Mancora

Beth and the Aussies (Ewan and Zoe) on the beach, drinking rum, just livin´ the dream (as one Texas gentleman once put it to me).

The most overly used phrase by SA tour companies, not to mention Lonely Planet (who has a propensity towards hackneyed phrasing) is Paraiso.  Mancora is not exactly paradise, assuming paradise to be some Utopian society set amongst palm trees and opaque lobster filled waters, but it is a great place to kick off your hiking boots and reset your latitude. (1)

A bustling, for a beach town, community with an arid desert backdrop, the initial scene does not inspire ones hope for relaxation.  The local community can best be described as a shantytown separating the beach and the main strip of restaurants and kioskos (7-11s without the ubiquitous and overly stereotyped clerks).  We stayed at the notorious Point Hostel located on the beach and at the furthest point from civilization. (2). A blessing to be on the beach and a curse to be forced to buy bad gringo food and expensive beer.

Initially we planned to stay just a few days, but as volunteer opportunities in Ecuador pettered out our only option was to remain, torturing ourselves with mornings by the pool and afternoons on the beach. (3) Life is sucks.

Beth performing as Mrs. South Carolina.

Without rubbing all your working stiff noses in it, I'll just describe the culmination of our experience, the full moon party. (4)  An event that seemed to inspire its own ad agency, with posters plastered across town and a palpable sense of excitement gathering steam days beforehand, it was bound to dissapoint.  However, after purchasing our own bottle of rum and clandestinely working our way into the hostel with the contraband, we were off to a good, not to mention cheap, start.  Recruiting an Aussie couple and a few stragglers intermittently, we began the night just before sunset and ended it just before sunrise with one trip into town to resupply.  We bucked the trend towards normalcy, not to mention the recommendation of the hostel to stay off the beach at night, and spent the evening entirety on tge beach listening to the waves and music and chatting the spectrum of politics, books, god, family and social justice, and all the while getting pissed.  Beth lasted until 3am, while I made it back in at 5am, just in time to buy a burger before bed.

Waxing...something.  A few rums deep, presumably.

We promptly left the next day, wearing out hangover, Beths tan and my apple-tinted skin proudly. (5). Paradise it was not, but a few days harkening us back to the days of Santa Barbara and the easy life.

Feelin´ good, Feelin´ great...the next day.

(1) Thanks Corona.
(2) Notorious for parties, youth and allowing backpackers the luxury of never having to interact with the locals by providing (paid) services for your every need.
(3) Volunteer in SA is apparently a horribly mistranslated word.  We've (mostly Beth) scoured the Internet for possibilities to work with disadvantaged children in Ecuador, preferably not teaching them about the environment as what we've heard is SA underpriveleged don't much care.  Apparently they have other concerns, like learning to read and write, addition and subtraction and finding their next meal.  Digressing.  Point being "volunteer" seems to mean pay a large upfront sum to an agency as an application fee.  Once accepted, if accepted, then pay funds to locals or foundation for room and board.  R & B is no problem, the application fee is.
(4) Don't fret, we will be home in just over two months, at which point in time you all can proceed to rub it in that we are jobless, broke and in the Inland Empire (the last applies to me as Beth will be in Venice.  More difficult to rub that in...)
(5) These days a beer or two leads to a hangover.  Age or out-of-practice I cannot tell, but clearly I'm no match for a bit of rum.

Bonus Picture:

This is why you go to Mancora, and happened to be our view preceding the full moon party.

Cuddling In The Andes: Our Trek Through Huaraz

Rembrandt´s a sucker.

     
Tent                                                                        
Fuel and burner                                                       
Instant soup with pasta                                            
Peanut butter & jelly sandwiches                      
Water purification tablets                                         
Avocados and tuna             
Trail mix
Head lamps
Sleeping bags.             Uh oh

One nice thing about carrying all your belongings on your back for 8 months is realizing how little you need. The clitter clatter of everyday life (and the accompanying concern and stress they bring) quickly disintegrate and reveal the absurdity of many of our material endeavors. Unfortunately for us, a sleeping bag while trekking at 4750 meters probably is not one of them.

So began our 4 day trek in the knock-your-socks-off beautiful, impressively diverse, tranquil-as-the-dalai-lama's-meditations Cordilerra Blancas mountain range. Surrounded by dozens of snow-capped peaks, countless  waterfalls, gorgeous glacial melt lakes, rivers, and streams, the Santa Cruz trek won itself top shout-outs ( debatedly second only to possibly the Fitz Roy in Patagonia, or maybe to God, but that guy gets so many props we thought the Christian thing to do would be to spread the wealth.)

The days were filled with marvelling at our surroundings while taking very deep, oxygen-hungry breaths. The nights were filled with shivering. After 24 hours a day together for quite some time, nothing brings a couple together like sharing one sleeping bag at near-freezing temps. Cheaper than couple's counseling and less risky than murder, nothing says "I love you" like snuggling for dear life.

To keep me entertained, Jason graciously engaged in several funny activities, like pissing himself ( see: The Day Nature Called to Piss on Me)  and stopping several tomes to ring out his soaking-wet-with-sweat shirt that had begun to freeze to his body. Though possibly more stinky and just as much an ass (though, admittedly, a far better convesationalist), pack animal Jason once again chivalrously bared the burden of carrying our gear.

With another unforgettable trek under our belt, we find ourselves left asking one nagging question: Why the he'll didn't we start this trek biz-nass earlier????

The view which graced our first two days through the valley.

Yes, that is pasta water tea.  Sometimes the cold forces you to resort to extreme measures.

Nothing says ¨smile¨ like glacial melt...down your pants.

The warmth before the sunset.

The intimidating summit, though we didn´t reach the top.  Just where the snow (actually glacier) begins, off to the right is the pass which we crossed.

The summit, or at least our summit.

A little a-ggress-ive, but I made it my goal to beat at least one pack of mules to the top.  I placed second in a field of three...Beth wields a nasty donkey whip.

Our little show of theatrics.  That´s what happens when you have oxygen deprevation.

That shirt just went back on for the picture, thankfully for you readers.

The drive out of the National park was not quite as rewarding, but perhaps equally spectacular, as our trek.

This photo doesn´t do the lake justice.  We were in a bus, so had to snap it quickly.  The water is an amazing translucent teal, ruined by a shadow casting cloud.

A picture of the leyward side of the mountain, after the summit, but before the so called ¨incedent de peee¨ (it sounds so much less vulgar if I pretend what heppened, happened in French).

This was taken in a moment of clarity on our second to last day...

...five minutes later the clouds and the cold moved back in.

Trujillo, Chiclayo and Chachapoyas

The citadel at Kuelap.

This is inside the ruins, you can see nature taking its course.

Trujillo: Cuyes Revenge
Four small, tight, white walls closing in on a desperate man.  Cold sweats, warm weather, a raging fever.  A bowl the center of the world, reminding me of a fly's sole existence. That was my experience.  Nothing more.  Nothing less.

I made the foolhardy choice of experiencing "petricide"¨, deciding to eat Cuy (aka Guinea Pig) and chalking it up as cultural experimentation.  Bad decision.  A week later the little rodent was still spinning circles in my intestines.

But, the first two days I'm not likely to forget soon.   So, instead of lounging by the beach, pretending debate about whether to rent surfboards or go ruin seeing, but really just sitting on the beach for a few days, I spent my time in the bathroom, ravaged by a cute, furry little pet.  Lesson learned.  No more cuy eating for me.

Chiclayo: T-shirt Bazaar
Almost bought a "Bitchin' Camaro" t-shirt here.  Thought that pretty much defined me, but decided that it was a bit too anglacized.

Went to a ruin site.  It was a series of hills in a dry forest.  I'm not sure if the dry forest or the hills-as-ruins was more dissapointing.  One was barely forested and the other looked like sand castles after a thunderstorm.  I never realized "ruin" was a euphemism for "excuse for a tourist trap".  By the way, the locals had the audacity to call the site pyramids.  We thought we were going to find South Americas version of Giza.  Instead we found something I could have made at the age of five with enough time and plastic buckets.

The 15 t-shirt stalls welcoming us everytime we entered or departed our hostel was more exciting by tenfold.  Bitchin' t-shirt bazaar.

Chachapoyas: Stoned in the 16th Century
Finally, a worthwhile stop.  An undiscovered gem.  Just two and a half hours outside of this quaint hideaway is an undervisited contemporaneous Incan site.  Machu Picchu may be the main draw of Peru, but this is the Wrigley field to old Yankee stadium.  A little known site by the name of Kuelap and even more importantly a lesser developed (or rather less restored) site with regards to restoration, people and tourist infastructure.  This lends itself to the traveler's delight, authenticity.

The main draw, however, is the ideal amount of restoration.  As you approach the monolith, a domineering wall surrounding the citadel, there is a sense of permanence eminating from its sheer presence.  I've never seen an ancient castle, but I'd imagine it would inspire similar feelings.  The difference is that this structure is built into the mountain.  Not exactly in disguise, but in conjunction with its further surroundings.  You truly don't notice it, even though it is enormous until you are within a mile, or so.  The large yellowish rocks are surrounded by tropical vegetation and like-shaded mountains in the distance, helping to give it the blending-in sensation are the little plants growing out of the walls, in part surely due to nature reclaiming its territory after the Incans and Spaniards robbed and, quite likely, destroyed the creating civilization.

The selling point is the outter layer, but for me the mystery lies inside.  As the site is underexposed to tourist and archaeologist alike, large swaths of the innards are still left in disrepair.  Plants, trees, bromeliads meld perfectly with the quarter remains of huts and dwellings.  It's the quitessential romantics version of a lost city.  I'm shocked that Indian Jones has not been filmed here, or at the very least that miserable TNT movie starring Noah Wyle as a librarian.  But, I'm also glad as Beth and I had to share our day with at most ten other gringos (3 of whom we shared a taxi with) and a few Peruvians.  Our own minature Machu Picchu, smaller, less extravagant, less mysterious, but a more authentic feel, a wildness that even Indian Jones might appreciate--if there was treasure, of course.

After we returned to town with hopes of catching the worlds highest waterfall the next morning before leaving.  That was to be a pipe dream as we allowed ourselvesan indulgent evening.  The three gringos in our car that day were peace corps volunteers.  After our ruinous day they invited us out to join them in drinks.  This was a revelation for me.  It was like a group of nuns inviting us to a sex party, we just couldn't pass up the opportunity.  We proceeded to spend the next six or so hours swapping stories, inventing drinks and enjoying the company of three good dudes in the peace corps who like themselves a good time, our kind of people.(1)

As the peace corps party caught up with us the next morning and time slowly ran out, we were forced to miss out on the worlds third highest discovered waterfall, Gocta.  But as they say, there ain't no party like a peace corps party.  There'll always be more falls though.

(1) I exclude names here because I thoroughly enjoyed one of the names of the invented drink.  A homemade corn liquor, overly sweet but with a nice bite, is poured into a shot then dropped into a half glass of beer and slugged.  The first suggested name: A Shining Path Bomb, the shining path being a terrorist group in Peru.  Created by one PC man, it was nixed by the other two, though received my vote.  The winner, Moto bomb, is acceptable, especially considering the dearth of moto taxis, aka tuk-tuks located in Peru.
             

Beth and a bag´o´bones, human bones.

The wall,
From afar.

A restored hut amongst all the destroyed huts.

lima time

Chillin at Plaza de Armas in downtown Lima. Que bonito!

George Herbert Walker Bush: 41st president of the united states of America.  San Luis/miraflores, Lima, Peru: 41st dot on our map of south American destinations.  What's the connection?  Everything.

George HW Bush is a Texas man.  He probably employs, or at least knows, some Mexicans.  Mexicans speak Spanish.  Lima is in Peru.  Peru's most predominantly spoken language (though Quechua and a few other native languages have wide popularity amongst certain sectors of society) is Spanish. Coincidence?  I think not.

George HW Bush hangs with Saudi sheiks.  Saudi Arabia is an influential member of OPEC.  OPEC's smallest member nation is Ecuador.  Ecuador borders Peru and has around 13 million people, a million or so less than live in Lima.  Close, very close.

George's wife is named Barbara.  Our friends were kind enough to set us up with a member of their family to stay with for a few days in Lima.  She went by the name of Silvia.  Silvia and Barbara would be fast friends.  Big smiles, but manage to incite the fear of sin with just one little nod.

George on the other hand seems dark and broody.  As former head of the CIA he holds an air of the sinister.  Lima couldn't be described any better.  It's constantly dark, gloomy and overcast, made more frustrating by its proximity to the coast.  Not to mention the smog spit from every bus, car and moped, which makes Limas air look like a constant battery of self-immolating tires.  It also has a significant darker side.  With a clear and present and wide distribution of wealth, it's no wonder crime is the second biggest problem to...

Impotence.  Wait, that's  Bob Dole.  George does own Hope Ranch though (or something Prairie, but hope works better for this particular example), a bastion of peace and prosperity in the middle of the wide, barren Texas desert.  Lima has its own Hope Ranch in Miraflores.  A center of touristic ecstasy.  Filled with classy restaurants, American fast food, clean, paved and clearly delineated steets, it is a safe haven of western ideals.  The apex of which is a cliffside, real estate tycoon's dream, mall with Tony Romas, TGIFridays, Chilis and an abundance of western-like retailers.  Western commercialism thriving in the overriding misery that is Lima.  Hope Ranch indeed.

Needless to say we spent five days in Lima, just one more than the amount of years HW spent in office.  It wasn't all bad, but I definitely wouldn't choose to repeat it.  
  

The Peruvian White House. Geoerge HW never lived here. 

Some people with more money than us paragliding.

Poor Wilbur.

Real estate agent´s wet dream... The mall on the coast in Miraflores.

Dancing like a jellyfish to Jack Johnson.

lunahuana and the gringo trail

Who loves pisco sour?  (not to be found in Pisco)

The Reason Why There Is A Gringo Trail

After over seven months living under tge direction of another, after blindly obeying tge word of the "travellers bible", we reached that time in our development where the urge to rebel runs stronger than reason.  For one of tge first times on our trip, we shut our Lonely Planet and ventured off the gringo trail (or at least the most trodden parts of it anyhow).

Like a kid with booze-filled fantasies going off to college, the first moments of our adventure-to-independence were rather liberating.  Dreaming of the most authentic experiences Peru could offer (like becoming besties with every local we met or kissing Peruvian Llamas), we embarked to Ica.

To put it bluntly, the the bus dropped us off on the side of the road in what best could be described as an ugly, shady town.  Like the panicked college kid who realizes they now need to wash their own laundry & cook their own meals, we did the most sensible thing we could think of at 4:30am, we went crying home to Lonely Planet and found a nearby gringo "oasis".  We hopped into a tuk-tuk with strict orders to return us to the less frequently visited gringo stop.

What we found was sand, a lot of it, a meagerly-filled "lake" (water-sorce: gringo tears from the depression of staying at a so-called oasis) and 10 overly-priced hostels, which were all filled in honor of saint something-or-another.  "No Problem," we thought. "Let's vamos to Pisco.". Pisco being the city that the name of the booze is derived from, we assumed it to be the major producer and retailer of the delicious white grape that we've enjoyed (in it's sour form, so often) since arriving in Peru.  What we didn't know is that Pisco must take its namesake from the unpleasant hangover one encounters when visiting the dusty town which left us with little to do besides the towns insistense that we go to Isla Ballestras, most famous for bird shit piled 50m deep (this is not an exaggeration, it's really their selling point).

With discouraged hearts we decided to give it one last chance before heading straight to Lima: Lunahuana, a little river town at the gateway of Peru's winemaking region.  Fortuitously, a switch of luck brought us a beautiful river, free pisco samples, a great camping spot along the river (fully equipped with 2 dogs who adopted us for our few day stay) and gringo-free happiness as we recharged from a rather discouraging, though hidden-gem-encountering, venture off the gringo trail.  

living the high life in lunahuana. 

proof we were there, or weren´t.  Our journey off the gringo trail.

Oh thoust lonely little tent, how I love thee.

The best thing about being off the gringo trail, finding hidden cauliflower heads dwarfing the orbitary object that is Beth´s head.

Machu Pichu

The most rewarding part of Machu Pichu: Being in the first 20 to make it to the entrane.  Those tickets are the genuine article, 10am stamps for Huayna Pichu.

We thought about leading the post off with this, perhaps the most recognizable photo of Machu Pichu, but we prefered us...

This is impossible.  Too many expectations, too many photos, simply too many bucket list with the words "Machu Pichu" in the top 5 for a post to give this site its due.

So, instead of recapping the hours exploring, the unique nature of the ruins and the unnerving sense of "what if....the Spanish didn't arrive/lost/only had swords/were 200 years later," we are going all David Letterman on you and paring this down to a top 5 and a bottom 5 and let you all witness the rest for yourself since, in all likelihood, most of you will make it out here one day.

Top 5:
1. Ruins.  Immaculate, organized, well-crafted and probably most incredibly, the most well preserved (or restored) ancient ruins I've ever seen.  Then again perhaps it pays (for tourist draw, at least) to be "undiscovered" until the early 1900's.  Not to mention be located at miserably high altitude in the center of a group of mountains also at high altitude. Location. Location. Location.

A photo of the famously steeped terraces of Machu Pichu.



One of the more amazing feats of the Incas was there use of stone work.  This is a prime example of how gorgeous and intricate it could be.





Misty Ruins.  The first half of the day the entire ruins were shrouded in fog.  A bit romantic and a bit eery as well.



A magnificent ancient tree, how you lived up to all my expectations.

2. The hike up.  We are cheap and prideful.  There's two ways--outside of tge Inca trail--to get to MP, a bus at 530am from Aguas Calientes (the city at the bottom of MP) or hike, which takes just under an hour and is straight up.  A bus is cheating and cost money.  BUT, to hike Huayna Pichu, the mountain overlooking MP, you must be in the first 400 arrivals and within the first 200 to get the good time.  Because you are racing the bus and other hikers it's recommend to start by 4am.  So we did.  And though 50+ people were ahead of us and Beth was convinced we'd never make it, we ended up being in the first 25 people.  An exceptional feat in its own right.  Most rewarding personal part of tge day.

3. Huayna Pichu. The hill overlooking MP.  Overrated, in my opinion, for its views.  What is amazing is the hike and the ensuing ruins you encounter at the top.  The hike isn't so much treacherous as feeling treacherous, but the appearance is amazing.  It's steep, but doable, and the ruins atop are a stunning achievement considering their location and general environmental difficulties in building.  Beth said something about buying a house atop the mountain and I was forced to remind her it would be suicide or death to drinking, because they cannot coexist.  Spectacularly steep architecture.



Not quite as iconic a photo as the closer up version, but this one must be earned.  An incredible view from atop Huayna Pichu.

Beth crossing the river with her least favorite Swiss girl in the world.  I was hand pulling them across and would like to note that she is also my least favorite Swiss girl in the world, but for more weighty reasons. (Beth would like me to note here that she took her turning pulling people across the river as well and that she set the group record by scrambling three men across the river.  The guide was duly impressed.)

4. Walking the valley.  By taking a tour we spent two days walking through the valley below MP.  We walked along parts of the Inca trail, crossed rivers in hand-pulled carts, sat underneath rock-hole waterfalls, brushed aside banana plants and other local agriculture, but best of all got to bide our anticipation while experiencing the surrounding nature.  Machu Pichu is a bucket lister, but its surrounding area is worth a look too.

Hiking a portion of the Inca Trail. 

Walking the train tracks towards Aguas Calientes.  A meta-photo.



We didn´t have much time on the ¨Inca Trail¨ proper, but the time we did was a bit nerveracking for me.  Apparently Incas had tiny feet, so every precarious step I thought would be my last.  Trip.  Fall.  Death.


5. Standing outside of our tour company for at least 30 minutes to receive $8.50US in refund when they actually ripped us off of an entire day of our tour.  I wanted $20US each, but if no one else had shown up looking for a tour, we would have probably got nothing, or at least waited outside until someone did.  (for more detail see Bottom Five #2)

Alright, the tour wasn´t all bad.  We found this little four legged creature who could drink a gatorade faster than Mike.

    


Bottom 5:
1. Uncredited Foundings. The story goes the "founder" of MP was Hiriam Bingham around 1912.  His guide, a little boy, simply gets the footnote of "little boy," or more accurately nameless little boy.  At least the famous train from Cuzco to Aguas Calientes could feature a caboose, or something, with his name on it.


2. Booking the Inca Jungle Tour.  4 days 3 nights.  Includes entrance to MP, food and lodging, plus train back to Cusco.  Unfortunately the selling point for us was the 4 hours on a bike the first day.  Half on asphalt descending about 3500m, the other half on dirt road.  What they don't tell you is there is road construction, so you only get an hour on the bike, unless you get a flat tire, like me, in which case you only get 35 minutes.  Or, like Beth, maybe one pedal does not work, so you have to hit the uphills at full speed or risk having to pedal like Christopher reeve if one of his legs had worked (sorry, couldn't think of anyone recognizable and one-legged or peg-legged, so I went with no working legs and a former superman...for balance...owww, bad pun).  So, we got ripped off, made worse because with all that those 35 minutes were incredible. Downhill, wind in your face, sacred valley in your eyesight, glacial peaks at your back and waterfalls creating little pools in the center of the road, little character pools.  Another 3 1/2 hours would have set such a perfect beginning stage for the next three days hiking thru the jungle to MP.  Instead it just pissed us off, though admittedly just for that day.  Anyways, I wish we'd have choosen the do the Salkantay trek instead, 5 days and past, I believe, the 3rd highest Andean peak in Peru. Alas, not in our cards, but maybe yours.

30 minutes on a bike descending 3000 plus meters is better than no time on a bike.  That´s a glacier in the background..



A waterfall hole.  Something special indeed.


3. Bad tour guide inside MP.  Said nothing, really, of Incan way of life, architecture or information about tge ruins.  Instead preached, best word, some weird neo-Andean religion.  Best quotes, though confusing at best: "maybe some of you are christian, but when I die and I'm riding on my condor and I look over and I see you, I'm not going to say I told you so, but you'll know it.". "The Incas, they don't have no lazy boys.  No fat boys.  No gay boys.  And no stupid boys. [interrupted by disbelieving and mildly uncomfortable laughter] What, you don't believe me?  Look around.". So, i lied.  we learned we'll be on a condor when we die and what kind of boys the Incas didn't have.

I can´t wait for everyone to meet our tour guide on a condor when we all die.  He´s short, likes the Broncos and is probably standing somewhere on a corner preaching. 

4. There's NO escalators (the climb up to MP and HP make for weary legs), no cots for napping (330am rise and shine), no bathrooms (one outside, but you have to walk AND pay to use it. HP has spots that stink of urine) and no water fountains (you bring your own because water is literally over 10x more up there).

5. The people, the tourist.  It's overwhelming.  Cuzco and MP are, by a considerable margin, the most touristed places we have yet to visit.  We expected it, even readied ourselves, but only a recent visit to Disneyland could prepare you for the throng of languages, entitlement and people that tourist tend to collect.

Who the $%&@ are those people in our photo???

   





The hike up Huayna Pichu was steep, but not death defying.  The hike down was a bit more tentative for me.

Beth making her way from house to house atop Huayna Pichu.

Us.  Machu Pichu.  Bliss.  Photo.

Going out on a limb: a ruin, of some sort.