Realities Only Touched Upon; My Cultural Hunger Subsists, Part 2: Our Bolivian Exodus

During our initial arrival to La Paz, the "City in the Sky"(my name), I was not impressed by what I saw. Flat land (albeit 12,500 or so feet in elevation), Andean-esque architecture (natural brick buildings, stucco walls, Spanish tile roofs), busy streets, nothing special or attention-grasping. As I was promptly informed, this less-than-impressive sight formed the outskirts of the Bolivian capital, for the real La Paz was to come upon our "descent" into the city basin. "Descent?!" was my immediate response. We were already at nearly two-and-a-half miles above sea level, and after ascending for the last day plus, I didn't consider the possibility of finding a basin at La Paz; in my mind, La Paz was at the pinnacle of the Andes, given its description as the highest capital city in the world. As I would soon find, the threshold to real La Paz and real Bolivia would be a matter of minutes away.

When that blessed time came, utter bafflement marked my existence...! The way in which this full-content bowl-of-a-city consumes your senses is not worth the attempt at description. Well, at least, for a few deep breathes-worth of time. hhuuuuuuiiiihhhhh, hoooouuuhhhh... Okay, here goes...

Realities Only Touched Upon; My Cultural Hunger Subsists, Part 1: The Peruvian Altiplano of Puno and Beyond

I exited the bus, strode rapidly through the bus station and made my way to the street. There, instead of the expected mode of transportation in the form of a taxi of any shape or size, I found a bike-trolley. The double front-seater with a small flat bed to our rear would be a sufficient yet slow transport to the main plaza of Puno.


Puno, which is located on the western shore of Lake Titicaca, was established as the capital of the Paucarcolla Province in 1668. At an elevation of roughly 12,500 ft., Puno is the highest elevated "big" city in Peru. During colonial times, Puno was a key hub in commerce (mostly commodities influenced by silver mining) going from Potosi, Bolivia (to be discussed later) to the shores of Peru, most notably Lima/Callao. The economy of today, like yesterday, is focused around agriculture, fishing, textiles and, biggest of all, tourism. It is said that the origins of the Inca Empire spurted from the waters of Lake Titicaca.

My Dream, Manifest: The Arid North Coast, the Chimu and the City of Chan Chan

I walked up a slight slope, concrete trail...surrounded by forest, high mountains, blue skies. It was a trail on which I usually walk in Lake Tahoe, my hometown. I start to see block images pop up, like T.V. screens; just the image, displaying windows into another Universe. I choose the first window I see, and, once engaged in it, that visual depiction instantly becomes my reality. Now I'm walking at night, on a dirt trail, flat land. It feels like a desert as sand-chiseled and shaped structures decorate both sides of the path. Everything is familiar, like I've known the place for a long time. Almost like the second-nature action of tying your shoelaces. The other images that appeared from the thin-air screens showed other places that were familiar: rigid and young mountains, small villages of Andean shacks, lots of green. Just then, a homely feeling rushed through me; I knew all of these places most intimately. I felt that this was a homecoming to various locations, immediate and simultaneous. 


I elected to enter one of the sand structures off to my left. Diving into this home, I instantly navigated my way through the first room, down a hallway, to the left, left again, and then to the right... I felt the presence of my brother behind me, almost chasing me through this labyrinth of halls. It shifted from Real-time to fast-forward. As if orienteering was my forte, I knew the route, the secret hiding spots, the way in and out. This house and, by extension, this place used to be my home!

I popped out of my fool-me dream to realize that it was just that, nighttime rubbish. I rubbed my face and stretched while feeling unusually energized, amazed that I had just experienced something so synchronistic. I wasn't sure where I had gone, but I got the feeling that my dream and everything in it, was a premonition shown to me prior to my return to the Andes Mountains.

The Blessed City of Cuzco: An Untraditionally Guided Tour

Cuzco, Peru, a city like no other....really.

My arrival to Cuzco in November of 2005 was like being born again: complete and utter torture! It was 4:30 a.m. and my bus had been on the road for ten plus hours. The ascending climb from the southern Peruvian city of Arequipa was frigid and visually condensed, for all I could see were the people in the immediate area in the interior of the bus. As we traveled, in survival blanket bundles due to the extreme cold, I prayed for a quick and safe arrival to my dreamt of destination, the former capital of the Incas. My birth process finally culminated with our pre-dawn arrival at the bus station in Cuzco.

Right away, everything was fast and loud. Owing mostly to the lack of sleep I had gotten in the last couple of days (originating while on my bus to Arequipa via Lima, the Peruvian capital city) and to my quaking nervousness given the impending unknown on my horizon, I fetched my bags from under the one of many Peruvian companies' buses.

Amongst a sea of plaid, in the form of colored burlap bags carried by locals, I made my way as a strong minority in the tide of Serranos (people from the sierras, or mountains) that almost consumed me. I shuffled through the indigenous masses with the will of a drowning man finally locating the surface when I found the front door to the station. I took in some much needed air there, but was abruptly approached by five taxistas looking for company. Out of desperation, and need for space, I took the first one's offer and went with him.

Meeting the ‘Sister,’ Choquequirao: Zigzagging the ‘Walls of Eternity.’ (Updated version)

Catharsis.

In a flash, the initial heaves began. Each ensuing and myriad aftershock yielded similarly hellish results. After what seemed to be endless declarations of profound sickness, I finally reached a brief moment of peace. With an all fours’ crawl on warm earth, the cold sweat that formerly shot from my forehead like grease splashing from a hot skillet now settled as my temperature quickly followed suit.

At this point, I had nothing more to give as I delighted in this blessed break from the onslaughts. Although I had just vomited everything and was suffering from acute dehydration, I still managed to find time for gratitude as I was present to the heavenly terrain that now seemed to envelope me: omnipotent mountain peaks; abysmal river canyon; the most radical of hillside inclines humanly imaginable. Brushing off my dirty hands (the unavoidable result of my uncontrollable heaves and concomitant fall to the ground) I continued forward.

Well, actually, I continued on aimlessly, with my only point of reference and direction being the ascending trail on which I desperately lunged, ever-so-sickly one step at a time. To say I had heavy feet would be a gross understatement; I was the Universe’s best breathing example of the walking dead!

Inca Trail Tails: Choquequirao: Meeting the Sister, Part 1 (article in the Tahoe Daily Tribune, Nov. 6, 2010)

The Old Mountain: Profundity and Comedy on the Road to the Disneyland of South America

Ever since I was a young boy I had dreamed of planting my feet in the fertile soils of Machu Picchu. Enticing television programs showing this unheard of and uncommon union of natural and man-made beauty were my main mode of insight contributing to this learned (and innate) attraction. And, after reading and studying the histories of Latin America, and particularly those of Peru, Machu Picchu and the Cuzco Region have become an unrelenting passion, my passion. It's easy to say that until you have set foot onto the Machu Picchu site, or in any part of the Andes Mountains for that matter, that you can't truly imagine such beauty, such grandeur, and such a heavenly ambience in one natural setting; an ambience that still ranks high on my list given the other sense-inspiring and awing vista areas to which I have traveled in other parts of the Andes Mountains. In the case of this four day and three night venture (which forms the typical Sacred Valley to Machu Picchu trip via the "Inca Trail"), of which I had the honor of taking in December of 2008, few of my previous trekking adventures would stand up to the magnificent sights and experiences lived here on the road to the Old Mountain, (the English translation of) Machu Picchu.

Lost City Found: My Circular Journey to the Retreats of the Inca Empire and Back

The drawing to the left depicts the assassination of Tupac Amaru, the last official Inca. The Inca was captured in Vilcabamba, in the deep jungle of the Cuzco Region. Tupac Amaru, in addition to his predecessors Manco Inca, Titu Cusi, and Sayri Tupac, were responsible for leading the last years of holdout from the frequent Spanish offenses. A remarkable portion of the Spanish Conquest's history is held in the far reaches of the Vilcabamba Region of Peru, the setting for this current adventure.

While anticipating the arrival of my car-mates, I had my first realization that in the coming days my reality was to shift into another cultural, historical, and geographical realm. After an initial onslaught of anxiety, I quickly reassured myself that I was in the right place. One-by-one my co-adventurers arrived; all but one. As we waited in the modern gray minivan taxi in the Santiago Barrio of Cuzco, I reviewed just how all of the other passengers had "reviewed" me. Not that I should have been surprised by the double and triple take effect, or the completely committed deer-in-headlights stare, for I had grown accustomed to this sort of shock reaction to my gringo presence by many Peruvians throughout my travels; this is something to be expected and accepted. In truth, any role-reversal would have elicited the same reaction on my behalf.

The Broken Arches: Beauty and Courage Prevail in the Wake of Natural Chaos, The Aftermath of the Peruvian Earthquakes and Tsunami of 2007

It was evening time in the small city of Pisco, on the central Peruvian coast. As hot food arrived to the table of two young workers who had just finished their day, a terrible, being-shattering rumble erupted. Everybody under the roof of the street-side food stand paused and rode the terrorizing wave that ensued. The structures that usually remain stable were thrown into whichever direction they most comfortably fell; walls crumbled, roofs collapsed, and power-lines slumped to the ground. All of the people at this food stand, cooks and clientele alike, were covered in the wood, plastic, and debris of the falling structure under which they had formerly stood and sat. Painful pleas for help and cries for loved ones intensified with each passing moment. Mothers hysterically searching for their children, and friends calling out to their friends; all were intimately connected to and effected by these long seconds of natural chaos.

(Pictures provided by AP and Reuters, respectively.)

The report coming from Lima (the capital city of Peru) was that the earthquake was measured at 7.9. On the following day it was officially-raised to 8.0. These random numbers and scientific reports were of no real concern to the people who had been directly effected by the huge quake; many lost loved ones, were injured, and/or lost their homes or businesses, in addition to the immense stress related to going through such a terrorizing event. The reality of the situation was that the epicenter of the quake was just outside the town of Chincha, which meant that the people most effected by the rumbles were people residing in weak structures (A.K.A. poor people). Death estimates, after the shocks stopped, were approximately 600.

On the Guano Trail, Paracas and Isla Ballestas: A revisit to Mid-19th Century Peru

I hopped the bus at the early hour of 8 a.m. en route to my first south of Lima coastal destination: the beach town of Paracas.

The six-hour tour sped down the arid desert coast. Rolling dry hills with wind-blown sand and even drier vegetation was all one could see for miles into the distance. I had been here before, so I was accustomed to this surprisingly (to me) arid landscape that runs in shocking contrast to the images of Machu Picchu and the cloud-forest type climate and micro climates of many parts of the Andes Mountains. On this trip, Cruz del Sur was the bus of choice (one of the most efficient and expensive liner in Peru), for it was perfectly welcome given my desire for smooth sailing.

Inside the bus, a fun game of Bingo enriched our already enriching ride. The flamboyant attendant/host led the game with his impassioned letter-number calls and promise of an alluring prize for the winner: the omnipresent bottle of pisco, the official alcohol of Peru (This liquor is a grape brandy whose fruits are grown exclusively in Pisco--a city south of Lima along the coast--, the area through which we passed.)

Meeting the Sister, Choquequirao: Zig-zagging the Walls of Eternity

Choquequirao is a former Inca village, ceremonial area, and lookout located in the Salkantay Mountain Range to the southwest of the city of Cuzco, the former Inca capital. Today it is an impressive Inca ruin site rival in beauty to that of its "sister," Machu Picchu.

After a four-hour bus ride twirling through the subtle ascents and descents of the Abancay region (with only a few pee-breaks and snack-breaks marking and halting our trail), we were let off at a stop along Highway 3, the road to the town of Abancay.

The views from this Central Peruvian road stop high above a wide open and panoramic mountain dream scape were strangely reminiscent of the mass-produced screen saver images found on the computer in your dentist's office. It was like a dream: the meandering lines of ubiquitous mountains, the flowing of fresh water streams, the rapidly-moving clouds divinely staining the deep blue sky.

As the cool Andean air passed through my hair, and at one point nearly smothered me with its sheer force, I was quickly brought back to reality and reminded that we were on a mission to other pastures, literally. My friend and trek guide Miky immediately affirmed, "Patricio, vamos por aca!(let's go over here!)." My Peruvian friend referred to the other direction away from the landscape that formed my imaginative home-felt comforts to the pressing task at hand: which was, to find transportation to our next stop. And so it was, that my cross-cultural comparisons were squelched and put to the side.

"We Thought You Were CIA!": Tracing the Footprints of the Shining Path in the Central Peruvian Jungle

The Shining Path was a Maoist-inspired revolutionary group in Peru that, along with the National Peruvian Army, was responsible for the death of many hundreds of thousands of basically innocent civilians during the late 70's, all of the 1980's, and lasting approximately until the peace treaty was signed in 1992.

I ventured forth anxiously. Most likely, this oblivion, which I now see as a wonderful ally, lent to my ability to discover at least a few of the personal realities (which often reflect general/overarching Realities) I would not have been privy to if I hadn't been in such a naive state.

I started my trip from the Central Peruvian city of Huancayo, located in the beautiful and peaceful Mantaro Valley. After a few days of getting to know this relaxed city from my Lima to Huancayo bus-trip acquaintance Pamela, and her son Josue, I felt as ready as I would be able to feel. I took my malaria pill the night before and went to bed with a mix of emotions flowing through me. I slept well that night; it was a good thing given the adventurous eight-hour bus trip in front of me. First, we went North from the high mountains of the Junin Province. Then, we dropped East-ward into the jungle region of San Martin and La Merced. Eventually winding South to the jungle city of Satipo. The ride was a visual/historical/archaeological pleasure for all of the reasons to be shared now.