That evening, I emptied all the items in my two packs and the nostalgic feeling began to swell. As I have continued to be moving and planning and seeing, my mind really hasn’t had the time to register the aspect of my final few days here in South America. However, as I sorted and discarded my items for ease and necessity on my final transport, smiles were constant and even a few spinal chills were felt. How fortunate I am not only to have done it all but also to have found the courage and maintained the adventurous spirit to keep myself safe and continually rewarded! My independent and curious drive aside, the support I received from family and friends has also been extremely helpful.

Buses leave for various points on the Quilotoa circuit all throughout the day. So, after eating breakfast, reading, writing, and storing my rucksack, I made my way to the bus station at nine. Here, I will admit, I was duped a little bit and told to buy a ticket into Sigchos instead of Zumbahua. Eventhough I knew my guidebook said Zumbahua was the point of departure for the crater town of Quilotoa, they kept insisting that Sigchos was the better option. Well, it took me to the other side of the loop, as far as I was concerned, after a two hour bus ride. Honestly, though, working my way backwards allowed me to see more than I otherwise would have with my original plan, and a few particular experiences throughout were not only priceless but also hilarious!

Once in Sigchos, I was told a bus left for Chugchílan, a town 12km from Quilotoa, at 2:00pm. So my options were thus given: try to hitch a ride from an outgoing, and infrequent, ride or wait three hours for the bus. I decided to do both. I waited on the closest corner for any passing traffic with a few locals to either catch a lucky ride or simply pass time. In two hours, no more than a half dozen cars passed and it began to rain. Not wanting to ride in the bed of a truck for an hour in the rain, I made my way back to a plaza of sorts from where the bus was due to leave. To my surprise, it was already there waiting and unbelievably packed. It could have probably filled the seats of two buses and then some. I was half standing, half sitting on an old woman’s lap while two school children were being secured from the bus’ movement by getting pinned against me and a few others around me. For a half an hour we rode like this before some began to disembark to their mountainside farm residences. To make things even more interesting, it was raining, the windows were fogging, and the cliff-side mountain rode was unpaved. All I could do was smile because, looking back on it, that is exactly what I would be doing (and am doing now)!!

In Chugchílan, an even smaller and poorer town, the rain picked up to a noticeable consistency. I was told that the walk was at least four hours to Quilotoa, but the rain had already made my decision for me: I was staying the night. Of the three hostel options, I chose Casa Mama Hilda ($17, private room with breakfast and dinner included). There was also a wildly reviewed Black Sheep Inn, but it was a bit more expensive and, since I was on a budget to avoid another cash advance, out of my price range. Regardless, Mama Hilda was warm, welcoming, and beautifully (if not a bit creepy with the cloud forest backdrop) set:

I spent the afternoon reading with hot chocolate near a wood-burning stove; after all, I was back in high altitude country (3,200m) and it was quite chilly. During our delicious four-course dinner, I was told that one bus did leave for Quilotoa (and ultimately Latacunga) at 4:00am every morning if I didn’t want to walk the 12km. I decided to sleep on it, but she (Mama Hilda) packed me my breakfast anyways since I would be underway with either option before six the following morning. I also now realized that we weren’t eating by candlelight for the romantic effect; the town was entirely without electricity and was unsure as to how long it would continue this way. After feeling my way back through the pitch black hostel complex with the eerie setting and sounds around me, I finally decided to make use of my LED flashlight knife. I arranged my items for the next morning, set two alarms (3:30 and 5:30am), and read a bit before my 8:30 bedtime. The dark and silent atmosphere facilitated this quite nicely.

Up at 3:30, I decided to wait and walk but couldn’t fall back asleep. Talk about a sleep schedule I had acquired! On went the flashlight and out came the book for another chapter of Walden. I was able to doze off again between 4:30 and my second alarm. As my eyes opened and the sheets were shed, I realized I wasn’t out of the cold or darkness just yet. I did, however, notice a hint of sunlight playing on the clouds and knew it would only be a matter of a half an hour or so before sunrise. I was ready and on my way at 5:45. The local farmers were also awake and on the job with their animals grazing as I walked on by:

Although I became fully acclimatized in Cusco, that was three weeks ago now and Bahía was situated right at sea level. This being the case, my lungs quickly lost some of their capacity and my one day in Latacunga didn’t help much; I was huffing and puffing on even the slightest incline. I made my way in and out of passing clouds, stopping once to use the bathroom (bushes), and began to pass the children of these farms and villages on their way to school. I smiled, waved, and cordially wished them all “buenos días”, but my height and blue eyes gave away my gringo status. The youngest ones would look at me, eyes wide, as if they had never seen one before!

A few more sporadic pictures throughout the 12km hike:

My guide book informed me to bring a stick to fend off the dogs on this walk and in Quilotoa. Well, I may not have paid immediate attention to this suggestion, but, after walking past a few farms with noticeably aggressive, unchained dogs barking at and sometimes following me until I disappeared around a corner, my eyes were quickly scanning the terrain for something to arm myself with. A few selections were discarded before I eventually found the solid two foot piece of madera that would be wielded not once but twice as I neared the end of my hike. All of the farmers themselves were overly nice and returned my salutations, but they did little to control their mangy mongrels. Nothing like the puppy I have at home, these hounds were territorial, vicious, and without fear. On two particular occasions, quick walking didn’t quell the anger that two sets of dogs had shown for allowing a gringo to pass by on “their” road. The first came screaming down from a hillside, barking with foam, and within fifteen feet of me before I turned and loudly competed with its bark before it turned away. All bark and no bite. The second instance involved a group of three which came within TEN feet of me and really seemed ready to attack (at least from my perspective being in the middle of nowhere in Ecuador) until I turned, raised my stick, and prepared for war! Fortunately, I called their bluff, and they barked a few more times before dispersing. This would certainly be placed in the top 3 scariest moments of my trip.

Fifteen minutes later, I rolled into Quilotoa, exhausted from a lack of oxygen, and sat down for lunch before visiting the crater and its beautiful emerald lake:

As I walked away from the crater, and discouragingly towards the next 12km walk along the road into Zumbahua, I ran into a Swiss group (the Swiss have ALL been very friendly people) of six whom I had met briefly at Mama Hilda’s the night before. One driver of the group had moved to Quito to start a non-government funded orphanage for children aged 0-4. We conversed a bit in Spanish on our paths and passions as well as my experience of hiking that morning. Sensing my exhaustion, he insisted that I join their caravan and accompany them into Zumbahua to catch my bus. I graciously accepted.

As we pulled up, the bus was waiting as if on cue. During my hour and a half back into Latacunga, as a sixteen year old Ecuadorian used my shoulder as a pillow, I thought back on this final adventure with satisfaction, smiled, and dozed off myself, stick still in hand.

That night, after arranging my bags for the long journey home ahead, I had dinner for $2 at a local chicken chain (soup was served with cooked chicken feet, no joke) and had one final photo-op in a beautifully kept garden in Latacunga’s city center:

Elodie, our new girl from France, came in around 8:30pm in time for dinner. We ate a pumpkin/carrot/ginger/ahi pepper soup with mashed potatoes and a blackberry apple tart for dessert.

Tuesday, Elodie’s first day in the field, was spent showing her the green house (now commonly referred to as the serpent house). We built more corrals, transfered bottled baby trees, cut new bottles, watered, and weeded. Orlando also let me plant an avocado tree in my name. Literally. He cut the seed in half and poked the inside of it through my shirt sleeve, leaving colored marks displaying the letters of my name. Four years from now (June 2014), wherever I am, I will be able to think about my avocado tree dropping fruit somewhere in Ecuador!

For dinner I tried my hand at three Ecuadorian dishes, two of which were a success while the third was a bit bland. Margarita began to think the recipe in the book was a bit off, however, my arroz con leche, stuffed avocados, and newly experimented Caña were a delicious hit.

Wednesday began a new site for machete cleaning: La Y. Half the size of the green house site, it would only require two days between the four of us – my final two with a machete and my final two to keep my snake experience alive! Thus far I had seen 5: 4 “equis” and 1 garden. Sure enough, not even an hour into the day, I was being called from elsewhere in this coastal jungle to see the next find: a five foot Boa constrictor. This was Elodie’s first and my largest. I could see alertness and flight mode instantly filling her mood, as it did mine after the equis Orlando killed in the field. Boas may not be poisonous to the bite like the equis, but they sure can squeeze the life out of you!

That afternoon I introduced Elodie to the English/Spanish park classes at 4pm that Orlando and I had been enjoying about three times per week. This particular class was also joined by Nadine (a Canadian now living in Bahía for over two years), Ramon, and Cheo (another hilarious native Bahían). Getting to know the friendly people that make up most of Bahía’s population, with such profound and appreciated nature always around you, will be one of the things I remember most about this town. After a good hour, Ramon made mention of wanting a drink and we found ourselves on the beach with the sun setting and the high tide crashing at our feet with a liter of wine being passed around. Oh the fresh air – EVERYWHERE! To finish the night, we ate a delicious gallena al horno, another one of Margarita’s gems.

Thursday we wrapped up our “house cleaning” at La Y. One of the rare sunny days in this normally overcast dry season, I embraced the equatorial sun without any sunscreen and went to work. It is a gringo rule to have tanned skin (farmer’s tan doesn’t count) upon returning home from any tropical location, and I was going to do my best to fulfill my stereotype. As we walked around to make sure every tree had been accounted for, we stumbled on the perfect bird’s nest no bigger than your two palms together:

As we sat down for a descanso before heading back to the city, the question came from Clay as to whether or not anyone had had a snake encounter. Literally, ten seconds after a resonating “no” from each of us, Orlando loudly alerted Clay to the four foot garden snake that had camouflaged itself into the color of the tree and was now slithering its way towards Clay’s backside. After a brief scramble, we were at safe distance and a photo session ensued:

That afternoon, I ran to the internet before meeting Ramon, Elodie, and Nadine at Plaza Indio to make our way up to Cerro Seco for a yoga session and day hike. People began catching on to my comments about yoga’s benefits to relieve tension and help with surf preparation while Ramon and Clay wanted a more thorough session than was offered at Punta Gorda on the beach the weekend prior. Orlando and Clay met us atop Cerro Seco inside the foundation community. After getting to know a few of the locals here, we walked out to a perfectly situated, wide open hilltop plaza to begin my first yoga and meditation session as a teacher in half English/half Spanish.

With dirt as our mat, a partly cloudy sky as our light, and the fresh ocean breeze awakening the leaves of the trees that were our walls, we worked slowly and freely through body strengthening and relaxing moves. When the time finally came for a rejuvenating mind/body meditation, we were ready and deserving. Within seconds of my instructions to relax every muscle to reach that meditative connection with your breath, I was trailing off into the serene, natural silence that would have been inevitable without any of my talking.

Fully alive and enlightened, we then began our ascent to the utmost height of Cerro Seco through a few centuries old forest and beautifully maintained hiking path. We got a few looks of Bahía down below as well as the sun beginning its decent out on the ocean horizon:

However, the most unique aspect of this particular hike was the ability to see the trees I was planting and caring for in full form, some hundreds of years old:

Our path back to sea level was steep and passed through a valley that opened up into beach, sea, and sunset:

The last ten meters to beach landing was particularly steep. One at a time my friends slowly made their way to safety, leaving me as the last. Let’s just say I went it a bit less cautiously and paid for it. I lost my footing on the last few steps and slid down and off a miniature five foot cliff onto the sand and rocks below! Fortunately, it resulted in only a few scratches. My camera, which was in my hand, was just fine. Once it was clear that I was good to go and the laughs began, Elodie made it known that she had it all on video! Don’t worry, I am already working on having her share it with me on Youtube or Facebook. All in all, it was another beautiful, nature-filled day in Bahía and, returning to the house, we were again welcomed by Clay’s masterpiece pizza.

Friday, my last day working for Planet Drum, began with a walk to a vacant lot where a full Pachiche had dropped its seeds and babies were sprouting their heads. This was not the best place for these little guys to fight for their survival, so we uprooted about a hundred and took them to the green house for proper care. Orlando and I prepped the dirt (regular earth dirt, rice shells, sand, and compost dirt) while Elodie prepped bottles and Clay took pictures. Once the puzzle pieces were ready, we finished the job of temporary bottle planting. Near the end of our work I was able to capture a few action shots too:

With my three weeks of work now in the books, I would like to give an account of my parting sentiment. Aside from coming out of it with a solid knowledge of trees and an appreciation of their important place in nature, something that could be inspired from the right book or a NatGeo article, I was able to see this aspect of nature that will always outlive humans! To see the baby Seibo, whose horns had their way with my hands on Thursday, and then the four hundred year old equivalent was a surreal experience. Further, I give Clay and Orlando a lot of credit, not just for the work they do but also for the dedication and passion they exhibit day in and day out. I noticed it whether we were laboring with machetes, working on a compost pit, or finding seeds on a weekend hike. They were always pointing out fully grown equivalents of what we were planting, trying to find more or new types of seeds, and spotting every single empty soda bottle around the city for reuse. It was a wonderful environment to work and learn in, and I would not only recommend it to those that are curious (any age is welcome as a 50 year old couple just left) but also would like to come back someday and do it again!

That night we invited Orlando, Cheo, and Ramon to dinner: sautéed white fish, rice, chifle, and sautéed veggies. We paired our food with some leftover Sangría or passion fruit and sugarcane rum cocktails. My farewell dinner was scrumptious, per usual, and my company the best in Bahía! We stayed up till midnight chatting, playing (learning) the card game Cuarenta, and drinking every last drop.

Saturday would be a day of some tourist activity, but it began with a community mural painting on an ocean side plain white wall. With representatives from Planet Drum, Cerro Seco, and nearby elementary schools, we spent four hours surrounded by an array of colors for use on the beautifully sketched outline. Such activities that make one feel like a kid again always bring an easy smile to my face, and this one was no different:

That afternoon, after ceviche for lunch and a descanso, Ramon accompanied me to the Bahía museum and to visit Miguelito, a 250kg Galapagos turtle straight from the islands themselves. He has a taste for guineos (bananas), so I brought two fresh from the market that morning:

Back at the house we played some Cuarenta and shared a caiparinha. For dinner, we (Elodie, Margarita, Clay, Sol, and Margarita’s family) went to our favorite weekend spot, Churro. At a cost of $4, I had two pork chops cooked over an open flame grill, chifle, rice, beans, a tangy, spicy salsa, and a sprite. Those of you who know me know I do not drink soda, however, the soda in Ecuador is high fructose corn syrup free. It uses real sugar, and you notice the difference! Afterwards, we had a Ron con Pasas ice cream dessert near the point before relaxing in the lively Plaza Indio and watching the high tide waves crash nearby while Clay chased Sol around the fountain. This would be my last view of the Pacific on my trip down here.

The next morning I was up at 6:00am, which became surprisingly easy, to say my thank yous and farewells to Clay and Elodie who were heading to catch waves in Canoa. Then Margarita insisted on using their eco-taxi to get to the bus terminal. We loaded up the bike’s front bench with my bags as well as her and Sol and I was able to squeeze in a quick workout by pedaling across town to make my 8:00am departure to Santo Domingo de Los Colorados. From here I would catch a connection to Latacunga, smack in the middle of the Avenue of Volcanoes in Central Ecuador’s Sierra mountain range.

My first leg was somewhat unexciting being the same landscape as I had experienced for three weeks and now this time through a bus window. However, although cramped and a bit smelly at times, my second leg was a scenic 2,000 meter climb through cloud forests and steep mountainside cliffs. Finally clearing the pass and clouds, the view opened up into my final adventure in South America, the chain of active, snow-capped volcanoes. I was officially in the Cotopaxi region of Ecuador.

The first two days this week were spent in the field near the University and Green House finishing machete clearance. Fortunately for my hands, they would be the only two days this week doing such work. Although I did have some skin break, it was more a result of the medical tape from one finger rubbing onto the other. So the options from this point forward were to tape all four or none at all. This work was certainly physical but also rewarding in the same sense; I was finally becoming in tuned with the proper ways to sling and swing this mean knife.

Other than my usual reading, writing, and Spanish lessons with Orlando, I spent some time taking pictures (to further my understanding of my camera) of the volunteer house and its views:

On Wednesday, Clay stayed home while Orlando and I headed to the green house to do some housekeeping work. I readily accepted this break from the machete, and obviously so did my hands. We began by weeding the beds and walkways until, suddenly, Orlando jumped back from where his hands were working to reveal another equis – keeping the victimless Planet Drum streak alive! Last week in the field, Orlando quickly killed his find; but this time he decided we should trap it in a neck-less three liter soda bottle and enlist some curious help from the university to secure it and study it. A quick photo op ensued:

We spent the rest of our day relaxing in the shade or watering every tree in sight – bed or bottle. After all, it is currently dry season here and rain is very hard to come by.

Thursday was also spent at the green house, this time to move the compost pile “down the line” as well as do some cleaning and organizing outside of the house. First, however, we wandered through a nearby farm for an hour in search of new seeds to begin the next round of germination. This aspect of learning something new everyday, while doing it firsthand, was becoming quite fun and valuable. I hope to go home and help my mother and father begin a garden before moving on to my next project in New York City and, ultimately, the West Coast.

After work, a bit of adventure came back to my experience here in South America after taking the first week here to relax and recoup my mind and body. I took a boat taxi and bus, both dangerously packed, to arrive at the village that runs all operations for Isla Corazon (literally shaped) in no more than forty minutes. Receiving a warm welcome, I was told I would be the only one on the tour ($14 solo). We promptly set out on a motor boat to the heart-shaped island. My guided tour was to begin with a Venician-style paddle boat through the 100% natural mangrove:

My guide pointed out red and blue crabs and I began to notice a flurry of avian activity over my head. Leaving the channel, we navigated a left and I was told the names, sexes, mating patterns, and hunting targets and methods of the few thousand birds making their presence felt around me:

We met up with the motor boat which took me to a dock and walking portion of the island to explain some more about the tree types as well as fishing techniques of their community. All in all, the tour was beautiful, interesting, and well worth it. The most thrilling moment came as I decided to walk a half hour instead of wait for the next bus back to San Vincente. As I strolled along, I passed an idle truck and waved “hola”. That same truck then passed me minutes later and asked if I wanted a lift to my destination in the bed. I accepted this common practice, but sat on the rail of the bed like the local across from me instead of inside like a sane person might think safer and more comfortable. I gripped and braced my hands and body while allowing for the endless bumps and breaks in the half paved, half gravel road passing in my peripheral vision. Ten minutes of pure concentration and I walked away unscathed in time for my boat taxi return trip to Bahía with yet another memory etched in my brain.

Friday was, all in all, a preparation day. It began with Orlando and I gathering over a thousand Chitimoya seeds from the streets of Bahía. Each one of these dessert fruits contains about thirty of them which the consumer sucks dry and spits out. Where it is commonly sold we were able to find gold mines full of these coffee bean look-alikes. We sat and squatted and picked for over three long hours – easily my least favorite activity but important nonetheless. That night Clay and I prepared for Saturday and Sunday at Ramon’s beach house in Gorda. Margarita made a delicious shrimp ceviche dinner while I whipped up a large batch of Sangría for the weekend ahead.

The following morning we woke around eight as we had planned to hit “el mercado fresco” around ten and be on our way by eleven to time the low tide right. Costs for the two days and one night, collectively, were thus:

$8.50 food
$4.00 taxi

Nada mas. For the house was one room without electricity and running water. You had a toilet seat and pit out back and a cistern of rainwater to wash dishes and take a bucket bath. My friend, Ramon, and his family also had a family farm nearby which we would hike to later that day. Knowing all this, I had no idea what to (nor did I want to) expect Our cab pulled off a side road ONTO the beach to drive the final two-ish kilometers and we were left in natural silence at the footstep of a scene Henry David Thoreau would be proud of:

The peace and serenity of la naturaleza all around you is enveloping. You feel comfortable and ready to enjoy the lack of industrialized influence. To make things even more separated from the outside world, the crashing waves and rising tide were slowly cutting off access (foot or car) with Bahía and the world as we know it.

While we still had the energy, we set out for a two hour (round trip) hike to the farm to collect tree seeds and munch on some organic food. For being the dry and cloudy season, the equator sun picked the perfect time to show its head and attempt to fry my gringo skin. The rays were so intense that I realized having forgot to put sunscreen on my calves within two minutes. Eyes were alert for serpents on the trail, after a quick warning from Ramon, but mariposas, salamanders, birds, and insects clouded the scene. The final leg of the walk was fifty meters up a forty-five degree incline corn patch to an array of papayas, limes, mani, (more) corn, bananas, and more. We found some shade to rest and converse.

Our trip back was a little more thrilling. Initially, we continued heading deeper into the valley, but the path thickened with overgrowth and vegetation and we began having run-ins with progressively bigger spiders in their webs and on the ground. Changing our minds, we turned around and began making way back to the beach. Halfway along, an equis jumped out of the bushes in pursuit of a salamander and arched to strike when it noticed us peering in from a distance and darted back where it came from – leaving the salamander to fight another day! As this happened in no more than two seconds, pictures were hard to come by; the spiders, however, were photogenic:

Back at the beach we relaxed a bit before embracing the ocean and its waves all to ourselves. Like kids again, we jumped, crashed, dove, and rode the waves until the marine life decided it had had enough of our intrusion. I am unsure about the communication skills of jellyfish, but, as I was being wrapped up and zapped, Clay and Ramon were thrashing wildly to escape at the same exact moment! Never had I swam so fast. My initial thought was that I was either dying or, like in the TV show Friends, we would have to pee on each other to stop the pain! Well neither turned out to be true. My act of ripping the jellyfish in half, almost instantly, helped to avoid the marks Clay and Ramon still had four days on. Another experience in the book.

That evening, we cooked an open-fire dinner, drank a jar of my Sangría, and played cards in the candlelight. We were in bed around 8:30 and awake around 7:00 the next morning – a solid nights sleep considering we slept sheetless and pillowless. After a breakfast spread of instant coffee, scrambled eggs, (with leftovers), and bananas, we spent the morning doing some yard work. The sitting area outside badly needed more space and, thus, some effective walls and levels. In three hours we secured a dozen tree trunk stakes, cut bamboo, and built the first wall. This would, however, be a multi-day (weekend) job.

Nearly noon, we had, at most, two hours to fit in some yoga on the beach and a timid swim to rinse off before beginning our eight kilometer walk back to Bahía in time to beat the rising tide at the point breaks. A perfect culmination to the secluded, nature-filled weekend, our walk was not only peaceful but also an experience on how locals enjoy their Saturday and Sunday. Hawks flew overhead searching for food in the water and blue-footed boobies sat perched on a cliff above us. Was I in an episode for Planet Earth? In my mind, yes!

To begin, the organization, and family involved, had just moved locations and I would also come to find that, for the first two of my three weeks here, I would be the sole volunteer in the house. Clay, the guy running the show, thinks another may be coming around the first week of June. It wasn’t the work that took the most getting accustomed to (pictures, stories, and the organization’s webpage painted a pretty good picture) but rather the general lifestyle within the house and around town.

Bahía takes the shape of a small peninsula on the western coast of Ecuador – half of which is ocean side and half of which is river/estuary side. It declared itself an eco-city in 1999 and does a good job of living local in a food sense and, as a result, this fosters (to varied effects) a reuse-recycle mentality. Nonetheless, it remains a work in progress ten years on and has plans to pilot a new recycle system for all of Ecuador and a strong initiative currently in the mix to axe plastic bags all together – something the whole world would benefit in adopting. The new, uneco-minded mayor hasn’t made the going easy, however, as garbage still floats sporadically in the wind and a new bridge to San Vicente (across the river side) threatens the eco-taxi system with pressure from your traditional motor taxis. To be quite honest, they really aren’t needed at all as the downtown part of the city is a thin peninsula and a constant bus system runs far into the incoming highway which is home to a university and our green house. All these positives paired with their reforestation efforts – of which Planet Drum is a strong factor – hold valuable lessons for cities and towns the world over.

Inside the volunteer house lives Clay, an emigrated American from Pennsylvania, his wife Margarita, a native Bahían, and their one and a half year old son Sol. From first glimpse, I would say that it is well run and functions relative to the calming and appreciative lifestyle endemic to this area. I am interested, though, in seeing what it would be like with upwards of eight volunteers at the same time like my buddy Mike was able to experience. Around the house, chores are assigned, including alternating dinner cooking responsibilities, and $10 weekly is put in a group pot to pay for food and water and other household necessities (Clay and Margarita contributed as well). What truly took the first two days to get used to was the open-air (no glass windows), occasional sights of critters (which NY prepared me for pretty well), and water conservation methods (only flushing toilet after #2s came a callin’), and smell of the compost bin (which actually worked better left open). All things considered, I am writing three days on and have slept well, feel healthy, and couldn’t be more relaxed!

My first half day here was spent getting to know the surrounding couple of blocks. Clay introduced me to the rules of the house and program, explained what we would be doing to start the week the following day (my first in the field), and ignited a conservation about the need for a circular system for manufacturing and consumption.

Day two began my field work. I was introduced to the green house where the seeds are planted until they are ready to be transported to recycled, three liter bottles where they would grow until final site planting during the next wet season. My job was to cut wood and construct a few more corrals for those second stage trees. I met Orlando, a wonderful native Bahían and Clay’s assistant/partner with Planet Drum, who had a smile on his face 95% of the time! Our schedule was Monday through Friday from 8:00am until 12 noon. Our afternoons were free to read, write, siesta, explore the city and neighboring areas, or visit the local bakeries.

Tuesday began our machete work. This would be the most physical, yet frequently needed, activity to protect the newly planted trees from attacking weeds. Our first site to clear was also near the university, next to a farm and our green house. It held about five hundred trees and took four days of machete work between us to clear. Here Orlando also pointed out a tree to me which Mike had planted three months back:

That afternoon I helped with some cleaning and caught up on some reading before taking my turn in the kitchen. With a fresh daily fruit, veggie, and seafood market two blocks away, I was in heaven and didn’t disappoint.

Wednesday and Thursday were full machete “cleaning” days as well My hands were starting to feel a bit fresh, but a couple knuckle spat jobs and some after work “air” care did the trick to prevent any nasty blisters. The first day we cleared the nature path for the site that is Planet Drum’s first so that a bioregionalism class field trip could pass through. The second was spent back cleaning the site near the green house and university again. Here I encountered my first (of quite a few) run-in with a snake. Orlando suddenly called my name and said to me, “matala cuando la vea”, kill it when you see it. This particular one is called an “X” or “equis” and is fatal within twenty to thirty minutes depending on the bite. You better have a venom kit (which we did) or be on your way to a hospital before that time elapses if you want to breath for another day. In addition to the venom kit, we wore knee-high rubber boots and used a goncho (which you will see as a piece of wood shaped as an L in a photo or two) to lift and clear the weeds and protect from these three foot long serpents.

This work was so physical that it made the glorious calorie amounts each night not only necessary but also rewarding as leftovers for lunch when we returned each day. Wednesday I made some tasty sangria to go with our homemade pizza dinner while we watched a movie like a family of sorts. Thursday was chicken al horno with a fresh Russian salad and a cuba libre for dessert. Clay fell asleep with Sol while Margarita and I stayed up and conversed about our families and past volunteers. Another night of dream-filled sleep ensued.

On Friday, Clay mixed things up a bit and introduced us to step two of three in getting a seed ultimately to the hillside of Bahía. This involved prepping fertile soil – a mix of sand, earth, compost/manure dirt, and rice shells – cutting the necks off of 2-3L soda bottles which we collected from the streets of the city day in and day out. The baby trees which were removed from their beds ranged from two to six inches and were all native trees to this coastal jungle area: Pachice, Wachapelie, Seibo, and Papaya. We transported about fifty trees and would watch them grow in their green house corral for a few months before picking a final home that needs new life.

That night it was my turn to cook again. I chose my Yosemite Salmon and Sweet Potato recipe, just modified for coastal Ecuador’s available goods: komote in place of yams and a sword-like fish in place of salmon. The fish was sautéed to perfection while the potatoes, cinnamon, raisins, walnuts, and butter, were pureed and spread over rice. Plates were cleaned.

Saturday and Sunday were rather routine days as I caught up on some reading (finished The Snow Leopard), writing, blogging, exercising, and made some calls home. I was also able to squeeze in some wonderful siesta time. The one and only hangup was when our neighbor tried to ignite a solo dance party from his balcony by blasting music from midnight until 4:30am. One speaker was lined up nearly perfect with my window, and just when I thought I had the morning to sleep in peace, he started the party back up at 8:30am with Lady Gaga as his first three choices. This I couldn’t possibly exaggerate, but a memory nonetheless!

Up to now, two full and memorable months, I have been traveling to travel (or “viajar por viajar”, as Che’s role says in Motorcycle Diaries). I have met some absolutely wonderful and interesting people (hopefully lifelong friends), hiked some of South America’s most sacred and beloved lands, survived the touristy, gringo-trap cities, and traversed all reasonable destinations by bus (almost 9,000km thus far). I tried not to have any expectations, other than to spend a wee bit less dinero, but the ability to say the above words with smiling satisfaction has made it well worth it. I can look back at the açai overdose-induced bout of bowel difficulties and laugh. I can also look forward to the next sixty hours of bussing from Puno, Peru to Bahía de Caraquez, Ecuador and know it will also hold a life lesson and/or memory.

The hardest part, though, has been the farewells. It wouldn’t be fair to name names as they have all made an impact on my experience here and, ultimately, who I have become. I traveled with an amazing individual from Spain from my first day in Mendoza ALL the way to my stay here in Puno. I met him by chance in El Chalten and hiked with him for a day to Mount Fitz Roy and didn’t think anything of it until we realized our paths were crossing just perfectly. We “chillar’d” and “bueno’d” our way through wine country, Inca country, desert country, and northern route 40 country to reach this moment where they are all now memories. Like a bandaid, we looked at each other, gave thanks, hugged, and parted ways until next time – in this life or another. What didn’t need words was the understanding and appreciation that a friendship can be shared across borders and languages. This is what makes traveling so special and, in my mind, priceless.

So I boarded my first bus from Puno to Lima at 3:00pm (21hrs, Cruz del Sur) and eventually my second from Lima to the notorious border town of Tumbes without any feeling of doubt in my mind. En route, I watched about ten movies, drank some wine I snuck on board, gazed out my cama window for inspiration while I wrote, and slept fairly well. This was, as I had been told a few times, the most dangerous part of my trip. Lima, as a stopover, was nothing compared to what I would face in Tumbes. As I told my dad about my experience here, he asked me how I could trus tthe girl that took me by the arm and offered to share a cab that would drop me off at the only secure bus terminal (CIFA) to safely take me across the border. I simply told him that I could see it in her eyes and hear it in her voice. Not everyone in a given town, country, or hemisphere is out to take advantage of you, violate you, or worse, and you need to be able to put your trust in non-friend or family members throughout life. Understanding this can provide you with a lifelong skill and hopefully put the odds in your favor in most situations. It certainly isn’t “perfectable”, as I would learn in Guayaquil, as one must always must adapt to new settings and situations as they progress through life.

After safely passing the “barbarians at the gate” who were eagerly waiting for a gringo outside the bus terminal, I had to find money, and fast. I had to trust another person behind the ticket counter to not pawn off my things while I ran ten blocks to find an ATM. Finally stepping on the bus, with money and personal items secured, I entered the most unsecure of bus atmospheres I had experienced thus far. I sat with both legs through my daypack straps and my head out my window to look out for my bag stored below as the bud stopped frequently in “iffy” areas. Six hours of this brought me to Guayaquil, five hours from Bahía, but one hour late for the last bus that day. After so much transport, there was no doubt in my mind that I was staying in my first hotel on this trip! Once settled, I ventured to find massive Colombian dinner and washed it down with an ice cold beer followed by a scrumptious Magnum ice cream bar (food $8, hotel $40). This was one of the best nights of sleep on my trip, and I would recommend the place except for the fact that I believe the guy behind the front desk in the morning snagged by debit card number and code without me noticing because (I think) I refused to pay an 8% CC fee that I wasn’t told about the night before when I asked them about it. $1,300 was the value of the two flights purchased that same day, but, fortunately, I had just retrieved cash from the ATM as my bank was suspecting suspicious activity and was already in the process of cancelling my card. I didn’t realize all this until here now in Bahía.

The five hour bus ride into this coastal Eco-city was equally “iffy” but successful. I disembarked on a random street, grabbed an Eco-taxi ($0.50, a tricycle bike with a front bench for up to two people), and cruised into the most tranquil pueblo on my trip.

Vanessa slipped out the following morning, leaving a note thanking us, in English and Spanish, for a memorable time. I would love to go on the record thanking her as well, it wouldn’t have been the same without her smiling face. There really is nothing like having honest, enjoyable, and equally curious people to travel with – something I have learned from ALL the amazing personalities in my time down here. I hope to have made not one but two lifelong friends in Barcelona.

At a new and wonderfully slow pace, Javier and I wandered through the day. We booked our bus tickets into Puno for 10:00pm that night and thus had a lot of time to kill in a city we have now been in or near for over a week. Some time was spent on the computer, some on a balcony overlooking the plaza eating helado, some wandering the streets and playing with llamas, and some hiking by foot up to Cusco’s Christ mirador:

Our seven hour bus ride into Puno began with Javi and I finishing a bottle of Pisco that we had been lugging around since Atacama and finshied with Javi being sick in the back. We immediately made our way to Inka’s Rest hostel and had our first rude, unwelcoming experience. For a place rated 96% on hostelbookers, I expected more. We entered to our host insulting Javier for rolling his luggage by calling him an “idiot” and had an offer to sit on the couch for five hours until 11:00am because all the rooms were full. However, when I asked if we could pay a half night’s stay (something no other hostel on my trip asked for if they had the room) rooms of our choosing suddenly became available. Further, breakfast was mediocre, Internet would cut out daily (and we think purposely on our last day), and rumors spread about the owner trying to ruin your island tour plans if you didn’t book through him. He wouldn’t even let us leave our bags there after we checked out and until we needed to go to the bus station. Nonetheless, we kept to ourselves and would let our review do the talking.

Aside from that, Puno is a rather run-down town with no color, a generally unwelcoming atmosphere from its people, and a grimey waterfront. If it weren’t for the famous lake, the place might not even exist. Our second, and final, day together we carefully organized a guided tour to the floating islands of Uros as well as the fixated island of Taquile. These islands are situated on Lago Titicaca (which means “puma dung”), the world’s highest lake, at 3,855m.

At 7:00pm (at a cost of $10) we began our tour. We boarded a boat that would end up transporting us for almost five of our eleven tour hours. Our first stop was a community within the floating island complex of Uros. As we docked, the women of this partiular “neighborhood”, clad in nearly identical and colorful wardrobe, welcomed us with song and dance. Some agriculture/fishing trade, but mostly handicrafts and tourism is how they enjoy a living. They began with an explination of the concept of a floating island (inclusive of perfectly scaled props). Each individual island consists of blocks of soil that fit together, is topped with layers of the lake’s reed (also eaten as a staple), and is staked from each corner to the bottom of the lake. It is said that the community could relocate, if it wished, simply by picking up the stakes and paddling to a new scene.

After this interactive display, a member from each hut grabbed two of us by the hand led us inside their abode to give a “day in the life” account and then proudly show us their wares, knick knacks, and clothing that was all made by their own hands. They then offered us a ride for ten soles ($3.50) in their magnificent reed boat to our next destination – a village compete with post office, restaurant and bodega. This stop was brief and we were under way for a two and a half hour journey to Taquile after I snagged a few post cards. En route, we were invited to visit the roof of the boat to enjoy the scenery and sun. Javi and I accepted and took the opportunity to break bread with marmelade and queso while the fresh water breeze and sun relaxed every muscle in our body.

Pulling into Taquile, forty-five kilometers from Puno, everyone was “bobbing for apples”, including us, on the main deck. We were to cross, diagonally, the one kilometer wide and six kilometer long island by 2:30pm for our return trip to Puno. Along the hike, we took part in a native dance, ate lunch at a local’s home with the Bolivian side and mountain range at our backs, and visited every handicraft market along the way. At one in particular, hand stitched and stuffed animals were being sold for five soles by a kid no more than eight years old. Javi bought one and thought it would be the perfect ornament for a rear view mirror in a car. Being such a great idea, I bought one as well! As we descended to the port on the other side, similar, but uniquely colored, animals were being sold at consecutive stands. Having some regret over not waiting for the perfect color, we each bought a farm of these guys to give to members of our family to adorn their cars in Peruvian fashion as well.

That night we met up with Mariana and her friend for dinner, drinks, and jenga at a rock n’ roll kareoke bar on the “strip” in downtown Puno. Tomorrow would begin my bus ride into Ecuador to finishy trip as a Planet Drum volunteer (www.planetdrum.org).

4:30 came in a restless hurry; however, we were gathered and ready by the time our tour bus pulled up outside. As each person boarded the bus, the growing group scanned its new company until eyelids were too heavy to bother. Half dreaming-half hungry, I was hearing the word “manzana” repetitively being broadcasted outside the foot of our stopped bus. Even if my hunger was more painful than my reclined position was pleasant, it wouldn’t have mattered; Manzana was the name of our head cook!

After all parties were securely fastened, we climbed and twisted our way for two hours from Cusco into the world of the Sacred Valley. Green with farms, forests, and dirt roads; our view glistened in the rising sun until, one by one, everyone had re-awoken. Our bus pulled into Mollepata. around 8am where we had one last chance to purchase supplies (I bought a lifesaver of a “gorro” since my sunglasses were broken) and pay for our last meal for the next four days.

Coca tea, bread and marmelade, and scrambled eggs were all devoured as everyone got their first chance to exchange names, backgrounds, and journeys. Instantly, the group began clicking. The introducing questions have varied little (What did/do you do?, Where are you headed?, What drives you?) on this trip and, honestly, never got tiring to say or talk about with the disparity in unique individuals. Everyone’s perspective in leading them to cross paths at this moment – which is all that mattered then and there – always filled me with a fresh pride in the humanity around me. I also find it no coincidence that being surrounded by nature turns people into a clearer-minded puzzle piece in the circle of life.

Following one of our two guides (the second, Cesar, brought up the rear to maintain and effective cohesion), Louisa walked us along a dirt road out of Mollepata at 2,900m (nearly 10,000ft). Most of our day’s valley side walk was a steady, yet rocky, dirt road with the occassional steep trail climb through slick mud. Bees the size of grapes buzzed around us as we alternated “descansos” with air-thinning inclines. The sun beat down on us throughout the ascent to our first lunch, but slowly the bugs retracted to lower altitudes and our non-mountain lungs caught a sense of pace with our hungry muscles.

Lunch, a delicious quinoa soup and beef saltado, was served at 3,500m where our trail opened up into a three way split of meeting valleys. Five feet from our table the terrain plummetted into the roaring river below while the mountain natives performed a ceremonial ritual of carrying a cross to and partying at the closest peak above us.

We washed down lunch with a digestion-helping mint tea and set out to climb the final 300m into camp. The path was still road (something that would thankfully cease after today) and laid a slow incline at our feet. We passed cows, pigs, chickens, turkeys, horses, and sheep. They all seemed to accept us and our path, but occassionally Javier would push his limits on their territory if they didn’t respond to his calls for attention. Over the next few days, as the road turned to trail and the hike more closed off to the domesticated world, these animals would begin commanding respect, sometimes aggressively.

Around 4:30pm, we completed our first twenty-two kilometers of acclimatizing hiking and found what would be our highest camp, 3,800 meters. Here, in the Apurímac valley, we were perched between a glacial mountain to our west and the connecting valley with Salkantay mountain poking out its ice-capped peak to our north. From the east is where we spent most of today and also where the sun was casting its final rays of light. While the south laid out the range that was our day’s left hand companion.

At 5:00pm, after making our beds and switching to warmer gear, tea was served with popcorn and biscuits. Another common theme that has taken place a lot on my trip was that of language. We would take turns offering up a particular country (or region) and give everything we knew about it as a collective group. Now and then, since we represented Canada, Columbia, Argentina, England Germany, Spain, Brazil, Peru, and the United States, a subject would receive enough attention that a representative from each country we be called on (gringo, norte americano, or US in my case) to explain or demonstrate their side. This probably dominated a third of our group conversation.

Once tea ended, we were given a time frame of an hour until dinner would be served. As people began to scatter about the site a bit, Dominic (Germany) came into our wind tent and ordered (or suggested) everyone’s presence outside for a quick admiration of the night’s sky. Never in my life have I seen the universe in this light. Stars, planets, constellations, and the Milky Way. I quickly admitted my lack of knowledge in recognizing some of the various combinations but, as Dominic began pointing majority of them out, I was becoming inspired to pick up a book. There is an option to get a “guided tour” ($30, with night’s stay, www.spaceobs.com) at an observatory in San Pedro de Atacama, but only when there isn’t a full moon. So I suppose luck was only half on our side there.

After a few minutes, Dominic, Camila (Colombia), Helena (England), and myself (I couldn’t get enough) remained. Here conversation got quickly philosophical and even spiritual. At this point in my journey this wasn’t the first opening of these doors (and it wouldn’t be the last), and a general understanding of a need for unlimited or unbiased education, hopefully leading to a respectable “tolerance”, would calm a lot of miscommunication and unsubtantiated pretense that exists and causes some bloody conflict in our world. If I look at our tiny world in a thirteen billion year old universe and become fascinated about all the “imaginative” possibilities and begin to look at my life as almost pure chance, I want someone to a least honor my curiosity and share a conversation with me about it. Further, I want this person not to attempt to debunk my thoughts with the sense of a blind belief but rather to offer his/her own experience with their feeling or mentality or give me a story of their own accord on the meaning, or origin of the said belief. With so many unanswerable questions, I have begun finding an appreciation in the origin of all belief systems. At present, destiny is both physical and spiritual to me, and I have no problem dedicating myself to my physical environment around me while picking and chosing my own personal set of spiritual beliefs as well.

So gaze at the stars and ponder our universal importance we did. At dinner I could sense the nature around us slowly making it’s mark on the fully inspired people we would be five days later in Machu Picchu and even the next day atthe Salkantay Pass. With the cold setting into zero degrees Celsius and our muscles needing rest for the big ascent the following day, we began filing away to bed. I laid awake in my sack for awhile taking in full appreciation of the peaceful, natural world I had slipped into that morning.

Day Two

After a breakfast of hot chocolate, bread and jam, an omelet, and coca tea, we were given the option of horse or foot to the top of the 4,800m pass. To me, this wasn’t even a question; I was walking the whole way. It did seem like a beautiful opportunity to see all of the trail unfold around you and I surely don’t blame those for one second that chose this option. I, however, feel I appreciate my reward/accomplishment that much more, but, again, that’s just me!

Setting out in the shadows of our next valley, with Salkantay at our twelve o’clock, the 1,000m climb began steadily before opening up into sun and steepness.

In this same time, the temperature slowly dropped and the air thinned. We took two much needed descansos to snack and rest before setting foot on the highest point of our trek, Salkantay Pass.

After Cesar graciously alotted us a solid fifteen minutes of posing with the 360 degree backdrop, he sat us down to explain the history and meaning behind and relationship of the glacier, the cairn, the gods, and the people of this area. As he spoke his passion resonated from every word. Pachamama, earth, Pachapata, sun. Viewed from Machu Picchu’s main sundial, the Southern Cross is above Salkantay’s summit when at its highest point in the sky during the rainy season. The Incas associated this alignment with concepts of rain and fertility, and considered Salkantay to be one of the principal deities controlling weather and fertility in the region west of Cuzco. The cairn (or sets of cairns in this case) began as an offering to these gods from all passing travelers. They would pile on a stone of their own, offer some coca leaves, and pour some caña (a sugarcane rum) over the cairn to finish. The glaciers have obviously brought life to this area for centuries and has slowly begun shrinking over the last few decades. It was sad to hear the fear in his voice that the yearly ceremonies for Salkantay could disappear along with the glacier and the happiness it brings. He wrapped up the story by offering us each a shot of caña while Louisa walked around offering a floral remedy to those wanting help dealing with the altitude. Then, just after we made our offering and as we were about to leave, an avalanche came crashing down in front of us. Perfect length and distance for some good photos:

From here we would descend almost 2,000m into camp today. Along the way, we did take one more descanso to do some meditating and headstands before stopping in a sheep’s grazing meadow for lunch. Following this new scene the decline got quite steep and, at times, muddy; fortunately the temperature changed some as well. At one point we passed two girls coming home from school by ascending the same river/path of mud we were all using makeshift walking sticks to descend. Javier handed them each an apple and wished them well as we were all surely thinking “Que vida!” – what a life.

Today’s trek totalled eighteen kilometers and was all uphill or all downhill. Make no mistake, the downhill wasn’t much easier, if only on the lungs, and is actually more dangerous; surer footing is needed to avoid injury (or worse) from slipping. Your legs begin to simply move on their own and occassionally erratically by the end of a long day. Pulling into camp, a farmer’s backyard, word spread of a shower. With it quickly getting dark, I made haste to avoid a line and jumped in. The water, piped straight from the nearby river, was ice cold but 100% refreshing in every sense of the word. After I came running out, in a heightened feeling of freshness, screaming to the water gods, it became a bit of comic relief to hear each subsequent person’s intial yelp when first breaking the stream and their animate exit no more than thirty seconds later.

We quickly organized our tents and took advantage of the uber-expensive (relatively speaking), warm beer being sold by those living here and shared a few liters in place of tea with popcorn and biscuits. Conversation was great this evening. I tended towards a spanish-speaking crowd on this trek and, with the help of Vanessa at times, got on just fine. I’m certainly not in the realm of 100%, but points were able to be made and understood. It all made for a pleasant night through dinner.

Sleep was the most challenging tonight as Camila, our Colombian cantante, serenaded us for a good hour after everyone had filed into their tents. Then, in the midst of a dream, the roosters began no earlier than three in the morning and lasted until we woke at five and began chasing them around in thanks for the two hour wake up call.

Day Three

The third day was planned to cover another eighteen kilometers but, due to a stable elevation, was to be finished by one o’clock thereby allowing us a half day of freedom! Starting out we descended a few hundred meters into a hot, insect- and flora-filled climate to a river which we would follow for the next five hours into camp at Sahuayaco. Along the way, Louisa did her best to point out every exotic plant endemic to the area while we each played our own individual game of “find & balance” from rock to rock on the muddy, jungle-like path. Vanessa and I shared a passion fruit that Javier bought from a local ten year old selling his goods and had a good conversation on the need versus want versus convenience of marriage. We concluded that readiness is an understanding that has no such pretense.

Our one lengthy descanso was spent at a family’s house/farm to buy water and snacks, eating delicious oranges, and fighting off a few aggressive roosters and one massive turkey who were trying to steal our grub. Everyone was armed with their walking poles and “kick-ready” legs but, when one hiker turned his back, a hen was able to make off with a granola bar still in it’s package. A short chase ensued and Cesar came out the heroic victor.

Camp today was held in the town of Sahuayaco. Here you also had the option of a shower, which also shared air with a hole in the ground toilet, or heading down to the river to bathe. You can guess which one we chose.

That night our cooks prepared one final feast of chicken wings, stewed veggies, quinoa, and pasta salad. The group also tapped into the resources of this little mountain village and refreshed our palates with cola, cerveza or, in my case, vino. Javier, Vanessa, and I shared two bottles and were feeling just dandy. It sure took the pain away from our aching muscles with the food did its best to heal them. Up to this point, all the walking I have done, including Torres del Paine, has paid off immensely as my legs were feeling stronger than ever. When Javier looked at me with tired, worn eyes, I would pound on my legs jokingly and say “legs of my father”. After a while he began asking how my father’s legs were doing; I would answer “bien” and tell him, with a smile, that “my mother’s heart is beating strong as well”.

That night, before bed, we were individually given the choice to walk the Lucmabamba Pass portion of the Inca Trail to a messenger post and potentially get a glimpse of Machu Picchu in the distance before descending down to a river and following the train tracks into Agua Calientes OR taking a bus to Santa Teresa and cable car across the river before walking the same tracks. The group split nearly in half while yours truly obviously chose the scenic route, if only to say I walked on the Inca Trail after all!!

Day Four

We were briefed that today would consist of eighteen kilometers all the way into Agua Calientes: three hours arriba, two hours abajo, and nearly three final hours of relatiyvely flat terrain along some train tracks. It was also assumed that the length and climb of day two would still be the hardest. Well don’t let them fool you; everyone who walked this pass with me will tell you how intense the climb was as well as how mentally challenging those final three hours of “flatness” ended up being. My father’s legs and mother’s heart would surely be put to the test.

We said adios to the other group (who would meet us at the hostel in AC) and gathered our things. Porters were no more, so all bags were carried from this point. Cooks were also no more; however, they did leave us with a bag lunch for the day. They also surprised Camila for her birthday with two cakes for everyone to share for breakfast. So, with rucksacks hoisted and the singing birthday girl taking the lead, we set out.

After almost fifteen minutes, Cesar stopped us and informed us that the three hour climb portion was mostly along the Inca trail and, with clouds in our favor, we may get our Machu Picchu glimpse atop this pass. So climb we did. We climbed stone stairs (some 3 feet in height) and log stairs. You better believe we also climbed that lovely earth-beaten path.

Camila had the front three in line cheering her on for her next Shakira rendition but, looking back from behind me at position five, everyone else was churning to a different beat (including myself). Eventually, Camila began saving her energy for where it was needed most while everyone’s pace began to vary and settle. It was widely understood, by now, that such varied paces were acceptable so long as the leaders stopped at obvious forks or checkpoints. The group also naturally assimilated to a normal company and place in line as a result.

We all filed into the ruins of the Lucmabamba Pass – messenger resting post – around 10am. Making way through this small Inca site, you walk out into an obvious viewpoint. If you are lucky the sky is clear and the hump of Hueyna Picchu and outline of Machu Picchu city ruins is all noticable in the distance. If not, you simply needed to be patient as the clouds (which we had) moved in every direction, mostly in an upward-diagonal fashion. If properly attentive, you could catch a break for a glimpse long enough to take a quick picture. Here’s what I got:

As we began our descent to the river below for a possible foot bath and some lunch, Cesar stopped us to explain the annual forty-five kilometers Inca trail run. With three arribas and three abajos before and an Andes plain, the record was set by a porter in no more than four hours forty-seven minutes. No friggin joke. Further, this aspect of running downhill got into mine and Dominic’s head and Cesar sensed it. Not the smartest idea, as one highly probable misstep could send one off or sailing down a rocky trail, but certainly the most fun. We sailed halfway down the hour long trail to the river in ten minutes, legs shaking and very much burning. After Dominic let out a scream (rumor had it as a guinea pig) and safely joined Cesar and I, we made a makeshift “branch” arrow at a fork and continued to the rock beach of the river to wait for the rest of the group.

We all took turns bathing our feet in the fresh water and eating our lunch of chicken and rice while taking in these last few moments of our Salkantay trek. Some of us quietly stepped away to capture the group on digital film while the others gazed off into the distance silent, thinking about how wonderfully beautiful this adventure has been and how rewarding tomorrow’s in Machu Picchu would be.

Once everyone was fully satisfied, we made our way to the train tracks a half an hour away. My legs were suddenly in a state of shock; the three hour climb destroyed my calves and the run downhill my knees and thighs. My stomach also began to have problems eliminating an appetite to feed my aching muscles. As a headache was also making ts presence felt, I had to tell myself to straighten up and keep my shoulders back for easier breathing and, clearly, to avoid unnecessary tension before bed tonight. For $2, I slammed a gatorade for a final jolt.

The walk was thankfully scenic; above our heads the valley rose into the ruins of Machu Picchu mountain and the rushing river, that we were following, was eroding it’s boulders into shaped so smooth that you would think they were from some piece of art. Along the way, I chatted with Charlie (Phil’s girlfriend) about my life’s prospects when my trip is done as well as their one year world tour which included base camp at Everest, a volcano in India, and more. I spoke with Helena to find out that there were not one, but two, nineteen year olds on this trek travelling solo to various continents. Finishing these three hours, I spoke with Camila about her experience getting lost with her boyfriend while trying to hike a volcano in Colombia – bringing back memories of my time in the Cascades in Washington last fall.

We stumbled into Agua Calientes around 4:00pm to find that the rest of the group had just arrived not to long ago. I knocked on the door to the room of the hostel that I would be sharing with Javier and Vanessa. Without words, I collapsed onto my bed before eventually being pulled away at the aspect of food, a toilet, and a hot shower. All were utilized in brute fashion.

Before meeting with the group and guides for dinner at 7:30pm, we walked about this quaint tourist town and got attacked by restaurant hosts in the plaza de armas, each offering a unique happy hour to gain our business. We settled on free chips and guacamole with six drinks for twenty soles ($7). We deserved it. I shared my story and photos with those that were curious and had chosen the other option.

When 7:30pm finally rolled around, we set down for our fourth, and final, dinner of saltados, paltas rellenas, and cervezas. The topic of conversation was none other than the moments and themes that had now solidified as memories for our lives. It slowly turned into thoughts and plans for our big day. Almost on cue, Cesar asked who in the group wanted to go to Hueyna Picchu as entry is only permitted to the first 400 people in line before the gates to the Sanctuary open at 6:00am. Every single person raised their hand. Accordingly, we were told that we would then need to be on our way the following morning by no later than 4:00am. We were also told what to bring (including snacks and lunch), what to wear, where to meet Cesar for his portion of the guided tour, and under no circumstances to forget our cameras. With a purpose, and the clock now ticking to 3:15am, the group scattered to buy groceries, pack bags, change camera batteries, and try to sleep. Tomorrow would be our four day, seventy-five kilometer reward – the Sacred Grounds of Machu Picchu.

Day Five

Our night’s sleep couldn’t have seemed any shorter; we desperately needed sleep and my alarm sounded with warp speed. I brushed my teeth, splashed some water on my face, outfitted myself in a new set of clothes and a headlamp, adorned my day pack, split an orange, and gathered in the street with my companions. A 400 meter incline to the gates of the Sanctuary lay ahead of us in pitch black. This we did know. What we didn’t know (I feel purposely weren’t told so as not to discourage us) was the steepness of the stair-ladden incline. Nate and I were in the front and our tired legs were moving with surprising speed. After five minutes of stairs, the trail opened onto the slowly winding bus route and, not seeing another reflection tape arrow, we began to question, or hope, if it wasn’t just a few stairs before all road to the top. We then committed the cardinal sin of not waiting for Louisa and our group to show us the way. We were ahead of the pack by a few minutes but, after the five minute detour, ended up finding ourselves trailing and Louisa somehow knowing we had sidetracked. She must have seen out headlamps flickering, lost, in the distance.

We recovered well, though, and didn’t rest until the top. In the dark emptiness of each step we ascended, beathing and sweating, with purpose knowing that the finish line was just around one of the next bends. What takes about an hour on average, we finished in forty minutes with a detour. The record: twenty-two. Coming around that last bend we exhalted in both relief and hope that the volume would wake those sleeping in the $400 per night posh hotel just outside the entrance. We sat about 15th and 20th in line with proud smiles on our faces; our journey had reached a day long culmination. Every day had been new scene, a new challenge and a new reward. One by one the rest expressed their own individual appreciation upon arrival well within the 400 limitation. For an hour we sat and cooled and waited.

When the moment finally came to be let in, and people rushed to the gates, cameras ready, it felt a bit “theme-parky”. Nonetheless, as we walked excitedly around a row of ruins with thatched roofs and out into what can only be described by the pictures below, chills went up and down my spine. For this initial sight alone it was all worth it; and to think that we had until 5:00pm to explore! First on our list was a guided tour of the city itself by Cesar. We all gathered for a congratulations, he was finally proud of us he said, and introduction to the ways of the Incan people.

From here we visited the living quarters of the royal family:

the sector of the temples:

the temple of the three windows:

the astronomical observatory, which included the “energy rock”:

the main square, which included a unique compass:

and the ceremonial rock (which had the shape of the background mountain range):

At this point, we then said our goodbyes and thank yous to our wonderfully passionate guides as 10:00am was approaching and entrance would be granted to 200 of the 400 Waynapicchu ticketholders. This climb was stepped and steep and also cliffside – up and along the left face according to this picture:

It was said to take about forty-five minutes (thirty for athletic types) and was adorned with rope railings most of the way as a testament to its danger. Further, you are required to sign in (and out) and receive a passport stamp (for those who bring them, also at the main gate). I was told people have lost their lives on this climb, and I don’t doubt it. Here’s what I was able to capture on the way up:

The “top” was more like a series of platforms at different heights and with different views inclusive of all three hundred and sixty degrees around you. The mountainside steps opened up into a panoramic view of Machu Picchu city below, now seemingly a labyrinth:

From this viewpoint you can make your way through a crawl tunnel, up a few sets of “normal” stairs, in between some massive boulders, and up a wooden ladder until finally reaching a spread of boulder peaks to chose a seat from:

Being initially at the front of the line and so quick to the top, we were lucky to have this choice as it soon got crowded, alluding to why they limit the amount of visitors at a time in the first place. Each person found a spot of their own and sat in meditative state of awe and wonder, making no mistake in enjoying every millisecond of this lifelong memory. With ruins constructed all over the “tops” of this mountain, it made me think, first, how amazing it is to have architecturally defied gravity with tons of granite as the building block and, second, who was so lucky to live here and wake up to this every single morning:

It takes a setting such as this for one to easily, without efforts, loose touch with all political, societal, material, and/or religious (organized) pretense and exist only in the present. To maintain a physical and spiritual connection with the life-radiating earth around you. As Peter Matthiessen wrote in an account of his journey through the Himalayas:

“Pine needles dance in a light breeze against the three white sister peaks to the northwest. I sit in silence, in the burning hum of mountain bees. An emerald butterfly comes to my knee to dry it’s wings, gold wings with specks above, white polka dots beneath. Through the frozen atmospheres, the sun is burning.

In the clearness of the Himalayan (Andean) air, mountains draw near, and in such splendor tears come quietly to my eyes to cool on my sunburned cheeks. This is not mere soft-mindedness, nor am I that silly with the altitude. My head has cleared in these weeks free of intrusion – mail, telephones, people and their needs, and I respond to things spontaneously, without defensive or self-conscious screens. Still all this feeling is astonishing: not so long ago I could say truthfully that I had not shed a tear in twenty years.” (The Snow Leopard)

No embodiment of modern day civilization can explain or portray such a real feeling as this. Be there a god or not, I am certain that the earth and sun and universe and all their intimate beauties are worth adoring in a moment and place like this – such as the Incan people did their whole lives.

Following nearly two hours of sitting in awe, snapping photos, and taking part in inspired contemplation with the others around me, we began the equally perilous descent. Once the group was all safe at the sign-in hut, we continued on to the Inca Bridge. The roundtrip was no more than thirty minutes and the bridge consisted of four solid logs suspended for the purpose of continuing what used to be another path into the city but now dissipates into sheer mountainside as you can see (one can not cross it and I’m not sure I would if I could):

Since returning to the base of Hueyna, the group had begun breaking up to explore in different manners: some soaking up the sun and resting on the lawn for the llamas, some wandered back through the city to ruins unseen after the bridge, and some (including myself) finished with one last hike up to the Sun Gate. En route, a gradually inclining walkway, we estimated that today’s ventures included nearly 1,200 meters of pure arriba and capped off eighty-five kilometer of total distance walked. With a roundtrip time of almost an hour, the Sun Gate was a relatively simple set of ruins, but, situated in a “V” between moutain peaks, it offered the most stunning view (consensus had it) of Machu Picchu city, top to bottom, with Hueyna Picchu bringing up the rear and the sun beginning it’s trip to the dark side:

From my rock atop the Sun Gate it was 800 meters all the way back to Agua Calientes and full relaxation. Again, the aspect of taking a bus had not occured to me for I wanted to see that mornings ascent in daylight! As every solo traveler or couple was now leaving at their own pace, Nate remained my only companion. At this point, my legs weren’t even on talking terms with me, but descend on them I did. It took us a little under thirty minutes to get to the bridge at the bottom and, seeing just how many steps we labored through that morning in a blind, zombie-like daze, gave me a second wind of appreciation for our guides not having told us in advance of what to expect.

In Agua Calientes, Mariana and Lucas (Argentinean couple) and Cesar were sitting on the steps of the hostel when Nate and I exhaled our last bits of energy and plopped down in the middle of the sidewalk; there we would stiffen for nearly an hour. The three also thought it funny to finish dressing me as a beggar which, at the moment they claimed, I didn’t need much help with considering my tattered and broken character.

(photo coming once I find it!)

Being 5:30 in the afternoon, we had three hours to kill before catching an awful slew of train and buses (that I wouldn’t like to bother talking about). Since some folks were hungry and some hadn’t returned yet, the group spread out once again with Nate and I braving the public hot springs on the outskirts of town. Now I know I was spoiled in Mendoza, but I really hesitate to recommend this place. In my opinion, if your muscles are in dying need of attention, spend a few soles more on an hour long, full body massage back in Cusco. From doorstep to doorstep of our hostel, this lumped off no more than an hour and a half, after which we dined, bought post cards and made our way to the train station.

Five bourse later, and officially awake for more than twenty-three hours, our third mode of transportation dropped us off in Cusco (I would have rather walked if I had the time). We all wearily said goodnight, made plans to meet tomorrow night for drinks, and made way to our scattered hostels. Our new one was Casa de Mi Abuelo ($10 pppn, highly recommended), and I am pretty sure I have never slept better.

The weeklong journey, culminating in the breath-taking and spine-tingling visit to Salkantay and Machu Picchu, began with the roughest bussing experience I have had in nearly 10,000km. There was no cama (bed) option and it was hot, smelly, dirty, and occassionally peligroso.

Our (Javi and I) first bus trip had a stop in Calama, a city an hour outside of San Pedro. The bus dropped us off on a random corner, a few blocks away from anything resembling a company or inclusive bus terminal. There were drunks yelling and partying in the street while eyes were on us with sticky fingers floating everywhere as we tried to walk confidently to an alley that seemed to house our next bus to Arica. Once confirmed, we literally hid behind the bus until boarding.

We arrived in Arica at 6am and were told to stay in the domestic terminal and NOT CROSS THE STREET until the sun began to shed light on the area between here and the international terminal. We did as we were told and walked with purpose when we felt the time was right. The only way to cross the border here is by collectivo, a taxi that packed in as many people as possible and escorted you through each immigration point.

It was all rather dull until, after we left the Peru checkpoint, we pulled off the road, everyone else got out of the car, the driver popped the hood, and they began pulling out chickens wrapped in newspaper and tossed them into the trunk. Once in Tacna we had to shed these poor guys from the tops of our bags in order to move on.

From Tacna we had two more buses and 22 hours (Tacna to Arequipa and Arequipa to Cusco) before being able to rest again. The seats were stiff and the roads consistently bendy. To make things worse wine isn’t offered or served on board like in Argentina. But, after about 36 total bussing hours, we survived and rolled into the Inca capital at 6am. Thanks to the “pachamama”, our hostel accepted us early and we slept like babies for three hours until Javier’s friend, Vanessa, was due to arrive from Barcelona.

Our first day together, as three, was spent at a lunch of delicious alpaca saltado, receiving a 20 soles ($7) one hour full body massage (all in the same room, worth the $7 IMO), visiting the main market, and buying or first bits of authentic Peruvian Alpaca clothing for ourselves and as gifts. Otherwise, the night ended rather promptly as Vanessa was working with at least a 6 jet lag. Javier and I were also a bit tired from our limited rest journey the day before as well. The next morning we would search out where and how and when our trek into the Sacred Valley would commence.

There are four general options: Classic Inca (which needs to be reserved about 2-3 months in advance and costs at least $500), a 2-day shortened Inca trail, Ausangate (which may not end in Agua Calientes and is 7 nights as well as the hardest), and Salkantay. At $240, we chose Salkantay. It is a 4night/5day, all-inclusive trek through the Salkantay pass that finishes in Agua Calientes, the pueblito built into the mountains below Machu Picchu. The company we went with was Ecotrail Peru.

After getting all the details we decided to book a quick city tour as well and come back to pay, rent equipment, and buy snacks (meals and tent were included). The tour began in the Church of Santo Domingo which was built in the 17th century over the Incaic walls of Qoricancha, or Temple of the Sun. The stonework of this temple is considered Cusco’s best and even withstood the major earthquake in 1950 when Santo Domingo collapsed and had to be rebuilt.

We then made our way up to one the hills overlooking the city on the outskirts of town to a ceremonial Inca sight named Sacsayhuaman. Not only is this sight popular for its views but also its hugely impressive walls. There are three that run parallel for over 360m and have individual stones weighing as much as 130 tons – Imagine the process of moving just one!

From here we continued along this hilltop road to the embalming temple and amphitheater of Qenqo (sorry about the lack of photos that were worthy of putting up here):

And then to the mesenger post and fortress of Puka Pukara:

And finally to the spring shrine, or youth fountain, name Tambo Machay:

The tour cost $40 when all was said and done, but definitely worth it if just for the history to prepare us for the journey we would soon be embarking on. After we were let off by the tour guide we had a final dinner, purchased our snacks, obtained equipment (head lanterns and sleeping bag), and packed our day bags so they were ready to leave when we woke up. I set the alarm for 4:00am and we did our best to get the most out of a five hour window for sleep before making our way to Salkantay.

Immigration into Chile was much more painless than the previous time but it did lay on the outskirts of the city and, due to the miniture size of it, had no bus terminal. The drivers simply said, “head that way for five minutes and you will be at the plaza center in five minutes”. They weren’t kidding; this pueblito consisted of about four streets running in each direction, a Plaza del Armas in the middle, and restaurant followed by hostel followed by tour agency – on repeat. I was told this town in the middle of the desert sprouted due to salt and mineral mining as well as archeological (dinosaur) excavation.

Now, the city relies mostly on tourism and is relatively expensive. We didn’t have a reservation but, after some searching and bargaining (everyone is willing to bargain some due to the affluent competition), we found Residencial Chiloe ($11pppn, private two bed, shared bath, breakfast, & wifi). There are many adventures to embark on physically (by bike) or guided tour – including sandboaring in the Valle del Muerte, watching the sun set in Valle de la Luna, floating in the Laguna Cejar, or witnessing the geysers of Tatio.

We began by showering and resting before meeting up with my friend Matthew from Rio for dinner. He had just returned from biking to the Laguna Cejar and was redder than a tomato. He recommended doing the same and then went on raving about the rare option (3 days a month) to sandboard at night under the light of the full moon. We didn’t need much more convincing. At 9pm that night we set out with K2 ($20pp, board and unlimited pisco sour party included). You have the option ok skiing or boarding and, although I am a good skier and have never boarded in my life, I chose to give boarding a shot! After all, no pain in the world could detract from the beauty of whipping down 300ft sand dunes and drinking pisco under the full moon and starlit sky in the middle of the Valley of Death!!

At night with the moon light casting down on the slightly mountainous, sandy terrain, it seemed like we were in fact travelling on the moon itself. Our van, like the moon cruisers in the movies, slowly pushed forward over heavy rock and craters with everyone glued to the nearest window.

Once we arrived and chose our boards, we all began the first climb up and across the sand dune (obviously no lifts here). We waxed, strapped in, and let loose. Since it was my first time on a board, and given the fact that sand was noticabely harder to control than snow (as I watched a seasoned boarder have some difficulty), I slid 75% of the dune on my arse. The other 25% was more of an out of control attempt to bomb down and pick up speed. Nonetheless, we all laughed, fell with (or without) grace, and loosened our muscles with a glass of pisco in between climbs. Given that it was nighttime and my point and shoot can only do so much, these are the best shots I could get:

Towards the end of the night when everyone seemed sick of climbing and preferred to stay by the van and chat and gaze at the stars I decided to take advantage of the emptyness atop the sand dune and do some star gazing of my own in pure silence on my back. I sat there in meditation of my person being one with not only nature and planet earth but, in such light above, the universe itself. It was another special moment that will stick with me for life.

The next day we slept a bit late before reserving our guided tour of the Valley of Death (this time during the day) and Valley of the Moon (for sunset) – $10pp. We also arranged the first leg or transport up to Arica and the Chilean/Peruvian border. At 3pm we boarded the next tour bus and made our way to the Valle del Muerte. There were a few speculations given to us to explain its name, but the most believeable was the fact that nothing lived there – no fauna, no flora, nothing. It was certainly a sight to see as well during the day and, in the distance, I noticed the more common day sandboarding tour taking place.

From here we made our way to Valle de la Luna where we spent the first hour walking our way through impressive valleys, caves, and salt rocks and residue. While you walk you can hear (with group silence) the creaking and groaning of the rock walls due to the presence of sodium and oxygen within them. We were reassured that rock only broke away and came crashing down where we were standing in the rare instance of heavy rain or earthquake. Moreover, the absence of humidity and vegetable or animal life make it the most deserted corner of the earth. It is now declared a natural sanctuary of nature.

Finally, the tour took us to a viewpoint of all viewpoints in this Atacama desert for the famous sunset. Unfortunately, luck wasn’t on our side and the only clouds in the sky covered the sun’s trajectory. However, it didn’t matter much as I made the most of the spotty clouds and broken rays of sunlight to capture a pretty unique photo:

The rest of the backdrop consisted of an Anfiteatro (amphitheater) formation, a few volcanoes, the Andes, and untouched sand dunes. After a tricky sand climb (two steps forward, one backward), we all sat in meditative silence and appreciated the natural beauty in every direction around us:

That evening as we were preparing to go to dinner and I sat waiting for Javi to shower and catching up on photo uploads a brownout suddenly blanketed the city. You can imagine the amount of stars in view above a desert city with no lights, but what was really strange was the fact that my wifi connection still worked. The only explanation, in my mind, was aliens.

Our last day in Atacama was spent on mountain bikes ($6pp) for 22km (each way) to the Salar lagunas. One hundred percent natural, these lagunas are famous for their ability to make you float. One can get some clever-looking photos reading a magazine or eating a sandwich while seemingly floating on nothing. The only catch here is that the temperature of the water is unusually cold being that it is not to deep and in the middle of the desert. I was able to hype myself up enough to brave a few quick pictures:

While eating lunch on the salt beach I dried to a salty crisp. I had two options: ride a bike for 22km back to our shower I’m this condition or rinse off from a basin of equally cold water by the area’s thatch-roofed office. I chose the latter.

We were then given instructions for a short cut on the way back into town, but they neglected to inform us of the heavy beach we would have to labor through on our bikes. But, labor we did and, as we closed in on San Pedro, we got to witness an end of the day herding of sheep and llamas by mother and children.

At 7:30 that evening, Javi and I began our journey across the border into Peru (via Arica and Tacna) and onto Cusco and, ultimately, the magnificent Machu Picchu.

We hopped in our 4-door Chevy Corsica at the bus station in Tucuman and were off. From the beginning the sights didn’t disappoint; however, some of what we saw pushed my limits of odd and disturbing. Once on the highway towards our first stop, Tafi de Valle, the shoulders and medians were sporadically littered with grazing horses, sheep, and chickens. It became disturbing when one of those horses lay, legs up (one with a showing compound fracture), dead from an apparent auto collision. Kids were playing in the bushes, roundabouts were big enough to hold a barren soccer field, and garbage blew everywhere the wind did. Tucuman was obviously pretty poor and not blessed with tourism.

The distance to Tafi was not a long one, but it did require a steep mountain pass which by now I know means a slew of hairpin curves. Over this pass, the road opened up into the valley of Tafi where we filled up on lunch and admired the clouds moving in picturesque fashion over the moutain ranges on either side of the said valley.

After lunch, Javier eagerly handed off the clutch. I accepted (I prefer to drive usually) and would be the captain all the way to Salta. From Tafi we continued on Route 40 towards our next stop, the ruins of Quilmes.

The road to Quilmes was twisty, gravelly, and is filled with towering cactuses. It also lacked a radio signal; so we plugged into the 21st century of travel, each took a bud from my iPhone, and took turns playing DJ. We also stopped occassionally to get a closer look on cactus’ beak holes, use them for long distance target practice, and pose with these infallable desert trees.

At the ruins of Quilmes ($2.50) we stepped out of the car to the sun setting behind the ruins. This cast a slowly moving shadow on the desert and mountain range at our backs. We didn’t have much time here as we needed to make it another 100km to Cafayate and find a hostel by a reasonable time.

Dating back to the 17th century, these ruins were the center of social and cultural development for the indigenous people of Quilmes – including art, medicine, agriculture, astrology, and architecture. Eventually, they were invaded by Spain and ordered to leave. They settled just outside the city of Buenos Aires and founded the famous Quilmes beer legacy.

The ruins themselves were uniquely ordenate and impressively constructed into a maze of private, common, and elevated royalty spaces. This is only the beginning of historic, yet intelligent, Pachamama (earth, terrain) architecture I would see and touching any single stone created a sense of awe for the connection these people had with the environment around them.

Back in the car on our way into Cafayate we had another brush with death-by-road of local fauna. This time it was an armadillo and it was our car that did it! I tried to swerve and miss it as it crossed the road blindly, but it retraced its steps right into my tire at the last moment. We stopped to drag it’s mangled body off the road and back into it’s proper environment to rest in peace. Unfortunately, it wouldn’t be our last brush with death.

We drove into the charming town of Cafayate via Argentina’s best (in my opinion) vineyards. The area was even drier than Mendoza as it lacked the high glacier water of the Andes, but names like Don David and El Esteco speak for themselves. To keep the spirit, we cracked my unique bottle of organic wine from Calgiore and began our search for a hostel. I apologize for forgetting the name, but it was dark and we were hungry so I neglected to write it down. If you are looking, stay close to the central plaza. We paid $9pp to share with another girl a three bed ensuite.

After an excellent dinner, we scoped out the wall canvas near our hostel’s front desk depicting our two route options up into Salta. One was three hours with beautiful rock formations and sediment layers. The other would be 7+ hours through an equally interesting desert, into Cachi for lunch, and finishing with Argentina’s famous Route 33. We obviously chose the latter.

The next morning we were loaded with delicious cereal cookies, fruit, and water and underway around 9am. Being that we were on a bit of a timeline to make it into Jujuy at a reasonable time we were unable to stop into any of the nearby wineries except to buy a quick bottle from Don David for $8 (normally around $30 in the US).

Beyond the vineyards the road quickly turned into rock and dust and it would stay that way all the way to Cachi. With the clock ticking and the road bending every which way, you could imagine that this would go down as the trickiest navigation of my young life.

In the middle of nowhere where a single house gives a new meaning to the word pueblito (little town), the last thing you want is a flat tire. Accordingly, on came the music by DJ Javi as we rally-car raced our way along with a delicate intensity. Every now and then we passed a sign indicating a named town. Sometimes this meant a one family house and nothing else, but sometimes it included a few mud homes, an outdoor cooking igloo oven, and a school.

What a life these true gauchos lived – so out of touch with the world, yet so in touch with peace and happiness. Things got quiet and curious when, as we turned a 3m wide corner with shard-like mini mountains as a shoulder, out of dust and sand appeared a tiny cemetary.

The arrangement was such that one area seemed to belong to deceased children and the others were sectioned off possibly according to town or family. Some were simply buried under sand with a small cross and others were given a full Recolata-like mausoleum house. But all had an empty water plastic bottle as an ornament. I was told by Javier that this signified a venerable offering of water from a saint to those passing through the desert (correct me if I am off).

The creepiest part wasn’t the odor (the dry air didn’t seem to allow it) but that the wind naturally eroded the “houses” over the years, exposing coffins crumbling upon each other inside. One of these was found in the youth section with a slew of tiny coffins piled on top of each other and soaking up the suns rays through the fallen roof. I will never forget this scene or silence of this place (3rd brush with death).

On a lighter note, as we continued on towards Cachi, a couple of horses decided that 11:30 in the morning was a good time to get down and dirty. You should have seen the look in Javier’s eyes and pitch of his laugh when he realized the “love” that was unfolding 10ft from our car. We were off Route 40 momentarily to get gas and, on the way back, the scene from National Geographic had disappeared. I still believe Javi’s laugh embarassed them and they searched out some better privacy…

Finally, after three and a half hours of white-knuckled driving, we pulled into Cachi for lunch. The atmosphere was devoid of activity in the midafternoon sun when a sudden sand storm whipped through the plaza as we were paying our bill. I took this as an excuse to duck into the helado shop next door and get some sweet frozen goodness for the road ahead.

As we set out on the next stretch of Route 33 into Salta, we brushed up with death for a fourth time. In midscoop, while driving, Javier screamed, “Dios mio Tio!”, and pointed to a dog crossing the road in front of us with a [dead] sheep’s head in its mouth. Luckily, nothing comes between me and ice cream because that would have normally ruined anyone’s appetite.

This time the road started out paved and remained that way. Eventhough we were becoming accustomed to the ruggedness below us, we welcomed the smoother ride as the roads along this valley boasted spectacular cliffs behind every curve railing. The terrain here greened up again for us. The only aspect that remained consistent was the sporadic placing of desolate houses or the school/church/house configuration. As a matter of fact, sometimes all you saw was a vacant church or clay outpost with no sign at all.

As you can imagine the backdrop remained breathtaking. From the top of the valley we wound our way down through the occassional passing cloud until we reached a rushing waterfall that I thought we would have to ford our Corsica through. I’ll admit I underestimated our Chevy’s strength and agility because, by the end, Javier and I proudly looked at the layer of dust a centimeter thick on our car when we arrived at our final destination that night.

Arriving in Salta the scene was overcast, crowded, and generally unwelcoming. The time was 6pm and we still had an hour and a half to Jujuy to find a place to rest before our bus early the next morning. In order to feel more comfortable about saying we had actually stopped IN Salta, we stopped to refuel on petrol as well as caffeine at a wifi cafe. On a side note, it has been amazing how many places have wifi (restaurants, hostels, cafes, etc) for “less developed” continent like South America. Further, they offer it for free so long as you are a customer!

The way into Jujuy was quick and easy and Javier insisted on relieving me of my well-maneuvered duties and took the captain’s seat. The road in was all autopista, so I played DJ while we cruised our way to the finish line. We stayed at Club Hostel ($8pppn) which had all general facilities (but very basic breakfast). After a Bolivian-themed dinner, we rested our heads and disussed and imagined our next stop, the Atacama desert – the driest place in the world!