Lost Cities Found: Meeting the ‘Sister,’ Choquequirao: Zigzagging the ‘Walls of Eternity.’

Catharsis.

3:20 a.m. Visability: jet black. 45 degrees Fahrenheit, with a light breeze coming from the southeast.

The initial heaves erupted in extreme, hallucinogenic flashes. The ensuing and myriad aftershocks 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 shot from my forehead like grease splashing from a hot skillet now settled as my temperature quickly followed suit.

                 

From here, I had nothing more to surrender as I delighted in this blessed break from the onslaughts. I had just vomited my guts out. And, now, my concern was the acute dehydration that followed. Despite the madness, I, amazingly, still managed to find moments for humility, even gratitude. Brushing off my dirty hands, which were the unavoidable result of the uncontrollable heaves and concomitant fall to ground, I took a brief moment to enjoy my surroundings. Deep breathes of life and the accompanying mountainous visual grounded my attention both to the present and to the heavenly terrain that seemed to envelope me: omnipotent mountain peaks; abysmal river canyon; the most radical of hillside inclines humanly imaginable. Feeling a semblance of spark, I wandered forward.

Well. Scratch that. More aptly, I lunged, lethargically, confusedly, mostly aimlessly. And, as such, with my only orienting factor being the arduous incline to the heavens in front of me, the trail on which I resolved to continue, 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!

Two minutes through the “death stroll,” I needed to rest again. And, after a couple more lifeless steps, I did so. It was on a series of small rocks at the trail's edge, where I sat, rested and contemplated the prospects of my life. Shortly thereafter, I drearily noticed a man walking in my direction on the trail below. The energetic, 30-something man approached. It was no miracle that he immediately inquired as to my condition, in seeing that I was in all likelihood horridly pale and suffering. 

                                                    

His empathetic reaction to my sorry state was offered in his concern for my life as well as in the form of a granola bar. The currency of care for hikers. Thus, I accepted, graciously. He then reached for an extra water bottle from his pouch. I thanked the kind man, satisfactorily conjuring up a meek smile. 

Before his departure, he queried, "Oye! Vas a estar bien?! (Hey! Are you going to be okay?)" I mustered a mutter: "Sí, estaré bien. Gracias por todo... (Yes, I'll be okay. Thank you for everything...)" We went on to engage in a game of look sharing and nods, with the solitary aim being to establish some form of assurance. Once the man was sufficiently assured, he, as if directly connected to the fountain of youth, skipped on. While, I, in stark contrast, could do little more than watch him hop away, so annoyingly effortless.

Soon after, feeling more sparks that now almost resembled a charge, I opted to make yet another desperate attempt. This time, surrender was setting in, I would thus tread lightly, while immersing further into the sickness-inspired hallucinogenic trip.

As I ambled along, I wearily observed the trail’s dry, amber-colored earth with hints and tints of vibrant illumination. The steep mountain side, stretching from so high above, to deep down, abysmally down below, had the same psychedelic effect. I peered over to the distant outlying mountain peaks, so enormous in size, and many of them with glacial caps, as they gloriously exalted into the sky. 

The sun’s rays began to weigh down upon me as the temperature simply exploded. My “sweats” turned from cold to hot and quickly back. Light-headedness breached and gripped me, unerringly, for the rest of the day. And so I could safely claim that it was indifference that marked my experience on this fourth and final day of my trek to Choquequirao, the blessed(?) sister of Machu Picchu. The Inca ruin site located four hours southwest of the city of Cuzco, the former Inca capital.

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

Ever since I was young, I had dreamt of proudly planting my feet in the fertile soils of Machu Picchu. Exploring its ancient architectural layout. Soaking in its unique and blessed air.

The culprit to my insatiable desire: fascinating and enticing television programs displaying this uncommon union of natural with man-made beauty. A union made manifest by the Incas, the worthy imperial masters of the Andes, who flourished throughout most of the South American mountain range from approximately 1400 to 1533 AD. In addition to their commonly known architectural contributions, such as temples, citadels, and irrigation systems, my imagination and soul were stirred by the Incas' (and their predecessors') impressive and varied art, vibrantly colored and intricately patterned weavings, and captivating music and dance. 

The other contributor to my learned (and innate) attraction to this place was reading and studying the many histories of Latin America, particularly those of Peru. Thus, Machu Picchu, the Cuzco Region, and greater Peru have become an unrelenting passion, my passion. 

Until you have set foot onto the Machu Picchu site, or in any other location throughout the Andes mountains, it's impossible to imagine such beauty, such grandeur, such a heavenly ambience in one natural setting. Machu Picchu still ranks high on my list, given the other sense-inspiring and -awing vista areas to which I've journeyed in other parts of the Andean region. 

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.

From Kilometer 82, a half-hour past the alluring and historically-important Sacred Valley town of Ollantaytambo, this adventure begins. 

It was a warm day, with clear skies, and an air filled with excited anticipation. In addition to me, the only North American, there were two Argentines, three Spaniards, two Germans, two Frenchmen, one Englishman, and one Irishman. Sounds like the start to a really long joke, huh? But really... The beauty of a trip like this is that, like it or not, you will assuredly get to know the characters in your group.

Fortunately, this bunch was very familial given the influence of a certain few: namely, the Spaniards and Argentines. More than anyone else on the trip, these nationals put the "close" in close-knit. Invariably, they were the ones enraptured in conversation, while the "northerners," (the Germans, English, Irish, and, to a lesser extent, the American - the writer) were more comfortable being reserved, uncertain about the open nature of conversation and intermingling.

From the beginning, there were fluid vibes flowing between almost all involved. Almost, I say, because one of the Germans, a woman in her fifties, was quite unbalanced and, at once, stood out for strange. 

I, fortunate as I am, and given my "un-paired" status for the trip, was the beneficiary of a three-night, two-person tent-stay with this woman, who, as it turns out, was really very sweet and was only a little weird given either her, as might say the psychologist, questionable psychological state, or her, per the spiritualist, extreme sensitivity.

The others, not having this intimate mode of communication like myself, never truly understood this woman. And, unfortunately for the cohesiveness of the unit and, more generally, for humanity's sake, most didn't even attempt to crack her code.

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 brisk, six-hour tour sped down the arid Peruvian desert coast. Rolling dry hills with wind-blown sand and even drier vegetation is all one could see for miles into the distance. Visions of sand-people would hardly be a shock in this familiar terrain. I had been here before. No, not in the movies, but in the flesh. So, I was accustomed to this surprisingly (to some) 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 dry desert trip, Cruz del Sur was the bus of choice (one of the most efficient and expensive liner in Peru) and perfectly welcome given my desire for smooth sailing.

On board the bus, a lively game of Bingo enriched our already enriching ride. The flamboyant attendant/host led the game with his impassioned number/letter-calling and his sumptuous promise of an alluring prize to the winner: the omnipresent bottle of pisco, the official alcohol of Peru. (Note: 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 during our venture.

As I loosely played the very familiar and very American game, my excitement bubbled upon realizing that I was checking off rather quickly almost all of the numbers called. So fast in fact, that before I knew it, I had one spot left on my Bingo card! A pressure-filled pause ensued. A breath to quell the nerves. And, then, the next jovial call by the attendant: A miss! I gave myself a short bit of positive self-talk as my anticipation increased exponentially in the form of RBH: Rapidly Beating Heart. To add to the intensity, I knew that a few other passengers on the nearly full, two-level bus were close to claiming victory as well. I reveled in my good fortune (which I felt on an intuitive level), as I pondered to myself: Could this "Bingo-roll" on which I was on be a sign of equal success to come during the rest of my fourth official trip through Peru?! Regardless of outcome, at that point, I expected to win. "Just one more!" I ecstatically blurted out to my bus-neighbor.

Next call: B-9. That was it. I had won! I arose immediately. And, in utter satisfaction, I confidently proclaimed, "Yeees, I won!" The diva-like host approached me in a fitting manner and carefully checked my card. A few seconds after his close, and surely perfectionist, examination, I was declared the winner of the Lima-to-Paracas Bingo contest. The others on board the "Cruz" cheered while a few sore-losers chided in playful competitiveness. I laughed proudly in celebration, and immediately inquired about the whereabouts of my much sought-after bottle of pisco, the soul of Peruvian soil! I was soon after awarded the bottle, a spectacle that elicited a kindly cheer from my peers. In good cheer, I offered to open the bottle and share a toast with my fellow cruzeros, who were mostly of European descent, save for a few Peruvians here and there. But the tidy host, with his friendly smile, informed me, "That isn't allowed, mister (a common greeting-error made by non-native English speakers). I'm sorry." As I announced my discontent playfully to him, he thanked me for my excitement on offer as he confessed that the usual Bingo sessions are quite boring. I told him "no problem," and took my seat with pisco in tow to enjoy the rest of my trip.

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 reports 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.