Iquitos is dirty, busy, grimy and poor. It's the hub for the Amazon
villagers: people who live on wooden planks above the river and sustain themselves
on what meager crops they can grow and what fish they can catch in their front
yard, where less than 1% attend University and none have been farther than
Iquitos.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In the city, motos and tuktuks clog the streets with shouts
and fumes, and the humid air and sweltering sun weigh down on the sprawling
ghettos. In chaotic, dark markets, shady vendors with toothless grins sell
turtle eggs and jaguar skins, piranha skulls and bone necklaces hallucinogenics and viles of jungle substances I wouldn't dare to ask about.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br />
The plaza de Armas, center square<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We arrived around 8 and took a taxi into the center. Our
taxi driver already had strong opinions of which jungle tour would be best and which
hostel; he carted us around for an hour or so until we settled on Casa
Francesa, an elegant but low-budget hostel with appealing jungle
decor and silky hammocks.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">As always, the idea was to get the cheapest and most
adventurous tour. We stumbled upon a charming and persuasive salesman who
offered a grand adventure package-- four days of camping, jungle trekking, canoe
rides, and of course all the highlights of the Amazon's flora and fauna,
complete with an English speaking “biologist” guide. We were able to barter the price down to less than half of the Lonely Planet's Price estimation, so we
booked it. Now the day was ours to explore Iquitos.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">First stop, Belen Market. The market is famous among
travelers for its exotic wares and intense atmosphere. It's an experience.
Walking right behind Ed and LB, I got lost several times in the dense mobs,
bright colors and dark twisting alleyways; the poignant smells of spices and
rotting meat, sizzling fry-ups and animal excrement. We swerved around and
ducked under hanging sacks of mysterious fluids, women with fresh tobacco
spilling out of their arms and men with hairy black hooves and skins in hand, squawking parrots and gibbering monkeys in cages.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Under our feet, pools of blood and feces swirled in the muddy
rainwater. Vultures perched on multicolored umbrellas and on the roofs of
dilapidated buildings. Old men passed out drunk on vendor's tables beside
gutted tortoises displayed with their eggs where the stomach should be,
butchered iguana, fried piranhas, and live baby alligators.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In the meat market I gagged at the sight of cow heads,
eyeballs, pancreas liver, lung… Mangy hairless dogs lapped up remains from
the ground. We wandered towards the river where the ghetto begins. Stairs lead
down from the upper market to the water's edge; the hill is lined with shacks
in increasingly poor condition and below, a shantytown sprawls into the river
in heaps of tin and rotten wood.</span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We stopped halfway down to buy long sleeved shirts at a
secondhand store and then continued down. Everyone started at us; a scarred old
man sat shaking his head. We kept on walking and a woman blocked our way and
did the same. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Don`t go down there,” she warned, making the motion of a slit
throat. Ok, we get the message.</span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Back up the stairs, we stopped to talk to a man selling a
jaguar skin and he offered to take us to the floating houses off the river
shore-- where those too poor to even keep a shack on land reside. There are about
2,000 living in these literally floating houses-- that way you don't have to pay
rent, water or electricity.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We putted around in a motorized canoe and witnessed the workings of a legitimate floating town. Floating among the houses are
floating petrol stations, all bearing gigantic warning signs painted across the
front- “NO FUMAR!” (No smoking). We watched children swimming right next to the
“port-o-potty” hole that emptied into the river. Here, everything revolves around
the Amazona.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Floating petrol station. <br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We decided to continue down the river to an animal sanctuary
and non profit organization buried in the thick jungle of the opposite bank
called “Pilpintuasi.” Ten minutes out of Iquitos, we entered the Amazon. The
color of the river made a sudden change to a creamy light brown and opened up
to a far wider breadth. The almost turquoise sky reflected perfectly in the
deceivingly fast currents, a glass mirror.</span></div>
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The deforestation of the Amazon- LIVE! <br />
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You can see the changing color of the river here. <br />
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Rainbow!<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Pilpintuasi is a bit like an animal orphanage. The workers
there take the abandoned, injured and abused animals in the area-- victims of
abusive owners, poaching, and illegal trafficking-- and nurse them back to
strength in semi-captivity.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"> Most animals are not
released back into the wild, though. Once they have been in the sanctuary for
some time, they become comfortable with the workers there and are no longer
afraid of humans. Peru's laws against hunting the exotic and endangered animals
for meat, skins and even crafts are close to useless, as they're not enforced. As a result,</span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> hunting and poaching
are rampant along the Amazon. An animal unafraid of humans will not know the
difference between a tourist looking to take a picture and a local looking to
take its life.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">If they're not directly killed, animals are often captured
and sold as pets in the Belen market, as we had just seen-- tiny monkeys,
parrots, turtles, you name it. Well-meaning tourists who call themselves animal
lovers often buy critters as souvenirs and then, not knowing how to correctly
feed exotic animals, effectively kill them. Sloths for example, have a very
specific diet of a specific variety of leaves. The lazy, loving teddy bear-like
creatures may be ideal pets at first, until they starve to death.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Even if you know the particular diet of a sloth, by buying a
baby animal in the market, you are paying to have a poacher kill its mother.
Baby animals don't just hang out by themselves in the wild, and when it comes
to Mom it's a fight to the death.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Inside the sanctuary, we were greeted first by a giant, three-meter long manatee named Marbino. Local to the Amazon, manatees are severely
threatened by hunting. Inside, we watched our guide feed and hold coatis, ocelots,
sloths, macaws, Capuchin monkeys (the smartest monkeys in the world; they make
and use tools), and pygmy marmoset (the smallest monkeys in the world). And
finally, a jaguar. The giant cat, of the third largest cat species in the
world, paced and sneered at us through its deadly incisors, thick muscles
rippling under the gorgeous sought after pelt. It leaped up against the cage
side and seemed to almost tear it down, ripping a bloody hunk of beef from our
guide's unprotected hand.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Then the butterfly farm, and the butterfly house for the
wriggling chrysalilses. I was surprised to learn that caterpillars don't
literally sprout wings and become butterflies- they form a chrysalis out of a
layer of skin, dissolve themselves into a liquid mass of cells inside their
leaf-like protective wrap, and reconstruct themselves into an entirely new
organism.</span></div>
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Sloth<br />
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Ocelot<br />
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Jaguar<br />
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Coati<br />
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Blue morpho<br />
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The way back to Iquitos<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Now to see these animals in the wild. Our jungle adventure
began with a four hour boat ride down the Amazon-- half way in a public boat and
half way in a motor canoe. You have to get at least 200 kilometers away from
the city to get real animal action. Our journey ended 20 minutes down the Rio
Tapira, a small, shall we say, residential street of the aquatic variety.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">As we disembarked, it began to rain. When the first few
heavy drops of rain fall on the Amazon, she fades from blindingly bright blues
and greens, to hazy shades of whites and grays in a matter of seconds. A young girl
popped out of the trees with rubber boots in hand, ours for the next 4 days.
And we sure needed them. The pathway to “camp” was puddly mud, at times deep as
the rim of our wellies. We expected to be camping in tents, but soon found out
that wouldn't be possible-- there was no solid ground.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Additionally, we were told most of our jungle excursions would
be by boat instead of by foot. During the dry season, tours are done by foot,
and during the rainy season by boat. We came just at the end of the rainy
season- the river had gone down by 2 meters and has about 6 to go. Disappointing news, but for the time being I was quite enchanted by our new jungle home, a
primitive round thatched roof cottage on stilts, barren but for a table, benches and three hammocks. Attached by an elevated walkway was another with a
simple kitchen and our bedroom-- three simple mattresses with mosquito nets.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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The harbor we pulled out of<br />
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Public boat<br />
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Live chicken- our dinner the last night...</div>
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Jungle hut! <br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Day 1, Afternoon. Hunt Bug and Tree.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Our first tour was a nature walk around the minimal patches
of dry land surrounding our jungle hut. </span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Lobo, our guide, has lived 5 minutes away on the same river his whole life. Turns out he wasn't an official biologist, but knew absolutely everything about every plant and animal in the </span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">area. O</span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">ur entire trip was more or less within the boundaries of his back yard, and he knew every tree, swamp, river and lake like the back of his hand. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We dove into the thick of the trees, and immediately met termites and leaf cutter ants in their mansions. We learned that termites
and a certain species of birds maintain a symbiotic relationship. The termites
cluster over the bird eggs while the mother is away like a blanket to keep them
warm, and as payment, feed on baby bird poo.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We were then introduced to the giant sapothe tree and the
even bigger ceiba tree, the biggest in the jungle at 50 meters tall. The siringa
has the widest trunk, and its roots sit above the soil, vertical and thin like
walls. On the dark side, the strangler fig's mission is to suck the life out of
the surrounding giants; it winds up their trunks like an over-sized vine. Vines
themselves, I learned, are literally hanging roots. They bring nutrients and water to the tree's trunk in the exact same way, but instead of sucking the water from
the soil they collect it from the rain.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Next was the rubber tree. Lobo sliced it with his machete
and a white liquid oozed out. We rolled it about in our hands, and it really
turned into a rubbery ball. The juice ran down the tree and spilled into the
puddles, swirling around our “rubber boots”, which are actually now made of cheaper
petroleum. Another tree contained a sap which is spread on broken limbs like a
plaster. It becomes a natural cast and remains hard for 6 weeks. The substance
also contains vitamins that help heal bones quickly.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I asked Lobo if deforestation was seen as a problem here; he
explained that there is a Peruvian law which states that with every tree a
logger cuts down they have to plant 10. Some follow the rule, he said. My guess
is that number is very small. The police aren't about to trek into the depths of
the jungle to enforce that sort of rule.</span></div>
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Big tree<br />
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Rubber juice<br />
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BEST VINES EVER!!!<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Day 1, Evening. Hunt Alligator.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Alligator, not crocodile. Alligators are smaller and found in
the Americas, while crocs are exclusively African. Here was the first of our
excruciatingly extensive series of canoe tours. The tiny, unstable wooden craft
we used was a three-seater canoe with an extra seat put in, and you had to stay
completely still lest you tip the boat. The first tour, though, was pleasant. We
left after dinner and paddled through the nighttime jungle, down the river
Tapira and through the surrounding swamps (these are forests during dry season.)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Alligators are best hunted at night because they are spotted
by their glowing red eyes, and at night the fish rise to the slightly warmer
surface water easier for lagartos to catch. We didn't catch an alligator that
night, but we did see owls, night birds, and a gigantic tree boa. Lobo pulled
the boa out of the tree, maybe three meters long and thick enough to swallow a
monkey whole, and dangled it over us, close enough to elicit the involuntary shriek.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Our little boat.<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Day 2, Morning. Hunt Bird.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The idea was to watch the sunrise. It was cloudy, but we
went out anyway to look for birds. By boat, of course. We saw loads of “crazy birds”-
these black and red birds live in trees with monkeys (probably what drives them crazy), because the monkeys pull the bark off of trees, prompting insects to
spill out for an easy lunch. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">A small black and yellow bird's brain is fed to babies in
jungle villages because it's said to increase intelligence. Then there were
hawks of the slate and opportunistic varieties, tucans, and woodpeckers. We
also got a glimpse of squirrel monkey and black tamarind families. Those two types
of monkey are the easiest to spot because they travel in groups of up to 150.
Crashing through the canopy, gibbering and throwing fruit about, they're hard
to miss. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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Can you see the monkey?<br />
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Local dude with prehistoric fish</div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Day 2, Afternoon. Hunt Piranha. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Well, <i>fish</i> piranha. By this point we had been in the cramped
canoe about 5 hours the night before and another 5 hours that morning. My butt
felt bruised and I desperately needed to move my stiff muscles. It doesn't help
that I'm not a huge fan of fishing. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">On the upside, I caught the first and biggest piranha. Now I
can finally get over my childhood fears of those tiny monsters, risen from
watching Animal Planet episodes where a peaceful, unassuming tapir would be
strolling along a river bank, slip a bit in the mud, and at once be a churning
mass of blood as a gang of piranhas devoured it within seconds. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Bait! <br />
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Biggest one! </div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Day 2, Evening. Hunt Sloth and Iguana. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">This one was a success! I managed to catch glimpses of
several sloths and iguanas through the blinding pain of my bum, all splayed out
on branches in the epitome of laziness to soak up the last rays of the setting
sun. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Sloths, I learned, have an excuse for their lethargy:
They're drunk. The leaves that make up their diet are heavy in alkaloids that
deliver an affect similar to drinking a beer. So, they are, literally, perpetual
drunks. This seemed evolutionary absurd to me; they do have predators. When one comes along, they hide.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Day 2, Night. Hunt Frog and Spider.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">A break from the vessel for a brief midnight stroll:
Bullfrogs and tree frogs, scorpion spiders, and a brown tarantula. New guide
for whether to be scared of our eight legged friends: If a spider has a web,
it's not poisonous. Webs mean that the spider can't catch prey on its own by
biting it, so it has to rely on a sticky net.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Day 3, Morning. Village.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I thought it might look weird to write “hunt” here. This was
a pleasant morning- the cloudless sky delivered a brilliant yellow sunrise down
the river. The village tour was organized upon my request-- Lobo was very kind
to give us a glimpse of legitimate jungle living. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">His village numbers roughly 100 residents. Right now, the
village is a narrow strip of land with water on both sides, just recently
emerged within the last few months. An elevated concrete sidewalk runs from one
end of the town to the other-- it was put in place by the government, meant to
help kids get to school. Otherwise, the ground is too muddy to walk for their little
feet. During the rainy season, the houses are almost completely submerged, and
families have to build temporary floors just below the roof. The school is
submerged as well, so classes are cancelled throughout the winter.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">When the town was first built, the buildings' stilts were
tall enough to avoid the floods, but with the rising of the Amazon they're
going to have to rebuild. The houses are arranged one by one in a line along
the sidewalk, and each has a personal solar panel which provides for a lamp and
a small radio; no TV.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">These jungle towns each have their own language, and like the Quechua spoken in
mountain villages, is passed down orally by elders and not taught in school. When the
villagers converse in Spanish, the language is almost unrecognizable; they
maintain the lilts and inflections of their native tongue as a melody to lyrics
in Castallano.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Amazon sunrise.</div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Day 3, Afternoon. Hunt Dolphin.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The sky was a pristine blue and the sun shone unencumbered by
clouds: It was the perfect day for a swim. With dolphins! The Amazon is home to
both gray and pink river dolphins-- their gender is recognizable by the
coloration. Males have gray heads and females are a pale shiny pink all over.
Lobo, with his infinite knowledge knew exactly where to go to find our playful mammalian friends. We attached a motor to our canoe for the trip to give us a
bit of leverage against the Amazon's currents and sped back out of the now
quite familiar River Tapira, into the blue, the wide open river sea. Released
from the claustrophobia of trees and vines! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"> Cielo melted into rio
in a nonstop wash of celeste, blue above and beneath and all around our
speeding craft. Far, far across the Amazon`s immense breadth, a thin line of
emerald jungle shot along the smooth bank. We powered along for an hour or so
to reach a sandbar right in the middle of the river.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">When Lobo told us we were going to a beach, I definitely
wasn't expecting something so nice. The sand was a fine pale grain like you'd
expect in the Caribbean, and despite being in the center of the river, the
surrounding water was calm and current-less; its shallow depth and the
protective sandy barriers made for a pleasant swimming area. During the rains,
turtles lay their eggs there so the tracks and nest holes disappear. We
disembarked, donned our suits, and jumped into the refreshing cool.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Dolphins are social animals, and Amazonian river dolphins
don't have predators. The native people may kill tortoises, fish and manatees, but
they stop short when it comes to the graceful and friendly river dolphins. So dolphins have nothing to fear, and on top of that, they're curious by nature. These qualities make dolphins relatively easy to find. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The trick is to splash around and whistle to attract their
attention. We swam about, kicking and
slapping at the water, but only saw pods from a distance, maybe 20 meters
away. I was thrilled as it was; it was a gorgeous day and just amazing to be
able to get out of the boat and swim. After a half an hour or so, we jumped
back into the boat and rowed towards the dolphins. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We managed to get the boat right in the middle of the pod,
and pink and gray shapes peeked up and shot out all around us. They would flip
up a tail, a nose, or leap out of the water with a spout of the blow hole,
sounding like a person blowing a raspberry. A few meters off, we saw a pair
mating (or maybe they were just having fun; dolphins are they only animals
other than humans that have orgasms for pleasure). <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Once the pod started to move away we paddled over to another
spot to try our luck. It was even better. The dolphins came right up the boat;
it looked like there were 50 of them. I couldn't handle myself, I was poking
Lobo saying “can I jump in can I jump in can I jump in”; finally he gave the ok
and I attempted a delicate dive off the middle of the canoe and gave it a good
rocking.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I was in the water for about half an hour. I would see a
dolphin, chase it, and get pretty close, see another, chase it again-- they were
nowhere and everywhere at once, popping up here and there all 360 degrees
around me. I spun in a circle trying to see them all at once, baby pink flashes
in the sea of baby blue sky and water, and then I realized I could just tread
water and they would come to me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">You could anticipate one coming my the bubbles in the water. I wanted a head to appear in front of me but that never happened; I know that
they we<span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">r</span>e diving right under my body by the trails of bubbles, but they
teased me and didn't show their faces often. I was beside myself though,
screaming and laughing each time a tail slapped the water a foot to my right or
a dolphin slid above the surface in an elegant pink crescent, a foot to my
left. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I didn't bring my camera because no doubt it would have
gotten wet and ruined, but dolphins are playfully elusive and would have been
hard to capture in a good shot anyway. You'll just have to trust me that that
afternoon was definitely the highlight of the jungle.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Day 3, Evening. Hunt Alligator Take 2.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We left at about 4 after a nice few hours of relaxation in
Jungle HQ. The destination was a lake which holds giant lily pads and hopefully, alligators During the dry season when the river ceases to exist, lakes remain,
becoming the congregating spots for all aquatic animalia. So in high tourist
season (August), the lakes are guaranteed to house a few alligators. Right now,
you never know.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The sun set as we rowed towards the lake. We wound through a
new swamp, and came to a dead end. The passage through which Lobo rowed just a
few weeks before was dry-- a quarter mile worth of mud. I was relatively clean
after my swim in the Amazon (key word: relatively. This just meant I wasn't
caked in mud.) Not for long. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The canoe was carved straight out of the trunk of a giant
tree and weighed about 200 kilos. We weren't about to carry it, so dragging it
was. We pushed on the seats and our boots slipped in the thick mud; both of
Ed's feet got caught under the keel at one point and he fell face forward into
the puddles. We sweated and huffed and the mission seemed ridiculous, but we
made it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Once in the lake, the sky was deepening to a hazy lilac dusk
and pink bushy blossoms of tangarana trees glowed softly. Lily pads, 2 meters
wide, lined the shore. During the dry season, the water of the lake isn't
contaminated by the dirt of the risen Amazon, and the Lily pads can grow up to
be 4 meters wide. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">"This is called Mawa lake," Lobo explained. What a pretty
name. “A year ago, my uncle died in this lake.” Uh oh. “He came out here to
fish and never came back. We came out to look, and his canoe was upside down in
the water and he was no where to be found. We think it was an anaconda. That's
why it`s called Mawa lake-- in my language it means Lake of Death.” Ah. He tells us
this after we're <i>in</i> the lake and after I comment on the pretty name. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Fortunately I was not eaten by an anaconda. We scouted the
periphery of the lake for a couple hours while the sky darkened We had planned
our mission for the hours of 6-8, because the moon rose at 8 that night and the
darker it is, the better for alligator hunting- to see the glowing eyes. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In the black of the sky, the stars swirled and lightning
bugs, earthbound shooting stars, zipped about in the reeds. I was in the back
of the boat, so I was able to carefully lay back and stretch out a bit. I let
the others do the hunting- which I assumed would be futile- and stargazed. As I
lay on my back, fish leaped from one side of the boat to the other, flying over
my belly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Eventually we gave up and decided to continue the hunt on
the way back. Mud portage mission 2 commenced, this one in the pitch black of
night. I pulled and pulled and clouds of bugs swarmed my headlamp; I gasped and
sucked them down my windpipe, where one stayed stuck until I washed it down
with dinner. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">When we finally got the heavy boat to the other side, a
silent lightning storm began to our left, too far away for thunder. On our right,
the full moon rose yellow behind palm fronds and spiky jungle trees, just like
you'd picture a classic jungle at night. Behind its sallow glow, striated
clouds gashed the sky in a pattern of deep blue and purple tiger stripes. Our little
boat drifted through the blackness of the swamps, where vines lashed out like
anacondas and strange splashes and crashes around us made us jump.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">All of a sudden Lobo was standing, and we were still-- he had
spotted something in the bush ahead. A pair of glowing green eyes in his flashlight
beam- an alligator. Gotcha! It looked tiny, like a gecko. Lobo dove. There were
a series of splashes and grunts- it sounded like a real wrestling match. And then
he emerged victorious, small alligator in hand. We each got a turn to hold it,
which was exciting. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">At last, mission complete. It was our last outing of the
tour; the next morning we would head back up the Amazon to Iquitos and catch a
flight back to Lima. It was an ideal end. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Emma Lodeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16592002908904167336noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5524868153484276154.post-19441332176058720912012-06-09T13:08:00.000-07:002012-07-18T07:49:32.481-07:00Vallunaraju<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Pale yellow morning light shines on my paper as I write,
slanting through the handsom cedar framed window beside my café table. The
window looks out over the red tiled roofs of Huaraz, and above, magestic 6,000
meter mountains ring the city, icily jeweled
peaks famou sthroughout the world, whose summits are coveted throughout
elite mountaineering circles internationally. Yesterday, I climbed one. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Well it wasn´t quite
6,000 meters, but it was close-5,686.Vallunaraju is one of the peaks I can see
easily from the window of Café Andino where I`m writing. Its two summits poke up
like cat ears; the left is lower by about 16 meters but it`s rounded and more accessable.
I was on the left hand point about 30 hours ago. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;">It was a two day
event; Ed and I left around 9 on Monday with loaded packs: glacier boots,
crampons, Winter jackets, Snow pants,Gloves,harness, rope, ice axe, down
sleeping bags, tent, and every last warm layer ofclothing we had brought
traveling. Of course we rented the gear, making the trip fairly expensive at 145
dollars, but completely worth it (and cheap compared to the US or Europe). <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We jumped into the
tour agency´s van at nine and drove along what is probably the bumpiest road in
all of Peru for two hours. We didn´t cover much horizotntal distance, as
Vallunaraju is literally just vertical of Huaraz.We passed by a few smaller
mountain communities and the road carved its way along the hips of smaller
mountains until it suddenly stopped. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We were in a river valley; the road balanced
several hundred meters above a rushing stream. I looked directly ahead and at
its source: asnowy mountain cap sat just a minute down the road, and you could
see the glacier actively funneling down and melting into the river. It was
a beautiful mountain but it was not
ours. From where we parked, Valunaraju´s icy Summit hid behind her hulking
grassyside, to ou rleft. The mountain we could see clearly was Rahrapaka, a
6,162 giant. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;">There was no obvious
trail, just a steep, steep hill cut by frozen streams and iced over waterfalls,
handsomely molded red granite cliffs and voilet and yellow mountain flowers. The
sun shone brilliant; there was not a single cloud in the vivid blue sky. Idyllic.
Our first day´s misión was simply to climb the hill to Camp 1, or Camp Morena. In
this context morena means moraine; the camp sits on glacial moraine at 4,900
meters, and just feet below the snowline and the terminus of Vallunaraju`s
glacier. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The car stoped at 4,000 meters; we had 900 meters
to climb,almost vertical, with full packs. No problema. We had just done
5 straight days of hard core trekking and we were in shape. We started
climbing around 12 and got to Camp around 2, hill conquered. It was quite a nice
climb; we walked hugging the rugged cliffs and under the soft spray of
waterfalls,diamond like droplets showerng gently, glinting and evaporating into
the blue. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">As we climbed higher, the red cliffs around us started looking
more and more like the canyonlands of the Southwestern US, strangely enough.
Red, White and gray stripes and sweeps with chips of gold, massive striated
boulders looming above the valley below. We walked on short, compact high
altitude grass. It looks like individual grass flowers, and covered the muddy
ground shaped into little lobes and nub like steps. There was
one almost technical bit that we had to climb; There were definitely some
fifth class moves. A bit hard with a 70 liter pack on. Mine got a bit stuck when
I squeezed under the overhanging rock above me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">When we arrived at Campo Morena, it was the highest Ed
or I had been, ever, aside from the airplane. On the Santa Cruz trek the
highest we got was Punta unión, at 4785. Luckily I didn´t feel the altitude,
but then again we had been in Huaraz for a week by then, which in
itself is acclimitization. Mt. Rainier is 4,392 meters tall. So just
at Vallunaraju basecamp, I was over 500 meters above the Summit of the
tallest mountain in the continental U.S. You know the term 14-er? It refers to
the14,000 foot peaks of the Rockies, its tallest peaks. 14,000 feet is only
just over 4,000 meters. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"> Campo Morena is a
small boulder strewn ledge, a Little rocky bowl halfway up our snowy giant. The
sky might have been blue, but the wind ripped around the mountain and blasted our
hard, spartan home for thenight. We had along, cold afternoon ahead of us. Ed
and I spent some time wandering around and I snapped some pictures of the reddish
peaks in front ofus- they were decorated with spots and scoops of bright snow,
brighter than thelone cloud above. They seemed to lean to the left, as if in
motion, and made me think of a herd of running appaloosa mustangs. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">There were already eight or so tents set up in the sparse flat
and clear spots in our cliffside camp. Ed and I had booked our climb for just us
two and had a guide to ourselves; each of the other parties were in the same
situation. Our guide spoke in broken, incomprehensible English, no matter how
many times I pleaded with him to speak Spanish.
All he could really talk about was how many brothers and sisters we had
and where we were from. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"> Agencies won`t lead
groups of more than 3 clients as as a safety precaution. The more people you have in
a group, The higher chance there is something will go wrong, as I learned from
our 15 person Santa Cruz trek.However, I was expecting less people, a virgin, desolate
peak. I also imagined camping on snow. Why there is hardly any snow at 4,900
meters in theAndes is beyond me; perhaps it has to do with the range being the
“tallest tropical range in the world”.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"> Ed and I pulled out
our tent and I was confused within the first thirty seconds. Our tent was built
like those cloth pop out tunnels kids play in, with a series of three poles in
dome shapes, not crossing, and fabric stretched in between. It didn`t stay up on
its own. We put he rainfly on and
managed to secure them together, and discovered the zippers on the fly didn`t
work at all. Not the best setup for a night with temperaturas below zero… at
least our sleepingbags seemed warm, and I had my liner.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"> Not that it
would be much of a night. To prevent us from falling victim to potential
avalanches during the warmer daylight hours, our guide, Arones, would wake us up
at 1 AM and we`d do the entire climb in darkness, hopefully arriving at the
summit for sunrise. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Our fist challenge, however, was figuring out what to
do to pass the afternoon. We climbed some cliffs to the right of camp to
catch the last rays of sun before our source of heat dipped below
the surrounding mountans. In the Andes you get early, early sunsets. We returned
to a camp bathed in a frozen shade. I sat in the tent to put on more layers
while Ed started building a rock Wall to block the wind. I´m pretty sure he
knew it wouldn`t do much good; he just wanted an activity to stay warm and
pass the time. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"> Why did we climb up
here so fast? We could have easily slept in till noon. With long johns under my
hiking pants I attempted to help with the rock Wall, and stopped after trippng
over it and toppling it twice, then trying to be of use by passing Ed rocks that turned
out to tbe holding downt he stakes for our rainfly. Oops. I retired to huddling
in a ball inside the tent. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">At about 4, Arones started boiling water and
my attention perked. I sipped on cup after cup of hot tea while he cooked
noodles for a very early dinner. At five it was too cold to be outside the tent,
so Ed and I sipped on chicken noodle soup inside; dinner in bed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">At about 6:30, we
decided we might as well hit the sack.We prepared our backpacks with glacier
boots, harness, crampons, gaters, food and wáter,and had headlamps at the
ready. I wore every single layer I´d brought minusthe snow jacket and pants to
bed. Surprisingly, we were both pretty warm. Ididn´t get to sleep úntil about
8:30- understandable, really- so we lay there discussing travel plans and telling
stories úntil sleep seemed plausible. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;">My eyes snapped open
around 1 because I heard boiling wáter. I couldn´t be asked to check the time so
I huddled in my bag until Arones woke us late, at half one. Sleeping in all of
your clothes really isn`t a bad idea; it`s a whole lot easier to get out of the
bag. We got our gear on and peeked outof the flap just a Arones had coffee
ready- hot wáter in bowls. I dumped in powdered milk and instant coffee powder
and slurped it up like a dog. We crammed down ciabatta rolls with butter and jam,
expecting to have to run out of there. Arones kept delaying our departure though,
and we didn`t start walking until 3. We were the last group to leave; a steady
stream of headlights disappeared up and over the ridge ahead. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The first bit was
solid ground and rock climbing. We climbed the same cliffs that Ed and I had
climbed the night before, and just kept goingup and over an endless granite
hill. It would have been fun and easy if my backpack straps weren`t constricting
my arm movement and I wasn`t wearing thick snowgloves and too-loose clunky glacier boots and my heavy
backpack wasn`t weighing me down and it wasn`t pitch black outside and my visión
wasn`t limited to a square foot splotch right infront of my face. Arones had to
pull me up the Cliff a couple times; the ammount of strength in these miniature
size mountain men is unbeleivable. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Finally we got to the start of the glacier. I was
already outof breath and shooken up by that first bit. We sat on the rock and
pulled our crampons, gaters, and harnesses on, grabbed our ice axes. My harness
had been fitted when I wasn`t wearing five coats, and Arones had to pull it
so tight it was suffocating me. He tied us all together with a climbing rope.
I watched him tie the figure eight knot very carefully, suddenly grateful I
knew what acorrect knot should look like, able to doublé check. I admit, I can
see how this climb could be considered slightly sketchy… It was advertised as a
“non technical” walk in the snow with a certified guide from an agency we and
many others trusted. Iwas starting to think that it was considered “non
technical” just because we didn`t actually use the amount of gear you would use
in a technical climb. I clutched my iceaxe tighter and double backed by harness.
Ok. Ready to go. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I was last, tied behind Arones and Ed. The first bit was steep
and we already used our ice axes in the snow, up and over the terminus of the
glacier and onto an endless spread of rolling snow hills. It was too dark to even
see our Summit goal. Stars spangled the sky, but it wasn´t the time or place to
stargaze. We slogged through the thick snow one step at a time,
our crampons gripping the soft and steep patches well. The path was obvious;
itseems as if there hadn´t been a recent snowfall because tracks from many climbers
extended into the distance like a trail. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We climbed hill after
hill after hill after hill. I kept looking ahead into the darkness and seeing
blinking lights. Yes! Stars! We`ve finally made it over the last hill! But no, it
was always the headlamps of the teams ahead and above us, starlike against the pitchblack
snow. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The whole time I kept
thinking about Into Thin Air and other mountaineering books I´ve read. The
knowlege I`ve gotten from reading those wasthe only reason I half knew what to
expect on the trip; our guide was not exactly the type to explain details and
hold your hand. I was trying not to think about Touching the Void. I knew the
saga had occured on a mountain very, very nearby. In the famous (and 100% true)
story turned documentary style film, two climbers (Joe Simpson and Simon Yates) were
attempting a first ascent of the West Face of 21,000 ft. Siula Grande, part of
the Cordillera Huaywash (the Cordillera just south of the Cordillera Blanca.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;">They had just reached the peak when Simpson fell off an
iceledge, breaking his leg. Still attatched to Yates by rope but unable
to communicate the problem, Yates attempted to lower Simpson to safety,
not realizing that he was dangling in thin air. Darkness fell and lest he freeze
to death himself, Yates cut thte rope, suspecting he had just effectively killed his
friend. Simpson plunged down and fell into a cravasse while Yates continued his
descent. Miraculously, Simpson survived and was even able to clmb up and out of
the cravasse, even crawl all the way back to basecamp with a broken leg and
frostbite. He arrived as Yates, consumed by guilt, sat burning
Simpson`s clothes. Convinced his friend was dead, Yates had planned to leave in
only a matter of hours. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;">On our climb, I didn´t see any ledges or cravasses. I
didn`t see any avalanche bound cliffs or gigantic dangling icicles. At the time,
I was releived. It really is just a hike up a snowy hill! It didn`t cross my
mind that maybe I didn`t see any of that because I litterally couldn`t
see. Everything was black but the ground beneath my feet and Ed`s red coat ahead.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We stopped a couple times to snack on oreos, but
basically pushed on. We were moving much faster than each of the other groups,
strong men who I had assumed were serious mountaineers the day before. One by
one, we passed them. Each time we would be stuck beind a line of three or four
and our place would suddenly be reduced to ten steps, pause. Ten steps, pause.
Ed would turn and give me his classic look of frustration. I would laugh and
roll myeyes. We would politely suggest to Arones that we pass. Then we´d run on
by.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"> Ed and I were both
feeling really strong. Stronger than our guide. About halfway up, around 4:30,
he vomited several times. I didn`t actually see it happen, for which I`m
grateful. We were far above 5,000 meters and I wasn`t feeling any altitude
sickness, just fatigue. It wasn`t until we were about a half an hour away that
my heart hegan to pound harder and the going got tougher. We were in front- we
had started last and had passed every climber on the mountain. We had seen at
least three men turn around long before the top. We had just seen a girl
collapse in the snow. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;">It was about 6 and
the sky was just starting to lighten. I could see rays appearing over the ridge
beyond- on either side of the ridge sat the two summits of Vallunaraju; the
North and the South. They rose like the two humps on a camel`s back, mirror
images of each other. We got to the ridge. We were to climb to the summit on the
left, the slightly more rounded.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;">There was a short verticle climb to get oto the left
hump. Jabbing my ice axe into the hard snow and kicking straight forward with
my crampons, I thought of Krakaur´s ice climbing articles I`d read and tried
not to think about the drop below. I could hear Arones´s voice from below in
his slurred accent, "slowly, slowly!" Thanks for the advice, hombre.
He was lucky I wasn`t completely clueless about this stuff despite having never
put crampons on my feet beforethat day. Otherwise I`d be falling and pulling
him right down with me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">At the top of that climb, my energy was gone. I used
the excuse of taking pictures to to rest. My water was frozen. Although we were
far ahead of everyone else, Ed was very much in the competetive mindset and
acted as my cheerleader. The next slope was maybe a fifty degree slope and walkable with
crampons, but I couldn`t quite manage and crawled. "Stand up! Come on! We
only have a tiny bit to go!" I was frustrated at him and thankful at the
same time. I stood up. I was so, so tired. The wind blasted us and every couple
steps we had to hunker down lest we be blown off the cliff. The summit was so
close. So close, yet so far away, and each step was an incredible effort. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">All arond us, the sun rose above the surrounding peaks and
bathed the snowcaps in a dusty pink. Orange light rimmed the rhorizon. The
curves and contours of the ridges around us revealed themselves in sharp blue contrast.
The sky began to bleed upwards in a brilliant turquoise. Every couple steps, my
leg sank completely in the snow and I fell forward, dragged by the rope. I was
angry. "I`m trying my best you guys!" I screamed. The sky`s blue deepend.
The wind howled. And suddenly- we made it! The summit! 5,686 meters! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"> We summited at 6:30
AM, after 3.5 hours of climbing; estimated to take 6 hours, 4 if you`re fast.
Ed jabbed his ice axe into thesnow like a flag; I collapsed onto the ground and
started to cry. I felt exactly like I do after running a 4090 meter race. I lay
there, without speaking, heaving, while the others tried to figure out if I was
ok or not. I drank some ice and was ok. I stood up and we snapped some pictures.
It didn`t feel real. We jumped about and yelled and took in the view until we
saw the next team approaching the vertical section, then scooted out. Time to go
almost 1,000 meters back down.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We got to the bottom of the verticle section and I looked
upto see climbers atop the monstrous ice hill in a patch of light; the wind
blew swirls of snow off of the top; everything was a shade of blue. Arones encouraged
us to continue on down because we were in a section dangerous during the
day. Now with the light I could see why.
To our left, layer upon layer of snow and ice rose hundreds of meters into the
sky and an overhanging ledge dripped with fifty foot icicles sharp as knives.
In front of us, the endless hills revealed themselves to be floating among snow
freckled with holes and cravasses. Ok, let`s get this over with.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"> We downclimbed as
quickly as we could without being too hasty until we reached a safer section
and ate some much needed food. In total our descent didn`t take more then a
couple hours. As we neared the bottom, my fatigue began to catch up with me. We
stumbled along; I wished I had skis. I realized that, despite the wind, we had
been extremely lucky with the weather. The dry seaon really was coming along.
Our wet day at Lago Churup must have been one of the last really rainy days, and
it hadn`t rained since Night 2 on Santa Cruz. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"> Finally we reached
the end of the glacier. It took forever to get my crampons, gaters and harness
off. We still had to rock climb down. We had just conquered an almost 6,000
meter mountain, the view was breathtaking, and all I wanted to do was go to sleep.
Actually, I knew acutely that I had never had to sleep, eat and drink so badly
all at once in my life.When we finally reached Campo Morena, I did all of those
except sleep. I had a bit of a headache, but mostly I was just really, really
tired. Arones boiled us water for tea, and Ed and I packed up and set down the
tent. As much as I wanted to go right to sleep, I knew we still had 900 meters
of hill to descend before we could get picked up and sleep in the van.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The walk down the hill was horrible. It seemed much steeper than I`d remembered. It was beautiful- sparkling emerald grass blinking with dew,wildflowers, bubbling nrooks and icicle waterfalls; the weather was ideal, the sky as blue as can be, the surrounding mountains gleaming. But I was pissed. I was overheating in the strengthening sun. I kept slipping on mud and ice and falling down the hill. It was around 11 and we had been awake for 10 hours already. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">When the van picked us up around 1, all I wanted to do was sleep, but the road was so bumpy that sleeping was absoutey impossible. We were dropped off at the tour agency and I dumped my filthy borrowed gear on thefloor and we stumbled back to the hostel. I had already reserved a room for myself tha night; Ed was taking the night bus to Lima to meet his sister at the airport. We grabbed our stuff from the storage room and packed, took showers, and napped. It was a difficult evening.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"> I should have slept but I wanted to spend some tiem with Ed before he had to leave me for four days or something crazy like that (it turned out to be only about 2 days). We had been traveling together for the last 6 weeks. We had climbed sand dunes and mountains together, built houses an jacked boats together, lost at beerpong together. But I couldn`t leave Huaraz just yet. I`d had three little friends locked up and waiting on me for five months: My two climbings shoes and my harness.<o:p></o:p></span></div>Emma Lodeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16592002908904167336noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5524868153484276154.post-74151665264676983522012-06-07T16:00:00.003-07:002012-07-18T07:48:19.922-07:00Santa Cruz Trek<br />
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Have you ever had the deep, distinct
feeling that you are, at the very moment, wrapped in one of the most
beautiful moments of your life? Ever been so present, so captured by
your surroundings and the time and place that everything else in the
world and in your life recedes into oblivion? Ever felt absolute,
utter contentment and peace?
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That feeling must arise from a myriad
of situations, places and combinations of events, but I cannot
imagine geting that gripping sensation more strongly than when in the
wild. And more so even, in the mountains. Deep in the Peruvian Andes,
for example, three days away from any sign of civilization.</div>
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And yes, you may have guessed, that was
me, I was there. A four day trek of the Cordillera Blanca called the
Santa Cruz Loop. It`s a popular hike and you`re likely to see others
on the trail, but trekking sans house, field, or road delivers its
own poignancy that a couple other trekkers can`t soil.</div>
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After we got back from our
more-intense-than-alotted-for Lake Churup trek, Ed and I decided to
give ourselves a day of rest and planning. We hadn`t eaten in quite
some time; since we missed out on dinner out the night before we
decided to treat ourselves to a big fancy breaktfast.
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There are two cafes in Huaraz that I`ve
gotten raving recommendations for- Cafe Andino and Cafe California.
We decided on Cafe Andino for a late breaktfast.
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If I could design my own cafe, complete
with menu, decor, atmosphere, setting and view, it would look exactly
like Cafe Andino. It`s situated up on the third and fourth floor of a
building just off the center square, with spectacular views of the
Cordilera Blanca out the wide upstairs windows. Its outfitted with
comfy, sofa like chair sand coffee tables; they even have a library,
specializing in travel and mountaineering books, in English. So.....
I could spend a week straight in that place.
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I ordered coffee and
yogurt/granola/fruit. I was in heaven. On the internal balcoiny rail
sit stacks of magazines- National Geographic, the New Yorker, and an
impressive array of climbing magazines from around the world. We had
a lesiurly breaktfast and a long, reflective chat about PSF: An ideal
morning. Could really get used to a lifestyle of trekking for a
couple days, spending a couple days at a cafe, and then trekking
again. Drinking coffee and reading about montains and then being in
mountains. Love it.
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Around 2, we leapt into action. We had
one day to figure out our trekking schedule foir the rest of the
week. We wandered around Huaraz for several hours, popping into a
handful of the 100+ trekking companies in the city to compare prices
and muse about whether they seemed the type to screw you over or
provide ancient equiptment or somehow get you killed. It was easy to
get a gut feeling on wheter or not a company seemed reputable. We
eventually decided on a very professional agency and made our plan:
Four day Santa Cruz trek for three, and a Vallunaraju for two.</div>
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We only had four days with Laura as she
already had a night bus to Lima booked on Sunday night. So, we`d get
back just in time on Sunday for Laura to be on her way, and on Monday
Ed and I would do some real mountaineering on Vallunaraju in time for
his night bus on Tuesday. It would be a total of six days straight
trekking.
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With everything sorted, we had fully
wandered around all of central Huaraz. Time to descend from its
bright streets, down into the market to buy dinner- Lentils,
tomatoes, and avocados for a stew. As evening set, we wandered on to
try out the other cafe famous among Gringos, Cafe California. We
brought journals and books and got tea. The cafe is just as charming
as Andnos but with a smaller, cuter, coffee house feel. I could have
spent much more than an hour there writing and reading the huge
selection of books on the Andes and the Cordilleras around Huaraz.
I`m definitely going to carve myself out a “cafe day” after our
trek lineup.
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The market <br />
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<br />
Cafe California<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
As I sipped my Earl Gray, the sky
darkened and it began to pour. We still ahd to buy snacks and waters
at the supermarket for the trek, so we dashed through the rain and
sopping streets to load up on crackers, bread and bananas. With the
cold and the rain back suddenly I started to get concerned about our
trek- I had discovered the inadequacy of my rain jacket the night
before at Churup, and I knew we would all be cold and miserable for
days if it rained.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We cooked our dinner int he hostel
kitchen, which turend out ot be delicious (avocado makes everything
creamy and amazing) and started to pack our bags. We had made
arrangements with the guesthouse owner to store our big rucksacks in
the hostel during our trek, and had our room rebooked for Sunday
night. We had to pack absolutely everything up by ten that night. Of
course, none of us had thought ahead to this. We had made ourselves
quite at home, and things were tossed all about the floor. It was a
girm night. We packed mostly in silence, tired, knowing we had the
alarm set for five the next morning. I was terrified that I would be
too cold., and I think the others were as well.
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
That night my wet hair froze me from my
shower as I slept. I was plagued with anxiety ridden dreams of not
having enough warm clothes to bring along; of shivering for days. I
was awake far before the alarm rang.
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<br /></div>
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The sun rose pale orange and we geared
up and sat on the doorstep in the bitter cold. I shivered in my
fleece shirt, fleece jacket, hat, wool socks and long pants.
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The bus was a half an hour late. When
we got on, we were surprised by quite a crowd- our group of six had
somehow morphed into a thirteen head party. After picking out the
Hebrew floating in the air, we realized the addition was a group of
seven Israelis, all decked out in the fanciest of outdoor equiptment,
but all relatively out of shape from months of partying and beaches.
Three remained.
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
One was our buddy from Churup,
Sebastian, who we were to discover had managed to arrive in Peru from
Germany without taking a single plane. He also has a canny knack for
getting away with doing pretty much everything for free. He has only
slept in a hostel once; instead he knocks on doors of locals, flashes
a smile, and asks if they have an empty bed. That`s what he`s been
doing in Huaraz. His trick for the Santa Cruz trek was simply to
offer his services as an “assistant guide” (of course he has zero
guiding experience), and consequently only had to pay the 65 sole
park fee for the whole trek (which he tried to get around as well but
got caught).
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The other two were 1) a Swede also by
the name of Sebastian, confusingly enough- He was taking a work break
to try to jam in as many countries and experiences he could; quite
the opposite of German Sebastian. He apparently hadn´t slept in a
bed for months; had been trekking and night bussing. 2) Clement, a
French student off from a University internship in Lima, who trekked
so fast he missed lunch almost every day and we frequently lost him
out in the beyond among the hills.
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We rolled out of Huaraz and began one
of the most spectacular bus rides of my life. Halfway along we made a
pitstop in Yungay for breakfast. We had been warned of this surprise
additional expenditure, so we had come prepared with our own food in
rebellion. On the other hand, I was more than happy to grab a cup of
coffee.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
It was my first exposure to a common
phenomenon in Peru- you ask for “cafe con leche” and instead of
getting coffe with milk on the side, you get milk with coffee on the
side. I was annoyed at first, but then realized that the “coffee”
bordered on espresso, and I had what essentially was a whole milk
latte. Really cannot complain about that.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Back in the van, the road began to
climb massive green cliffs splotched with green puddle like fields in
amoeba like squiggles, so much more aesthetic than our plain
patchwork farmland back home. They were a million different shades of
brilliant green, some red; the foreground to turquoise and blue
receding cliffs. They dripped down into a lush valley pepered with
cottages. The mountain tips were just the level of the clouds, and
massive cottonball cumulous puffers climed up and over the raggedy
peaks. One looked like a lamb prancing over a hill like counting
sheep, fluffy face in the air and hooves kicking over towards the
valley.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Our bus climbed and wound up and up,
along a terrifyingly thin road carved into the mountainside. Below,
the scene became more and more idyllic, like a dream. Peruvian men
and women in rainbow colored traditional dress led miniature sheep
and cows through their villages; little streams trickled through the
lush canyons. Tiny bungaloes perched on the hills amidst the sloped,
clinging terraced pots. From our vantage point it was a miniature
world out of a storybook. The people were like the woven worrydolls
you put unber your pillow to ward off bad dreams; the arimals
adorablye diminutive. I was entraced by this miniature world when I
realized the seemingly shrunken sizes were really just an optical
illusion; a contrast to the massive hills and towering mountains, the
oversized nature surrounding and dominating human influence.
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The ride anded and our trek begain in
Cashapampa. It´s the quintessential Peruvian mountain village; I
really couldn´t imagine a more beautiful place to live. Forget my
anxieties over blizzards, howling winds and subzero temeratures- the
sun was beaming brilliantly enough to remove all my layers and even
put on some sunscreen. The dark, stormy night and frigid morning
seemed ages ago.
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Me and Laura and Ed Before Picture <br />
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Trekkers were only required to carry
our clothes, lunch, snacks, and toiletries; our tents, sleeping bags,
dinner and breaktfast were all loaded onto the backs of donkies. (I
later learned that some of the hikers deposited much of their
personal gear onto the donkey`s backs as well, but with a group of 15
it was probably good we didn`t all come up with that sneaky idea.</div>
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Myself, I couldn`t beleive the luxury
of our setup. I was more than overjoyed to be going backpacking as a
CLIENT- no stress, no responsibility, just walk, look around at the
incredible naturaleza, and be pampered. We got off on a great start-
in the first 20 minutes I had already decided this was one of the
most beautiful treks I´d ever done.
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For the entire first day we followed a
river, which at moments is a stream, then a rushing waterfall, then
barely a trickle.- We climbed over bleached white rocks deposited by
the river´s former rainy season strengh; just months ago it had
filled the entire valley, and even created landslides which rendered
the path impassable. The Santa Cruz trek was closed for much of late
winter.
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Lunch</div>
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Can you see Tiny Ed<br />
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Message left behind for Laura and I! :) <br />
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Rising over the valley, dark granite
cliffs chipped with gold raked the heavens like claws, slightly
overhanging the green valley. We hiked about 4 and a half hours the
first day- just a stroll. In the last hour, our first snowcapped
mountain showed its face through the valley. As we neared our home
for the ngiht, an array of multicolored tents revealed themselves in
the field- The guides had run ahead with the donks and set everything
up for us. The glaciated Cordillera Blanca danced on the horizon, our
motivating jewels for the next day!</div>
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See our tents at the bottom?</div>
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We arrived around 2:30, so we had an
entire afternoon to kill; so did the wild ponies and shaggy cows that
roamed about amongst the tents. Unfortunately, it got cold almost
immediately after we arrived, and the layers went back on.</div>
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The guides had set up a common tent
complete with table and chairs, and we gathered inside to pass the
time playing cards. We were served popcorn and coca leaf tea; we
taught each other tidbits of French, Hebrew, German and Swedish. I
only remember a handful: The Hebrew expressions BENZONA!! (F%&k!)
and SABABA!! (COOL!), only effective when delivered with force and
emotion; and the only French phrase easy enough for me to remember
(also easy to remember because I was able to use about a million time
sin the next several days): “Le Montan e si bel” (The mountain is
beautiful) (Probably nothing close to the actual spelling).
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Dinner was soup, chicken and rice. No
surprise for Peru but quite a luxury when camping. To my dismay it
started to rain at about 5:30. At least we all had our gear in the
tent- it`s fine, right? Wrong. Our tent was a bit shabby and as we
sat cozily in the common tent, rain was leaking through our rainfly.
It also didn`t have stakes in the sides, so the rainfly pressed in on
the tent itself, rendering the waterproofeness completely useless and
soaking anything touching the walls. By the time we noticed, one
sleepingbag was soaked. Luckily someone had an extra. The guides
kindly slapped a loose sheet of plastic over the roof of the tent to
solve the problem, and we tried to pull the fly out by pinning it
with rocks. Thank the lord it stopped raining around 8 and we hopped
off to bed.</div>
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I slept badly again. At first I though
tit was the coca tea- Coca leaves give you energy, rght? I mean, you
make cocaine out of them. One day on Earthbags, Isaias, a Mexican
doing his masters on adobe and earthbag construction, gave us all
coca leaves to chew, insisting that we would be “superhuman” and
have boundless energy all day. Not so. I was a bit confused. So when
Laura explained that the leaf itself is not a stimulant but rather
just contains loads of vitamins and antioxidants, I beleived her.
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We were woken up at 6- “Amigos! Desayuno!” and made the dash
to the warmer breakfast tent for coffee, rolls and scrambled eggs.
Anyone who has been camping understands the horror of having to
extract yourself from a deliciously warm sleeping bag and a
deliciously warm sleep and venture out into the frostbitten air. Once
again I had every single layer on.<br />
<br />
After breakfast we packed our bags and all realized at about
the same time that we hadn’t been given water. We had been told by
the agency to bring only water for the first day; I assumed that
meant water would just be handed to us at some point. It became
apparent that wasn’t going to happen. We filled our bottles in the
river while watching a cow take a poop in it upstream. Thank god
Clement had brought enough water purification tablets to share, or
I’m pretty sure we would all have had the runs within hours.
<br />
<br />
The six non Israelis in the group were packed up and ready to go,
freezing our asses off and huddling like penguins. Let’s move,
let’s go! The guides finally let us go early and we broke free like
racehorses and practically jogged down the valley. The rising sun
streamed through between the peaks and splashed us in white rays and
long black shadows. We walked towards the sun and towards the
mountains. Our goal for the day was Alpamayo, the legendary “most
beautiful mountain in the world”- possibly the second most. I want
to know who is put in charge of making these decisions.
<br />
<br />
As we walked, glaciated spires began to peek out of hiding; they
peered over the rock cliffs, friendly abominable snow monsters with
teasing toothy grins. No more hiding, we know you’re there! The
cliffs were diamond coated where the sun hit their faces. We passed
through swamps and lakes reflecting brilliant cobalts, through fields
of wild mountain flowers.
<br />
<br />
Sebastian the Deutsch, being the assistant guide, had been put in
charge of leading the horse by a rope. You could tell he was loving
it. He was supposed to hang out in the back of the group to make sure
we didn’t leave anyone behind, but he kept popping up in front with
his trusty steed an particular hiking outfit: Beret, zip up hoodie,
shorts and fuzzy striped alpaca socks pulled up to his knees.
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Sebastian´s horse in the campsite<br />
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The river bed widened and the river thinned until the valley was
something like a desert. Trains of donkeys from other treks crossed
the vast dry expanse, tiny under the mountains, like a procession out
of the bible. Before our crossing we stopped to wait with Sebastian
for the others so he could resume his duty as back guide. Ed,
Sebastian the Swede and Clement grew impatient and trekked on.
Indecisive, I waited a bit longer and then started off on my own. The
valley was wider than I thought and I actually had no idea where I
was going- we were supposed to meet at a spot called “El Cruz”
where we would split up into two groups, one to trek up to Alpamayo
basecamp and one to head straight to our camp. Obviously I was going
to see Alpamayo. The Swedish dude had just insisted that the mountain
was the very mountain in the Paramount Logo! I pictured a snowy,
pristine campground and Alpamayo’s handsome face beaming down,
dramatic Paramount music thundering in the background.
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I sort of just kept walking along the river valley until I heard
my name screamed out of the bankside trees a bit behind. “Emma! In
here!” Definitely would not have known where to turn off otherwise.
Far behind, Laura ended up making the whole crossing on horseback,
karma for waiting with Sebastian like a patient friend.
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We snacked and waited under the trees for the guides. When we were
given permission to start up the hill to the “mirador” we cracked
on. Not once during the trek were the guides in front. I’m not sure
whether that’s good protocol, especially because we kept on losing
Clement, but it was sure nice to be able to go at my own pace for
once.
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I was expecting an arduous climb up to the famed Alpamayo
basecamp, but basically it was just a series of switchbacks and we
got to the top in less than an hour. Looking back, you could see the
whole yellowed river valley and a gigantic yellow slide slicing into
the mountain like someone had cut the best slice of cake out of the
middle; it dumped sandy soil into the valley, sediment that I suppose
was deposited by the rushing glacial river of its former grandeur.
Geological features of unthinkable proportions from a bird’s eye
view, put into a perspective our human minds could just begin to wrap
around.
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<br />
I was incredulous when we arrived- this is it? We were on a grassy
field, and Alpamayo was still in the distance and covered with
clouds. Oh. I don’t think that’s the Paramount logo. I was also
getting a bit suspicious of our guides time and difficulty
estimations. Today was supposed to be the hardest day, eight hours
uphill. I’m pretty sure we walked less than an hour uphill.
Although I’d rather have my guide underestimate my speed so I can
feel like a machine.
<br />
<br />
We waited and waited for the others. A passerby told us there was
a beautiful lake just about an hour’s walk up. Sweet! If Alpamayo
didn’t do herself justice, maybe the lake would. Should we go? Yeah
probably not the best idea without the guides knowing. Me, Ed, Laura
and Sebastian squared sat there starting to shiver. It felt like
someone was missing. Clement! Again! After quizzing a downclimbing
hiker, we deduced that he was already at the lake. Alright, now we
had to go.<br />
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Alpamayo <br />
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River valley aerial view <br />
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A bit later the guides arrived with lunch, which of course Clement
missed again. As soon as we were set free we dashed up to the lake.
THAT was absolutely worth it and made up for any anticlimactics
regarding a certain second most beautiful mountain in the world. The
lake was pooling straight out of the glacier, only feet away, and
parts of the glacier came along- gigantic floating chunks of ice like
mini icebergs.<br />
<br />
The water was a fluorescent turquoise, the surrounding
mountains pure white crystal, the sky a piercing blue. It was
incredible. Our guide Valerio, at once a mischievous little kid, ran
down to the water and started throwing ice blocks about. He swung
across a line of poles like a monkey and skipped across the floating
ice. I followed him but only dared to stand on the ice for a couple
seconds at a time. Unexpected events are always those to blow you
away; the lake was 100% the highlight of the day.<br />
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<br />
Our walk down involved traversing a grassy hill on a basically
nonexistent dirt trail for hours, every five minutes of which we had
to leap up the slippery hill to avoid passing wild cows who
apparently also take advantage of our footpath (or perhaps it’s
really theirs?)
<br />
<br />
That day, it started to rain before we even go to camp. GAH! Ed
arrived first and was quick to lay claims on a different tent from
the night before. Of course, minutes after we had arranged all our
stuff inside, we discovered it had the exact same problem. We fixed
it in the same way. Not much more we could do. Ed, Laura and I
claimed seats in the dining tent while the others huddled in their
tents; that night we literally couldn’t all fit inside. I was
perplexed until I realized that the night before Ed and I had been
fixing the tent during dinner and we had done something of a swap
out. At first a couple Israeli girls surrendered unhappily to eating
their soup out in the rain. Ouch. Then we removed the table so some
people could sit on the floor.
<br />
<br />
Anyway it was grim. The cuisine of the night was tuna pasta, which
a good amount of campers had major issues with. The complaints were
increasing and I was starting to get frustrated. For the love of God,
we’re camping, and I’m pretty sure the food I was being served on
that trip was better than any food I’d had while camping, and I
didn’t even have to make it.
<br />
<br />
I started to wonder about the group dynamics. How would this have
been different if it had only been six of us like promised? Big
groups on treks are almost never your friend. We probably would have
gotten water boiled for us as a small group, but with 15 there’s
just no way. The dining tent was too packed for movement, and the few
Hebrew words I had learned didn’t help much when all I could hear
was Hebrew on all sides. Ever so often I would pick up on something:
“Steim! Three! I know that one! You want three spoonfuls of
sugar?!” That was exciting.<br />
<br />
Again, sleep eluded me. I was awake before the sun rose and lay
there listening. Our tent was next to the guide’s tent (they slept
in the groundless cooking and eating tents, and as far as I know
didn’t have pads or maybe even sleeping bags). There was a radio
on, or someone’s cell, and they were laughing (most likely at our
expense). I unzipped the fly and pushed my face right into the fuzzy
black face and shining eyes of a cow. Jesus! It must have been
sniffing at the zipper.
<br />
<br />
I withdrew and waited for it to move. When I finally wriggled into
the cold, the mountains were glowing in the predawn light like
phantasmal ghosts. I stood gazing at them in fascination until I
could feel the frostbite coming and ducked into the kitchen tent with
its gaslamp.
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
We had two guides, Valerio and Isabela, and two cook/donkey guides
(and most importantly, Sebastian). All four Peruvians were kind,
gregarious, and passionate about the mountains. If they wanted to,
I’m sure they could have flown through the Santa Cruz circuit in
four hours. I couldn’t fathom their patience. I know what it can be
like. I was talking to another guide the other day about the
profession, and he offered wise council: “You just can’t confuse
your passion with your work,” he explained. At first I wanted to
retort, almost defensive. “Look, guides who only work, who spend
all their time in the mountinas they love with clients, who don’t
go out in those places with friends and have a good time, they get
bored of it all. They lose their passion. They begin to associate the
treks they used to love with their annoying clients.” Hmmm. There’s
a lot of truth in that. I definitely got sick of El Hoyo, Telica, and
Cerro Negro after only 3 months; I could imagine that after ten years
even Santa Cruz could become routine.<br />
<br />
I felt pretty bad for them when certain members of our group
managed to find problems with the very tasty breakfast rolls- there
was a bit of yellow in the center. It wasn’t mold, probably more
like freezer burn, but it was as HUGE problem. Ay. I still couldn’t
understand Hebrew, but I could tell that conversations were revolving
around hummus and falafel more and more every minute.<br />
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Campsite in the morning<br />
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<br />
It was the third day, and would be our highest- we were told we
would have six hours of uphill climbing to the pass, Punta Union, at
4750 meters. Of course our six hour climb took two hours. I ran
ahead, a bit behind Clement, and that feeling struck me: I couldn’t
believe where I was. Into the Wild was in my head; the sun burned
behind the mountains, below, small lakes in different shades of blue
pooled in the valley, arranged in an arc. I teared up a bit again.
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
The six of us got to a vista point and soaked in the moment in
silence.We starte talking about Into the Wild and how the film and
book had inspired us. It is so great to be able to talk to people who
feel the same way about the spirit behind the story, who had been
inspired to travel by it, even if Chris McCandless may hae been
unprepared or made some self destructive decisions. It doesn’t
matter. It’s not about that. It’s about THIS. It’s about HERE.
It’s about NOW.
<br />
<br />
Punta Union was even better. A valley on one side and a valley on
the other, each different and majestic in its own way. We could see
everything- the Cordillera Blanca, the Cordillera Huaywash,
everything in between. Ed and I climbed onto a boulder where we could
watch each person approaching miles and miles away. We waited for two
hours for our group to gather- they were still two hours faster than
expected. We celebrated with avocado sandwiches- delicious- which
apparently were too horrid to be eaten by certain members of the
party who seemed to think they would starve on that sort of fuel. The
guides were obviously getting pretty mad about all this, and it
dampened the blissful, euphoric mood.<br />
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<br />
The wind whipped us on the other side of the pass, but the sun was
strong. We ran ahead and sunbathed on some massive flat rocks in
silence before everyone else caught up. Only as peaceful, blissful,
content as you can be in such a place.<br />
<br />
From that point on, it was downhill. I slowed my pace and walked
alone between the fast and slow groups, trying to drink in the last
of the mountains. Deep blue lakes reflected brown razorblade ridges,
and we walked down along a building river and through marshes and
into a bit of forest.<br />
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Two little boys appeared carrying fish on a line. I smiled and
then did a double take- how did THEY get here?! What’s going on…
We walked farther and a little girl appeard. Then a couple
traditionally dressed women. I was beginning to understand. This, my
friend, was the fringes of civilization. Our escape into the wild was
soon to come to an end.<br />
<br />
Really shocking, though, was what was going on at our campsite.
Just about ten feet away from where trekkers sat chatting in the
grass, a group of village women sat with a spread of for sale items
on blankets. Coca Cola, artisan crafts, beer… Absolute culture
shock. The guides brought us popcorn again and little kids wandered
over to beg for food.
<br />
<br />
To my immense delight, Laura and Ed had already claimed an awesome
tent. Its previous owners were pissed: NO swapping. Hey, first come
first serve! We spent about thirty minutes admiring the features of
our new home: Pockets! Zippers! You guys, look- I can straighten my
legs! It was just like Christmas.<br />
<br />
The cooks went on strike that night; they had had enough. We
didn’t get fed until about eight, at which point I was already
asleep inside the dining tent. I slept well that night. I credit the
tent.<br />
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Our last camp area.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
For our last morning, we got PANCAKES!
The guides must have bought fresh eggs and butter from the nearby
town. The whole day was supposed to be downhill, and it ended up
being uphill the entire time. I wasn’t complaining, I’m not a fan
of downhill at all. The guides let the six of us go ahead again,
which probably wasn’t a good idea. The trail wandered up emerald
grassy hills into a town, and suddenly trails and streets diverged
everywhere. Luckily one person remembered our destination was a town
called Vaqueria, so we were able to ask locals the way.
</div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
What a beautiful place to live. I peered into houses and saw
farmers sipping coffee on hill-facing balconies that should haave
cost a million dollars. I saw hills fading from brilliant green to
brilliant blue in cascades. I saw classic adobe cottages with red
tile roofs and washing blowing oin the breeze. I saw guinea pig
breeding cages (you know what that means).
<br />
<br />
Vaqueria is way, way, wayyyy up. I had no idea. When they said
“highway” I didn’t expect it to be basically in the heavens. We
climbed and climbed and felt like we were going to wrong way but
finally made it at about 9:00. Vaqueria is not a cattle town, as its
name would suggest. It’s a cluster of huts along the highway at the
top of the mountain. We sat in the sun just looking at the scene
below, something you’d think only exists in postcards and
calanders. The bus was a couple hours late but it didn’t matter; we
were it in the most beautiful place in the world.
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<br />
I expected a long and boring busride home. NOT so. We actually
managed to climb even higher, passing right beside scores of 6,000
meter peaks, including Mt. Huascaran, the highest in Peru. The bus
stopped at the highest point so we could jump out and take pictures.
Above, the Cordillera Blanca lined the horizon. Below, a squiggly
white line zigzagged haphazardly down the nearby vertical cliff. What
is that? Some insane river? Oh mother of God it’s the road. We
actually have to drive on that.<br />
<br />
Yes, it was just as scary as it looked. My mind kept jumping to a
book I had just read, “Learning to Breathe”. It’s about an
American journalist nearly being killed when her bus clipped another
on a highway just like this in Tibet. Let’s just say that during
that ride I was very, very acutely aware of my mortality. The driver
careened around the curves, blasting the horn as a warning.
<br />
<br />
I’m no pussy when it comes to adrenaline and my heart was in my
throat and I was crossing myelf every five seconds and chanting
silent prayers. And there it came, my worst nightmare: Another bus
barreling towards ours. Holysh*tholysh*tholysh*t we weren’t going
to be able to pass.<br />
<br />
Unlike in “Learning to Breathe”, our bus actually stopped.
(That’s why I am able to write this right now.) Now what? No. It
can’t be. Our bus was BACKING UP. I was sweating like a pig and
clutching Ed’s hand white knuckled. My life flashed before my eyes.
At least I get to die in a beautiful place. We backed up for about 2
neverending minutes, and then it was over, and the other bus passed.
Still I didn’t breathe until we were on flat ground.<br />
<br />
Then the rest of the ride was a bore. I slept a bit but was
exhausted by the time we arrived in Huaraz. NO time to be exhausted
though, we had half a million things to do that night: It was Laura’s
last night in Peru, and Ed and I had to get ready to climb a 5,700
meter peak the next morning. Our plan was to have a leisurly evening
in Café Andino playing scrabble, but that didn’t exactly happen.
We did go to Café Andino but it was after 8:00 and I could barely
keep my eyes open to swallow my quesadilla. We said bye to Laura and
packed, and then I got to sleep in a BED! And I slept more deeply
than I had in weeks.<br />
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Mt. Huascaran<br />
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<br />Emma Lodeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16592002908904167336noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5524868153484276154.post-9710571640863728702012-05-30T17:57:00.000-07:002012-07-18T07:46:07.211-07:00HUARAZ!!!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 17px;">The night bus to Huaraz left the station in Lima at 10:30. Me, Sarah and Ed went out for a nice dinner in Lima (ok, nice for our standards) and then we had to say our goodbyes; Sarah had a volunteer commitment in Ecuador she couldn´t change, so wouldn’t be joining us in Huaraz. We were saying bye in her hostel when I realized it was 10:10; Ed and I gave one last hug and ran out the door. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />Night bus: Best travel option. You get a bed and transportation for one price. Ok, not a bed. But either way you aren´t paying for a hostel that night. I slept the first couple hours, then woke up around 3:30 and chatted with Ed for an hour or so. The bus floated along midnight blue mountain scapes; twinkling orange lights from cities below warmed the rocky ledges below. It felt like night scene out of the Polar Express.<br /><br />Ten minutes before we arrived in Huaraz, I was rudely awakened by the attendant ripping the warm blanket off of my peacefully sleeping body. My skin prickled with the cold. I was pissed! How can you just tear someone´s blanket away from them as they´re sleeping! <br /><br />Out the window- Morning- Huaraz. Although the sun had risen, the sky was still a dark gray. My first thoughts were: I´m at home! Zooming through the cascade mountain passes towards Leavenworth or Snoqualmie. It could have been the Skagit River far below to the left. <br /><br />Suddenly realizing my bladder was screaming I leapt up to use the baño right as the bus began thwacking about some last minute hairpin turns and the first thing I did as I stood up was fall spread-eagled into some Peruvians’ lap. I clung to the handrail for dear life and found the toilet flooded with what I hoped wasn´t pee, ended up trapped there and had to violently ram the door back open, fall out in a heap. Welcome to Huaraz.<br /><br />Welcome to HUARAZ! Made it to the place of my dreams. Ed and I stumbled off the bus, totally out of it, and into the crisp mountain air. My reaction now was that it wasn´t as cold as I had expected, and in my fleece, yoga pants, and flip-flops, I was comfortable. It was 6:30 in the morning and the sun had risen enough to bathe the virgin sky in a pale robin´s egg blue; freckles of clouds sprinkled about in bands like tossings of powdered sugar.<br /><br />And there, directly in front of us, the hills. They rise almost vertically at the fringe of the city in green and brown steps; the lushest, greenest green I have seen for a long, long time. Evergreens sweep up the slopes in crescents and the red brown roof tiles of cottages dot and cluster the foothills. <br /><br />And beyond the green, MOUNTAINS. Real, 6,000 meter peaks, glistening the brightest white in the morning light. Etched, craggy faces, diamond snow patches painting the granite, jagged peaks and ridges. THIS is what I have been waiting for. Wild, raw, fierce; far more rugged, far taller than the Cascades, taller than the Alps, and far more austere... In fact, the Andes range, which spans the entire continent of South America from Colombia to the tip of Argentina´s tail, is the second highest in the world after the Himalaya. At 7,000 kilometers long, it is the longest continental range in the world. <br /><br />The earthquake I felt a couple weeks ago in Pisco was a result of the oceanic plate sliding under the South American plate. The subduction of the plate created, and is still affecting, the Andes mountain far from the coast. The Andes are a part of the Pacific Rim of Fire, as are the Maribios volcanoes I climbed in Nicaragua, and the Cascades. The volcanoes in Nicaragua were extremely active, as are those in Guatemala (where Quetzaltrekkers originated). There aren´t any active volcanoes anywhere around here, which i am glad for; I´ve had my fair share. <br /><br />The highest Andean peak is Mt. Aconcagua in Argentina (obviously also the tallest in South America, making it one of the Seven Summits), at 6,962 meters. Aconcagua is also the second highest outside the Himalaya. Mt. Everest towers above Aconcagua at 8,840 meters. That gives you a little taste of how much high the Himalayan peaks are than any other in the world. <br /><br />The highest peak in Peru is Huascaran, and measures 6,768 meters. Actually it’s sitting right here next to Huaraz. Huaraz lies in a valley hugged by the Cordillera Blanca to the West and the Cordillera Negra to the East. The Cordillera Blanca holds all the really tall peaks and is shaped like a white crescent moon; the Cordillera Negra is too low to be snowcapped, but holds some of the best rock-climbing in Peru. A bit farther South lies the Cordillera Huaywash, almost as tall as the Cordillera Blanca. Apparently the Huaywash circuit is the second most beautiful trek in the world. It`s also where Touching the Void took place. <br /><br />Although in a valley, Huaraz itself is at 3090 meters. From above, the tile roofs of the city look like brown eggs sitting in the basket of the surrounding mountains, one woven of granite and green, with a rim of brilliant white. Huaraz is awesome. Period. Its name has been floating in my mind since early during my time at Quetzaltrekkers when a client I bonded with told me of it. I remember sitting in Bigfoot discussing climbing over pizza after our trek, and listening in jaw dropped disbelief as he described the town and the surrounding mountains. Since that evening, I´ve heard from a handful of fellow travelers about how amazing the area is; how trekking here was their favorite part of their journeys in South America.<br /><br />If you check it out in a guidebook, Huaraz is sold to be the "trekking capitol of Peru”. Walking around town, I can see the truth in that statement. Short but strong and lean, Andean climbers, true mountain men, pass by with ropes slung across their shoulders; high tech fleeces and down jackets; hiking boots everywhere. One every corner stands a mountaineering gear shop and a couple climbing agencies.<br /><br />Seconds after The Ed and I slung our packs on our shoulders and were blinking blearily in the bus lot, a local with a broad smile and classic sparkling, almost Asian like Andean eyes popped up out of nowhere and showed us a card for "El Jakal Hostel". Conveniently, we had already booked a room in that hostel. Laura, our friend from PSF, had left two weeks after I arrived and we had agreed to meet her in Huaraz on this date way back in April. We´d been in contact since, and as she arrived in Huaraz a couple days before we, she had already booked us a three person room. <br /><br />Our new Peruvian friend smiled, laughed, and said he´d walk us to the hostel. It had rained during the night, and the puddle patched pavement reflected snowy peaks. Women in traditional Andean dressed strolled past with brightly pattered sacks of potatoes, corn, and quinoa, our favorite energy food. (Quinoa is majorly grown in Peru and exported abroad. Similar to coffee in Latin America, internal prices for quinoa are very high and locals are often unable to eat the food they gown in their own back yards). </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">Hostel Jakal is centrally located, just a couple blocks from the Central Square. Announcing itself subtly with a tiny, ornate black sign, the entrance is an everyday wooden door; it would have been hard to find without our cheery friend. Inside, morning light from the garden courtyard plays on creamy adobe walls and large windows with handsome cedar frames look out onto the mountains. It´s not really a hostel but more like a guesthouse; the building is owned by a very friendly family who occupy all the first floor rooms. There is a homey kitchen and a dining room table and livingroom with children´s toys for the little grandson on the rug. You really feel like you´ve been invited into someone´s home. <br /><br />Laura had been staying in a different room; we had to wake her to transfer all of our stuff into the new bigger quarters. The view from our room is literally breathtaking. We are situated on the third floor, a balcony rimmed wing to ourselves. As the hostel is on a hill rising from center-town, you can see everything. The roofs of Huaraz spread below and the mountain peaks flair up above like a ring of emerald and diamond flames. <br /><br />Standing on the balcony, looking out as these mountains, these mountains I have been dreaming about, thinking about, reading about, for month and months, I teared up a bit. I can´t believe I´m here. It´s been a long journey and I´ve made it. (Please excuse any prior and/or future melodramatics). <br /><br />Ed and our new Peruvian friend Erwin bustled chatting out of the room and I wiped my eyes and tuned into the conversation. "I´m going on a walk this morning" Erwin was saying, (obviously in Spanish) "You guys can come along if you like, for acclimatization." We had told him we were planning on doing some big treks, and he is an avid mountaineer. He explained that he was supposed to accompany a group to Lago Churup as an assistant guide; they had left already and he was supposed to meet them on the mountain. "I´m leaving in twenty minutes. You don’t have to pay anything but the local public transportation and the park entrance fee". <br /><br />We had slept about five uneven hours on the bus. We had arrived in Huaraz ten minutes ago. We hadn´t had breakfast. We had been at sea level eight hours ago. "Um, ok, sounds great".<br /><br />Erwin allowed us twenty minutes to get our bags, gear, and food together. In a chaotic flurry of flying clothes, shoes, books, and toiletries, I located what I needed for the trek and tossed it into my day pack, pulled on my hiking boots. We dashed out the door, leaving sleepy and confused Laura and our new room, now a flood of what had been neatly compacted in our rucksacks moments before. Time to get some food.<br /><br />At the market, four bananas cost one sole, or less than fifty cents, and eight rolls of bread cost about a sole as well. I grabbed myself a classic Peruvian beanie hat along the way. We got back to the hostel lobby beaming with excitement. What better way to pull up to the mountain city than to jump right into the mountains themselves? It would have been difficult to stay among the buildings all day and have the cordillera staring down at us, beckoning and tempting. <br /><br />All geared up, we met Erwin back at the hostel and together found a collectivo (local bus/taxi) up into the hills. Churup Mountain is one of the closest to Huaraz, and you can see it clearly from the city. Lago Churup is right beneath it, and at about 4500 meters is a good acclimatization hike. Usually, travelers spend a day or two in Huaraz itself before going on hikes (or at the very least couple hours). But we´re hard core, right?<br /><br />The colectivo dropped us off in a little mountain town. Every woman around us was dressed in the traditional outfit: Crisp, suede top hat with a fan like flourish on the side for decor; long, long black braid; colorful cardigan and equally colorful, contrasting skirt; ribbed wool stockings; black flats. Although not a piece of clothing, equally important is the wide smile, and short rotund stature.<br /><br />We followed a road, then a path, then an old stone Inca trail higher and higher. It was sunny; I was wearing shorts and a t shirt. Bright green patchwork fields and forest spread out below us. It could have been Southern Germany or the Alps. I felt like I was in the Sound of Music. I couldn´t stop smiling. Mountains aside, I hadn´t seen green in months! Not even in Nicaragua, as the dry season had dominated my stay there. The greenness of the green made my eyes bug out. Slowly, the hill turned into massive blueish stone cliffs and Mt. Churup poked his snowy head up above the green. </span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">At around 10, we got to the entrance of the Huascaran National Park, a park that holds the entire Cordillera Blanca. Time for a surprise- park tickets cost 5 soles a day, but if you want to spend even one night in the park, it´s 65 soles. Since Ed and I knew we would be trekking much more (Churup was but an acclimatization stroll!) we figured it would be stupid not to just pay full price. The golden ticket to the whole cordillera Blanca! This I cannot lose. <br /><br />Through the park gates and onto the rocky ridge. Erwin explained that there are many "levels" of altitude, each about 1000 meters vertically, and we had just passed into the next. Everything changes- the thickness and quality of the air, the vegetation, the temperature, the weather. It seemed as if the instant we entered this new level, the clouds thickened, darkened, and began to boil; the green of the valley was dulled by a gray layer of mist; the air thinned and froze.<br /><br />I pulled on the rest of my layers and pulled up my wool hiking socks in an attempt to make up for not wearing long pants. Is this level always like this, or was it just that day? Huaraz still seemed to rest in a patch of sun. We walked along a stony ridge and into the clouds. There were even clouds below. I was already at the highest altitude I had ever been; almost as high as Mt. Rainier’s peak. Before the end of the day I would be at an altitude 100 meters above Mt. Rainier´s summit. <br /><br />Tannish high altitude grass covered the rock in patches; it looked as if it were flowing under water. Sections of the path were vertical, slippery granite. Wet from mist, or a recent rain? Our guide ran ahead, always a tiny blue speck far out into the distance. I started to feel the altitude. Out of breath, pounding heart like a sledge hammer. I had to stop often. My heart beat so hard and fast I was concerned; I thought it might explode. Erwin took my pulse and told me it was ok. He said that a couple weeks back ha had guided a very large man up the same mountain- the man´s pulse was too low and he collapsed. My heart was letting me know I was still alive. Good to hear.<br /><br />As we walked in the direction of Churup´s white peak, suddenly there was nothing but a vertical granite wall ahead, hundreds of meters tall. Churup hid behind, poking up through a dip in the top of the wall, through which ran a river-turned-waterfall. It must come directly from Churup´s glaciers. Like any mountain, the glacier melts into a lake as a reservoir and then runs down the rest of the mountain in a river or a waterfall. Once the water reaches the mountain communities just below, it´s contained in a manmade concrete canal and then used a drinking water. Much cleaner than the tap water in Pisco.<br /><br />Obviously, we had to climb this rock. We didn´t know at the time, but Laura had done the Lago Churup hike weeks ago when she had volunteered at a school in Huaraz but had never gotten to the lake; she had been turned back by this slippery rock climbing bit. It had been raining when Laura did it to, making it much more dangerous. I was glad to see that this part actually had ropes. It was ridiculously fun. I zoomed up to the top as the waterfall rushed back down just on my right. So excited to be rock climbing, forgetting to use the rope, grinning like a madwoman.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">At the top we were basically at the lake. The gray sky wasn´t ideal for lake viewing, but the water was a stunning deep turquoise nevertheless. There were a couple hikers picnicking on the rocks around the water, one of which would eventually be our friend and spend five days trekking with us. Sebastian is from Veil am Rein, the very tiny town in Southern Germany where my mom is from, and speaks in my identical dialect. That´s a rarity; there are hundreds of dialects in Germany, especially in Southern Germany, which is covered with the Black Forest and towns are small and buried in the trees. Travelers are usually Northern Germans- Schwartzwald residents are likely to live in the same small town their whole lives. <br /><br />Like every other German traveler I´ve met, Sebastian cracked up when he heard me speak German. "You have my exact dialect; you speak haltingly but as if you´ve lived in the Black Forest for fifteen years". Well, at least he didn´t claim that I don´t actually speak German, like Northern Germans usually do. I guess it´s just strange to hear such a specific dialect coming out of an American mouth, especially since Southern Germans usually stay hidden in their trees. I assume it’s something like gringo Russia and hearing a Russian speaking in a perfect Louisiana Southern drawl, complete with slang and area specific vocabulary, I just can´t speak the proper German you learn in school.<br /><br />We sat down and Erwin cracked out a tiny stove, mugs and a bag of coca leaves. Yes! I was freezing and could definitely do with some hot tea. He wasn´t even supposed to be our guide. At around 12, we were sipping on mate de coca and it began to hall Great. Erwin put the cooking utensils away and we got ready for a quick descent.<br /><br />As soon as we had sat down, my head had started to pound. I ignored it, but as we started down the hill it got worse and worse. We asked Erwin about the clients he was supposed to meet, but he shrugged and said they must have already gone down. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Sebastian and two French girls joined us, and we decided to take a "variable" down the mountain, as Erwin put it. A short cut? No, a variable. Turned out to be a long cut. It hailed and hailed; I was numb with cold and had a splitting headache by now. Everyone but Ed and I seemed to have rain covers for their backpacks. Is this normal? Apparently, the weather was a rarity. It´s supposed to be sunny and dry in the Andes from May through August. It must have been the mountain´s way of putting me in my place. I wanted to zoom up into their palace, and they were kicking my ass. <br /><br />We walked for hours and hours. My head hurt more and more. The hail turned to rain and it soaked my rainjacket completely through. We walked through the misty, looming hills and cliffs, towers and pinnacles in mysterious foggy gray shapes, through sodden fields, and eventually into the rain soaked mountain villages. The indigenous women all pulled plastic bags over their felt top hats to keep them dry- they couldn´t be bothered to take their precious hats off.<br /><br />Ed and I had planned to go to the market and cook a meal in the hostel kitchen, but at this point we discussed just going out for a cheap meal. We were beyond suffering. I was relieved when we finally came across an out of service colectivo and convinced the driver to take us down the mountain. Unfortunately being out of the rain did not help my headache.<br /><br />By the time we got to Huaraz, it was 5:30 and I was out of my mind. Ed and I ran up to our room where Laura was just getting ready to go to a futbol game. No, thanks for the offer, but we´re really not up for it ... I stripped off my soaked clothes and huddled shaking in wool blankets. What was supposed to be a four hour walk, getting us back in Huaraz by one (we started around 8:30) had turned into a nine hour march. I lay in bed, warmer but still in excruciating pain. Laura was sympathetic; she had been through the same. The pain was obviously due to our quick leap from zero meters to 4500. <br /><br />"Sleeping helps" was her suggestion. I don´t think there was a choice. I drifted off at 6:30 into what was supposed to be a nap. At 3 in the morning, Ed woke me up with "Hey! We never had dinner!" No, we definitely didn´t. Didn´t really have lunch, either.<br /><br />I went back to sleep and woke up after 16 hours of sleep at 10:30. I don´t think I have ever slept that much in my life. I even could have slept more; Ed and Laura´s breakfast discussion woke me.<br /><br />Yes, the altitude has kicked my ass, and I Have surrendered to the rule of the mountain. But that was the very last time I had problems with altitude in Huaraz.</span></span></div>
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<br /></div>Emma Lodeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16592002908904167336noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5524868153484276154.post-79986716064692533802012-05-29T17:02:00.001-07:002012-07-18T07:43:03.378-07:00Muses on Travel and Latin America<br />
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I´m taking
the next step of my journey- Traveling Peru. Really traveling. Aside from my
two week vacation in Nicaragua, I haven´t had that experience yet. And from
what I´ve heard and read about, it seems as if I could travel Peru forever.</span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">It´s become
very clear to me that traveling can take infinite shapes and forms. Is
traveling challenging? Uncomfortable? Does it push your comfort zone? It completely
depends on where you are and how you do it. Right now, I’m riding the very
cheapest bus possible from Pisco to Lima (I have to make a stop in Lima before
continuing on to Huaraz) - 15 soles for the 4 hour ride. That’s about 6 bucks. I
would have probably paid about 2 dollars in Nicaragua, but the experience is incomparable.</span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> Traveling around Nicaragua, although very
safe, is a wild adventure. Chicken busses, four to a seat and pigs in the isle,
chaotic bus stations with zero organization… As I write, I am gliding along a
quiet, smooth, open desert road, dull rainy light softly illuminating my page through
the wide, clean windows. I’m sharing the long plush back seat with Ed and
Sarah, but we all have room to stretch and the other two are almost laying down
sleeping. It´s quiet; I´m comfortable and snuggled up in a warm fleece; Cast
Away is playing on the 3 TVs lining the center isle. Let me say it again: This is
the cheapest, crappiest bus option from Pisco to Lima. Yeah.</span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Peru is much
more comfortable than Nicaragua was. Its far more expensive, expensive, but its
easier to travel in; it´s easier to enjoy. Sometimes it´s almost been too
comfortable, too familiar. Makes me want to break out a tent and rough it. (Which
I will be doing quite soon)</span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">In Nicaragua,
you actually have to work hard to spend a lot of money. It’s the poorest
country in continental America, after Haiti. Traveling, 10 dollars a day is
probably max. I spent about a thousand in three months. All this comes with its
sacrifices though. There was a point in Nicaragua when I really wanted to go
home. My capacity for adventure, the new, the chaotic, was filled. The poverty,
rough living, lack of creature comforts, extreme contrast to home and everything
that I´m used to, used up far more energy than being in Peru has. Actually,
being here has reinvigorated my excitement for travel and adventure.</span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Nicaragua’s
color and intensity, its vivacity and chaos and energetic, revolutionary spirit
is crammed into a small country walled in by the Pacific and Atlantic on either
side; it’s bursting at the seams. Most travelers I´ve met move overland from
one country to its neighbor; they ease into the next scene. Jumping from one
spot to the next is like entering a completely different world. The parts of
Peru I´ve seen so far have felt more familiar than Nicaragua did- Perhaps it´s
the wide open spaces, misty skies and sheer granite cliffs sprayed by the freezing
pacific… Nicaragua felt imaginary, like
a dreamland an artist painted done day with a pallet of the brightest primary
shades.</span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">At the same
time, I wouldn’t trade my Nicaragua experience for anything. It was insane but
I grew and built confidence, overcame obstacles and was challenged in ways that
can only build character. All of that is probably part of the reason Peru feels
so comfortable and easy. In Peru, there are so many first world perks, there is
so much geological and natural diversity, so much land to cover, it seems harder
to tire of the country.</span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I never
imagined that Peru and Nicaragua could both be in Latin America and yet still
be so different. There are so many shades to Latin American culture. What is
Latin American culture?? It´s a question I thought I would find the answer to
here. Instead, I find myself straying
farther and farther from the answer. Passion and flair, salsa, color… Those
aspects of the culture are also the most commercialized and romanticized. From
talking to travelers, I think that stereotype may be most true in Brazil, where
they don´t even speak Spanish, and every other joe is white.</span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Each country
within Latin America is infinitely different. Okay, Nicaragua may be culturally
and geographically similar to Honduras, or El Salvador, but each is fiercely
independent from the other. The contrasts are made sharper by the unique
indigenous cultures in each area. Mayan influence isn’t overly dominant in Nicaragua,
but it´s there, and it is hugely different from Incan and Andean cultures.</span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> I have never been to Bolivia, but I´ve been
told that the Incan and Andean cultures are very prominent there. In fact,
Andean culture appears to be almost the opposite of the steamy, flamboyant,
expressive stereotype of Latin America many have swimming in their heads. The
short, quiet, indigenous mountain people are reserved and stoic. I hear that in
Bolivia, the locals are completely uninterested in tourists. They don’t talk to
the gringos much, if it were up to Bolivians, herds of tourists wouldn’t flock
across the border to gawk at their bright weavings and artisan crafts the
country is known for. Actually, that´s a reason so many white folk love
Bolivia. Not necessarily because the locals couldn’t care less whether you
exist, but because they aren´t about to sell their cultural soul to mimic the
US or Europe.</span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">In Pisco,
young Peruvian children tell me constantly that they want to be white. How lucky
I am to be white. Inca heritage is celebrated here, but the reality is Peru is
moving rapidly towards Westernization. I feel less of a sense of unity here
than Nicaragua; most likely it has to do with the size of the country and the many
pockets of indigenous peoples and cultures in the valleys and snowy mountain
passes, between the sand dunes or buried deep in the Amazon rainforest. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></span></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Calibri;">For me, Huaraz´s
obvious draw is its surrounding mountains. But I´m also looking forward to get
a peek at how Peru´s indigenous mountain peoples live. In Huaraz, and
especially its surrounding communities, the indigenous language Quechua is
widely spoken, often as the first language. It will be a completely new
cultural experience. It will be a new Latin America.</span>Emma Lodeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16592002908904167336noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5524868153484276154.post-1916357604828199082012-05-27T20:34:00.001-07:002012-07-18T07:39:36.712-07:00Adios, PSF<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The sunny
days of earth bags are over. It seems that since we pounded in the last bag a
week ago, the seasons have changed. Apparently it has been warm longer than
usual- I think the gods were blessing our earth bag project with good weather.
Now, it´s winter. The sky has shifted shades and the sea, ever obedient, has
followed. Shades of gray, whitecaps breaking.</span></span><br />
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Fisherman, daily catch<br />
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> One morning last week, I sat nursing my hot
mug in the morning and watched the overcast sky and felt a nudge of nostalgia.
The weather right now is in the sixties, during the day, and at night, frigid.
Last night I slept with two wool blanket and a hat and was still cold. I
wondered what was wrong with me until I realized we don’t have heating and we
leave our window wide open all night. It´s kind of a nice change from the
unbearable heat in Nicaragua, but its only going to get colder. Huaraz, my next
destination, is in the mountains and I assume it is freezing even in the depth
of summer. Hopefully this will make me appreciate a humid Wisconsin summer when
I return to the states in July.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The
changing temperatures have made me anew friend: Tea. If Americans are crazy
about coffee, Brits are insane about their tea. Or shall I say, positively
mental about their Proper Tea. ¨proper Tea, unfortunately, we do not have in
Peru (still not sure exactly what the difference is). Over each of the 10 odd
mugs of tea my English friends down on a typical day at PSF, there will be at
least a couple baleful sighs, and then, “Oh, how I wish I could have a cup of
proper tea”. One day an English girl admitted she had a stash of the stuff. It
was like piranhas smelling blood- the entire PSF UK population pulled in for
the attack, their eyes lit up manically… There is no holding them back from
their proper tea. </span></span></div>
<br />
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The earth
bag house isn’t quite finished; there is still concrete to lay across the final
layer of bags and a roof to build on top, let alone render to lay. But I thought
I’d give it a rest and try something else for my last week. My plan was to do something
different every day so o I could cram in as many new skills as I could in a
week´s time. That didn´t happen. I started in on a mural project on Monday and
stuck to it through Saturday. It´s really hard for me t o start a project and
not see it through. I also became the official “people drawer” for the mural,
so to maintain some consistency, I stayed on to paint all the faces.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<br />
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The mural
is designed as a comic strip, and the idea is simple: to stop kids from
throwing trash all over the ground, or “no botar basura en el suelo”. The story
starts off with a melancholy frame of a city scape; it´s all shades of gray and
there are two kids wearing super hero costumes standing on a tall building and
gazing over their gloomy domain. The kids become the main characters for the
saga to follow: Next, a man walks down a Pisco street and makes the mistake of
casually tossing a cup of Inca Cola over his shoulder and onto the sidewalk.
Bam! In comes Super Heroine Extroardinaire. In the third frame she tells him
the issue with tossing garbage around. Next we see a “perfect world”, AKA an
idealized scene of Pisco without trash, and finally a picture of the world with
“The world is in your hands; it´s up to you to keep it clean and beautiful” or
something along those lines. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Along with
the mural, we wrote a child friendly to read to the preschoolers. It´s about a boy
who cleans his room and picks up trash along his street and discovers how
beautiful his home and city can be. I was surprised how well the children
listened when we read it aloud; the teacher asked check in questions at the end
and they were able to answer every one, down to listing the specific animals
our main character had as pets. We had a coloring sheet as well, and passed
that out to the class afterwards.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">When the
mural is done, the plan is to lead a trash pickup around the school with the
kids. If they pick up five pieces of trash, they are given the honor of dipping
their hands in paint and putting their handprints on the world in the last
scene. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I wasn´t
able to see the mural to completion. I worked on it for six days, Monday
through Saturday, went to the Ballestas Islands on Sunday, and took off on
Monday for Lima along with Ed and Sarah. I´m expecting to get pictures of the
finished product though, which I will send along.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">For our
last day, Ed and I signed up to lead the Morning Meeting. We wanted to do
something memorable, but in the chaos of the weekend never made plans. On
Sunday night, we sat down and found a song which suited the occasion- It´s
Brittish, so most likely none of my dear readers will recognize the title, and
if you do, props- “Dry your eyes” by The Streets. Our changed lyrics went as
so: (It only really makes sense if you know the song).<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NHOf3s70w-c"><span style="color: blue; font-family: Calibri;">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NHOf3s70w-c</span></a><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">In one
single moment your whole life can turn 'round </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Coming to
PSF where all the people are so sound<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Building a
modular, then cooking a feast<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Each week
cook once, clean twice, at the very least</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Please let
us show you where you could go, with PSF</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">You can
change and you can grow but you’ll have to adjust</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The wicked
thing about PSF is we always have trust</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We can even
get fucked up if we must </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We stare at
Pisco and she almost stares straight back at us<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">and we
reach out our hand without making a fuss</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We’ve had
an awesome time but we must continue our journey<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Once we
walk out the door this place will keep rollin for sure<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Dry your eyes mate </span></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I know it's hard to take but our mind has been
made up </span></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">we’re off on our way to Huaraz</span></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Dry your eyes mate </span></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I know you want to make us see how much this
pain hurts <o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">But we’ve got to walk away now <o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">It's over<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Weve been
slammin on earthbags for weeks and weeks</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">wielding
our straight edges and dressing like freaks</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">sit on the
roof and turn your head to face the skies<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Pisco
sunsets are amazing we tell no lies<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We know you
can't imagine life without emma and ed </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">There's
things I can't imagine doin', things I can't imagine seein' </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">we hope you
keep on raising money in the swaffel shed <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Changing
pisco isnt supposed to be easy, surely <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Please,
please, I beg you please <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">so get your
hands dirty, you’ll never wanna rest</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">working
with this bunch of people, you know you are so blessed</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Theres something
really special about this place<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">If the
jungle calls we’ll come back in haste<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Dry your eyes mate <o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I know it's hard to take but our mind has been
made up </span></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">we’re off on our way to Huaraz</span></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Dry your eyes mate <o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I know you want to make us see how much this
pain hurts </span></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">But we’ve got to walk away now </span></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">It's over<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We dressed
all in black, complete with dark shades. We were all seriousness. Even when the
background music mysteriously cut off halfway through and we got off beat and
the makeshift shaker I was using (sprinkles in a Tupperware) was completely off
from the music and we couldn’t read the words off the sheet correctly… but it
was worth it, and at least we got a good laugh.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Huaraz Huaraz
Huaraz Huaraz. Ever since I had promised Laura I´d meet her in Huaraz on the 21<sup><span style="font-size: x-small;">st</span></sup>
and convinced Ed to come along, the word has been floating around in my head.
Mountains! Huaraz is my chance to FINALLY be in some real mountains.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>Emma Lodeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16592002908904167336noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5524868153484276154.post-5197939819631077112012-05-23T21:51:00.000-07:002012-07-18T07:38:20.049-07:00Las Islas Ballestas<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">A large, brown, galumptuous sea lion shimmies awkwardly up a sea boulder, its blubber wobbling and strange tailfins uselessly flopping. It makes it to the peak of the tiny, rock island and turns its fuzzy brown face to the sun, whiskers twitching. Its flippers rest on rock smeared with guano, the white, nitrogen rich substance used for fertilizing plants and known commonly as bird poop. Our sea lion now flops on its side, fatty muscles gliding into a twisted slump. Its head falls back and it rests almost upside down, head hanging off the rock, back glass pebble eyes following mine as I zip by on a motorboat.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">This is reality. This is not a zoo. Around the sea lion and its friends, penguins, cormorants, black terns, red footed boobies, and pelicans sit, preen, swoop, and take off in clouds and frenzies. They cover every square inch of the rocks we're motoring by. They flood the sky like clouds of grasshoppers you'd imagine converging on Midwestern farmland. </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">The craggy rock islands I'm looking at are Las Islas Ballestas, also known as the Poor Man's Galapagos. The Galapagos Islands are miles north off the coast of Ecuador, and are famous worldwide for their variety of endemic species, or species that are unique to a defined geographic location. As far as I know, the Ballestas Islands are compared to the Galapagos only because of their wide array of bird species and general concentrated wildlife. But while a tour of the Galapagos can cost thousands of dollars, our boat trip to tour the Ballestas Islands was only about $15. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">You aren't allowed on the islands; the tours just circle them in an open, 50 odd seater motor boat. We left early in the morning. The sky is gray and the sea choppy. </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">We speed past the Paracas Peninsula first. It's a spit of orange sandy undulating hills that bleed red into the blue gray Pacific. The Peninsula is a marine reserve that extends along the coast. It’s the only marine reserve in Peru, and it’s been designated a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Aside from marine life, it is famous for the Paracas Candelabra Petroglyph. The giant candelabra, 600 feet tall, is etched into the sand on the north face of the peninsula ridge. After dating the pottery that surrounds the petroglyph to 200 BCE, it is estimated to have been made around that time, during the age of the Paracas culture. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSO-N36rLti0qK1g-QnxOmSfBx36gGzwB27IuUrhc8NXMMarGL7M9ESZ9t5sDhCT4LV77fug5qZ1UGrPnosE0rXFhtOpPg4fCbZ0l7bqeBDYn16aoL2IEVdsjXtRBmwSBm9G2iE2GH9ryB/s1600/P5200934.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" qba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSO-N36rLti0qK1g-QnxOmSfBx36gGzwB27IuUrhc8NXMMarGL7M9ESZ9t5sDhCT4LV77fug5qZ1UGrPnosE0rXFhtOpPg4fCbZ0l7bqeBDYn16aoL2IEVdsjXtRBmwSBm9G2iE2GH9ryB/s640/P5200934.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<br />
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">The most exciting thing about the Paracas Peninsula is that it’s where Mr. Devries, my very inspiring geology teacher of senior year, has spent decades digging up marine fossils. I had been 15 minutes away from his center of geological study for a month and a half and hadn’t realized it until he sent me an email the other day. Amazingly enough, Devries and a team of geologists are coming to Paracas in early July, and I will still be in Peru. </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Even more coincidental and astounding is the next story he told me. I will copy and paste the quote from the email he sent me.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm;">
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">“At 3:40PM on Aug. 15, 2007, a team of paleontologists (</span><a href="http://www.livescience.com/3390-great-white-sharks-grew-slower-fossil-shows.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: #1155cc; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">http://www.livescience.com/<wbr></wbr>3390-great-white-sharks-grew-<wbr></wbr>slower-fossil-shows.html</span></a><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">; and also </span><a href="http://www.flmnh.ufl.edu/sciencestories/2009/fossil_shark.htm" target="_blank"><span style="color: #1155cc; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">http://www.flmnh.ufl.edu/<wbr></wbr>sciencestories/2009/fossil_<wbr></wbr>shark.htm</span></a><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">) passed by Pisco on the Panamerican Highway, on our way back from Sacaco, south of Nazca, where we had been looking for the stratigraphic position of a fossil shark skull, complete with teeth. We had found the shark pit in the middle of the desert (see linked photo) and were therefore heading back a day early. Through Nazca in the morning; through Ica and 2PM; through Pisco at 3:40; through Chincha Baja and Chincha alta at 4:10PM. We arrived in Lima around 6:10. We had barely settled into our hotel (and I was in a taxi on Avenida Petit Thouars on my way to visit my brother in San Isidro) when the quake struck.<br /><br />If we'd been three hours later in our departure from Sacaco, we'd have been trapped in Pisco.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">And they would have been in the middle of the very earthquake whose affects I am still trying to help reverse. Amazing. Back to the Ballestas.....</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">We shoot across the gray waters and shady rock silhouettes begin to form in the hazy distance, floating amongst the faded blue skeletons of fishing vessels. As the islands sharpen and reveal their orangey brown hues, coves, arches and inlets, you are bombarded by cascades of diving and sailing birds. The rock is painted tan, splashed and sprayed with guano white, and dipped in a rusty red like easter eggs in red dye. The sea laps at a ring of black obsidian like mussels. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">White foam sprays up around the birds, penguins and sea lions. They pose on their stone pedestals like statues; they lounge like models in a photo shoot, which is precisely what they are right now. Jagged boulders like horns jab out of the clipping waves, hard rocks jutting like crystals. They jut out in sharp angles, on whose faces sit more and more birds. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">The cormorant, also common in Puget Sound, is the most populous of the bird species on the Ballestas. Elegant and black, they pose on the rock with their wings unfurled and shake them dry for what seems like hours. Definitely enough to snap a picture. The red footed Peruvian boobies look like delicate and graceful seagulls, with quaint white heads, gray bodies and an aesthetic wingspan. In the months of January and February, blue footed boobies migrate from the Galapagos Islands down to the Ballestas. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Near the end of the tour, the boat passes by several buildings. According to our tour guide, they are inhabited by workers whose job is shovelling the guano, the bird poop, and sending it to the mainland to be used as a fertilizer. When used with the proper concentration, the nitrogen in the guano helps plants grow. There is also high nitrogen content in pee, which is why there is a garden next to the compost toilets we're building in Pisco. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">After the tour our group of 12-ish PSFers lunched on the beach in the town of Paracas. Although touristy, it's a nice beach town and refreshing from the grimier Pisco, which is only about 15 minutes away. The Ballestas Islands are considered the best ecotourism trip off the coast of Peru (in all honesty I’m not sure how much more there is to do off the coast of Peru...) but I knew I had to squeeze in a trip to the islands before I left PSF. It was my last weekend, and a good way to finish off my desert coast experience. Maybe I will be back on the Paracas Peninsula, right before I catch my flight home to Lima with Devries and his team! It would be cutting it close, but it would be an unmatchable experience.</span></div>
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<br /></div>Emma Lodeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16592002908904167336noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5524868153484276154.post-42134235705639000292012-05-20T14:59:00.001-07:002012-07-18T07:33:34.542-07:00White Water Rafting and Sand Boarding<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span lang="EN-US">When
pounding on bags of sand with a sledgehammer isn’t doing it for you on the adrenaline
side of things, action must be taken. I spent tow of my four weekends so far getting
my adrenaline fix with PSF friends white water rafting in Lunahuana and sand
boarding in Huacachina. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">It´s not
all about the adrenalin, though; there is so much to see right here around
Pisco, and it would be stupid to not take advantage of the possibilities that
are open to me right now. I´m here, in Peru; who knows when I´ll be back. I can
stress out about money, about time; I´ve done too much of that. Of obsessing
over putting aside savings to pay off the loans that already weigh down my
shoulders months before school has even begun.
I can tell myself over and over again that I can come back, that I can
save experiences for later. To be frugal and careful and limit myself.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"> It´s necessary to be careful to a certain extent,
but hey. This is life, this is my life, right now. And right now. This is what
I have been waiting for; what I saved for for six months and possibly the most
depressing summer of my life. Let´s go! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">It said “White
Water Rafting” on the events calendar my first weekend. The event was postponed
a couple times, but a couple weeks ago we finally made it to Lunahuana.
Lunahuana is about 5 hours northeast of Pisco, inland. It´s not the real mountains,
the Andes, but you could call them foothills. It looked like a blurred
transition between desert and mountain- the hills are jagged and have the form
of major peaks, but are the dull tan shades of sand dunes and seem formed out
of a mixture of sand and rock. I was puzzled. Are they hills, mountains, or
sand dunes? Arid mountains, perhaps. I asked our uninformed driver in town and
he shrugged and offered “ceros de rocka”, “rock hills”. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">Lunahuana
is set overlooking the Rio Cañete, a river valley that cuts through these curious
mini sand mountains and creates a swathe of green to contrast the dull brown. It´s a town of roughly 3500, known best for
adventure tourism and wine tasting. White water rafting, kayaking, and rock
climbing are the most popular. Had I a bit more time there I would have tried
to get in some climbing as well, but we only had Sunday. We ended up being gone
12 hours, and the rafting trip was only an hour long. We meant to do a two hour
trip, but because we are in the dry season, the river has thinned. River
physics demands that water rushing through narrow rocky beds makes for rapids too
dangerous a ride for us mere beginners. There were a couple impassable sections, so the guides
decided to cut the trip in half.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">Even with
shortened rafting, it was well worth the trip. We were all tired; a couple of
volunteers had left that morning and we had been out late the night before. Even
after several cups of coffee I was a bit concerned about staying awake for the
duration of the trip. Turned out I didn´t have any trouble. Sailing up and over
the peaks of rushing white water does not lend itself to napping, no matter how
serious the lack of sleep. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">We were a
group of five PSFers, and were joined by an obese elderly Peruvian woman who
somehow expected the trip to be some sort of low key leisure cruise. She was
scared to death and squeezed the life out of my arm for support the entire
ride. We got back into town soaking wet and spent the rest of the afternoon
perusing the main strip and eating a late lunch and didn´t get back until
around 8:00.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">A few weeks
later, “Huacachina” appeared on the events calendar. Apparently, trips to
Huacachina are a roughly bimonthly affair for the entire PSF crew, and it was
due time for a go. Although it has a population of 115 people, Huacachina is a
big deal for Peru; it´s featured on the 50 sole note. It´s called the “oasis of
America”. In the middle of the Ica desert, a small natural lake appears out of
nowhere. It has been used for well water to serve the residents of nearby Ica,
and to compensate for the loss, water is now artificially pumped into the
lagoon to serve the many tourists who flock into town. Legend has it that a princess once bathed in a
pool (the lagoon), and when intruded on by a hunter, ran off- the folds of her
mantle as she ran are the flowing sand dunes that surround the oasis. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Huacachina,
although a natural occurrence, feels planted, fabricated, created for the many
backpackers who pass through every day. The town is built for international tourists.
If you can call it a town- it´s really just a cluster of hostels circling the
lagoon. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The bus
left in the late afternoon and took off down the desert coast. The sea on our
right, we flew South past Paracas, city faded away, and we were left lost in
the dunes. An hour in, there was a jolt, a screech, a sink, and the bus
chortled to a stop on the side of the highway. Flat tire! We were trapped without
a spare in the middle of the Ica desert. We were stuck for two hours. The bus driver
called the mechanic while we skipped into the endless dunes. The desert sun
sank blow the sand and the sky bled red. We built a campfire in the sand and
made merry until the bus was fixed, and reached Huacachina by nine that night. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">We stayed
in the nicest hotel I have been in my entire journey; the dorm rooms were about
the same price as they would have been in Leon, surprisingly. I felt sorry for
the quiet German guy who had had the spacious dorm to himself until 50-odd PSF
kids invaded that night. We weren’t supposed to spread the word that we were
from PSF, so due to some unintentional information leakage, rumors floated
about of us being a secret spy club or some sort of confidential government group.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"> Walking to dinner, I ran right into Nils, a Quetzaltrekkers
volunteer I worked with for at least two months, and his girlfriend Anna. I
couldn´t believe it- I knew they were going to be traveling in Peru but had no
idea when, where, or how long, so it was an incredible coincidence. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The group
dined at a fancy café; I scrounged off friend´s plates to save my meager
centavos for water the coming week. I had lost my debit card the previous
weekend, the day before the earthquake. Unfortunately that card was my backup
card, so I was holding out for fresh plastic to come in the mail. Halfway through
the meal I decided I didn’t want to spend our one night in Huacachina at a
restaurant and walked down to the lagoon, the splash of green amidst miles of
tan. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Lights of
Huacachina´s hotels and restaurants shimmered in the black glass lake and a
small rusty boat rested at the shore. No oars, just a little rowboat. I got in.
Sarah and Ed appeared; they were afraid I had been lost or stolen. Just trying
to get lost in the lake in my little boat and waiting for a friend to help me
row. They jumped in the boat with me and we paddled with our hands and floated
in the middle. The carnival like lights swam in the water, yellow, red, orange;
music from the discotheque throbbed from shore. We floated in our little boat
in the heart of the oasis, in the thumb of life in a dry dry sea. Surrounding
our pocket of light, the dark, mysterious dunes stood sentry to the bleakness
of the sand beyond. We chatted, drifting in a surreal splash of paradise. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I had slept
for a couple hours. I woke up to someone whispering in my ear: We´re going for
a walk. Wake up. We´re gonna take a walk…. It was 4:30. Still dark, but the
dorm was coming to life around me. I stumbled out of bed, wool blanket around
my shoulders.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"> The dunes! We were trekking to the dunes! Now
I was awake. In a massive party of disheveled and sleeping PSFers. We stepped
out of the hotel and right onto the backyard, onto the never-ending sand. It
took us about 40 minutes to climb to the highest spot surrounding the
Huacachina oasis, a monster dune that seemed to rise ahead of us in never-ending
crescendos of falling sand.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"> My calves cramped, sand spilled under my feet,
I sweated in the wool blanket- Ed and I raced to the top and scoped out the
highest peak at the highest dune. It was round 5:30 and still dark- we could
see the tiny oasis, like a cluster of fireflies from above, across into Ica,
and the dunes that spanned in every direction. We fell asleep before the sun
rose, and I wrapped myself tight in the blanket, grateful I had schlepped it
along for the climb. When I awoke, the sun had begun to rise behind a smearing
gray cloud cover and the rest of the group had finally arrived at the top. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">We lined
the ridge like peak like sleepy birds on a wire. Around us, purples and reds
singed the gray and the lights of Ica sparked in a sequined scarf to the West. With
enough light., the contours of the dunes revealed themselves. Continually shifting,
they sweep and curve and dance for miles. Dancers that bow to the wind´s
conducting, shapes molded by the whims of the breeze. Like frozen waves,
ripples skip across sloping sides. Huacachina sits cupped by the dry sculpted sea.
A delicate bed of blinking diamonds. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I sat on
the top of the dune after everyone else had long retired, waiting for the sun.
On the opposite side of glitzy Huacachina, a dirt poor community scatters its
cement block houses among the grains of sand. A radio blasted tinny from one of
the houses, as if it were competing with Huacachina´s stereo systems. The
contrast was a jolt. I can´t imagine living on the other side of the sand dune,
a stone´s throw away from mini Las Vegas. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The Peruvians
I took to be locals who had sat on the lagoon´s edge the night before must have
wandered over from there. They came with friends and lovers to soak up the
light and laugh and shake their heads in bafflement at the international party
crowd. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I slept
until late morning, and in the afternoon a big group of us went sand boarding,
which was really the reason I had come. We rented out two dune buggies and rolled
out from the hotel, two minutes away from the middle of nowhere. The dune buggy
ride was the best part of the excursion. It felt exactly like a roller coaster,
without the excruciating slow ascent. We zoomed up to the peak of each dune and
sailed down , screaming and sand blowing in our faces. I could have ridded the
buggy the whole day.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Sand
boarding is without a doubt superior to volcano boarding. The two can´t
compare- it makes me wonder, again, why exactly we think boarding down gravel is
a worthwhile activity. I admit my annoyance grew with each of my volcano
boarding trip I lead. (the first couple really were fun).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Sliding down
sand with a waxed board is fast and smooth. I didn´t quite master standing up
on the board for the duration of the ride, let alone turning or carving, but
had fun all the same and had a couple exciting falls (none of which left me
with dramatic abrasions or a concussion. *cough cough volcano boarding*) But let
me make this clear while we´re on the subject of boarding down stuff- Skiing
and snowboarding are, inarguably, unsurpassable on every level. After trying
the other stuff out for fun, there is no point in trying to master sliding down
other surfaces unless you have no access to snow, in which case, I am dearly
sorry.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">We came
back tired, parched, and with sand stuffed in every pocket and every shoe, went
for a swim, and jumped back on the bus for a sleepy6 ride back to headquarters.
This time the bus did not break down. I slept well that night, and the next
morning was back to, as the hiphip remix I know declares , “spending most our
time rebuilding Pisco Paradise”. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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Huacachina<br />
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The community on the other side of the dune....<br />
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<br />Emma Lodeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16592002908904167336noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5524868153484276154.post-50189667561891505012012-05-11T21:07:00.001-07:002012-07-18T07:32:01.132-07:00Buenas Dias, PSF<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US">“BUENAS DIAS PSF!!” Two strapping, boisterous college boy types shut at the top of their lungs, arms around each other. One is Australia, blonde, looks like he surfs. The other is Irish and sports a recently shaved pornstar handlebar moustache and the look of a serious futboler. Huge smiles on their faces. One grabs the other´s ass with a smirk and the other jumps, they crack up.</span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US">Meet Jules and Keith, the PS project managers. Regular volunteers, just in charge of overseeing the current projects running- signing up volunteers., finding new projects around the community,and overseeing the construction sites. Behind them, the brick wall is plastered with sunbleached Tshirts from past volunteers. Funky nicknacks hang from the wooden stair railing that leads to the wacky shack above. Early morning sunlight seeps through the overhead tarp that serves as our courtyard roof, setting groggy volunteers´ hair aglow in halos and defining the steam that pours from tea and coffee mugs.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span><span lang="EN-US">It´s 8:15, and the morning meeting has begun. We volunteers- all 50 of us, give or take, cluster together on plastic chairs, full from breakfast. We may be sleepy but we´re already dressed in our work uniforms: Filthy, paint stained tank tops, ratty jeans, cement encrusted work boots.</span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US">We represent an array of nationalities and a hodgepodge of personalities. Each accent is unique. What we have in common is that we´ve stumbled upon a bubble of spirit and vigor in a sad and suffering place. Think summer camp atmosphere. Or college, without the coursework.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">Our day begins at 7:30 when breakfast is served. Ten minutes prior, people start milling about the kitchen door, faux casually conversing and greeting sleepy pajama clad neighbors. It only take one subtle, suggestive move from one eager person, and the mob lines up behind the door in a second. If you don´t move fast enough you´ll find yourself at the back of the line, so as soon as it begins to shape itself, action is imperative. Stragglers will often find themselves coffee less, yogurt less, cereal less, and most definitely milk less.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">Regardless, the quality of the food here is impressive. After feeding myself for three months and dealing with my own atrocious cooking skills, being cooked for and served is a blessing from God. At PSF, food is taken as seriously as any construction job: Every day, four people sign up to spend the entire day cooking for the group. This means leaving for the market directly after the morning meeting and slaving away in the kitchen until dinner is served at 6:30 PM. The chefs of the day have the pressure of over 50 very hungry workers on their hands, back from site and craving something hardy and delicious.</span></div>
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Our wide array of nationalities and culinary cultures also plays a role in the cuisine. I´ve had thai food, Mexican, Indian, Eastern European, Dutch, Spanish, and even a special 3 course feast from Oceania on ANZAC Day (Australia New Zealand Armed Corps. Sort of like Memorial or Remembrance Day back home.) Often, a dinner group will form of fellow countrymen to foster a bit of national pride and deliver a truly authentic dish.</div>
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<span lang="EN-US"> Breakfast dishes are washed by 8:15 in time for the morning meeting Meetings aren´t just cursory check ins or strings of tiresome announcements, they determine what you´re going to be doing for nine hours that day, And it can vary immensely.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">Every morning, Jules and Keith call out the names of the projects one by one and they re described by the Project Leaders. </span>The names of the projects change virtually every day and almost always contain a sexual reference or some immature phrase that occasionally vaguely has to do ith the project itself. Examples include "Shitting Bricks" or "Make Shit Happen" (building a brick compost toilet), "Furious Modular Beasts" or "Finger My Bum" (Freestanding Modular Buildings) (I just made that up, no one is actually quite sure what FMB stands for, but it involves building panels for modular houses). The administrator slot has gone from "Admin" to "Facemin" (referencing facebook, because it´s said that the office bound administrators who spend so much time checking email are just on facebook all day). Now it´s just called "Facebook Stalking". </div>
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The louder and more competetive you are, the more likely you´ll get the job you want. Some projects are constantly shifting workers while others have somewhat of a fixed team. On my first day working. I signed up for "Ludateca", essentially a daycare center for kids not in school or finished for the day. Very similar to the "projects" supported by Quetzaltrekkers (Las Barilettes, Las Chavaladas, Las Tias). </div>
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The day started out at Jugo Chavez Elementary School. Eery day a group of PSF volunteers spend a chaotic hour babysitting a second grade class whose teacher is on maternity leave. The "Jeffa" (Project leader) Kelly organizes an activity for the kids; the day I went it was a color by numbers sheet for practicing sums. Obnoxious is too weak a word to describe the Jugo Chavez monsters. They shouted, they ran about like hooligans, they snatched each other´s activity sheets and stole each other´s colored pencils. They delivered eachs syllibul as if they were perfecting the world´s drawlingest whine. I thought I had it bad until I came back and heard past stories of tables being thrown across the room, and apparently yesterday the kids found a water tap and tried to flood the place. </div>
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It was a rough hour. La Ludateca, the after school daycare program created by PSF, was a different story. Numbers were unusually low that day, so the small group of pre teens that did show up grouped up to play many, many rounds of cards. After a couple hours, I´d had enough. It´s only a matter of time before playing the same game over and over gets a little old (especially if you haven´t been winning). </div>
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Towards the end of the day I migrated outdoors and things started to get entertaining. Despite refusing to have their picture taken all day, a group of little girls suddenly started loving the idea of a modeling shoot. Instant movie stars, they strutted and swooned for the camera, and actually listened when I directed them about: Tilt your face towards the light! Pose with your sister! Would it kill you to put the peace sign hands down for one shot...? At a certain point we all got a it too excited and moved our photoshoot onto a towering cross monument a couple blocks down the road. When we got a scolding from the Ludateca teacher hired by PSF I decided it was time to head out. </div>
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La Ludateca<br />
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Inside the Ludateca<br />
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Sitting around all day doesn´t do me well. I was relieved to find out that Wednesdays are futbol days- NOT soccer- if you slip and say the s word you will be ridiculed. Most days Jose, a volunteer from the Ludateca, will bring along a group of his Peruvian soccerstar buds to play us grigos at the cancha a couple blocks and an alley away from Headquarters. I was unreasonably nervous about playing against the infamous Peruvian futbol crew, but being placed up against a speedy wall of Latin American ball handling skills seems to bring out the best in us.</div>
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Halfway through the week I was more than ready to get on some real heavy manual labor. At PSF, there are two main methods for building an earthquake relief house- The quick short term fix and the long, labor intensive, more sustainable projects. Hundreds of Pisco residents make their lives in less than tolerable conditions, living in scrap houses or squeezing entire extended families into a single bedroom. In order to respond to their immediate needs, PSF builds "Modular homes". Modular homes are essentially built in the workshop, and then only assembled on site once the concrete foundation has been poured. These homes consist of wooden panels made of recycled wood donated by the local steel mill. They are built for families in extreme situations who have been unable to rebuild their lives for one reason or the other during the five years since the earthquake. The upside of working on Modular Homes is that you are almost guaranteed to see a project through it its completion from laying cement to roofing and everything in between; you are exposed to countless construction skills and methods in a short amount of time.<br />
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And then there´s Earthbags. There are a lot of factors that attracted me to the earthbags project. It´s hard core, it´s simple, and most importantly, it´s sustainable; Earthbag construction is the only technique PSF uses that (should be) earthquake resistant. The earthbag buildings consist of stacks of, literally, earthbags, layered like bricks. They´re just heaping sacks filled with an agregate-cement-water mixture, then pounded down with a "smasher" and lifted onto the wall. It´s widely considered the most labor intensive job at PSF. The day is long; you leave for the construction site, the outskirts of a small, poor, rural town just outside Pisco called San Pedro, right after the daily morning meeting, and get picked up around 5:30. The earthbag building will be used as a community center and an emergency evacuation spot during an earthquake.</div>
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I absolutely love it. I love shoveling, I Iove mixing, I love smashing. My work day starts off with a mad rush to pull on hiking boots and filthy work gloves and leap into the rusty and constantly breaking down PSF truck. About 15 of us squeeze into the truck bed, some of us balancing on the edge, gripping the sides or each other for dear life as the truck jostles over potholes and swerves around tight curves. Some of us sit on the stack of plastic lawn chairs that we bring along to make ourselves at home during lunch (the lunch table sleeps in a tree at site. We´re unsure why that is the custom but it hasn´t been changed).</div>
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We roll out of the city and down a dirt country road into San Pedro. It´s nice to get out of the mucky city every day. San Pedro, although dirt poor, is set in a small oasis of green just before the dunes that rise in the background. Every day the walls of our building get higher and standing on top, you can see farther and farther into the dusty green countryside. The earthbag team consists of 6- usually 2 mixing cement, 2 making bags, and 2 on he wall pounding the bags into place. There are roughly 57 bags on a layer, and we usually get around 40 to 45 bags down in a day, or about 2 thirds. Progress may be slow, but the modular homes that go up within a week may crumble during the inescapably impending next earthquake, while our dirtbag palace will roll with the waves of the earth and, due it its flexibility and ability to shift but not crack, live on. Hopefully. Earthbag technology has yet to be tested in Pisco, which is a good thing; we´re not exactly eager for another major quake anytime soon.<br />
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Beginnings of the Earthbag house</div>
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<span lang="EN-US"> Lunch<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US">Walking home</span><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span><span lang="EN-US">Picking up the compost toilets crew. They are making 10 compost toilets in the community El Bosque, where there is no running water. </span><br />
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With the stomper :)</div>
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<span lang="EN-US">I didn´t mean to stay on the project so long, but I seem to be addicted. The project leaders speculated I would drop out after 2 days; that´s the average life span of a female earthbagger, apparently. Every long term team member was a dude. I´m already the second most veteran team member. With so many people coming and going every week, it´s good to be able to pass on skills, and for somebody, preferably a handful of people, to really know what they´re doing on their project. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">It gets funner and funner every day. Last week, after getting increasingly frustrated with my exentuated and unflattering tan lines, I suggested we have a bathingsuit day. Since swimtrunks would be routine attire for the guys, I specified "speedos". A bit extreme I suppose. In the end, we compromised on short shorts. I wrote "bathingsuit day" on the events calander, but to my dissappointment only the Earthbags crew followed up on the idea (to be fair, we´re the only project working in a secluded area). So we hatched a plan: We brought along about 100 waterballoons, made sure one of the work stations that day was waterballoon filler (priorities) and launched a massive attack on the crew that come to puck us up in the evening- hey, we said to wear bathingsuits.</span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US">I was delighted when Jules and Keith showed up in bikinis to bring our lunch and joined in for the rest of the day. I had warned them that we wouldn´t accept any food unless it was delivered by a speedo clad deliverer, but I wasn´t expecting heart pattern string bikini tops and lacy bras as well. </span><br />
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Getting our attack ready. <br />
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<span lang="EN-US">We´re supposed to get lunch delivered to the Earthbag site by a local restaurant who support our efforts. That doesn´t exactly happen- the restaurant does make the lunches, but PSF crew delivers it every day. There is one PSF truck and it´s constantly breaking down (we assume due to the director´s hazardous driving and affection for engine revving). Sometimes lunch comes at 1:30, sometimes at 2, and if the truck is out of commission, 3:00 isn´t unheard of. There is a certain time, around 2:45, when we can´t be bothered to go on without nourishment and collapse on the dirt pile in our weakness, or aternatively practice parcour moves on the scaffolding.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">Once the food arrives, it´s usually enough to feed a crew of 20. We feed our leftovers to Azuli, the Earthbags "pet" dog. He´s quite a fright, actually, and I still don´t touch him. The name comes from his previous state: He was once blue. Really? No, Jules just spraypainted him. He also used to be even skinnier than he is now and on the verge of death. We are his guardian angels. He´s begun sleeping right next to the house while we work, and certain crew members have developed an affection for the mangy, ribby beast. He comes sniffing at our door at lunch time and has even become picky about his course options. Rice again?! Yeah, we´re wondering the same thing. He does love my discarded chicken feet and cow brains.(Yes, they do put that in the soup without warning). </span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US">Yesterday, we decided to make a run into the ocean right after work. We finished a bit early and the sun was just setting. Gearing up for an icy splash, we ran into the ocean screaming and then realized the water was actually pretty warm. What was going to be quick dip turned into a long and leisurly swim. We shared the long set waves with gigantic pelicans and swooping seabirds.</span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US">Sunsets here are unlike any I´ve seen before. It´s not the colors or the texture, it´s the sun itself- as it nears the horizon, it´s sharpened into a solid yellow, perfectly round circle, whilst in the background pastels rub about subtly. It dips towards the ocean and as you watch, the bottom half begins to drip It sags, a fiery ball of molten glass melting into the water- It becomes a lightbulb, an icecream cone, a cupcake, and to my never ending bafflement, square. It turns into a square! seconds before the teal swell swallows it whole, the sun is a tent, and a triangle. It´s strange and fascinating we are all a bit weirded out by this and would like to know what´s up; my best guess is that our proximity to the equator makes light refract in a certain way to create the effect.</span><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US">Weekends at PSF, the action doesn´t stop. Saturday is a half day and we usually end up working until about 2 or 3. Most Saturday nights, some sort of event is put on. Last Saturday was PSFest, or Pissfest, as it´s affectionately called, a festival organized by a couple volunteers. The idea was to raise 600 soles to purchase materials for a roof for one of the modular homes. Attendees (you didn´t actually have a choice because the fest was at headquarters) spent money on activities such as Grab-A-Bitch (live action version of the grabbing claw machine), a mystery chamber, sock wrestling, a dump tank and more. We ended up raising enough, and this week, a Peruivan family in need will have a roof. All on volunteer creativity and initiative. There was also a talent show, and I ended up singing Angel from Montgomery accompanied by a harmonist, ukulele strummer, and maraka shaker.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">The environment at PSF is addictive and one after another, people get stuck. It´s common for someone to arrive planning on staying the two week minimum amd end up staying months and months. I´ve found myself delaying my departure date again and again. The only thing keeping me from hanging out here for my entire three months in Peru is wanting badly to see the country. PSF is wonderful but it´s no example of the country as a whole. I want to see the Andes. I want to see the JUNGLE. To my shock and delight, the director mentioned yesterday that an indigenous jungle community approached him recently and requested an earthbag center built in their far removed community. The idea is to send three people at a time into the jungle to work on the building for a week, and then switch them out for three more. Because of my commitment to the earthbag project here, he said there was a good possibility I can go. This would mean coming back to Pisco in a month or two to jump on board. I don´t want to get my hopes up too much, but HOW SWEET IS THAT?! We shall see....</span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US">Our earthbag center DONE!!</span><br />
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Smashin the last bag. </div>
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The CREW on our completed wall.</div>
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</span>Emma Lodeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16592002908904167336noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5524868153484276154.post-76422200765217388142012-05-06T17:11:00.001-07:002012-07-18T07:27:32.497-07:00From Volcanoes to Earthquakes<div style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Oh, by the
way, sleep with your passports and money under your pillow tonight.” The PSF
Director pokes his head into our muddy, disorganized room. “There was a tremor
felt in Ica and it will probably affect us in a couple hours. If you have to
run out of a crumbling building, it´s best to have the important things with
you.” I look around my room. My 70 liter pack and little day pack lay sprawling
and gutted at the foot of my bed, equally filthy. Small piles of sand speckle
the floor. There are six beds all strewn with clothes, boots, water bottles,
leaving barely a square foot of space between. Not exactly the best setup for
an emergency evacuation. </span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">On the
wall, the evacuation route notification reads: In the case of an earthquake, we
are to proceed to the big brick wall about a half block down the street to hunker
down. Good to know. Earthquakes are very common in Pisco, and as Ica is about
an hour South, chances are good we´ll feel something. </span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Half of us
stay up, can´t sleep, anxiously checking the time and the news. I pass out
right away, with vague sleepy thoughts of how cool it would be to feel a little
tremor- just a little one- you know, for the experience. Last night I got my
wish.</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The sky was
alight. We thought the sun was rising already; it was five o clock in the
morning. It was the moon. The night of Saturday,
May 4<sup><span style="font-size: x-small;">th</span></sup> held the year´s fullest of full moons in its sky, a gleaming
sphere rounder than a coin, a blazing orb that washed the crumbling streets of
Pisco in a white light. I had been on the roof twelve hours prior to watch the
setting sun. A rusty blue ladder on PSF Headquarters´ top floor (which was
build by PSF) leads to the small concrete roof. It´s a cramped space shared
with the water tank. A small concrete ledge with a bird´s vantage of the
Pisco´s roof life below, and only a few blocks ahead, the sparkling blue
Pacific and the perfect view of spectacular fireball sunsets.</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We had just
come back after PSF´s own PS Fest, or “Pissfest”, followed by a wild salsa
dancing night. For a handful of volunteers it was their last night in Pisco,
and it had been a magical one. Now, with pillows and sleeping bags strewn
across our small rooftop perch, lying dangerously close to the edge, we watched
the sky for the sun´s rising and then fell asleep and missed it.</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Two hours later,
7 AM. A train bowling past at abnormal velocities. A billion people pounding on
the walls below. My eyes jerked open; the sun was up, people were running
everywhere. It was an earthquake. To my left, Sander had been so close to the
edge of the roof, sleeping, when the rattling began. We stumbled down the
ladder; I was still asleep. Still in my salsa dress, hair a mess of knots,
blanket wrapped around my shoulders, we assembled in the “yard”, or ground floor
area. The director was making a speech. I was asleep. “You all have your
passports, right?” Hah. So much for preparedness. How did I miss the sunrise?
Damn. “You have just experienced a 5.5 earthquake.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span lang="EN-US"> Something tells me that´s no small deal. It´s
true- the scale used to measure quakes, the Richter scale, sets each level of
shake as ten times the previous, using numbers from 1 (“micro”) to 10 (“massive”).
So a</span><span lang="EN">n earthquake that
measures 5.0 on the Richter scale has a shaking amplitude 10 times greater than
a 4.0 earthquake. For a reference, the tremor we felt in Seattle in 2001 was a 6.8.
That´s 13 times massiver than the rattling I felt on the roof last night. A 5.5
is considered a solidly “moderate” quake. </span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Because of
the depth of the earthquake´s center (it had a hypocenter depth of 59 km), the
earthquake was reduced to a mild shaking at the earth´s surface, so where
humans generally hang out, there was no major damage. After our brief meeting,
the volunteers were dismissed to go about our business; most of us went back to
sleep. When I woke at 12:30 there was little talk of last night´s (I mean that
morning)´s adventure, and our earthquake acclimated town continued on with its
day.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Pisco is an
earthquake disaster zone. It´s a small city, about 235 K South of Lima, roughly
a five hour bus ride. It´s a beach town, and used to be an immensely popular
holiday vacation spot for Peruanos and foreigners alike. Pisqueños are used to
mild tremors. They have to be; they live on a major converging fault line, the
perfect geological setup for ground splitting shakes. Pisco sits along the
oceanic “Nazca” and continental “South American” tectonic plates. Like the
Carribean and Cocos plates in Nicaragua along which the Maribios volcano chain
rises, the Nazca plate is subducting, or sliding under, the South American
plate as you read at a rate of 3.1 inches a year. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">On August
15, 2007, the two plates screeched to a critical friction point and an 8.0
magnitude mother tremor seized Pisco by the scurf of the neck and shook the
city until it split at the seams. 80% of Pisco was completely destroyed. 615
people died in the quake, and of those, 598 were from Pisco itself. The most
populated destroyed areas were Plaza de Armas (the center square), and the
wealthier neighborhoods that used to line the beach. Now, almost no traces
remain to suggest Pisco was once a ritzy summer vacay destination. Formerly elegant
seaside residences are now stripped, cracked, crumbling, and buried in piles of
rubble. The owners of the houses (yes, they still do have owners, technically),
ran off, leaving most of their belongings behind. They never came back. In
their absence, others ransacked and stripped their homes.</span></span></div>
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The cracked wall of a former home, still abandoned. <br />
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Looking through the wripped apart carcass of a beachside home; you can see the marsh and the ocean through the back door. </div>
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These crack lines show how the earth moved during the quake.<br />
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">So many
Pisqueños were killed near Plaza de Armas that bodies were piled up on the square
to be identified. It´s a bit eerie to be strolling along the plaza- now rebuilt
and peaceful- and imagine the bloody massacre that mother nature inflicted on
the same ground just a couple years back. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Pisco is
set on a raw, sweeping desert beach on the Pacific, once very famous for its
marine birds. Directly after the 2007 shake, Pisco´s government decided their
beautiful beach would be a great place to dump all the rubble. There was a
massive pile of trash on the sand for several years, extending miles down the
playa, hundreds of meters onto shore, and 5 meters into the air. One day a year
or so ago, the government finally agreed to move it all, and now Pisco has its
beach back.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Aid money
was sent to the government, but it all seemed to mysteriously disappear. To create
the image that they were doing something, the government built brick walls
around the periphery of the town. The locals now call them “walls of shame”-
they serve absolutely no purpose but to create the false image of progress. (“Look!
We´re doing something!”) Nice try, Pedro. The government was replaced, and the
current mayor is actually helping. Unfortunately, the initial corruption was a
major reason for Pisco´s slow rehabilitation and progress.</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUY-M-rD9l5C48v9ixDGSodFp3QobSpqy5r5SAnKgKSJ43VVuS0RhsqM8bHsER5DAEAuQuUpANrdwgbrKdiuvI97GpvFBojaqoRGc8SqziryNfgqdTAj29nyk8DWbYEk2cRZeVUTocwxU7/s1600/P4170372.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUY-M-rD9l5C48v9ixDGSodFp3QobSpqy5r5SAnKgKSJ43VVuS0RhsqM8bHsER5DAEAuQuUpANrdwgbrKdiuvI97GpvFBojaqoRGc8SqziryNfgqdTAj29nyk8DWbYEk2cRZeVUTocwxU7/s640/P4170372.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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Dock<br />
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A park that PSF built. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3aozcB4K1DmCl3TEsXkur7op749l7GtC3Fu8ydgxOYhACSu6g5GHdXfNYhdihCm3IZacjc_4yvMGULdnLOf2wTX3QmXgS_wNXgzuEya10vuSLy4sNtX9J5eBNybpSWuyuLnc_edtByWfv/s1600/P4170376.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3aozcB4K1DmCl3TEsXkur7op749l7GtC3Fu8ydgxOYhACSu6g5GHdXfNYhdihCm3IZacjc_4yvMGULdnLOf2wTX3QmXgS_wNXgzuEya10vuSLy4sNtX9J5eBNybpSWuyuLnc_edtByWfv/s640/P4170376.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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One of the fake walls. <br />
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">In the time
immediately following the quake, Psco received international aid from various NGO´s
and non profits, but they help lasted less than a year before funds fizzled
out. In 2008, a pair of Peruvian siblings named Harold and Carolina realized
that there were still many homeless and suffering Pisqueños in dire need of
help. With meager supplies and funding, they began carting shabby wheelbarrows around
town and helping to rebuild the town one project at a time. Soon enough, Harold
and Carolina´s work gained international attention and they teamed up with a
group from the states who called themselves “Burners without Borders”
(referring to Burning Man). A year after the earthquake hit, Burners without
Borders morphed into “Pisco without Borders”, and thus Pisco Sin Fronteras was
born. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Since then,
the organization has thrived, and seen unprecedented growth. So many volunteers
pass through in a week´s time, you can find these idealistic and hardworking former
volunteers all around the globe. I can personally confirm this. Tumbling along
the dusty camp road to the Pilas-El Hoyo Reserve 2,000 miles North in
Nicaragua, I told a cheery volcano border that I was going to be volunteering
for Pisco Sin Fronteras. She pulled up her shirt and there, tattooed on her
belly, was “PSF” in bold black lettering. “I was just there! I could only stay
2 weeks, but I really wish I could have stayed longer.” Two weeks?! And she got
a tattoo?! Dang, she must have really dug the place. I was impressed. For me,
that was absolute confirmation that I had picked a well liked nonprofit after
all my tedious research. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Now I know
the whole story. Pisco Sin Fronteras relies almost solely on funds raised by
current and former volunteers, many of whom return to their home countries,
fundraise there, and send the money to Peru. In the case of my new friend, she
actually got the tattoo as a dare/ fundraiser; friends and family bet money that
she wouldn´t get the permanent reminder of a two week volunteer vacation
branded onto her stomach. When she actually went through with it, she collected
all the money and donated it right back to PSF.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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On the top floor of headquarters.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8NG7-HI7Sb-8Qn-67JsWeoZTN1FDwxYV5mzvnIKGesRECmPoYzGw8EVaj0hBOcEmxTQwmOd0TD_BYTNTzCDkIyAVbMMz299XHY0lUB-WwBDvmoscWswUYONfZNxME9NfXVpDW8cnMoCUH/s1600/P4180394.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8NG7-HI7Sb-8Qn-67JsWeoZTN1FDwxYV5mzvnIKGesRECmPoYzGw8EVaj0hBOcEmxTQwmOd0TD_BYTNTzCDkIyAVbMMz299XHY0lUB-WwBDvmoscWswUYONfZNxME9NfXVpDW8cnMoCUH/s640/P4180394.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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The roofs of Pisco. </div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I´ve been
here for three weeks now, and I can already understand the impact PSF made on
her- this is an incredible place. After watching busses pass along the perilous
sand dune highway behind Eco Truly for five days in fascinated horror, I finally
bussed along that road from Eco Truly Lodge to Lima, and then from Lima to
Pisco. The bus ride along that gripping cliff edge felt exactly like being in a
plane. We flew through the clouds and I sat next to a window white with fog. In
moments the haze around would break and with a lurch of my stomach I could see
down, down, down into the sparkling Pacific Ocean far below the precariously
rolling wheels of the bus. They veered so near the sharp drop-off that I
couldn´t see the road below, no matter how sharp I craned my neck.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
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<span lang="EN-US"><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></span><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Inside the bus was a first class jet. We sat
in plush seats, watched feature length films on a shiny new flat screen, and
were require to buy a real ticket for a real, individual, comfortable seat. No
one stood in the isle. I was blown away. It just kept getting better, though-
the bus terminal was akin to the poshest of airports. Like airlines, bus
companies occupied stations lining the upper floor, advertising tickets to
Trujillo, Huaraz, Cusco, and other popular destinations. Most importantly,
there were escalators!!! I am truly in a different world here. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
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<span lang="EN-US"><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></span><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Pisco is a
bit different. I´d say today´s Pisco is somewhere between funky and a shit hole.
It´s a sandy, sprawling confusion of concrete box buildings and what used to be
concrete box buildings. Sort of like a run down city in the deserts of
Southwestern US. The light here is different- it´s a pale dune yellow that
settles over the city in milky dust. But the minute you leave town, the dust
clears, the light changes, and the sky is the blue bluest of blue. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
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<span lang="EN-US"><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></span><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The gate to
Pisco Sin Fronteras would be lost among the shabby buildings along La Avenida
las Americas would it not be painted in the brightest turquoises, oranges and
reds. Beyond the iconic entrance lies an energetic organism of volunteers
serious about helping and serious about work. About responding to the direct
needs of the Pisqueños still affected by the 2007 earthquake, and delving
deeper into the relief effort through finding inventive and sustainable means
to reach the common goal: Rebuild Pisco sustainably and improve the quality of life.
<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></span><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The energy
here is contagious. I instantly forgot about being burnt out. The air seems
electrified with a go-go, get down to work ethic and enthusiasm. And you need
that sort of energy for the work we´re doing here. Work begins at 9 from Monday
to Friday and the day sets with the sun- this means (depending on the project)
over 8 hours of backbreaking physical labor in the heat of the sun so
inescapably close to the equator. But whether you´re on a construction site or
working in a classroom (teaching English, tutoring school children, etc.), the challenges
less in the physical labor and more in the emotional reaction to seeing the
many here living under tarps, in crudely thrown together bamboo shacks, or
literally under plastic bags. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></span><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">PSF differs
from Quetzaltrekkers in that we´re literally rebuilding the down one hammer
stroke at a time, instead purely fundraising. In that way, we´re much more
connected to the impact we´re making on the town. I feel like I´m making a
difference here. It´s only been three weeks, and Pisco already feels like home.
This is a special place; the energy and enthusiasm are unstoppable. I have never
heard a complaint. Somehow, the positive energy is circulated and multiplied
and leaves room for nothing else. PFS is proof positive that it is possible to
work really hard and have a lot of fun at the same time.- It must be the camaraderie-
people are kind and supportive. Whatever the case, I am happy happy happy to be
here and I´m love love lovin it. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></span><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">More details
soon about what I am actually doing!</span></span></div>Emma Lodeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16592002908904167336noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5524868153484276154.post-48013295255210250962012-04-21T14:28:00.002-07:002012-07-18T07:25:37.106-07:00Krishna Consciousness<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">It felt like I´d entered back into reality from a long, colorful dream. Lima is a city like all big cities. I could have been anywhere. I had to keep on reminding myself that I’m in Peru now. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Peruvian Spanish is crisp, clear, with a throaty rasp on the h. It felt like my Spanish speaking and comprehension had made laps and bounds in a second. This is the Spanish I learned in school, not the slurred, lazy Nicaraguan colloquialism, the Nicañol. </span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The center of Lima, where the money is, at once reminds me of Los Angeles and the images I have of European cities. Of Los Angeles for the diffused haze of the sky, the traffic choked highways, the rows of top heavy palms and distant hills. Of Europe for the colonial architecture around the square: Statues set in fountains, tall, old buildings with dainty Spanish wrought iron balconies. But all painted with Latin America´s hues: Deep oranges and yellows, faded pastels. Not the garishly bright colors of Central America and the Caribbean, but a like the distinguished and subtle parent. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">There is a certain urgency in the air here that Leon didn´t have: People walk with haste, move quickly. A typical vendor in Leon: She moves as if through molasses, her frayed and filthy front apron stained with the juice of the quesillos in her hands. She is in no hurry, she takes one step at a time, she retires on a curb to rely on the piercing nasal quality of her saleswoman shriek: QUESSSIIIIILLLOOOOOOSSSSS! QUESSSSSIIIIIIILOOOOOOOSS! A sound which can penetrate the densest of walls. The vendors I´ve seen so far in Lima walk with a quick clip. They´re on a mission. </span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We drove out of the town center, North. Small, dusty mountains in grays and tans. Light cracks and fissures splitting open their parched flesh. A sea of slums, of houses- stacked concrete boxes in dusty pastels, clinging to the hills. They are dirty rectangular Easter eggs. They summit the small peaks and creep up the taller ridges. They are the outskirts of a city numbering over 10 million, the edges of a growing amoeba cupped by the retaining walls of the mountains and the drop off into the sea. </span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Peru has the wide open spaces that Nicaragua lacked. It expands and expands. It´s as if a country´s geology stretches and shrinks depending on the space within its borders; tiny Nicaragua seemed so cramped. I can tell that I´m in a bigger country now. </span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I was in a taxi, on the way from the hotel I´d stayed at in Lima to Eco Truly Lodge., I was burnt out from working as a hiking guide and needed a break before diving into my next project, Pisco Sin Fronteras. I could tell it would be equally hard core. Jelmer, coming to my rescue yet again, had mentioned the Eco lodge when I inquired about a good spot in Peru to relax.”There´s this Hare Krishna place,” he mused. “Don´t remember the name. Good food. Nice people. It´s perfect for rejuvenating, they take really good care of you.” Sounds good. </span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">With a bit more research I found about the yoga, the beach, the art center. Perfect. A plan was hatched. I would spend five days at Eco Truly before heading South to Pisco, five days of reflection and introspection. </span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I had been sleeping for hours. When I awoke, Lima was long gone. Everything was sand and dunes, desert. It was incredible, like the Mojave but more intense. We pulled into the town of Chacra y Mar, if you can call it a town. It is a desolate desert highway, wind whipped and scoured by sand, along which stood the most sad, barren produce stands I´ve ever seen. Crumbling houses and scattered concrete block houses that looked like a pile of rubble until you saw a little girl standing in the doorway, her home. There´s an Eco Lodge here?! </span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">There is. Eco Truly Lodge is an oasis of green that appears out of the endless tan, nestled up next to the Pacific Ocean. It´s an ecological, artistic community founded on Vaishnava principles, combination “hare Krishna” ashram, farm, bakery and restaurant, offering yoga, meditation, and access to the art studio. Dome shaped mud structures called Trulys make Eco Truly distinct and easy to spot. The idea of the mud is that by living within something that is crafted of the earth around you, you are in touch with the energy of the surrounding nature. Their rounded shape allows that energy to circulate in a swirling motion, rather than get trapped in the corners. IN meditation, this apparently allows an elevated state to come more quickly. Beehive-like, they´re decorated with beaded spires and colorful mandalas, images of hindu demi gods and holy animals. </span></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The Truly I´m staying at now is the volunteer lodging, and I´m sharing it with three other girls, all leaving at around the same time as me, in about 5 days. I didn´t plan on volunteering until I was told that by offering just a couple hours of service a day, the price to stay is less than half. We´re also more integrated with the long term devotees (Community members who live at Eco Truly for an extended period of time and are fierce worshipers of Krishna. Each devotee is given a new name: Darma, Brama, Druva, etc. They are the sweetest, most adorable men and women. And very helpful in my quest to understand the meaning of the phrase “hare Krishna”.</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">First of all, don´t call them “hare krishnas”. The term hare Krishna roughly translates to “hail Krishna”, so to call the devotees “hare krishnas” would be as if to call a Christian a “Praise the Lord” or a “Hallelujah”. Also, don´t call them Hindu. The word Hindu was originally a mispronunciation of a Sanskrit word, some 4,000 years ago. According to the history books, Persians couldn´t pronounce the “S” in the name of the Sindhu River, and this called it the “Hindu”. Those living along the banks were labeled “Hindus”, regardless of religious affiliation. </span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">There are many strands of what Westerners call Hinduism. Vaishnavism, the religion practiced by devotees in Eco Truly, is the most popular form of Hinduism and is practiced by most “Hindus” in India. Vaishnavas worship Krishna as their one and only god, in contrast to other strands of Hinduism which worship only demi gods (Brahma, Vishnu, Shiva, etc.) The demi gods are worshiped in Vaishnavism too- Almost similar to the Catholic Saints. Vaishnavas seemed much more open and tolerant to other religions than Catholics. They preach that you can call God by any name, and that the way you envision God is exactly how He or She Is; each person has their own personal Krishna.</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"></span><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Here, the air is singed with the scents of desert, ocean, and incense. On one side, the near vertical dun brown wall of a sand dune rises into the hazy sky, cut halfway through by a scary looking Cliffside highway. After dark, the lights of delicately balanced semis shoot past like low flying planes, perched high up on the black wall that merges with the night. </span></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US"></span><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">On the other side the ocean roars up the desert coast. Last night, a spectacular sunset spangled the sand- the brightest yellows I have seen in the sky. The entire heavens were painted and molded in textures that swept as far back as the dunes, and the scape was reflected in the ocean and the wet sand. Where I stood at the tide line, I was encompassed in a globe of color. I was floating in a kaleidoscope, blending and tumbling and shooting ribbons of light in every direction. </span></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US"></span><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">This is a desert retreat, an escape. Over dinner, a devotee was telling me that everyone comes here for a reason; is looking for something. Tourists don´t just stumble upon Eco Truly while strolling through the town of Chacra y Mar. From the conversations I´ve had it seems like the Peruvian devotees are here to shed from their lives toxins and find purity: Quit drinking and smoking, use nonviolence, completely reinvent themselves and redefine their lives to be personally meaningful. </span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"></span><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The farm here is cultivated using permaculture, and the people here seem to apply the principles of permaculture to their own lives and interactions with others. The pillars of the community are living in harmony with nature, others, and themselves. To be open minded and practice tolerance, compassions, and patience. The green fields that surround the lodge and produce organic vegetables are a wonder; they were built on what was once sandy, unworkable land. They bloomed form the hard work of residents and volunteers, unique “organic awareness cultivation”, and love and blessings from Krishna, I´m sure. Eco Truly´s agricultural solutions have become a model for impoverished Peruvian desert villages throughout the country. </span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"></span><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">But if you want to stay at Eco Truly, there are rules. When you enter the front gate, you can leave your drugs and your guns behind. Easy enough. Now you can leave your meat behind. Your milk. Your eggs. Your honey. The community here is vegan, and it isn’t permitted to consume anything that alters the consciousness; this includes rum, beer, pot, and…. Coffee. That´s right, no coffee. I had been nodding, smiling, understanding… but I draw the line there. I understand the idea that caffeine picks you up and draws you into a slightly artificial state, but how can it sever any sort of connection with God?! To me, there is nothing more spiritual than a big steaming mug of hot coffee in the early morning, cupped in your hands, aroma mingling with the dewy morning air and gracing the new light of day. That´s God. And may coffee shops be my temple. </span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"></span><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I made a little secret rebellion. I was naughty. There is a little stand outside the eco park where the sweetest Peruvian woman sells nick knacks including packets of instant coffee. I bought two. I felt like I was doing a drug deal. Putting on my best casual face, I tried to walk through the door normally, glancing over my shoulder and wondering if anyone could recognize the bulge in my pants pocket. Can the devotees smell the fumes? Can they sense the bad energy that caffeine emanates? </span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"></span><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I hid the packets in my room and then walked innocently into the cavernous, fully equipped Krishna kitchen- Cooking is one of the most important activities in Vaishnavism. I asked a devotee for boiling water. He put the stove on while I drifted around the room, breathing in aromas of Indian spices and silently giving my blessings at the many small altars along the walls, building up a little Karma before I committed my sinful deed. </span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"></span><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The coffee tasted excellent. It was just instant powder, so I think the good flavor was simply caused by the sweetness of sipping something you shouldn´t be sipping- the forbidden fruit effect, like a Budweiser to a high school freshman. </span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"></span><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">My plan at Eco Truly was to do nothing- as explained, five days of reflection and introspection. Well, the devotees at Eco Truly are very good at providing that sort of environment. Not only do they excel at the art of being in touch with oneself, but they preach it with intense passion and enthusiastically grasp visitors by the hand, determined to engage them in as many spiritual and happiness-bringing activities as they can convince you to participate in a day. Proactive relaxation? </span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"></span><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">If you were to take on a full schedule of events, your day would go something like this.</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"></span><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Wake up at 4, temple at 4:30. Reason for this: The early, early hours of the morning are the holiest of the day. They´re ruled by the demigod Brahma, the creator. They are the delicate hours when everything is new as if freshly created, of virgin light. </span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"></span><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">At six, a rigorous yoga session. Around the time yoga ends, around 7, the sun is finally dressed and ready and has just begun to show herself above her curtain; the immense sand wall that towers behind Eco Truly to the East. According to Maharaj (Maharaj is not a name but a title given to a high-status devotee. This Maharaj is affectionately called Little Buddha or Yogi the Bear), that point in the sun´s journey is perfect for cleansing the eyes in a practice known as sun gazing. Us yoga students are instructed to stare at the sun, eyes wide, for at least thirty seconds. Maharaj times it on his wristwatch. And don´t worry if you´re crying your eyes out and can’t hold them open, Maharaj will hold them open for you. </span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"></span><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">When you´re done, if you´re lucky and haven´t been permanently blinded, you´ll see a brightly quivering spot in your vision. This sacred splotch means love when green and happiness when blue. Mine was purple. When I asked, Maharaj told me purple means you will have a beautiful moment at Eco Truly. </span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"></span><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Vision freshly impaired, we migrate to the beach. At this time of the morning, the sky and sea are washed tones of gray sifting from white to the shadowed underbelly of the crashing waves. Barefoot at the water’s edge, we cup the cold saltwater in our hands and release it back into the sea while Maharaj chants a mantra blessing our parents. “Para tu Madre y Padre”.</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"></span><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Then we run. Holding hands. A long line of crazy Hindu hippies, skipping through the shallow surf and giggling at the sheer ridiculousness of it all. Passing by fishermen who shake their heads as they cast their morning nets. They´re used to it al by now, I´m sure. We sprint until we can´t breathe, and then sprint again. At the end there will be a group hug, and sometimes, a massage chain. </span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I can tell you that by the time breakfast is served, you will be hungry. Breakfast is heaven at Eco Truly- a modge podge of ride fruit, mango, papaya, cantaloupe, banana, apples; homemade granola and yogurt; fresh fruit juice. Of course no coffee, don´t get me started again. </span></span><span lang="EN-US"></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">For volunteers, the hours from 9 to 1 are devoted to conscious servitude, AKA sweeping the bathrooms. Luckily for me, Rama (the volunteer coordinator) seemed to forget about us my first two days, one of which I spent my volunteer hours visiting the “sea caves”. These are stalactite encrusted caverns gaping into the roaring sea a short hike away from the Krishna bubble. The other volunteers and I climbed up and over scorching sand dunes, past fishermen who dropped their lines hundreds of feet up on sandy cliffs, on top of the blue world, and then along the ocean as the cliffs closed in on our left and then split open in a maze deep, of interconnected maws. </span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"></span><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Out at sea, pelicans rode the swells, as big as boats, riding on some of the biggest waves I´ve ever seen. The sea, spotted with foam, rose like the quivering flank of an appaloosa. Up, up, and she cups, spitting froth, a charging stallion. Galloping forward, down into a barrel, closing left, and finally milky foam. I watched and watched, screaming in delight every time a wave crashed. Where else but the ocean can you find this level of power and beauty? Where else?</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"></span><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The tide was coming in so we ran screaming through the cave passages to reach the inner cavern. The waves pulsed through and threatened to steal us and suck us down dark passageways. It was incredible. When we finally got to the back, the Lion like Hindu god of protection bore down on us from the back wall. Someone had painted his towering portrait, thirty feet tall, complete with the lion body, flowers decorating his neck, and imposing staff. It´s a powerful piece of art and has a certain energy. Or maybe the energy you´re feeling is just the tremors of the ripping tide crashing closer and closer behind you as you stare… We only stayed for a couple minutes and then ran out again screaming like chickens as the saltwater swirled around our waists. </span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"></span><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Other days, I was not so lucky. On Thursday, the chore of the day was to collect and arrange flower bouquets for the temple. Easy enough, right? Rama instructed that we could rip out flowers form anywhere and anything, because it would all g back to Krishna anyway. We were to start out bouquets with a banana leaf, to be a sort of background and keep the more delicate blooms together. I walked into the little banana field and inspected the plants. They were young with lush, succulent green leaves, thriving. I started pulling at a particularly nice leaf, and it felt like I was killing an animal. I was ripping at the strong juicy threads at the base of the stems, and they were refusing to break- I was sawing at the veins and tendons of a living thing and it was bleeding green into my hands! I don´t understand why Vaishnava devotees are so concerned about killing animals, even the smallest bug, but will enthusiastically send me out to kill banana plants. It felt very weird.</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"></span><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I struggled through and we filled all eight or so vases in the temple, then headed in for lunch. Typically, Rama will show videos after lunch for the interested. I watched two in total: one about reincarnation; how knowing that your energy will be recycled into a new entity after you die helps you pass away in peace, and one about vegetarianism. I have nothing against vegetarianism; in fact, I rarely eat meat, and have only lived in vegetarian households. What got to me was the peachiness of the video and the lengths the narrator (their spiritual master) went to to condemn meat eaters.</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"></span><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> At one point, a quote flashed across the screen, something like this: “When all the humans cease to consume flesh, humans will cease to abort their sons”. Essentially, if we stop killing by not eating meat, we will not want to kill by having abortions. I asked Rama how they know this, and his answer was “My spiritual Master knows. He can see the future”. Vaishnavas are such a funny mix of artsy-liberal and radically-religious Pro-Life. </span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"></span><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Sometimes there´s yoga in the afternoon too, depending on the volunteer schedule. I’ve been learning that there´s a lot more to yoga than stretching and building muscle strength; the very word yoga means “unity”, or in this context, “unity with God”. There are many, many different types of yoga. Bakti Yoga literally means just serving God, and can be anything from chanting a mantra to reading the Guru Gita (Holy book) to sweeping the floor. </span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"></span><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">After dinner comes the last step of the day, evening temple. The temple is made up of a circle of Trulys with a large open space in the center. The biggest truly is home to an altar populated by 50 or so deity dolls. Every night, a devotee dresses the dolls in their PJ´s, puts them to bed, and draws the curtains. I asked why. They´re embarrassed to be seen in their lingerie, of course. There is a kitchen directly next to the temple, where a tiny, ancient Peruvian woman works full time. She spends her days cranking out 3 elaborate and exquisitely spiced meals a day, which she arranges on platters and leaves as offerings for the Gods. Three times a day, we are offered their “leftovers”, which are often more delectable than the cuisine for us lowly earthbound creatures. It´s like communion, and the offerings are supposed to cleanse you.</span></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> I went to Temple three times- the first two had two parts, first singing (chanting hare Krishna, hare Krishna etc. to a melody) and the reading and lecture out of the Guru Gita. The third time I went, it was a Saturday, so we had a party. The party was an hour or so of dancing and singing: This meant jumping up and down like Mexican jumping beans, clapping and shouting “kare krisna” (you guessed it) over and over while the devotees banged on drums and clanged bells and castanets. </span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"></span><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">On my last day, the volunteer program of the day was sweeping the entire housing quarters, cleaning the bathrooms, and such things. I was having a bit of trouble with this working-for-Krishna thing (although the chores that day did have their real life benefits). I had started a painting the day before and wouldn´t have had any time to finish it otherwise, so I asked to paint it as an offering to Krishna for my volunteer hours. It worked! It was perfect. I painted a goddess, sort of an earth-sea diosa encircled in a moon and sun, and left it behind as a “footprint” of my stay, as my new friend Dharma said. </span></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US"></span><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">By the time I left, after only five days, I had grown close with several of the devotees, and my Spanish had improved by a lot. Everyone in the Eco Truly community is so open and ready to share themselves with you and get to know you as real people that bonds develop fast. It was an interesting experience, and now that I had expected. But despite the constant activity, my week there was what I needed- I came out rejuvenated and exited to move on to Pisco and start something new. </span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"></span><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I had had many conversations with Darhma over cups of acrylic paint. I told him how I wanted to explore the world and try to make a difference, try to change things, try to help. He told me he used to be like that, but not anymore. He told me he´s realized that the only thing you can really change is yourself. How you live and interact and treat others is the only thing you can really control in life. </span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"></span><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">That´s why he´s landed in this spiritual community. The mindset in Eco Truly is very much “things are as they are; they are perfect as they are; don´t try to change things”. At this point in my life, I can´t think that way. I´m going to Pisco to try to make as much of a different as I can through construction and community development. So yeah, I was excited to get back into the world. Goodbye, happy little bubble, hello Earthquake destruction zone!! </span></span></div>
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</div>Emma Lodeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16592002908904167336noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5524868153484276154.post-86999105749026241442012-04-14T16:18:00.002-07:002012-07-18T07:14:24.017-07:00Transitions<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I love airports.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">I love the way you arrive at dawn, the sky growing rosy with the anticipation of a new day, your cheeks ruddy to match the clouds, your eyes beaming like the freshly rising sun. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">You´re at the brink, you’re a poised arrow, every molecule in your body quivering with the ecstasy of freedom and imminent release. You´re ready, so ready you can feel it burning in your chest like a firecracker.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">Airports are the junction between gritty traveling and clean, posh sophistication. You sit with your loaded backpack, mind gearing for the impending arrival, the grit, the unfamiliarity, the challenges, the stimulation and chaos. Around you, facades of stylish perfume shops glitter; slick white walks rise lofty, adorned with crisp advertisements. Flight attendance clip past with starched white suits, vogue, hair slicked back, compact.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">This is exciting. Your little luggage bag, your belongings- only what you need and exactly what you need, right here, on your body. You can go anywhere. You ARE going anywhere. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">You sit next to the glass, a floor to ceiling window wide to the horizon. Gazing at your immediate destination, the sky. The silver bird you´ll ride rolls below on the tarmac, strutting, shiny, powerful and mysterious. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">Smooth jazz floats on the air. You expand into the comfort and convenience and sterile cool; you are forced to relax. Suddenly everything falls nicely into perspective. You are here, in this moment, at the airport, in this empty space between Have Been and Will Go. There is nothing. There is you, your bag, and the infinity of the sky. This beautiful balance point of time, this calm, white bubble of </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">Today my affixation with airports will be put to the test. Eight hours in Comolapa International Airport in San Salvador, El Salvador. Two of which I spent sleeping-´in the grimy corner of Puerto de Salida 14, many flights prior to being my takeoff point for Lima, Peru. I passed out on the cold, hard, unforgiving linoleum floor, head resting on my trusty yellow Northface backpack, neck tweaked in an unnatural angle. Curled up in fetal position amidst droves of international travelers queuing, streaming and mobbing to desks, through official glass doors, voyaging into their metal beasts. Making for home or beyond after their pleasantly reasonable layovers. Me, I´m gonna hang out here for a while. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">I popped out of a dream choked sleep bright eyed and alive, and now have finally squandered out a nice spot to camp out, over looking Gate 14 (although I don´t really need to be paying attention for at least four more hours).</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">Ahh, the calm, the solitude, the cleanliness. The wide open spaces and white walls, the slick, shiny floor, vast walls of glass spilling light into a mirror on the empty floor, quivering reflection leaking to the edge of my chique café table. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">I sit, I read, and then I write. Every half an hour or so I take the five minute walk to the baño. And in a steady stream of preciously crisp green bills, I buy needlessly expensive food. First, I had to get an espresso drink. For the last three and a half months, my caffeine consumption has been limited to the drudgery of Presto instant coffee power, powder creamer, and heaps of sugar to smother the bitterness. A couple times, I was treated to luxury: Jelmer had bought a bag of real coffee- the kind that is straight ground bean and necessitates preparation of various forms. In his case, boiling water and grounds together in a small pan, and then sifting the coarser grounds out through a tea strainer. Cowboy coffee. It was heaven. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">Here, when I saw the word ¨mocha¨ on the menu, my stomach made a little flip of excitement. My fancy espresso drink was even adorned with the delicate caricature of a bunny rabbit. I worked as a barista for 4 months, and foam art is NOT easy.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">The next stop was equally exciting: Subway! Five dollar footlongs! I was a little dismayed when the only cheese was ¨queso Americano¨, but the real disappointment came when the cashier rang me up for 10 dollars. Double the amount of back home. I hadn´t even bothered to check the price, but it was too late, the sandwich had been made. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">I´m buying fancy drinks, fancy sandwiches, gum, even a chocolate muffin. I´m acting like it´s my mission to spend as much cash on food and caffeine as is humanly possible to consume in 8 hours. It´s not, by the way.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">I think I deserve it, though. I´m tired. My relaxing week had screeched to a sudden, violent halt. I was basking in leisure; spending my days sketching and going on runs and sleeping in till 12. My sheer torpidity had blossomed to such a grotesque level that I could barely bring myself to lift a finger to wash my dishes, and unabashedly assumed that any and all of my hikes would be canceled until my departure. Two had already fallen short of the minimum clientele, and I only had one more- Volcano boarding, my least favorite trip, on my last day, literally my last day at Quetzaltrekkers. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">It was so inconveniently and annoyingly placed on my schedule, that there was just no way it would actually happen. Right? There was no one signed up and it was 5: 45. The office closes at six. I was on office shift, sketching a mountains scene, contemplating all the time I would have the next day for packing and last minute errands around Leon. Since we figured my trip wouldn´t go, Raf and I had planned a joint despedida that night- Friday night. On Saturday, half of us would be gone on hikes. So we had all this stuff planned out. Raf had gone to the supermarket and bought drinks, party snacks, and butt loads of fruit for… Fruit Ninja!</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">Fruit Ninja means standing in the courtyard wielding a sharpened machete like a baseball bat, or alternatively up above your head like you´re about to Whack-A-Mole, while ripe, juicy watermelons are tossed at your head. The idea is to slice the projectile cleanly in two, but it´s harder then it looks, depending on the size of the fruit in question. Mandarin oranges, for example, are a challenge. I got a papaya, a big one, and I cleaved it in such a clean swipe that I decided it was the perfect opportunity to quit while I was on top and let people live with the false impression that I possess any bit of hand eye coordination. And leave the mini grapefruits to the baseball players. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">I took on the role of photographer, and spent the next rounds trying to capture the action while orange pulp and watermelon juice showered us in sticky sprays and splattered on my camera lens. The worst was when Andrew decided to use a two-by-four instead of a machete and demolish a watermelon on pure force of impact. The entire melon exploded into billions of tiny shards and drenched us- and the entire room- in a sticky sludge. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">But let me backtrack. It was the last 10 minutes of my office shift, and Fruit Ninja was then only a vision. At 5: 52, four silhouettes of backpackers passed through the darkening doorway. You need at least four to make a profit on Volcano Boarding. They all wanted to go volcano boarding. I was so shocked I didn´t know what to say. I must have asked them five times if they were serious but they really couldn´t be more serious. They were single minded on volcano boarding. When they left I stupidly banged my head on the wooden gate in frustration and made a sizeable mark (yup, still there). </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">I was frustrated and upset, too much so. In my melodramatic mindset this meant no despedida, not time to pack on my last day, no time to say goodbye to my Leon buddies; it meant I couldn´t take the bus on Sunday morning because I´d have to do all my last minute preparation that day. (I had to be at the airport on Sunday night). Of course I should never have expected not to work on my last day. This trip had been on my schedule for two weeks, and by my unwillingness to take the trip I was effectively refusing homeless kids roughly fifty dollars. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">I had a little cry and then empowered myself. I took out money to go to the supermarket. Just as I was walking out the door, Andrew informed me that the supermarket was closed. Of course it was closed, it was Good Friday. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">First I panicked, then I was relieved. They have to cancel the trip, right? We can´t take clients volcano boarding without food. Wrong. Andrew and Rebecca were dead set on making this happen. I slumped on the couch, drained, as the group discussed and argued solutions for the food crisis: The El Hoyo trip was in deeper trouble then I was; they needed about 5 times as many groceries. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">A conclusion. We would delay the trips by 2 hours, to depart at 10. We would wake up at 7:30 to make it to the supermarket at 8, and do all the food prep in the morning. Ok. So I had to contact my clients. Couldn’t reach them. Literally could not find the phone number for Hotel Ivana, wherever the hell that is. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">As I scrambled around flipping through phone books, directories, even the Lonely Planet, the doorbell rang. Three kids stood on the sidewalk, looking up at me forlornly with pleading puppy dog eyes. They wanted to go volcano boarding. It was 7:30. Were they serious?! The consensus- which I was not a part of- was to let them come. I hadn´t done any food prep, so why not? It only meant I had to make 3 more boards, prep three more gear bags, clean and fill six more water bottles, and want to punch anyone and everyone in the face. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">Mike saved me by suggesting we get out of the house and get some street food (he was concerned about my plan to have only Clif Bars for dinner). It was a relief. We walked to the central plaza and ate greasy, ketchup smothered pizza baked on sugary bread under the Semana Santa Festival lights. A Peruvian band played traditional and upbeat Andean songs. Glowing carousals swirled in a million colors, kids whooping on its dainty horses. Food stalls everywhere. It was a real carnival. Everyone was here, congregated to celebrate Good Friday to the fullest. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">In a rush of emotion I felt disgusted with my selfishness that evening, my resistance to a little bit of work after nearly a week of not much to do but my own projects, things I really shouldn´t have been concentrating on because they subtly gnawed into my dedication to the volunteer work I had come for. Two completely unexpected, horrifying thoughts I´d had in the last couple weeks arose sharply in my mind: One, when I, for the first time, had counted the hours I´d worked in a day and wondered how much I could have been paid. And two, when I had come back from a hike, and the majority of my clients had somehow finagled discounts; the profit had come out low, 30% or something. I had shrugged and announced carelessly to Raf that I didn´t care. He replied with ¨You´re saying you don´t care about the kids.¨</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">But I do! What´s wrong with me? I decided to take this last trip with every remaining ounce of energy and vigor my fatigued body possessed. I would do everything. Would party hard at the despedida, go volcano boarding, and host my own despedida the next night, finish all my personal projects, and get out of Leon just in time for my flight. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">Why are the ends of things always hectic, chaotic, and looming with the need to stuff every last moment with meaning, with every last thing you ever wanted and forgot to do and more? Why can´t I ever have a calm and relaxed farewell? </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">Miraculously, I flipped my mood 360 degrees and had a great night. And yes, played fruit Ninja. More surprising, my good mood lasted me through the next morning, through volcano boarding, and even through scraping all the boards in the evening. By the time I´d finished everything and had taken a shower, it was around six and I crashed. I had gotten something like four hours of sleep the night before. Thank the Lord, Lynn had come back from vacation that day, and true to her caring and do-good character, she whipped me up a ferociously caffeinated cappuccino to rival the best barista. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">Awake again, I started to plan my half of me and Raf´s two-part despedida. My grand idea: Fruit Fondue. It´s been done before, but I don´t think it´s possible to have too much fruit and chocolate. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">My last night went something like this. A romantic dinner at Mediterreano, Leon´s most elegant and ambient restaurant. With Lynn and Patty, the new beach manager, all fancied up in Lynn´s dress. Then the party. Because of the absence of those on El Hoyo (Aymie, Jelmer, Mike), and those on vacation (Annika, Janet), it was a different group from the previous despedida (hence having two). Lynn was back, Aislyn and Nate came, and brought Aislyn´s brother and his girlfriend. Her bro, Eddie, was possibly the funniest person to pass through Quetzaltrekkers doors during my time there, and really made the night. </span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US">I ate fondue in a continuous stab-dip-devour motion until my ribs threatened to break, then the caffeine finally wore off and I passed out. And then up early and sketching. Not stretching, sketching. I had to finish a book project I´d been working on- I´ve been commissioned as the sketch artist for a compilation of short stories. That´s about all I an disclose her, but I will say that the last story I was to sketch had a certain spiritual aspect to it that made the author of the book and I eager to finish symbolically n Easter Sunday. I sketched from nine to four and got it done. I had to push back the time of my taxi twice (I decided not to risk bussing so late on Easter), and finally was ready at 8 to meet the cab outside Via Via. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">Packing would have been a disaster had Raf not convinced me and then supported me morally in chucking out at least half of my things, for which I´m very grateful. After shoving down a last spoonful of the quiche Patty graciously crafted for her very first and my very last Family Dinner, I stood with my 18 kilo pack creaking on my back, the sounds of a worn leather saddle. This pack that now feels so much more familiar than ever before, a trusty old friend. Splattered and stained with the blood of seven volcanoes. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">It felt light after so many uphill climbs lugging upward of 23 kilos. My Quetzaltrekkers family encircled me in a group hug to say goodbye. Everyone was there- it was Family Dinner Night, so of course they were; I couldn´t have planned my departure on a better night. Patty, the sweetheart, even slipped me an aluminum wrapped slice of her chocolate cake into my hand, because I was going to miss dessert. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">I was full of love and suddenly couldn´t stand to leave them. This was the family I´d known for the last 3 and a half months, the place I´d come to call home. The city that had grown familiar, the restaurants and shops and personalities and funk, even the chaos. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">I walked out the door feeling as if I´d forgotten something. I had certainly left a lot behind. How strange that you can´t jus hop over and visit a place like this? Quetzaltrekkers was an intense and beautiful spell, one I´ll always remember. Maybe I´ll visit some day. But I know very well that it won´t be the same. Every volunteer I´ve come to know and love will be gone in two months or much less; in another couple months even Andrew and Rebecca will have moved on. If I return, there won´t be a single familiar face. That´s the nature of this place. Shifting, shifting. It´s a wonder they can maintain any continuity. </span><br />
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Me, Jules and Raf´s goodbye pictures.<br />
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Instead of putting up my country´s flag, which is customary, I figured the Seattle skyline would be more personally appropriate :) </div>
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<span lang="EN-US">I spent the taxi ride in silence, zooming along a blackened highway glistening with the artificial stars of passing cityscapes, open windows letting wind rush in and smooth my hot skin and perspiring brow. A nearly full moon rose slowly, big, luminous and orange as 80´s music pulsed full volume. The driver asked me if I liked the music, I told him I liked the moon. Aside from our few shared word I savored the gooey chunk of chocolate cake, felt the breeze, the music, the night, and lived in my head, thoughts and emotions bumping and blurring into each other with vivid intensity.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">I didn´t try to make friends in the airport or on the plane this time. I think after 3 and a half months of engaging tourist and small talk every day, working as, essentially, an entertainer and a crowd pleaser, people organizer and sweet talking saleswoman, I’m a little burnt out. Travelers. At one time they were, in my mind, like earthbound gods, globe roamers of infinite wisdom and knowledge, teeming with life experience and bursting with adventure. I mean, travelers still amaze and inspire me. But they are no longer a rare and shining gem in my life. I´m kinda used to travelers now. Hey, I´m working on becoming one myself. </span><br />
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</div>Emma Lodeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16592002908904167336noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5524868153484276154.post-17331071215152670492012-04-13T13:54:00.002-07:002012-07-18T07:13:20.756-07:00Mana from the Sky<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">BOOM. A volcano erupting? That was the first thought that went through my head as I lay in bed, reading. It was probably around midnight. The deep rumble from overhead shook my bed and rattled the pages of my light paperback. I´m Reading ¨Kook¨- it´s a surfing novel- part adventure story, part just plain informative about the sport, history, and culture of surfing. When I first picked it up I was drawn in by the cover: Bright yellow and orange stylized sunbeams, silhouette of a sexy surfer dude dead center. Did not expect the author of this seemingly light summer read to be a genius craftsman of words. I was pleasantly surprised- Peter Heller is a well respected journalist of the adventure travel sort, and has written for National Geographic AND Outside Magazine (¡!). Reading a book about surfing, I can mentally delve into the seductive realms of the surfing world, catch rad waves and sweeping barrels in my head, and imagine myself with a brightly toned surfboard under my arm, so in the scene, striding confidently across sea swept sands into the rolling ocean.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">Of course, this is pure fantasy. My Big Project- to learn to surf while in Nicaragua- has failed miserably. With only a couple days left in Niclandia, my time is spent. I haven´t had the time nor the money to partake in regular 20 dollar surf lessons; after one of those it was clear that surfing isn´t a sport that you can pick up after a couple times. It´s hard core. Requires dedication. When you surf, you surrender yourself to the capricious beast of the sea- The ocean becomes the master. The conductor of waves like music, waves that can move your body softly like a sweet melody, or thrash you, catapult you, smother you at the ocean´s slightest fancy. Vast, powerful, Godlike she reigns. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">Surfing is not like rock climbing, my other Project for the year, one that has actually been working out so far. Climbing was instant ecstasy for me; it´s a sport which can be enjoyed regardless of skill level or experience. If I want to really learn how to surf, I´ll need several months on the beach, just surfing. To learn how to really read the ocean. Sadly, that probably won´t happen this year. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">So I was lying there reading, and I heard another rolling roar, followed by another. Maybe it´s not a volcano. If it´s something serious someone will come get me, right? Then all of a sudden, a steady stream of white noise. My fan must have gone wild! Or is someone frying something on the stove? Then a knock on my door. ¨Emma!¨ It was Raf. ¨It´s raining!¨ </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">No friggin way. I leapt out of bed in just my tanktop and underwear, and stepped outside to face the open courtyard which the bedrooms encircle. Raf wasn´t lying- it was POURING! Great torrents of water, bursting from the stormy sky and turning our courtyard into a lake. Waterfalls gushed from the inlets of the corrugated tin roof. Puddles seeped onto the walkway and threatened to creep into my room.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">I was ecstatic! We were ecstatic! The whole family present at the time- Mom (Rebecca), dad (Andrew), me, Raf, Jules and Mike- gathered to witness this unbelievable phenomenon. It hadn´t rained a drop in Leon for the entire three months of my stay. Even stranger- we´re in the utter depths of the dry season right now. The sky should be a desert, devoid of any hint of moisture; the air should be crackling with static. I mean, it just was. But now it was RAINING. Can you say unseasonal? </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">Raf, Jules and I leapt onto the stone washbasin to be as close to the heavens as possible, and screamed and screamed. We turned our faces to the clouds which tumbled and boiled across the sky, first black and then white as blurred lighting cracked behind their nearly opaque fortress. We were drenched in seconds. It was as if we had been bewitched into a child like state of insanity- We yelled and whooped and ran about the house near nude, pure glee.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">The next morning, it was as if it had never happened. I was sure it was a one time gift; maybe a wet goodbye kiss to Jules who left that day. But then that night, it happened again. I was at the payphone chatting with Alia when I heard the sound I now recognize as a thing called thunder. I walked home at 9 under awnings spilling with rainwater, ran across roads turned to rivers, and quickened my pace through the stormy suddenly unfamiliar streets to the safety of home.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">We have no idea what´s going on. This really shouldn´t be happening. Theories range from this being a freak incident to this being the rainy season come two months early. I think it´s global warming. Whatever the case, I love it. Everything smells wonderful; wafts of rain soaked concrete remind me of Seattle. I can run under overcast skies and not come home feeling like I´ve been stranded waterless in the desert for a week. The rain is revitalizing- it´s the long awaited deep drink that we´ve been holding out for. It´s filling our parched skin and parched souls like breathing life into a bag of dehydrated camping food. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">For Nicaraguans, this unexpected mana from the sky must be a disappointment. It´s Semana Santa- the holiest and most important week of the year here- from April 1 to April 8 (Easter Sunday). This means one of two things for Nicaraguans: Either you´re religious, in which case you stay in the city to participate in daily activities and nightly precessions, or you´re not religious, so you go to the beach. Semana Santa also means no school for the kids, so families really make a vacation of it. Beaches up and down the coast are packed with sunbathers, partiers and picnickers for 8 days straight- it´s the Spring Break scene gone wild. So I assume that the rain will not be a welcome addition to their festivities. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">Semana Santa is chock full of holy days- Lazarus Saturday, Palm Sunday, Maundy Thursday (Holy Thursday), Good Friday, and Holy Saturday, Ester Sunday. I guess the Catholics decided everything would be easier if they could just concentrate all the holiness and celebration into a single week- get it all over with in one go. Leon is famous for its Semana Santa processions. Here, the devout create art on the streets to celebrate holy week- detailed depictions of Jesus, the Virgin Mary, and Leon´s cathedrals, out of colored sawdust. At night the parades pass through the ¨carpets¨, as they call them- fleeting reminder of the transience of beauty- and scatter the sawdust. Unless the rain gets there first. I´m not sure if the precessions will be happening if this continues.</span><br />
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Procession on Easter Sunday.<br />
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<span lang="EN-US">This has been a strange week in many ways. The rain, Semana Santa… everything is closed, so it´s like Sunday on crack for a week straight- it´s also my last week here, and perhaps strangest of all, I haven´t been hiking.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"> Not that that was my choice. Quetzaltrekkers has been booming with business for months, and in the space of a day, we hit low season like running into a brick wall. All of a sudden, hikes stopped going. We´d get one or two clients signed up for Volcano Boarding, zero for El Hoyo. It´s been incredibly strange. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">To be honest, I´m not complaining. I have thought about how nice it would be to have a week extra in Leon without working, to finish up last minute business and just plain relax and enjoy the city. Be here without being stressed out. So I got my wish in a way. It´s been really good for me, and I´ve been relaxed and getting enough sleep. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">A sudden halt in hiking does not mean our trivia and raffle events stopped happening though. Trivia nights are hosted by Quetzaltrekkers and occur every other Monday at Via Via restaurant. They´re quiz nights that have little to do with Quetzaltrekkers except to raise awareness of our existence and sneak in some tidbit of information between slides. The raffle is a rarer event- it´s strategically scheduled for the Friday before every full moon, to publicize the Full Moon Hike (an all night hike up Telica). </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">I am Events Manager, which means I coordinate the preparation and execution of Trivia and Raffle nights. Rebecca creates the actual trivia questions, while I make copies of answer sheets, set up sound equipment, count money, delegate responsibilities (putting up the projector and screen, grading, being in control of the nightly activity, and shouting out the questions in English and Spanish, in case the people can´t read what´s clearly written on the projector’s screen.) </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">Trivia nights are mostly a blast- they create a fun, chaotic atmosphere, a full house of Leon residents and tourists just stopping by, shouting, drinking, catching up and meeting people. It can get VERY competitive. I love that; I think it´s hilarious. The longer I´ve been in Leon, the more and more people I know or at least recognize coming back to trivia nights every other week. Lately, we´ve been combining trivia and raffle, so the raffle tickets are sold throughout the night and the winner is chosen at the end. Of course, all the proceeds go to the same pot as our hiking income does, to the street kids.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"> A few days ago my very last trivia and raffle came and went. When ¨lasts¨ start to crop up more and more, it´s hard to keep ignoring that I´m leaving very soon… </span></div>Emma Lodeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16592002908904167336noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5524868153484276154.post-55698776673082539192012-04-12T14:06:00.000-07:002012-07-18T07:12:29.093-07:00Running and Climbing Should be FUN<div class="MsoNormal">
How much you love your community depends on how wide the sidewalks are. Rebecca told me so. Apparently, there was a survey done to pinpoint what element of a city or town makes the residents most content to be there, and the variable with the tightest correlation with people´s happiness was: Wider sidewalks.</div>
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It makes sense. With a spacious sweeping sidewalk, one has the option to have a small or large personal bubble. You can cozy up next to whoever you´re taking a stroll with, or you can stay the hell away from everyone around. </div>
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Most importantly, there´s no bumping. Nothing is more aggravating than constantly slamming shoulders with your fellow pedestrians, or squeezing through a thick group of slowly ambling Nicaraguans… The very worst is when you´re walking along at a fast clip, just trying to get from Point A to Point B with the maximum efficiency, and- BAM. You hit a Wall of Nicaraguan. With the size of Leon´s sidewalks, this could be as little as one Nicaraguan. Your pace slows to an almost imperceptible crawl, at the most one tenth its former speed. You take a step. Then…. Another. You try to cut around them in the street but cars are zipping past. You surrender to the pace considered normal in Nicaragua and crawl along, silently cursing the backs of the torpidly trudging blockade infront of you, irrational anger building until you reach a corner and they go right. You go left- it´s the wrong direction, but the detour is worth the hassle… Until it all happens again. </div>
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Now imagine you´re on a run, and this happens every minute or so. There are no nice, green parks in Leon to run in. There are no trails weaving through fields or forests. There is no seaside footway nearby. There are buildings, people, motorized vehicles and other such moving contraptions that fill the roads, and chaos. </div>
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Additional hazards of running include: Falling in manholes; twisting your ankle on roots which rip apart the concrete of the sidewalks where sidewalk exist; smaller holes just big enough to sprain your other ankle; getting run over by a car, motocycle, bicycle, bus, camioneta, horse, or cow; heatstroke or death by dehydration; etc. All of which I have had the misfortune to experience in full or partial force.</div>
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Ah, Leon. In moments of frustration, the single most mood soothing thing to do is spend a couple hours at Pan y Paz, Leon´s French bakery. After months of experimentation and thought, I have landed upon Pan y Paz as the best place in Leon to relax. Smooth jazz sings in subtle corners, walls are in whites and subtle shades of lavander, archways surround a central garden open to the sky. The sun paints the dancing foliage and the walls calm orangey shades of sunset in the evening hours. Everything is clean, simple, and elegant. It´s my escape. <br />
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It seems to be the escape for many others as well- Pan y Paz is where Europeans come to mingle. Even when in a foreign country, one you´re visiting perhaps to escape your own home and culture, everyone is drawn to a familiar setting. Although I´m not French or European for that matter, I beleive spending a Little time there once in a while is critical for my sanity. I decided that after vacation, I would make a consious effort not to get too stressed out. Of course I can´t 100% control that. As was the case during my first trek from coming back… <span lang="EN-US"></span></div>
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It had been a month since I´d done El Hoyo last. At least. The last time I´d guided it I´d taken the wrong path twice. So I was nervous. It was just Lynn and I, which was great, because it meant a low stress environment and a fun companion. What concerned me was the lack of veteran guide back up just in case I got lost…. Oh yeah. I´m the veteran guide now.</div>
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At the Ranger Station, the group went volcano boarding and I scouted out the beginning of the trail, to make sure I could actually find it. Getting lost in the first five minutes of a trek would not be the best first impression. I did find it, but everything looked very, very different. In the last month, the weeks straddling March and April, dry season went from a gente argument to a full force delcaration of war. Since I had last seen the trailhead, half of the trees had gone, their leaves leached dry by the rattling death suck of Niacaraguan summer. What was once wooded shade was now cracked, exposed dirt. </div>
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To my great releif, <span lang="EN-US">we made it to the campsite in perfect timing and I didn´t miss a beat. It even took us the exact 1.5 hours I predicted to climb the first hill. Although Lynn and I forgot our tent´s ground cloth and both of our phones died, meaning we had to ask a client to wake us up at 5 (embarrassing), there were no hitches until we started on our way down after breakfast. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">Again, everything looked different. Not just drier- everything was burnt. I knew there had been bush fires on Las Pilas because the Park Ranger had told me on the way up. It looked like El Hoyo had suffered an attack too- every other tree was burnt to a black, mangled crisp. The rest were dried to a crisp. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">An hour or so in, we came across a roadblock. A towering pile of boulders, completely impassable. The path wasn´t right either- it was a wider hay covered strip that seemed as if someone had passed through with a monstrous mower. I scouted to the right, bushwhacking macheteless (I always figure a machete will do me more harm than good) through yellow grass and branches cracking and spiny with dehydration. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">Found it. Ten minutes later, a ginormous tree lay in front of the path. I tried to squeeze through its horizontal trunk and branches... No way. We blazed our own trail to the right. We had had some bumps in the road, big ones actually, but I was still feeling good and confident; I knew I was on the right trail. Until… Oh wait. Maybe not. It wasn´t an epiphany or a sudden realization, but an uncomfortable, creeping sensation that we were not going the right way. The target for El Hoyo Day 2 is Lago de Asososca, to the left of Asososca and between the volcano and Lake Managua. Our trail was veering to the far right of Asososca´s towering figure. And no matter how much I tried to think positively, there was no sudden sharp left. We were heading into the unknown. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">Finally, much, much farther than I should have allowed the group to stray, we hit a road. Definitely not normal. I stopped, turned, and gave Lynn that look that says ¨Help! I have absolutely no idea where we are! What should I do! Don´t tell the clients!¨ But they knew. We had a quick chat and I decided there was really only one option: Turn left. So we did. And thank the sweet Lord Jesus the road ran right smack into the fence of the farm we were supposed to find long ago. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">I guess we really should have been walking inside the farm. But honestly, I didn´t remember a thing. So I led the group around the outside, hugging the barbed wire, following the ditch that ran along side it and was clearly not a trail. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">But we had to find the trail! We had to find the trail to get to the snack spot to get to the way around Asososca… If I kept on walking along this fence I would end up in Lake Managua, lost, phoneless, and responsible for seven human beings. Quietly, secretly, I started to panic. I was almost hyperventilating. Using meditation techniques I had read about but never had the patience to try, I focused on my breath. It kind of worked. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">And then, as if God reached down from the brutally blue sky and touched us, the path appeared from inside the farm, winding off to the right. Ten minutes later, we arrived at the snack spot. I almost groveled to the ground, but I was too disgusted by the state of our familiar stop. Once lush and leafy, the tree that always brought shade to our cracker consumption was now a pitiful mass of twigs. I grabbed ahold of the once succulent branch I usually hang on to stretch my back, but realized the pitifully brittle thing would break under any pressure. And there was absolutely no shade. My skin was burning to a crisp. There had been no shade all day. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">It´s hard to encourage the clients when you´re about to pass out from heatstroke, but that´s being a volcano guide. The sky screamed at me from above and my skin screamed back. The lake below teased and teased. ¨Asososca. Asosoaka. Soak. Assoossoooaaakkkaaa…¨ Those were the only thoughts my brain could handle. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">I have never appreciated a swim more. My body temperature returned to near normal, my seared skin was soothed, my muscles relaxed into a float. We had made it. After lunch, the goings were quick, the way back wasn´t burnt to a crisp and I actually knew which turns to take, and the bus showed up exactly on time to meet us. I was so, so relieved when the last client filed through the front door of Quetzaltrekkers at 4:00. The trip put into perspective what really matters: getting home safely. We were alive, happy, and I wasn´t sick. What I didn´t realize at the tame was that that would be my last trip, probably ever, to El Hoyo. </span></div>Emma Lodeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16592002908904167336noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5524868153484276154.post-35790688759072743852012-04-10T09:27:00.002-07:002012-07-18T07:11:43.099-07:00Climbing MaderasUp at 7, coffee at 8, and we hit the trail at 9. Since we were set on hiking guideless, Tom and I decided to go with the most secure option and take the trail above Finca Magdalena. At dinner the night before we had run into a troop of Brits fresh off the trail and caked in mud from their goofy Indiana Jones hats to the trips of their hiking boots. They had also down Maderas without a guide, and had (almost) successfully taken the Finca Magdalena route. Their mistake was starting at 11:00 and forgetting headlamps. Finding your way up to El Zopilote in the dark may be a challenge, but finding your way down an unfamiliar volcano through dense jungle sound terrifying, It took them nine hours, which we scoffed at. Our goal was six. Three up, three down.<br />
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I was happy to finally get to see Finca Magdalena- that’s where my mom and I were planning on staying when we were going to come to Ometepe. While Finca Magdalena has the same basic operations and ideals as El Zopilote, it’s visually different. Instead of being nestled within the trees, Finca Magdalena rests on a clean, open field decorated with dainty flower gardens. The main building- rooms, restaurant, balcony area- is a classic farmhouse, sun bleached planks and white paint peeling in rustic character. Café tables line the balcony railing, styled like a typical white farmyard fence, where tourists sipped coffees and gazed out across the gardens, Concepcion, and the lake beyond. <br />
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Finca Magdalena is an agricultural cooperative made up of 24 members and their families. They are involved in environmental conservation efforts, and lead guided tours up Maderas. The community was hurt by the 1990 elections, during which many of the strides made during the Sandinista era were reversed. Many cooperatives were forced to shut down because they were unable to pay back loans, but Finca Magdalena clung on and survived. The farm wasn’t originally a hostel and restaurant- that element of the business sprang up after hordes of tourists began to pass through on their way up to Maderas´ crater. Since 2000, tourism has been by far Finca Magdalena’s greatest source of income and has morphed the farm into a prosperous haven for its community members and their organic produce.<br />
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The trailhead to the crater is obvious and sits right behind the farmhouse. I was relieved to see how official and well kept the trail was. And dry! We had been warned multiple times of the intense mud on Maderas. We had seen evidence covering the bodies of the hikers last night. But it couldn’t be so! It hadn’t been raining- where did the mud come from?<br />
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The trail continued to be dry and compact until about an hour up, and I realized how the volcano is able to keep herself constantly moist: The entire upper half of Maderas is wrapped in the permanent embrace of a single, thick, watery cloud. As you hike, the air becomes thicker and wetter until it literally drips with precipitation. You’re being drawn into the clutches of the dense, swirling fog that squats on gentle Maderas like a soggy hat- It’s like you’ve stepped under the little black rain cloud that Winnie the Pooh goes through so much to avoid.<br />
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And that’s when the trail gets muddy. Really muddy. At first, I did my best to avoid the ooze by grasping on to the gnarled jungle root that reached out at me like deformed arms, pulling myself onto the steep sides of the trail, leaping over puddles, and balancing precariously on slippery rocks. Around hour two, my hope that my boots would stay reasonable dry shuddered, took one last rattling breath, and died. I sunk in. Up above the high tops of my high tops.<br />
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Squelch. Once you resign yourself to hiking through this kind of mud, it can be fun. Possibly my favorite part of the Maderas hike was how different the environment was from my dry hometown hills outside of Leon. Everywhere, gigantic, drooping trees hung with moss and on the moss glistened millions of tiny droplets of dew like sparkling diamonds. The closest thing I had to compare it to was the Olympic rainforest on Washington’s far west peninsula.<br />
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As we climbed higher, we hoped that the fog would burn off and that we’d get a view, but all we could see was a dense wall of white. We could have been anywhere. Progress was immeasurable. That was the weirdest part for me: On Cerro Negro, or Telica, the crater of the volcano is in perfect sight for hours. You lock you eyes on the pinnacle of your destination and climb. There are no trees to distract you, no small undulating hills or shroud of cloud, only steaming volcanic rock, the piercing sun, the shriekingly blue sky, you, and the angry crater ahead. In comparison, Maderas was like wandering through a hazy dream or climbing a very muddy stairway to heaven.<br />
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Maderas is its own cloud forest. At times, the path was so wet that it was a river. Literally, water streaming down rock towards us. We had to make some executive decisions along the way about which paths to chose, which I felt entitled to make because I was a volcano guide. Of course, my experience had zero effect on an unknown volcano. The way up is simple, though, there is really only one direction in which you need to go. I don’t think it’s necessary to elaborate. The way back down is the tricky part, if you want to come out the same way you came. The real life saver was Tom’s compass, which helped us re-find a couple of tricky spots on the way back down.<br />
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We summited and didn’t even notice. Then Tom pointed out that everywhere you looked, the land seemed to sloped downhill. Oh. Look at that. We exchange a summit high five, no need to snap any pictures, and began our descent into the crater. It was about a 20 minute downhill climb, or more appropriately, down hill slip. Still couldn’t see a thing but the mossy tree two feet away. And then all at once, a clear window appeared between the shoulders of trees and we caught a glimpse of a glowing green field and a lake. Excited, we scurried down the last bit of slope, and entered a phantasmal bowl of emerald magic.<br />
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The lake took up most of the crater floor and the rest was strewn with a brilliant lawn that seemed to radiate light. On all sides, the searing green molded into thick jungle that coated the crater walls, and rose jaggedly into the fog. At spots where Maderas´ protective cloud drifted, the spiky crater lip jeered sharp and equally green. The walls were so steep, so sheer, that it was a wonder the dense jungle vegetation clung on. In places the fog visited us, swept down the cliff walls and snaked along the waters. It made dreamlike pools and airborne rivers and infiltrated my mind, putting me in a trance. It was the land of Oz. It was definitely worth the climb and worth the shin high mud that had finally broken through the waterproof layer of my boots.<br />
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Tom tested the waters but the ¨lake¨ turned out to be basically a huge mud pool. We feasted on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, lounging on the lawn and gazing about in awe. But we had a six hour goal, and we’re a competitive pair.<br />
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The way down was, honestly, not a whole lot of fun. I’m already not a fan of downhill climbs, but Maderas throws in added bonuses of slick rock, slippery mud pools, and roots that waited in hiding to attack your ankles and bring you down. I fell more than once. The way is also significantly steeper than the volcanoes I’m used to. Towards the end, my knees were shaking, my shins were splinting, and my toes were on fire from being crammed up in the front of my shoes. We reached Finca Magdalena after seven hours of hiking and I collapsed my filthy, energy sapped body, drenched head to toe in slime, onto a nice white seat tat the patio restaurant.<br />
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We walked into Balgue for celebratory mango smoothies, and then made our way down the road to El Zopilote just as the sun dropped behind Concepcion. It was our last night on the island; we had to be in Leon the next day for Tom to pack up and catch an early flight the following morning.<br />
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For our last breakfast we picked out a little, rustic comedor right on the beach. We sat beneath the palm thatched roof in the early morning, steaming white coffee mugs in our fingers while the white surf crashed and steamed in towards our toes.<br />
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It was a good thing we got an early start- it took us ten hours to get from where we had breakfast to the Quetzaltrekkers headquarters. Ometepe is NOT that far away from Leon. But it was a Sunday. Busses crawled. We waited hours for boats and microbuses. When we finally arrived at the soothingly familiar blue front door of the QT HQ after a long walk from the terminal, I reached into my bag and realized I had lost my house key along with my wallet… Oops. No matter, some one would let me in.<br />
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I rang the doorbell. Nothing. I rang it again. After ten minutes of this, I remembered, again, that today was Sunday. Sunday means Family Dinner Night, which usually means that every member of our volunteer family would be home eating together, but for the first time in my experience the crew had planned to eat at the beach hostel. Which meant there was not a soul at home. And no way to get in. Tom and I briefly contemplated another round of mock cat burglary, but I had no idea how we would access the roof system that leads into the open courtyard.<br />
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We were tired and frustrated and none of our options seemed like good ones. At long last we decided to take a taxi to the beach, retrieve a key, and hop back into the cab back to Leon. Not the cheapest option, but the least stressful. Tom left early the next morning and we both dove back into the working life with not much enthusiasm. My vacation over, I should have been relaxed and refreshed, and I may have been a bit, but we had packed ourselves to the brim with adventure. With three weeks left in Nicaragua, I knew there was more adventure to come.Emma Lodeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16592002908904167336noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5524868153484276154.post-67827001881529910432012-04-06T13:38:00.000-07:002012-07-18T07:10:11.567-07:00Bikeventure on La Isla<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="color: #500050; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">I woke up in an empty tent. Tom´s sleeping bag lay beside me, but Tom was gone. The tent was so hot. It was already after nine and the sun´s beams seeped through the thin nylon, baking the air inside the tent to a stifling, nearly unbreathable pool of sweaty stagnant air. I think that´s the latest I´ve slept in in a tent in Nicaragua- not a good idea. The next time my alarm goes off at 5 on a trek I´ll have something to be thankful for.<br />
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After scouring the kitchen, the showers, reception, and everything in between with no sight of Tom, I decided he must be off on some solo adventure. Not surprising at all, really. Anyway, I recalled saying something along the lines of ¨Maybe I should have a full rest day tomorrow so I can finally recover¨, the night before.<br />
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So that I did. I wrote, I drew, but mostly I just chilled out at the yellow bus café- Literally a yellow school bus, or ¨chicken bus¨ as they´re referred to in Central America, permanently parked right off the highway on the trail to Zopilote. When travelers wander through the gate off the road, which looks like it really shouldn’t be opened, confused and standing out like sore thumbs from their baffled expressions, huge backpacks and hippy attire, and it´s still light out, they´ll get a comforting yell from the bus. A head will poke out the back window and inquire if the backpackers look so confused because they´re looking for El Zopilote. If so, the bus can actually phone reception to see if there are rooms.<br />
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Since we arrived so late, Tom and I didn´t benefit from this perk of service, so we hadn´t met the bus volunteers yet. Two of them sleep on a bed that takes up the rear of the bus, curtains separating it from the kitchen and shop areas. Man, was I jealous when I saw that. Living in a bus?! How cool is that? It´s a German woman and her Chilean boyfriend; they met in Chilean Patagonia when she worked there as a guide. We bonded over guiding, but then all I wanted to talk about was the intriguing and enchanted land of Patagonia. She could tell I was serious about going there someday- To my delight, she wrote me a list of places and contacts in one of the most intense and beautiful places on earth.<br />
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I basically hung out there all day. When Tom came back, it had just started to rain. He walked in from the highway through the sudden downpour, dripping and muddy and smiling huge. He had been on quite the adventure- a mapless and guideless hunt for a secret waterfall, which he may or may not have actually found, but he did find A waterfall, and made some friends along the way. My stomach had been bothering me all day, but it was feeling steadily better. As we hiked back up, I walked at almost normal speed and didn´t have to pause, gasp, and grasp my knotted stomach every thirty seconds. So we decided it was time to leap into action again the next morning.<br />
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Ometepe´s villages are sparse and spread out, and public transportation is sporadic if even existent. The road to Balgue (the town nearest to El Zopilote, Finca Magdalena, La Brisa, and the volcano Maderas) was just recently re done, shortening the ride from the port by at least an hour. The best way to fully experience the island and have adventures along the way is to rent bikes. They´re five dollars a day and provide the perfect medium between walking and automobiling.<br />
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We wanted to squeeze in as much as we could, since yesterday was lost. The plan was to bike along the water to Ojo de Agua, a swimming hole, and then swing around to Caballitos del Mar for kayaking. Jelmer, my trusty reference for all activities Ometepe, had suggested we rent kayaks from Caballitos and kayak a stream that cuts between the north and South halves of the island, at sunset. Apparently that’s when the birds come out, and Ometepe is home to a plethora of exotic birds- colorful, unreal as if out of a Dr. Seuss book. The Urraca, a big baby blue and white beauty from the magpie family that sports a stately crest on its head and delivers an impressive squawk, is a rare and exciting sight on Quetzaltrekkers hikes. On Ometepe, Urracas abound. Indeed, they´re so bountiful that the locals absolutely hate them. As we biked along the lake we stopped at some farmer´s house to buy tortillas, and I joked that the Urraca should be Nicaragua´s national bird because its colors match the Nicaraguan flag, rather than the bright green Guadabarranco. The farmer was appalled. He went off on a rant about the annoyances of the winged pests.<br />
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The beaches we cycled past were strewn with course sands and waves which heaved with the prowess of an ocean. I had to keep on reminding myself that we were many miles from the coast. So far out I could barely see, a horse´s head bobbed in the gray surf. I stopped my bike to take a closer look- there was a man in there with his steed. Nica, long black curly hair and brown shoulders. They were swimming, then prancing through the water. His locks and her mane whipped and sprayed water into the wind, wild and free creatures of the sea.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">About an hour later we arrived at Ojo de Agua. I was expecting a hidden natural pool, deserted, maybe a waterfall, buried deep in the greens of the jungle. Wrong. Apparently, every gringo tourist on La Isla is hiding out at Ojo de Agua. It was packed with white, screaming, bikini clad teenagers, families picnicking at the water´s edge, girls sunbathing on the concrete surrounding the pool. Which isn´t exactly a natural swimming hole. It is fed by a spring, but has been built up with concrete retaining walls to emulate a manmade pool.<br />
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After the initial shock wore off, I had a great time. There was a rope swing, a bit of a dud, but Tom found a way to make it exciting my attempting flips off of it. He actually managed a full flip, not so easy off of a piece of twine a foot or two over the water. Vendors along the banks sold some of the finest handicrafts I´ve seen in Nicaragua- if you´re looking for authentic, well-crafted jewelry, Leon is, unfortunately, not the place to go. Such things abound in Granada but I didn’t really get the chance to explore Leon´s conservative sister. Ometepe, however, seems not to lack skilled craftsmen. I bought all- literally all- of my souvenirs right there at Ojo de Agua, in one go. That felt good.<br />
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We didn´t know exactly how long it would take to bike to Caballitos del Mar for kayaking, so at one point we decided it was probably time to scoot along and got back on the road. We cycled to the critical intersection of the Southern half of Ometepe, a three way with options of Balgue, Merida, or Everything Else (the direction in which we came). Our road of choice was the one toward Merida. I full and foolishly assumed that the road would be bikeable. When we arrived at the cross section, I gulped: This road was so disfigured, so torn apart, it didn´t look driveable, let alone bikeable. Rocks and boulders littered the entire expanse. Ditches and potholes tore open the surface like someone had dropped a series of small land mines. It looked like the dry bed of a fast moving river, one that had syphoned all sediment to expose the unruly rock below. It looked like it had been carved out of the mountainside yesterday.<br />
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I looked over at Tom. He looked at me. We looked back at the road. A Nica guy, late teens, cycled towards us, keeping to the far side where there was a narrow shoulder with a bit more dirt to keep the boulders together. He swerved his handlebars and utilized his breaks with the grace of experience, basically guiding the bike´s thin wheels along the larger and flatter rocks and avoiding all pits. So it wasn´t impossible – SOMEONE was biking it. And hey! This could be my chance to finally experiment with hardcore mountain biking! I looked down at our bikes, which we had rented from a family near Zopilote, an informal business with a crusty wooden sign that boasted ¨BIKES¨. These were not mountain bikes. Not at all. They were the kind of bike you ´de buy at Target for cheap, for riding short distances on flat sidewalks until it breaks. My stomach was full of butterflies, but Tom wasn´t saying anything, so we started biking.<br />
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Biking that road was probably one of the most terrifying things I´ve done. Scarier than rock climbing. Scarier than jumping off 40 foot cliffs into water. With that stuff, you know you can´t get hurt. The rope will catch you; the water will catch you. As jerked my handlebars to and fro and kept my eyes, wide with terror, glued on the rubble ahead of me, I was well aware that what was going to catch my fall was the hard, sharp, painful ground. That´s scary.<br />
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I lasted about half an hour before I wiped out. It was a good one, too. My wheel hit a dip and I flew over the handlebars and crashed, spread-eagled with limbs littering the debris below. Best of all, I fell right next to a crowd of playing kids. They ran over and, instead of helping me, or at the very least asking if I was alright, they immediately started laughing and pointing. Stupid gringa! She doesn´t know how to bike! Go back to your clean cut streets, your slick pavement, your flat asphalt smooth as a silk sheet. Here, we know how to rough it, we play the real deal.<br />
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That hurt my feelings. My body, on the other hand, only hurt for about thirty seconds, during which time I lay there unmoving like a dead man, in pain. Then it passed, and I stood up and checked myself: Bloody knee, bloody hip, bloody elbow, but all bearable. I got back on the bike and we carried on, this time with a train of little punks skipping behind us and pealing with laughter. I was biking more carefully, but I also wanted the hellish ride to be over as soon as possible; I knew that it was only a matter of time before I would crash again. On the other hand, Tom was having a blast. Huge grin on his face, adrenaline rushing through his veins. Jeez. Maybe if my bike had just a little bit of shock support.<br />
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About 20 minutes later, we still had no idea how far it was until Caballitos, but a sign appeared out of thin air stating Peru- Kayak rentals. Next right, 500 meters.¨ Peru…? Well, a kayak´s a kayak. We turned right, just as the sun began to set. And then we were at the water´s edge, and amidst a cornucopia of water related sports equipment. Motorboats, rowboats, kayaks, wind surfing kites, surfboards, sailboats! It was obviously some guy´s house who had recognized the advantage of his lakeside property and started collecting aquatic toys to rent out to tourists We told him about our mission to kayak to the river in time for sunset, see the birds, and paddle back in the dark. He shrugged, set us up with a two person yak, and we paddled away.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">It wasn’t until we were half an hour or so out that we realized that once again, we had no idea how far away we were from our destination. The river couldn’t be that far- had we missed it? The sun was already below the horizon. We paddled and paddled, but it seemed as if progress eluded us, and the river was nowhere to be seen. After rationalizing it out, we decided it would be stupid to try to make it all the way to the river and back in the dark, especially because we had to bike all the way back to Zopilote that night. And we could enjoy floating right here- We were in an idyllic spot, hugging the curved shore of Ometepe’s waist, the inside crescent of her hourglass figure. We were nestled between the two volcanoes, the isthmus, and the open waters of the lake. On our left, Concepcion was a beastly silhouette against the setting sun, yellow and black. On our right, Maderas glowed a soft green, her lush jungle carpets rosy in the dimming light.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">When we got back to “Peru” after only an hour, our rental man was disappointed but understanding. We mounted our flimsy, deteriorating bikes- they had gone through a lot- and realized we had no choice but to walk them. There were no streetlights. And although the fact that I literally couldn’t see the horrible shape of the road made it feel more benign, logic told me that wasn’t going to solve anything. It was going to be a long walk. We whistled, we sang, we contemplated deep things and moral issues, but secretly we hoped and prayed for a truck to come along and pick us up. And then- like out of a dream- a gigantic flatbed rolled unsteadily up and let us climb on board. A team of agile Nica men tossed the bikes into the back with ease and we got another wild back-of-the-truck ride- this one far more exciting than the last. We tumbled through the night air, lurching and pitting into potholes, accelerating down steep stretches to skip over the bigger rocks. I was screaming out loud! I couldn’t believe our luck. What a night! Forget about the scrapes, we were tipping through the dark countryside of the Nicaraguan night in a truck bed full of random furniture, our bikes, and other unknown objects, rollicking along the craziest road I had seen all year! <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">The driver let us off at the crossroads, and was surprised when we offered him a tip. Biking the rest of the way was comparatively easy (although I had complained the first time passing through) and there was the occasional streetlight, which helped. We dropped off the bikes and in another stroke of luck stumbled upon a restaurant just outside El Zopilote that was still open.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">Full from a big Nicaraguan dinner, we realized we hadn’t brought a headlamp. The path up to El Zopilote, already near impossible to navigate in daylight, was a nightmare in the dark. We kept taking wrong turns until Tom had the genius idea to use the glow of his camera screen to light the way. It was just enough to pick out some landmarks, and we finally arrived at our tent.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;"> I was exhausted, but knew that we had only one full day left. And we still hadn’t climbed a volcano. We hadn’t set up a tour either, but screw that- I’m a volcano guide! We set an alarm for early the next morning; we were going to find our way up Maderas. Nestled in our little tent, sleep stealing us away, we were already perched partway up the mountain. Maderas is dormant, it’s short and shady- how hard could the rest be?<o:p></o:p></span></div>Emma Lodeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16592002908904167336noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5524868153484276154.post-20754369663201606862012-03-29T20:06:00.012-07:002012-07-18T07:08:46.282-07:00La Isla de Ometepe<div class="MsoNormal">
Disclaimer: Pardon the present tense: this entry was partially written while I was actually on vacation. I’ve been back in Leon for more than a week now.</div>
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I’m sitting in a stone enclave surrounded by leaves, my perch nestled into the slopes of the jungle encrusted volcano Maderas of Ometepe island. It’s the patio like section of El Zopilote, the ecological farm and hostel where I’m staying with Tom. To my left, Latin music entertains a group of three hippies working on elaborate artisan crafts and bracelets. Technically, I’m in a greenhouse. The mostly transparent roof is held up by twisting logs. An assortment of recycled vases and pots dangle from rustic rafters, each nurturing a plant with fertile volcanic soil.<br />
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El Zopilote first appeared in 2002, a land purchase made by two Italian expats who wanted to create an organic tropical farm without the use of even machines. The farm is situated about 500 meters up the side of Maderas, and the owners made the decision not to build a road. All supplies and food are carried up by hand. The result is a self selecting community of tourists, those who are intrigued by a confusing and cryptic hike through jungly farms clinging to the hill, with the occasional sly sign and gate letting you know that you’re probably climbing in the right direction. After fifteen minutes or so, thatched roof cottages begin to appear between the trees and flowers, and you realize that you’ve made it to the mystic, clandestine hippy community of El Zopilote. The next challenge is finding reception. Each building is separated by a narrow, winding stone path, and for much of the day the lush foliage blankets the place in a hush. Small groups of travelers gather at the peak of the “Mirador” tower, with views over the jungle canopy and the lake, playing guitars and assortments of crude handmade wind instruments.<br />
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Our tent.<br />
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The bathroom.<br />
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The shower.<br />
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You can see the kitchen in the back through the leaves.<br />
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The bus at the entrance to Zopilote- serves as a cafe, crafts shop, and home to a couple of volunteers.<br />
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The jungle comes to life on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays: True to its Italian roots, El Zopilote is famous for lively pizza nights where tourist, expats, and locals alike flock to El Zopilote after the sun has set. Long trains of headlamp lights snake up the side of Maderas and the pizza area is slowly filled with voices, clinking beer bottles, and bodies bathed under the twinkling night lights. Pizza after pizza is shelled out from the massive stone wood burning oven while music blasts from speakers perched high in the rafters of the pizza making hut.<br />
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Aside from pizza, El Zopilote’s reception house duals as a store for the farm’s produce and products; fresh vegetables and fruit are free when in season, and you can buy freshly baked whole grain bread, natural yogurt, coffee, spaghetti sauce, honey, and various natural liqueurs. The store makes up for the hostel’s lack of restaurant service, by providing the ingredients you need to cook meals for yourself in the communal kitchen. The farm is based around the idea of permiculture: Humans, plants, and animals working together to benefit all three groups. The trees that envelop the grounds and grow in the nursery are an exotic mixture including fruit trees, royal palms, bamboos, coffee trees, and cacao. A terraced garden of herbs and medicinal plants is cultivated by volunteers and WWOOFers who come to Zopilote from all over the world to learn about permiculture. </div>
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Farms like El Zopilote, including Finca Magdalena, La Brisa, and more are found all over Ometepe island. Just as I knew it would be, Ometepe is a magical place. If Vashon Island could sprout an active volcano and morph its forests into tropical jungles, I think it could be similar to Ometepe; the islands have comparable vibes. I truly feel at home on Ometepe. Unlike Leon, the sky is muddied by a dense cloud cover for much of the day. Below, the land is blanketed by a cloud forest of palms, scarlet Flor de Jamaica blossoms, and a myriad of other plant species. Volcan Concepcion, the second highest volcano in Nicaragua at 1610 meters, dominates the North island, town houses and potholed roads clinging to its slopes. While trees decorate the stately faces of Volcan Concepcion, they completely cover the smaller, dormant volcano Maderas, which lies on the South side of the island.<br />
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The island from the shore at San Jorge.<br />
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Concepcion and Maderas give Ometepe its name: Two Hills. That’s not Spanish, it’s the native language nahuatl, originally from Mexico. According to legend, prophets from the indigenous tribes of the Northern regions had visions of a paradise made of “two hills” in the South. Many tribes congregated to Ometepe, from Mexico and all the way down throughout Central America, finally settling in the manifestation of their dreams. As a result, petroglyphs, ceramics and statues from these native tribes are found throughout the island. The population is only 42,000 for an island of 106 square miles, leaving room for an impressive display of wildlife: Howler, spider, and capuchin monkeys, freshwater sharks and crocodiles, and about a million species of birds. The sharks are believed to be the only freshwater sharks in the world. Don’t be beguiled by the size of the waves surrounding Ometepe island: Its twin hills rise out of Lake Nicaragua, or Lake Cocibolca if you want to honor the original appellation. It’s not the ocean, but it is the largest lake in Central America.</div>
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I have been wanting to visit Ometepe for almost three years now, and have been thwarted several times. In June and July of 2009, I lived in tiny Apompoa, a rural town close to the city Rivas. Unless you were standing directly behind a building or a tree, Ometepe’s two hills were visible from any point of the community. Some of my favorite photographs from that summer are snapshots of Maderas and Concepcion, blue through the haze of distance, in smoky contrast to the bright fields of Apompoa in the foreground. Of course I wanted desperately that my host family take me to the magical island, but there were a couple reasons why it wasn’t a likely option. The rules of Amigos de las Americas, the organization I was volunteering for, made it hard if not impossible to go on side trips, and my host family probably couldn’t have afforded it anyway. I promised I would come back someday to visit them and the island as well. </div>
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And I did! Although my mom and I planned to stay only a night and a day on Ometepe, it was the part I was looking most forward to- and then I got sick. Unfortunately, my third attempt to finally reach the island found me sick again. I had just gotten over a sinus infection that started up at Somoto and got worse until I miraculously found a pack of upper respiratory antibiotics leftover from my never-ending cough of December. As soon as my head stopped throbbing though, my stomach started acting up. Tom and I had planned on traveling to the island as soon as his Honduran friends left, but we decided to give me a rest day instead. So we left for Ometepe on Tuesday the 13<sup>th</sup>. It was a miserable day of about 8 hours of travel, not the funnest when you’re feeling bad. Despite leaving in the morning, we didn’t arrive until the sun was about to set.<br />
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The main port is Moyogalpa; there lies the “muerra”, dock, and a bustling crowd of eager taxi drivers all ready to offer you a ride to wherever you need to go, all charging five dollars no matter the spot. Upon being hassled by several taxi drivers, Tom and I decided to find a bus for a fraction of the price. We hiked uphill passing bright houses nestled in beds of tropical flowers to reach a pulperia to ask for directions. “Buenas!” The woman announced that “ya no”- the busses have stopped coming. We could wait there for a camioneta, or catch a taxi. After a moment of discussion she somehow decided that indeed we could catch a bus at the carratera, several streets up, but it would be better to catch a taxi. Stubbornly insistent, we continued up the road until we were confronted with yet another opinion; the busses would come upon the arrival of the next boat, around six thirty. We started back down. And then- a bus! We hopped on one aimed for the direction of Altagracia, South. Our destination for the night was a campsot at La Punta de Jesus Maria, a point whittling down into a narrow sandbar halfway down the North island.</div>
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No one seemed to understand our intentions to camp on the sandbar. “There is no hotel there,” every Nica told us. “We know,” we would reply. If only I could remember the Spanish word for tent... it would help if it wasn’t a different word every time I asked. As we hopped onto the back of the bus, the bus boy expressed his concerns for our plans as well. “There are animals on the beach!” When asked to elaborate, he couldn’t name anything dangerous. </div>
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When we finally arrived at the point, we were indeed bombarded by animals- a bark happy but harmless pack of dogs. The point was busier than I had anticipated; several families seemed to live right at the end, as well as a “restaurant”, an establishment we hadn’t been sure existed or not. We had heard conflicting oppinions, confirmations and negations out of the mouth of the same Nica. Fortunately this is a phenomenon I’ve gotten used to by now. When I first arrived with my mom, I rolled my eyes as she asked the same question three or four times at every turn. “It’s just to check if they reply with the same answer every time,” she would say. “If I get the same response three or four times in a row, I can expect to trust it.” A worthwhile practice, I now see.</div>
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The bus dropped us just as darkness set at the entrance to a black tunnel leading, we hoped, to La Punta. After traveling all day (a taxi from our hostel in Leon to the terminal; a bus to Managua; a taxi from terminal to terminal in Managua; another bus to San Jorge, Rivas; a ferry to Isla de Ometepe; a bus to La Punta), I was single mindedly focused on getting to the freaking point. We wandered town the tunnel in solitary blackness aside from an occasional light at the end of the tunnel, revealing itself to be a motorcycle’s headlight blinking into existence and rolling past with a casual adios from the driver. At long last the tunnel opened up into the oval shaped beach. After being welcomed to La Punta Jesus Maria by the chorus of dogs, we took advantage of the tideless lake by erecting the tent right at the water’s edge. </div>
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Stars swirled and lightning bugs zipped past, earthbound shooting stars. We didn’t bother with the tent fly. Tom’s tent is almost 100% mesh and open to the sky. At the end of the spit the mysterious Nicaraguan winds moved the waves in two different directions, convening at the sandbar and spitting up bright foam in delicate sprays. </div>
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Without electricity to trick your mind that it’s day, it’s hard not to retire early. My stomach was still upset. I made the mistake of ordering a gigantic overly salted hamburger at a lakeside cafe minutes before we sprinted to catch the 4:00 boat. With the windy season at its peak, the waves were heaving with white capped intensity against the deep gray of the lake. We stood on the beach looking across to the floating pearl of Ometepe. As we watched, a rainbow arched to hug Concepcion’s peak. <br />
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Dock on the mainland side.<br />
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At the cafe, waiting for the 4:00 boat.<br />
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The ferry ride brought on a bit of nostalgia, but was anything but the same as a smooth glide across tranquil Puget Sound. We rocked and rolled over heaving surf for an hour and a half, and my stomach did not thank me for the heavy hamburger tossing around in there. So thankfully I fell asleep fast. Unfortunately, our tent’s wind-vulnerable position, rain fly-less on the sand, did not lend itself to a peaceful night’s sleep. As soon as the wind picked up- an inevitable moment in a Nicaraguan evening- sand started blowing through the mesh and into the tent. I woke several times to ran: of course the only time I haven’t had a rain fly is the only time it rains. Tom tactfully pulled the rain fly inside the tent to cover our down bags. </div>
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The next morning I awoke wet, sweaty, and encrusted in sand to a group of tourists passing by our exposed tent to check out the point. I still felt pretty sick. We packed up our tent rather than remain lying there amid the tourists like zoo animals.<br />
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Tom was up in a beautiful arching tree above crystalline blue water, wearing a blue shirt that perfectly matched the sky and sea. I climbed up, and broke down. I finally let myself admit that this trip has been hard for me, and my frustration at getting sick. My job is an intense one, and I feel like I’m working really, really hard. I think one of the main issues for me is the distance I feel from the impact we’re making from working here. yes, we see the kids sometimes, but the nature of the work is to be the profit making machine only. It provides only a logical connection to the kids, the reason we’re all here, and lacks in emotional connection.<br />
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Our tent at the point.<br />
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Eventually we had to move on. We ate over salted chicken at the “restaurant”, which turned out to actually serve food, packed our backs, and hiked back out through the tunnel. This time we could actually see the bright foliage around us, Concepcion peeking through leaves on our left, and jungle horses grazing on our right. Once we got to the road, we started walking South; we had to get to El Zopilote. When a Southbound bus swept by we jumped on board and after paying the driver, I fell asleep, apparently leaving my wallet on the bus seat. It wasn’t until after we got off at the turnoff to Balgue (the town closest to Zopilote) and stopped at a pulperia to buy bread that I noticed my wallet was gone. Fortunately, I kept the bulk of my cash in another spot, so I had lost about 20 dollars worth of cordobas, my long expired joke of a driver’s permit, and my ATM card. The only item of importance was the ATM card, but I had enough money on me t last the next several days, and there aren’t really any ATMs on Ometepe anyway. I also knew I had an emergency bank card back at Quetzaltrekkers for exactly this sort of a situation.</div>
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We waited at the bus stop for almost 2 hours for the same bus to come back around and searched it as best we could, but it was obvious that there was no way we’d find my wallet. The bus was packed with people, backpacks, and bags of produce, leaving not a square inch of empty floor space. The driver was gracious enough to stall the bus while we poked around, but I had to let it go. Life goes on. But because of our delays, we didn’t make it to Zopilote until after dark. We set up the tent beneath the trees, had peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, for dinner, and konked out. Ometepe would be there for us in the morning.</div>Emma Lodeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16592002908904167336noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5524868153484276154.post-34437134937647842142012-03-25T14:13:00.003-07:002012-07-18T07:07:15.030-07:00Somoto Canyon<blockquote class="gmail_quote" style="border-left: 1px solid rgb(204, 204, 204); margin: 0pt 0pt 0pt 0.8ex; padding-left: 1ex;">
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<span lang="EN-US">Vacation in Leon just didn´t feel like vacation, and it definitely wasn´t calming my mind. Everywhere I turned I ran into someone I know; got caught up in another obligation. People kept asking why I was still there and where we were going next. We ended up staying two nights- one at Guadabarranco and one at Lazybones. I´ve been wanting to try out Lazybones hostel for a while for one reason- it´s the only hostel in Leon with a pool, a novelty becoming increasingly precious as the dry season soldiers on.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">Leon is HOT. I feel like a limpid pool of feverish sweat here. When the pipes run dry, which is common during the dry season, there really is no easy way to cool off. Three fans pointed directly at your face just seem to move the hot air slowly about your face. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">The idea was to escape to Ometepe right away. Our plans changed when Tom´s friends from Honduras who wanted to come see him while he was in Nicaragua could only come on Sunday, four days after Tom arrived. Nelson was Tom´s host dad and Fabio his best friend during the summer of 2009 (the same summer I was in Nicaragua for Amigos). He volunteered in a school run by Nelson, teaching English and working in the carpentry shop in the affiliated trade school. A couple weeks ago I received a facebook message Tom had sent out to a big group telling Fabio´s story of being the hardest worker at the school (both the academic and carpentry schools) but that he was unable to pay for university. Tom raised 1,000 dollars just through that plea for Fabio´s first year of university.</span></div>
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Nelson, Tom and Favio at dinner.<br />
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The four of us.</div>
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<span lang="EN-US">It was Thursday; we had three days to kill. We decided to fill up the weekend with a shorter trip to the famous Somoto Canyon. Quetzaltrekkers used to run treks to Canon de Somoto. I don´t know how they rationalized selling a canyoneering trip when the organization´s motto is ¨hike volcanoes, help kids¨ and the canyon is left unfeatured in our classic logo that depicts the Maribios Range of Volcanoes. Whatever the case, for reasons unclear to me, a tantalizingly glossy poster advertising trips into the canyon was left hanging in the Quetzaltrekkers office until mere weeks ago, spurring expectant would be clients to inquire about canyon treks nearly every office shift. This created many an awkward conversation during which I always felt the need to find another tour company that actually offers canyoneering in apology for our false advertisement. You may ask why I didn´t just take the sign down myself? I would retort by pointing out that aside from sheer laziness on my part, the sign remained dangling there even after the entire office was rearranged for the mural, meaning the stupid sign was hung BACK up by another volunteer.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">Rebecca is the only current volunteer who has done Somoto Canyon. She insists that due to all the transportation and the abundance of capable local Somoto guides, it makes more sense (and is drastically cheaper) for tourists interested to simply arrange their own tour from Esteli or Somoto. Nevertheless, I have spent many a boring hour during uneventful office shifts gazing at the dramatically intriguing cliff walls depicted in our teasing devil of a poster. Since I obviously won´t get the change to to snag a free trip to the canyon as a guide, I decided long ago that I had to make it happen on my own. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">We spent a leisurely morning at Lazybones and took the noon thirty bus to Esteli, a far north city in the hills and the takeoff point for organizing guided tours of the canyon. We arrived at the terminal early and were told only after our backpacks had been loaded onto the roof of the bus that it was required to buy a ticket beforehand to get a seat on the bus. Of course, they were sold out. Luckily standing in the isle for the 3 and a half hour ride was an option for ticketless riders, and there were about 50 of us in that boat. It was a mildly uncomfortable 3 and a half hours.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">Tom and I passed the time by making friends with a large group of Peace Corps volunteers from all over Nicaragua convening in Esteli for a birthday party. Hard not to start up a conversation when you´re squashed up against their back. We swayed as the bus rounded shallow curves through the hills- the air grew fresher as we moved upward, finally to the mountainous North. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">Esteli was a breath of fresh air. It’s a city clinging to rugged slopes and has the feel of the Old West. Every other Nica wears a bright white cowboy hat, and it´s the place to go for personally tailored cowboy boots. We were escorted to our hotel- Miraflor- by a weathered Esteli native (which had hot showers…!) After booking a tour of Somoto for the next day, we wandered the streets of Esteli for a few hours before settling on a café with a live piano and saxophone player and quesadillas. </span></div>
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Arriving in Esteli.<br />
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The first beep of the alarm sounded at 6- the Somoto trip itinerary demanded that we take the 7:30 bus from the North terminal. Luckily there is a little pulperia that serves tiny, intensely sweet cups of coffee at the terminal, and an orderly row of seats like what you’d expect a bus terminal to look like, unlike the crowded chaos of Leon´s main terminal. The busride from Esteli to Somoto is about an hour and a half long, and in Somoto we were greeted by friendly and strapping Olvil. He´s the brother of the famous Henry Soriano who runs a respectable tour company of which a percentage of profit goes towards supporting families in the community of Somoto.<br />
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The town of somoto is located on the Nicaraguan Honduras border, and at the beginning of the hike we were able to see the actual borderline from across the canyon as well as both Nicaraguan and Honuran immingration buildings. The Canyon was ¨discovered¨ in 2004 by a group of Czech and Nicaraguan geologists and since then has exloded as a tourist destination. During our hike we ran into three other groups of roughly fifteen tourists each.<br />
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The trip involves a mild hike through vaguely defined paths snaking through dry brush adn farmland, then weaves down into the canyon itself. Between towering 200 meter cliff walls brilliantly blue water fill sthe canyon and reates a slow moving (and excruciatingly cold) river, part of the Rio Coco. Canyon de Somoto is the result of a fault line, and its walls are an ingriguing composite of 50 million year old metamorphic rock and the much younger volcanic rock which is found as far East as the canyon despite its location so far from the coastal volcanoes. Dry season (right now) finds the canyon drastically barren in comparison to the rainy months of Nicaraguan winter. Waterfalls which once gushed from above with fierce power are now reduced to slow trickles down the mossy walls. The river was so low when we arrived that we spent a good couple hours dry hiking over rocks in our water shoes, passsing massive, pure white boulders; one seemed to have molded into the form of a hybernating polar bear. <br />
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Despite the dried out nature of the canyon the views were dramatic. We had been hoping to be able to rock climb or atleast rappel in the canyon, but Olvil was concerned about the danger of such activities, even with a top rope and belay device. It looked like the only way to rope up in the canyon would be to hang around in Somoto for several days to sear h for a guide willing to accomodate our hazardous desires.<br />
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We did get a chance to partake in one of my very favorite activities: cliff diving! There were several deep emerald pools along the way, and at each Olvil announced that it was ¨time to jump¨. The jumps became increasingly high and terrifying at each stop, and the water became progressively deeper until the only option was to swim. In our bright orange life jackets we thrashed and kicked with the fury of drowning men to quickly escape the biting cold of the water, and scrambled up onto each accessable rock island. Near the end of our journey we climbed a particularly high cliff, and were presented with options of 10, 15 and 30 meter jumps into the narrow sliver of water below. I settled for the 10 meter. The time I spent gearing myself up for the leap was not out of fear of heights, but out of dread for the freezing temperatures waiting to greet me below. When I finally jumped, I was so eager to get to the warm, sunbaked rock aove that I climbed up the cliff in a brainless fury and only stopped once I realized I had gotten way too far. I was stuck. On slippery walls, in watershoes. I spent several minutes clinging to tiny fingerholds, assessing my options and gingerly trying out moves only to find them all to risky. Oops. The number one rule of soloing: Dont get yourself in a situation that you cant get out of. Tom climbed up and helped me take my waterlogged shoes off and I finally found a way down, to my masked great releif. <br />
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We quickly swam on, me trying desperately to find alternate routes along the cliff walls to avoid the water. At a sandbar, I choked as the river widened and spread out before us- it looked like a long swim. Luckily, a boat was part of the plan. We drifted down the rest of the canyon in a brightly painted wooden row boat and disembarked on a sandy beach, at which point I threw myself on the warm sand and refused to move.<br />
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Its impossible to underestimate the drying power of the Nicaraguan sun durring summer at noon though, and within minutes I was burning up again. We ate lunch at the Sorianos house with another tour group. They were also headeed back to Esteli, and had hired a driver with a flatbed truck. They agreed to let us hitch a ride back, saving us money and time. Best of all, Tom and I finally got to live the dream and ride in the back of a truck along a breezy mountain highway! The others pitied us and offered cramped seats inside the cab, but we heartily refused. For me, freedom was epitimozed in that ride: Imagine a long road stretching into the distance in front of you as you stand wildly hanging on lest you fly away in the soaring breee, whooping in exhaltation and loose hair whipping under peircing blue skies, a broad, uncontrollable smile spread from ear to ear.<br />
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We were a bit confused when the driver dropped us several miles outside of Esteli, but our stranding made for a blissful evening walk into the outskirts of Esteli. We passed a river where wild horses drank silhouetted by a setting sun, walked by creative graphiti style murals on the city walls, and admired a towering white church painted pink by the dusky light, architetually very different from Leon's dirtier cathedrals.<br />
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Xilma, a Quetzaltrekkers volunteer who works only in the office, lives in Esteli and spends her weekdays at University in Leon. I called her up when we got back to the hotel and we agreed to meet up for dinner at a Mexican restaurant. She couldnt stay out long, but she told us about the special concert that night: Luis Enrique, possibly the most famous musician to come out of Nicaragua, is originally from the town of Somoto and was playing that night just outside of Esteli. You know the song ¨Yo no se manana¨? The concert was 200 cords, which is roughy 9 bucks, but I just had to go to see that one song. Ximlas dad agreed to drive Tom and I to the concert venue. The place was packed, and since it had already started we could only find a table directly behind the band. It worked out well though; during their breaks Luis Enrique himself would walk right past our table to backstage. I couldnt quite work up the courage to shake his hand but I did give him a shy smile. To my dissappointment, the band didnt play the one song I know. That didnt stop Tom and I from having a great time though- we adapted the assortment of ballroom dance moves he knows to fit the groove of the music and danced wildly off to the side, long before anyone else dared to bust a move.<br />
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The concert ended around 12 and in a jarring moment the smoth atmosphere of salsa and smooth latin jive morphed into a night club scene. Reguetton suddenly blasted out of speakers and the audience finally moved to the dance floor. We shrugged and joined in. The music leapt from hiphop to salsa to 80s to techno without warning. It was a typical Nicaraguan assortment of US and Latin tunes, layering over one another with gratingly disconcerting transitions and the least smooth DJing skills you could imagine. We had a blast, but we were tired, and when it seemed like the DJ had finally settled on club style beats for the rest of the dance party, we made our escape.<br />
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We got to the hotel around 1, expecting a night watchman to let us in. The hotel is set back from the road with a fifteen foot gate; you walk along a short path and then arrive at the front door. Well, the gate was locked. We knocked and knocked for 10 minutes and finally realized that there really was no night watchmen. We shouldnt have been surprised, but we stood there wstaring blankly at the heavy padlocked wall barring our way from a nights sleep at a loss for what to do, until- Hey! Were climbers!<br />
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It may be a lesser known fact the perhaps the only practical application for rock climing is cat burgulary. In our case, we used potentially lethal skills in innocence, but it still feels pretty bad ass to break into a building, even if all youre trying to do is get into a room that you already payed for and in a normal case (AKA in the US) should be accessable at any time of the night. <br />
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We climbed the gate with what tiny hand and footholds were available and were thankfully both skinny enough to squeze through the narrow gap above the door. We had made it into the courtyard, but how to get through the locked front door? I waited aprehensively while Tom scaled a brick wall separating the hotels plot from the neighbor, and snuck along a terrifyingly tiny roof ledge to a ladder, where he somehow hoisted himself onto a balcony that led into the main hotel area. Giggling uncontrollably like mischevious kids, we skipped into the darkened hotel and pondered how dangerously fun and thrilling our little adventure just was. Luckily, neither of us are the theiving type, but let me tell you, breaking into buildings seems to be a scarily seductive sport.Emma Lodeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16592002908904167336noreply@blogger.com0