My Flight from Bogota

I try to maintain chronological order in my posts by skipping as little as possible. Maybe it’s my fecklessness or maybe it is because I am preoccupied with more the ultimately more pressing matters in my life. Regardless, I tend to post a lot then slack off. This is not to say I do not write. I write all the time. But, when it comes to asking people to read what I write, I get anxious about decorating and dressing it up to convince myself that people can actually read it (let alone enjoy it). I could tell tales of dancing Salsa with Colombian babes, harrowing late night pickup rides through the middle of the desert to far-off beaches, or days of relaxing on golden sands of paradise on the Caribbean. But, those will have to wait for another day. To end this little blog recession that has been ailing me lately, I will begin by recounting the end of my South American journey:

I stepped out of the hostel glad to see the sun had not fought through the clouds yet. Was it clouds or was it smog? Being in Bogota, it was difficult to distinguish between the two. It had already been a frantic morning as goodbyes had been said and future plans had been mentioned. Two old friends made it to Colombia just days before, beginning a long journey just as I was ending mine. My mind still perplexed and muddled from the lingering effects of my last night out. One would think scheduling a midday flight would have alleviated such worries. It’s a difficult thing to get trapped in goodbyes when you feel the hellos have just been said – an experience I’ve come to know too well as of late. Regardless, the hope and promise of reunion, whenever it may occur, kept my mind occupied as I made my way into the world.

I knew I was late. But still, I knew I would need something to eat before the airport – my principles force me to avoid spending money in airports at all costs. My mouth was dry like desert sand, so I had to find water, as well. The streets were oddly, but eerily quiet for this late in the morning. I realized I wasn’t choking on bus exhaust nor dodging motorcycles – the streets of La Candelaria were completely empty. As it turned out, I was lucky to find anything open at all. It was Colombian Labor Day. My first thought when I realized how empty the streets were: I hope taxi drivers don’t celebrate Labor Day. I had walked already a handful of blocks and seen street demonstrations and scores of people milling about. But not one taxi (on streets usually overcrowded with taxis). I keep walking towards hopefully busier parts of the city. On avenues typically lined with cars, trucks, and taxis, I find hundreds of people lined up to take pictures of street performers doing silly dances and obscure poses. I generally try to avoid walking around too much while carrying my backpack, in which the contents constitute my life. And especially not through big crowds.

At the sight of riot police (rows of black figures, assumed to be humans, covered in helmets and armor and carrying batons and shields) one could either be relieved that there is some form of institutional protection from would-be-thieves or vehemently worried about walking through a situation that necessitates riot police. I felt the latter. Vehement worry turns to outright fear as I saw people hustling past the rows of riot police, towards me, with scarves and sleeves covering their mouths. Panicked expressions flood their faces. And I wonder, with the bewilderment that I feel rising in my stomach, what my face looks like. Then it starts to burn. My nose, my throat, my eyes. And with nothing to cover my face, I started to feel wheezy and wobbly. I thought to myself, ‘You have a plane to catch, you have all your personal belongings on your back, and this is not the place to pass out.’ So, I gathered myself and tried to make it the through the invisible poison as quickly as possible. I couldn’t make out any sort of disruption that might have warranted the use of tear gas or pepper spray, whichever it was. So I kept walking.

Eventually, I walked past the grasps of the poison, everyone else seemingly oblivious to the irritating fumes behind me. I maintained consciousness and returned my scattered thoughts to my original goal of finding a taxi. I pressed on through a few blocks of vacant streets. Finally, the main thoroughfare appeared with the normal sight and sounds of busses rumbling and cars honking. I saw several taxis hurry past. All full. Finally, I catch the attention of one driver stopped at the intersection. So I scramble across the lanes of traffic just in time to hop in as the light changes to green. As I shut the door I told the driver that I am headed for the airport, and suddenly my body realizes it can calm down. I still felt the irritation of the gas on my throat, but my ears recognized just how quiet the taxi is. Calmly I asked for the time and let the driver know I was in a hurry. There is nothing like a hectic hike through Bogota and its toxic, crowd-suppressing gases to clear even the deadliest of hangovers. And I was off.

Quilotoa, Senderos Escondidos, y Lecheros

North of Cuenca lies a massive range of volcanoes, almost all active and topping out above 15,000 ft. Fortunately, there are plenty of small and big towns with give access to these volcanoes. Unfortunately, due to the weather, I was able to only receive a small glimpse of their beauty, and from below their peaks.

I did, however, do a slightly less vertical trip from Latagunga, Ecuador to a few small villages, a lake, Quilatoa, at 12,000 ft, and back around to Latacunga via more small villages. It started out just Jing (an American guy I met in Mancora) and I on the bus to a town called Zumbahua where the Saturday market was one of the better ones around. And it was. In Zumbahua we met a Canadian traveler, Sebastian, who was also doing the same trek we were. The three of us then took a quick truck ride up to the Quilotoa. The lake was stunning and I will leave it at that (due to practical difficulties, you will have to look up pictures from google). We hiked down to the water and then back up around the crater. The hike was taxing because at 12,000 ft, the air is fairly thin and the rain quite cold. Luckily, the hostel provided a nice dinner, hot tea, and a wood stove which kept spirits high and clothes dry.

The next day we started out early as the sun was rising, quite refreshingly, over the crater (likewise, find a photo on google of a sunrise at Quilotoa). Our next destination we would take by foot 12 km around and down the crater into a river valley and back out to a town called Chugchilan. At this point, we bought some greasy meat and even greasier empanadas. Jing, having a tough schedule, took a pickup truck back to Latacunga. Sebastian and I pressed on to our next destination another 12 km away, a town called Insinlivi. Enter senderos escondidos (hidden trails). While the first part of our trip from Quilotoa to Chugchilan was marked, periodically, by little red stakes, the second part was not so accommodating. Thankfully, we had the smarts to ask for directions and were given a detailed written description and a hand drawn map by one of the hostels. The written description was of the extremely vague type: join the big trail at the small tree, keep going past the bromeliads, and turn when you see the cliffs. Which big trail, small tree, and cliffs? And what the fuck is a bromeliad? We resorted to asking every single farmer we happened upon, often yelling across entire fields and using hand signals to get directions. After 12 km of constant doubt, we reach a little town we hoped was Insinlivi. We spent the night is someone´s home. The hostess cooked us a delicious meal and we slept very well that night.

Early the next morning we woke up for breakfast and finished just in time to catch the local lechero (milk truck) headed back to Latacunga. The second we hopped into the back of this truck, it began to rain. We started at an elevation of about 3000 meters and just started climbing. As we zipped around switchback after switchback, we kept climbing the extremely bumping dirt road. The rain became colder and stronger as we went. By the top of whatever mountain, my hands were frozen from trying to hold on. Every so often, we would stop to collect the milk the local ranchers would leave along the road. One lady walked her cow down to the road, filled up a bucket, waited for us to show up, and then walked her horse back to the house. Once the big milk jugs were full the driver started looking for a new container to fill up. They found a large jug laying in someone´s yard, gave it a good rinse, and kept going, using a plastic bag as a lid. By the time we reached the spot where we would hop on proper transportation, two hours later, my jeans were soaked and my hands could barely move. A note for aspiring travelers: always be prepared with a rain jacket and down jacket; you never know when your milk truck will take you to freezing rain at 13,000 feet. 

¡Vamos Arriba!

I swung away two wonderful days on the boat solo (having left Guillermo and Karolina behind in the jungle) before arriving in Yurigamas. Then I spent two horrendous days on buses and taxis on my journey to the beach. It was my first time to the beach since Lima on the second day of my trip. Máncora is your typical beach town, only with a bit less flair and pizzazz. And for a beach town known for a party, it lacked that as well. The four main clubs on the beach were all situated right next door to each other. They were all blasting different music. And they were all empty of patrons. In all, it is a relatively bland beach town. Nonetheless, I found myself stuck there for a few days, mainly because of the people I had met.

I finally got some surfing in. SOME. The break was a decent left-hand point break that was decent in size while I was there. But, my out-of-shape arms only allowed me one and a half hours of surf, one day. After that, I was resigned drinking beers on the beach and body surfing.

One of the people I met in Máncora convinced most of our big group to visit him at his house in Cuenca, Ecuador. So, with a overstay tab on my visa piling up, I finally made the push north and out of Peru. Paul housed a group of us at almost all times. There always seemed to be dinner for seven or eight people and somehow beers for 25. One day, as our sizable group enlisted recruits from surrounding hostels, had a train of 12 people hiking the local Cajas National Park just outside the city.

Cuenca is a beautiful city in many ways. It’s a very international city and many of the people speak English. But, its also a very easy city as the bus system is amazing. The cathedral and main plaza are some of the best I have seen yet in South America. Being a university town, there is plenty of nightlife to keep us youngsters occupied until the wee hours of the morning. Of all the places I have visited on my travels around the world, there are few places that I can imagine myself living for over a year or two. Cuenca would definitely have a spot on such a list. 

Amazonas Parte II

As promised, I will begin the second part of my Amazon jungle adventure with an introduction to my new friends. The first smiling, friendly face I saw when I first walked onto El Eduardo was a Chilean chap named Guillermo. It was he who helped me gather information about when the boat would leave (mostly because he had no idea himself). He introduced me to his girlfriend, Karolina, and we all went out to grab some ice cream. We would soon bond more, for four days actually, as we were the only foreigners on the boat amongst at least 250 Peruvians.

After four days on the boat, we arrived to our destination: dusty, noisy, Iquitos. With about 500,000 people, Iquitos is the biggest city in the world without road connections. You can arrive by boat or by plane. Once you are there, you ride a motorcycle. At any moment, it seems that all 500,000 people are buzzing around on their motorcycles. With my visa running out, I had initial plans to head to the Ecuadorian border straight away. Being on the river, three stories high, seeing the jungle from above, gave us a feel for the jungle without truly letting us in. It stoked a burning desire to get on the ground and go explore. It was Guillermo and Karolina´s excitement for the jungle that really sold me in joining them for three days on a ´jungle tour.´ It was us three, a German gal, and our guide Larry who set out the net day on a boat taxi to a local´s house which would be our ´base camp.´ The local, El Capitan, was our boat driver an eagle eyes. He once spotted a pygmy monkey (a monkey the size of a rat) in a 100 foot tree from 200 feet away – it was magic.

Boat is the only form of transportation in the Amazon as almost all land is covered in water for most of the year. We saw only a couple small patches in the three days on our tour. The water mark from last year was still six feet above the current water level. For anyone who can grasp the idea of six feet of water for hundreds of square miles, that’s a lot of gallons.

Our tour included various walks on the small patches of land, boat trips, and a night sleeping in hammocks in a very remote spot. El Capitan drove, Larry would guide with paddle and machete. We saw all types of strange animals. Pink fresh water dolphins fed at the river mouths. El Capitan spotted young caimans while on a night cruise, which he proceeded to catch with his bare hands. Larry spotted a sloth in a tree, climbed the tree, and wrestled him down to eye level a foot away. Peru has a massive diversity of birds and Larry an El Capitan could spot them all.

The one thing we saw most of was mosquitoes. They flocked in herds of the thousands. At one point, after Karolina regrettably volunteered to cut the tomatoes for dinner, there were four of us, El Capitan included, swatting the dark swarm of mozzies away from her face. She was nearly in tears. On our camping trip, we had mosquito nets over our hammocks. In the five seconds it took me to unzip the net, hop in, and re-zip, at least 200 mozzies had made their way into my hammock space. After I was in, a massacre even Hitler, Stalin, and Truman would have been impressed. But, it’s odd how accustomed the natives are to mosquitoes. They just swat unconsciously and often in mid conversation. Here come us city-folk on red alert, search and destroy missions constantly; very akin to a puppy who hears a fly buzzing around its head.

After my three days in the jungle, El Eduardo couldn’t have been a more welcoming sight. I had finally exited the heat and the constant barrage of mozzies. Two days of full relaxation and hammock swinging were ahead of me. All I had to do was to enjoy the scenery and eat rice, far away from the annoyances of the jungle. 

Rio Amazonas: Parte I

I decided to fly to my next destination: Pucallpa (avoiding the 19 hour bus ride, which by word of mouth, I learned has a record for massive mud slides in the rainy season). When I arrived, it was sunny and hot. Quite hot. Pucallpa is one of Peru’s main gateways to the Amazon River basin via paved road. The airport is so small planes turn around on the runway to return to the terminal. And the terminal consists of a couple big rooms with a conveyor belt and a bunch of desks toting ‘the best’ Amazon tours. The mototaxi I grabbed at the airport talked my ear off the entire, slow, 8 km trip to town. It had not rained in a few days, leaving the street’s dried up mud subject to the tires of the mototaxis, making for a dusty experience through the small town.

My mototaxi was convinced he knew the cheapest hotel for me. We went to three that were 7-8 times what I have been paying throughout Peru. Finally, I paid him and told him I would walk myself to a cheap one. Which may or may not have been a good choice because after walking around lost for half an hour, getting lost on the streets with no signs, I was pretty sweaty and hot. I stumbled into a menú restaurant (my favorite places to eat in Peru as they are usually only slightly more than a dollar for a bowl of soup and a plate) to collect my bearings and grab a quick meal.  Finally, I was able to figure out where the hell I was and find a hostel.  

Most travelers I talked to have never heard of Pucallpa let alone know why anyone would want to go there. And there really is only one main reason people from abroad would waste their time going to Pucallpa: the boat ride to Iquitos. After feeling refreshed from a long nap under one of those wind-turbine style ceiling fans, I headed to the docks to find a boat. The boats are notorious for leaving hours to days late and finding out a true departure time is almost impossible. Basically the name of this game is to show up to the docks and find a cargo boat that accepts passengers and attempt to assess a departure time. It was easy for me to find a boat as it seemed there was only one boat accepting passengers with signs claiming a departure that night.

So, I headed for the boat: El Eduardo IV. One guy peddling a shoulder full of hammocks helped me out in pointing me to ‘the guy in charge’. He told me that the boat “sale a las seis y media.” This was in 30 minutes. And judging by the line of trucks still waiting to unload cargo onto the half-filled cargo bay, I estimated the boat would not be leaving in 30 minutes. ‘The guy in charge’ was helpful in showing me around the boat. It was 3 stories. The first story was the cargo bay being filled with anything from chickens to motorcycles to plátanos to cans of evaporated milk. The second level was the main level with probably 100 hammocks and 150 people, a kitchen, and bathrooms. The hammocks were strung one after another, often two-wide for the length of the boat. Kids were running around everywhere and piles of luggage and goods were packed where possible. The third floor was similar, except a bit smaller.

I then started asking everyone who looked willing as to when they thought the boat would be leaving. Some people were determined they knew and everyone that did provided a different time: “Sale a la mediodía mañana” or “Sale a las siete hoy día” or “Sale el viernes.” I was given advice to find the capítan but he unfortunately had disappeared. Some people had no idea when the boat would leave. Some people get curious and ask around with you. Most people, i.e. the hundred and fifty people or so already on the boat, just tied up their hammocks and waited for the boat to leave.

Of the answers I got, two seemed most probable: that day at seven or the next day at noon. So, being six o’clock already, I ran back to the hostel to grab my things, take a quick last shower, and buy some supplies (cookies, cheese, tortillas, jam, and juice). I hurried back to the boat to find out that the boat was leaving the next day at ‘noon.’ One guy gave me a friendly nod and so I walked over to say hello. It turns out he and his girlfriend, from Chile, were as lost as I was. They were facing the same decision as me: spend the night on the boat, or find a place in town. In the end, it was an easy decision. We ended up getting some refreshments in town before calling it a night. More on these two later.

I returned to the boat early the next day to make sure I didn’t miss the boat and set up my hammock. At first I was still trying to figure out when it would leave. But soon, I just surrendered, set up my hammock, and relaxed. It was this renunciation that set the tone for the remainder of my existence on that boat: relaxing in a hammock. The boat was snuggled in between two other boats, so the air circulation was that of a cellar. It made for a really, fucking hot cellar at that. I swung, sweating in my hammock until 3 pm when the boat finally pulled away from shore. The relief brought from the breeze from the moving vessel was nothing short of extraordinary. For 4 days straight, I would thoroughly enjoy the breeze.

Life on the boat was simple, to say the least. Three meals a day created the main form of excitement. They would ring the bell from the kitchen and everyone would jump up from their hammocks, grab their Tupperware bowls, and head for the food. Why everyone got so excited for the food, I may never know, for the meals consisted of a monstrous amount of rice and a little bit of chicken stew. It wasn't bad food, but about all it did was fill your belly - A good reason for always carrying vitamins on your journeys.

The river scenery was beautiful. The chocolate milk colored water of the Ucayali, originating from the mountains around Cuzco is very high at this time of the year, making for a river that is generally 400 meters wide, and it’s still rising. It reminds one more of a long, skinny lake than a river. We passed countless small villages of wood houses on stilts. And almost every village was flooded up to the bottom of the houses. In most places flooding is devastating, but for these people, flooding is a yearly event. It is funny to think about how easily these people deal with widespread flooding in comparison to the ineffective heavy engineering in places like New Orleans.

We made frequent stops to these small river towns to either drop off or pick up goods or passengers. At the bigger towns, people from the town would jump on board to sell fruits, fish, or drinks as the crew unloaded the goods.

On the average, though, for as far as the eye can see it was river and trees. If it weren't for the utter beauty of the region, you might get bored of the scene.

Some of the Joys of Travelings

The main benefit of traveling solo is the ease at which you can meet people. The biggest pain of traveling solo is actually traveling. Generally speaking, no one, on a long bus ride, wants to have a conversation, especially not me. This leaves for a lot of alone time missing the place you just left and anxiously awaiting the adventures of the next. But, anxiously awaiting the next adventure requires an answer to the question: Where is the next adventure?

The problem with having no set plans is the difficulty in making decisions. My only goal for this trip was to head north. But, when you meet a group of cool people who are going south, that one, very simple plan can go out the window quite seamlessly. My California friends, who I joined at Machu Picchu, were headed south to Lake Titicaca and Bolivia. Looking back, the only reason that kept me from entering the otherwise extremely affordable country was their $135 entrance tax. That and it was in the opposite direction of my intended path. But, the decision was made: continue north as per design.

So, I booked a 21 hour bus from Cuzco to Lima. Upon saying my goodbyes in Cuzco, a wave of anxiety rushed over me. It is an anxiety completely unique to traveling, one that I have only felt maybe once or twice before. It is a feeling of uneasiness saying, “Why the hell are you leaving?” I have learned that it takes a special place to warrant this feeling. But, with a bus ticket in hand and new adventures on the horizon, I push past the angst and voyage on.

And 21 hours in a bus is definitely a voyage. Normally very nice buses, that are typically too cold for comfort (a lesson learned on my bus to Cuzco), I don a down jacket and long pants. But, these preparations never became necessary as the bus’s air conditioning turned out to be broken. So, with no method of air circulation, the bus quickly transforms into a sauna. The heat is not extreme, just extremely uncomfortable: a constant, slow, sweat. With no water to replenish my system, I eventually stop sweating (the human body definitely cannot hold enough liquid for a 21 hour sweat session). I’m making this journey out to be worse than it actually was, but instead of pushing on through Lima to my next destination, I take a night to recuperate and rinse off the stench.

Also in my stop to Lima, I come to find out a good friend from university swapped places with me. She left Lima for Cuzco the same morning I arrived in Lima, further adding to my departure anxiety. We haven’t seen each other since graduation and this marks the second continent that we have failed to meet up while traveling. Maybe with some planning and better communication, we can make it happen on the next continent, Sarah. 

Exploring IncaLand - Machu Picchu

I jumped in on a group of friends from California on their trip to Aguas Calientes and Machu Picchu. We struggled through 2 full rainy days in Aguas Calientes – the closest town to Machu Picchu with a full touristy atmosphere, inflated prices, a shitty market of manufactured souvenirs, and a absolutely badass river (tried to upload a video with no success, my apologies).

While Sacsaywaman was my first peek at the works of Ancient Incan cultures of Peru, it was nothing like what I was about to see in the week to come. Everyone has heard of Machu Picchu – one of the most well-known archaeological sites in the world, second maybe only to the pyramids in Egypt. And everyone has seen the stock picture from the ‘Caregiver’s Hut’:

But unless you have actually found yourself sitting in front of any one of the temples, it’s difficult to grasp the truly incredible nature of the place. First, the location of this ancient city/place of worship is situated atop seemingly impossible peaks. I can understand why the Incans would build a city at the top of these peaks: because it is a downright beautiful sight. But, how they managed it is a completely other story. The peaks are so steep that you can almost see the Rio Urubamba on both sides of you. We hiked Wayna Picchu (the peak standing just behind the ruins in all pictures). If the slopes on which Machu Picchu was built weren’t steep enough, the Incans had to build Wayna Picchu on slopes even steeper. The path up is basically stairs, that most of the time necessitates using a rope to pull yourself up. The site is truly an engineering marvel and it is not a bad view either.

Granted I am no expert, but the stonework is unbelievable. Every angle of every stone is matched with precision that is overwhelming. Supposedly the site is seventy percent original work with the other thirty being the modern day mason’s attempt to duplicate the work of ancient Incan stonemasons.

We spent nearly the entire day at Machu Picchu. The early morning was spent climbing Wanya Picchu, ate some lunch and did some more exploring., before walking home. After we descended Wayna Picchu and with some extremely fortunate luck, the sun came out from behind the clouds.

We were told you were not allowed to bring bottled water so I had a liter of water for an entire day of hiking around at 7,000 ft. By mid-afternoon I was definitely parched. And after realizing that I was salivating of the sight of a puddle, that I had better find some water. So, luckily the Incans had a solid water distribution system that afforded me with a source of clear rainwater straight into my Nalgene. I was happy to drink some sacred water from ancient Incan stones (sterilized of course by my magic, modern day UV light wand).

There are two ways to get to Machu Picchu from Aguas Calientes: walk or take a bus. We chose to take the bus up to Machu Picchu and hike down in the afternoon. In my opinion, it’s the best way to do it. Everyone we saw who had hiked up, looked like they were on an Auschwitz death march with their heads down, faces with a scowl, and soaked in sweat or rain. Not one of them looked happy or approachable. It took us until the hike down to realize why everyone looked like this. The walk is about 8 km of switchbacks by road. But, stairs have been built to eliminate the switchbacks. So, after countless steps, basically straight up a mountainside, these people had to of been drained. I was glad to have only walked down instead of up. 

All in all, I would call it a very mystic experience.