Reflections in the Water – Our Adventures on the Amazon

“Buena onda”…There’s something about warm, watery places that just suit me. There’s a vibe that saturates these places and everyone in it – a welcoming and relaxed sense of fun. In these warm watery places, basic survival seems to come relatively easy and leaves people with so much more energy and time to devote to just enjoying life. Much less effort is needed to fend off the elements or to fill the tummy. Delicious, exotic fruits drop right out of the trees, and even obtaining your daily protein requirement consists of a relaxing activity many first world folks would choose to do in their leisure time – bobbing quietly in a boat, just waiting for a fish to bite. In these places, not only survival is easy, but so is entertaining one’s self, with the water offering limitless opportunities for play and respite from the heat.

I feel this buena onda here on the Pacific Ocean at Playa Mancora, just as I felt it last week a thousand kilometers inland near the border with Brasil on the banks of the Amazon River – both with warm breezes and cool water, and both filled with people with no worry and no hurry, and wearing practically nothing. Music floats lazily through the hot air and ice cold beers abound. Yet, one place is a dry coastal desert and the other an ultra humid tropical jungle, the latter with few inhabitants who will ever see the ocean.

One great thing about Iquitos was that despite it’s scarcity of roads, it was so easy to circumvent the packaged tours and venture all over the jungle, up and down all sorts of rivers, to all kinds of fascinating places, all on public collective boats.

We went up the Rio Nanay to the village of Padre Cocha, where we had the yummiest cheapest humitas (a rice-based tamale) and shave ice for lunch, then followed the town’s main “highway” (a concrete sidewalk just wide enough for 2 bicycles to ride abreast) 15 minutes to a butterfly farm.

We toured around the floating market town of Belen on the Rio Itaya in a non-motorized canoe–taxi. There, rickety planks extend out from the shore to serve as sidewalks between the first few floating (and sinking) houses. If you live beyond that, you swim (or hail a canoe) the rest of the way home.

We took our first dip into the famous Rio Amazon on Kristian’s birthday, when we hopped one of these putt-putt collectivo canoes, called a “peque peque” by the locals, for the village of Barrio Florido. But the man we were chatting to during the ride turned out to be governor’s teniente (right-hand-man) in the town just beyond Barrio Florido, and offerend to show us around. So we took him up on it and went to Santa Rosa de Ojeal instead. Jose Fernandez introduced us to practically everyone in town and then led us across the soccer field and through the woods to his own home/sugar mill. But this was not your “run of the mill” sugar mill (tee hee), but a contraption that resembled a converted lawn mower, sitting in the middle of his indoor-outdoor living room, which, upon a couple good yanks at the cord, would rev up and squish the juice out of each sweet stalk. Nor was this mill used for ordinary ends, but once Jose has a barrel full of sugar can juice he passes it through a home made distiller to make what they call “aguardiente”, which made my head spin after only one sip! After several toasts to Kristian’s birthday, Jose and his family loaded us up with strange fruits from their yard and sent us on our way to catch the next canoe back to Barrio Florido. There, we sipped on a local beer and watched the world float by from a lovely open-air bar whose foundations stood right in the legendary river. When we finally inquired about the next “bus” back to Iquitos, our amigo at the bar cringed, eyebrows high in a very “you are up shit creek, my friend” fashion and informed us that the colectivo canoes had stopped running for the day, as the ink of night was fast filling the veins of the Amazon and the boats have no lights. Oooops. In the end we had to resort to chartering a private ride for 20 soles instead of the collective price of three soles and slowly made our way against the current to Iquitos, while dodging a barrage of oncoming driftwood in the pitch black of the jungle night.

Perhaps our best adventure boat-hopping down the Amazon came a couple days later when we took off in search of a remote village called Urco Miraño, where we were told the people were indigenous Yagua, friendly and real. First we zoomed down the Amazon for 45 minutes in a collective speedboat to a small port town called Mazan. There, we got a mototaxi from the bank of the Amazon over to the other side of town on the bank of the Rio Napo, which you could take all the way up to northern Ecuador if you had two weeks to kill. We got so absorbed in our delicious lunch of paiche, a giant, ancient (and endangered – oops) river fish, that we missed the direct boat to Urco Miraño. The boat that we did catch dropped us off after three hours in the middle of nowhere with vague instructions for walking the rest of the way. But luck was on our side and some little kids emerged from the bushes and hailed us a lift with another lone boater. Once at Urco Miraño we stepped off the boat into a world where cash means practically nothing and people welcome you into their homes and their lives for free. Where beer and whisky are unknown but masato, a fermented yucca soup, is slugged down by men, women and children with gusto at all hours. Where everyone in town is related to everyone else and everyone pitches in when there’s work to be done. Even we got to join in as they happened to hold a “minga” during our stay. The whole town was invited to B.Y.O.M. (bring your own machete) to weed one person’s yucca plot then convene at the host’s home for a masato party afterwards. So with a couple of borrowed machetes, Kristian and I hacked away in the jungle heat all afternoon, drowning our blisters in many, many bowls of masato (ick!) both during the minga and afterward at the party. Upon our departure from Urco Miraño, our host, Corina, presented me a beautiful reed bag she wove herself and to Kristian a keychain to thank us for our help and remind us of our visit to their little pocket of the jungle – as if I could ever forget that incredible place!

Into the Amazon – Iquitos, Peru

I don’t know what it is about the jungle but I like it. As soon as the warm wet air hit my skin, I felt on one hand a renewed sense of adventure and on the other, at home. Could it be the heat and humidity, the relaxed, scantily–clad people, the jungle rhythms, the Brasilianesque happy-go-lucky attitude, the water everywhere, or the tropical food that enamors me so? Heck – the AMAZON RIVER is right here in front of me! I suppose it could be any or all of those things or perhaps something deeper.

Perhaps its the excitement that comes from the fear of doing something way off the beaten track, as we plan to return to Lima via the cargo boat, little-used by tourists, involving slinging a hammock over your bags, with one eye on the bags and the other on the tiny riverside villages slowly melting into the water as we float for three days downstream.

Not only that, but tonight we are going to participate in an ayahuasca ceremony, entering extremely unfamiliar territory for us, entrusting our lives to a stranger, a jungle shaman, of whom our only reassurance is that he is endorsed by the local tourism authority. Here they call it ‘medicine’, used to awaken your spirit to the curative entities of the universe, although in the United States it would surely be called by another name, as it involves drinking a bitter potion, entering altered states of consciousness and puking your guts out all amid the eerie drone of chanting and drumming. I must say I’m more than a little nervous, but I really think the cleansing will at the very least alleviate our lingering tummy troubles and at best reveal glimpses of our destinies and connect our spirits more strongly to one another.

 

 

The Epic Journey to Machu Picchu

On April 15th, we finally pulled ourselves away from the vortex and headed into the Sacred Valley, starting with Pisac for their famous Sunday market. This market is so good that even we couldn’t resist buying a couple things – including a giant decorative plate that we ended up carting around for a week, over 60km of which trekking on foot! We looked like a walking pizza delivery service.

Pisac has an amazing Inca citadel on the cliff overlooking town, with several watch towers and an entire military base hidden behind, up to which we hiked during a spectacular sunset. We spent a couple more days ambling through the valley, stopping in little visited but tranquil Calca, then the living Inca city of Ollantaytambo, where the modern city is still using the roads, plazas and structures built mostly by the Incas.

From here, instead of paying the outrageous tourist price of $47 US dollars for the 1.5-hour “bargain” red-eye train to Machu Picchu, we got on a bus to begin our long and adventurous alternative way around the mountains to get to the famous site. The first leg included seven hours on an extremely crowded bus, sitting up front on the floor next to the driver as we zigzagged along precarious cliffs, stopping several times for traffic jams caused by huge landslides. When the bus dropped us off into the darkness, we found ourselves in a much different environment. Instead of the cool, dry eucalyptus-scented breezes of the Sacred Valley, here we were surrounded by huge leafy palms and were instantly sweaty in the wet, hot, still air.

The next morning we hired a guide and began our 24km hike to the town of Santa Teresa using an old Inca route along the Rio Urubamba. We started out on a dirt track, passing by several villages. It was the rainy season in these parts and landslides often blocked our path, forcing us to cross the river using a “bridge” that consisted of a basket hung under a wire pulley several stories above the rushing water. Then our path took a turn, taking us straight up the mountainside on a series of foot paths through a maze of crops and campesino huts. When we reached the stonework of an ancient Inca road, we began the final leg of the day’s trek, traversing along the hillside almost a thousand feet above the wrinkled pinstripe of river below.

Our guide, Johan, was only 15-years-old yet he instantly impressed us with his wealth of information on the human and natural history of the area, as well as his expertise navigating us safely and enjoyably through this treacherous terrain. He seemed so mature and easy to talk to for being smack dab in the middle of puberty, when most teenagers recoil from adult conversations. Apparently, his dad is also a guide and has been taking Johan along on adventures all his life, and Johan has been leading his own tours since he was only 10-years-old! Johan leads trips all week long and goes to high school on the weekends. He taught himself to speak English (and does a damn good job at it!) and is now learning Portuguese and working with an elder to learn a fading local tribal language as well. As you may have noticed, I was really impressed with little Johan. And we got an amazing deal too, less than ten bucks each – but with his professionalism, top quality information, friendly personality, and recent listing in the Lonely Planet, the demand (and price) for this little entrepreneur is sure to go up in no time.

It was a strenuous eight hours trudging through deep mud, at times along super steep terrain, all the while toting our huge “pizza plate”. The scenery, however, was so exquisite throughout the entire trek that it wasn’t until we sank into the hot springs at the end of the trail when I realized just how exhausted I was. The Santa Teresa Hot Springs was the most beautifully developed hot springs I have ever been to and the perfect finalé to the day’s awesome adventure.

The following day Johan said “adios” and we were left to our own devices to find our way from Santa Teresa to Hidroelectrica (a supposed two-hour walk) and then from there following the train tracks another two hours into Aguas Calientes. The first leg of this day’s trek took us far longer than we expected due to two hiccups in the plan. First, we wandered off the trail into a time-wasting argument; bickering over whose fault it was that we lost the trail. Then, a much bigger hiccup presented itself when we cam e to a road block and were informed that there was a giant landslide up ahead and we would have to cross the river and continue scrambling along the steep bank on the other side in order to get around it. We dutifully followed instructions and loaded ourselves onto the sketchiest basket pulley we had encountered thus far. Once on the other side I became very suspicious of this route; 1) because there WAS NO ROUTE, only large boulders precariously piled along the cliffy bank, and 2) because they very people that told us to do that did not take their own advice but in fact reloaded their entire bus and continued along the same road. Hmmm. After much quibbling over what to do, we finally got back in the sketchy basket, crossing dangerously high over the river AGAIN and resumed our walk along the road. After about 10 minutes we did indeed encounter a huge landslide, which had completely buried the road in huge chunks of earth and rock. There was a major effort underway to clear it, involving a few tractors and many road workers. There, we had to wait another half hour until the workers paused just long enough to let the growing horde of people waiting on each side of the landslide scramble quickly across the debris to the opposite side, all the while shouting as us to “apúrase apúrase!” (hurry hurry!) It was pretty exciting, I must say.

The final leg of our “alternative route” to Machu Picchu went by quickly, easily following the tracks for two hours under the leafy tunnel of trees, with the cool breeze coming down from the steep green mountains above us, and the spray of the gushing river Urubamba beside us. Coming into Aguas Calientes, I felt like a pilgrim, traveling on foot to Mecca and arriving with a dizzying mixture of exhaustion and awe. It was hard to believe we finally made it to this legendary place after such a long journey. “We had arrived.” Just before the town came into view, we rounded a bend in the river and caught our first glimpse of the Incan masterpiece that we had traveled so far to see. Looking almost straight up to the top of the green cliff face in front of us, we spotted some of Machu Picchu’s lower walls silhouetted in the setting sun.

Aguas Calientes, the town below the ruins, is one giant tourist trap full of promises for deals and freebees that never materialize. I guess that’s to be expected in a town that was born purely out of the need to serve tourists coming to see the great Inca city above.

At dawn next morning we left all that angst behind, climbing an ancient Inca stairway all the way up the mountain towards the great Machu Picchu. We were so excited we sprinted most of the way up, hardly noticing the steepness of the climb. And when we finally arrived, the sight before us took our breath away. We emerged from the forest path onto the terraces surrounding the ancient watch tower with the entire Inca city laid out below us, perched on a narrow saddle between jagged green peaks. Within minutes of our arrival, the first rays of the sun pierced through the distant peaks, slowly and magically illuminating the entire fortress in a golden glow. I was awe-struck. The intense natural beauty and incredible human ingenuity of Machu Picchu came to life before my very eyes. Even after hearing about it and seeing so many photos from other travelers, the experience was so moving that I couldn’t speak, and in fact could barely even breathe.

Kristian and I then spent the ENTIRE day exploring every nook and cranny, tip-toeing through labyrinths of intricate stonework, discovering tombs and secret shrines, running up and down the thousands of steep stairways around the main complex and even climbing up to the citadel on the peak of Huayna Picchu (or “Young Mountain”, the pointy peak behind the ruins in the photo above), which juts out another 300 feet over Machu Picchu (or “Old Mountain). The whole day was just one “wow” after another. But eventually, after so many steep stairs and hills, our “wow”s turned into major “ow”s as our knees begged for flat ground.

After soaking those knees in the hot pools from which “Aguas Calientes” derives its name (literally “Hot Waters”) and collapsing into a deep sleep, the next morning we began another long journey back to Cusco. Continuing our boycott of the tourist train, but not wanting to retrace our steps all the way back around the mountain range, we decided to ignore all the warnings and walk along the tracks (of the despised tourist train) 30 km back to the Sacred Valley. We had been informed that the path along the tracks was the private property of Peru Rail and we could get into trouble with the law if caught, and worse, that there were many long tunnels with no way around them, leaving you no option but to sprint through the darkness and cross your fingers that you get out before a train comes along!

I must say, I was extremely uneasy about the whole idea. But, being that train routes are always fairly flat, it was the quickest and cheapest option. So we went for it, holding our breath when we came upon any rail workers or officials. And to our delight, rather than scoldings or even safety warnings, everyone was very supportive and helpful, wishing us “buen viaje” and telling us we were in for a beautiful walk. At one point we arrived at a major archeological site under excavation and guarded heavily by armed National Park officials, and I thought we were goners – to be locked up in a Peruvian jail for the rest of our lives. But instead they shook our hands and gave us directions other sites along the way that we could visit for free. Incredible.

And as far as getting “run over by a steam train” the tunnels weren’t nearly as long as the naysayers had warned and when the trains did approach we were able to hear the chugging and honking in plenty of time to get out of the way (not to mention we had a copy of the train schedule, providing a rough idea of when to expect them to reach the tunnels). This train is part of the famous Orient Express chain and is known for being a spectacular ride through beautiful scenery, which I suppose is why they charge so much for such a short ride. By walking the tracks, we not only got to witness the same famous scenery, but in the flesh rather than out a window and going much slower, allowing eight times more time to enjoy it, all the while getting a whole day’s worth of exercise – all for free! Granted, it was no cakewalk hopping along uneven railroad ties and loose gravel for nine hours straight, carrying all our gear plus a whole day’s supply of water and food – but still well worth it.

 

Cusco, the Great Inca City

 

We spent a whole 13 days meandering through the wonderland of Cusco and the famous Sacred Valley. Even though this was where the bullying of touts and price gouging was the worst, we were still wowed with every site.  Cusco itself is an incredible city, built from huge rocks cut long ago buy the Incas, many walls and buildings still in tact from those Pre-Columbian years.  There are cobbled alleyways and pedestrian streets zigzagging up and down every hill.  Elaborately carved balconies and window-shutters adorn many of the buildings. There are hundreds of manicured plazas surrounded by ornate stone churches.  We spent 5 days just wandering through this Inca city in awe.  And there are amazing and well maintained Inca structures in the hills overloooking the city including sacred fountains (of youth and cleansing),  moon temples, mummy preparation complexes as well as a giant temple/fort made of giant rocks, precisely cut and fit together without any kind of mortar to create layers of zig-zagging walls, designed both to represent the god of lightning and defend the city of Cusco from enemy armies. This last one, by the way, was called Sacsayhuaman (pronounced “sexy woman”!).

 

Cusco was an expensive place to sleep and eat, but to our delight (and destruction) it also had several great happy hours, which we more than tood advantage of! On our first night there, instead of eating dinner, we had our first Bloody Mary in over a year (and it was delicious).  For dessert we went to a different bar with a later happy hour for rum and cokes. The next night we followed suit at a few other bars switching to Caipairinhas, Pisco Sours, and Mojitos…a dangerous combination – ask Kristian for more details on that one, if he can remember!

Isla Amantaní, Lake Titicaca (Peru)

We entered Peru from Bolivia on April 5th, going from one side of Lake Titcaca to the other. On the recommendation of our French friend we met in the Bolvian Pampas, we took a few days to explore the islands on Peru´s half of the lake. After a day in dreary Puno, we hopped on a 4 hour ferry to Isla Amantaní where our friend told us is off the tourist track and those tourists that do make it there stay the night with a local family and can hike up to the island´s highest point to watch the sunset over the lake from an Inca Pachamama shrine. Although we enjoyed the island, we were still a bit disappointed as despite their isolation and primite living conditions, their way of life is still geared toward sucking as much loot as they can from the tourists rather than facilitating any sort of genuine cultural exchange with them. First of all, rather than being a part of our host family, or at least observing real family life, we were housed upstairs away from the rest of the family in a dorm room furnished specifically for tourists and instead of eating with our hosts, they brought our meals upstairs for us to eat alone in our room, then later the host mom, Vernatina, brought us all the garments she´d knitted or woven for sale – a very awkward situation indeed.
The walk along the Inca road to the shrine was beautiful, passing through a maze of terraced fields on the way over the hill and would have been peaceful too if it weren´t for the child musicians and mom wool vendors all along the way, harrassing us for money. the view from the shrine was indeed spectacular, with the pink sunset to one side and Bolivia´s snowcapped mountain range to the other. Later, on the way down, we detoured from the main path and had a wonderful peaceful walk around people´s backyards and a soccer game in a churchyard as well as a tiny cemetary.

On the way back, the next day the boat made two stops. The first was an hour on Isla Taquile, where Kristian and I had quite a hike, going the “long way around” from one port to the next. Before getting back to Puno, the boat toured us through the reeds and passed the floating islands of Uros. This was quite a sight, to see entire communities literally floating on man-made reed islands, constructed like giant rafts which had to be constantly reinforced with new layers as the bottom rotted away. If only the homestay could have been there!

We stayed an extra day in Puno, just to avoid arriving in Cusco amidst the chaos of Easter Sunday, and that’s when we stumbled into one of the most authentic human interaction we experienced in our whole Peru trip. Staight off the boat we jumped on a bus to Chubico to see a pre-Inca fertility temple (hopefully it doesn’t take effect on its visitors tooo soon), and when we got there we found the whole town dancing around its main plaza for their 2-day Easter festival. The dancers were mostly elderly. The men were dressed in very uncomfortable costumes, resembling a giant wooden sash. The women were in their best pollera skirts, showing off 6 or 7 colorful layers when they spun in circles. Every 1/2 hour or so they stopped for a beer break and during one of these an old man, retired from working in the church next door, invited us to share his bottle.

He was so excited at our level of Spanish that the conversation rambled on for 2 or 3 bottles more as he told us his whole life story. We then went to a local restaurant famous for its deep-fried guinea pig, served whole, buck teeth and all, where we gave a solemn toast to my childhood pets, Squeaker & Moe, then tucked into our tiny, but delicious cuy drumsticks.

Isla del Sol, Lago Titicaca

 

I feel like Brook Sheilds in the movie “Blue Lagoon”. We are alone on a quiet beach under the ruins of an acient temple used by people whose entire race disappeared long ago. We have set up camp and stripped naked to lie on the pebble shore and bask in this rare warmth. Here in the rainy season at 3,800 meters (approx 11,000 ft) above sea level the air over and around this lake is usually a freezing, wet wind. But now, the heat of the afternoon sun has burned off all the clouds and for a brief time its a tasty warm on our white, spongy skin. We have to be carefull, however, bucause at this altitude there is not much atmosphere between us and the sun to protect us from its burning rays. After baking a while, the idea of swimming gets planted in our brains and we finally brave the icy water. The lake is so cold that its as if the surface has frozen over into a thin layer of ice that I can´t mentally or physically get through. But when I finally do take the plunge, this mental barrier shatters and the underwater world of Lake Titicaca is mine. My whole body buzzs iwth aliveness and then goes numb. But for a second this body buzz merges with my mind in an alertness more whole and intense than ever before…

Or perhaps, rather than the stars from the Blue Lagoon, we are Adam and Eve…. We are, in fact, on the very island where the Incas believe that Virachocha, the God who dcreated their people, was born. In fact, the sacred rock from which Viracocha rose from the earth is perched on the hill directly above our little beach. It is also said that during the “great flood” the sun and the moon took refuge in this same rock and for this the island was named….

The evening brings a spectactular storm of thunder and lightning of all forms, appearing without warning from every corner of the heavy sky. For hours we watched in awe as it advanced slowly towards us from across the lake. When it finally hit, our languid lake became alive wilth wind-driven waves. In the air, fat raindrops flew from every direction, pelting our tent like bullets adn giving birth to a hundred little streams, cascading down the steep hill, flowing under and around our tent towards the lake. The storm was so intense that it not only came through the floor of our tent, but infiltrated my dreams as well… nightmares that our tent was being carried way in the rising tide…

By sunrise the storm had gone and the sky was clear just long enough for us to pack up our sopping stuff and start our trek across the island before raining anew. We hike across the spine of this lake lizard, along the island´s center ridgeline over rolling hills for 2 and a half hours before reaching the other end. About midway we came across yet another most isolated and random kiosko, selling a variety of hot drinks and beer…but we resisted our temptation to be patrons of this crazy café and continued on our merry way. It was mostly sunny, offering splendid views of all the little inlets and their spackling of villages below. Once we arrived at the end of the road, at the port town of Yumani, we congratulated ourselves with a cerveza at a hilltop café. Then a young entrepreneur and future marketing executive named Alexandra (9 years old) reeled us into her mom´s dockside eatery, dramatically describing every dish in detail, while she pulled us along by the hand, shaving off the price more and more with every step down the hill. In the end we had a fabulous lunch for 10 bolivianos ($1.15) each, including french fries, rice, and the best trout dish I´ve tasted yet – “Trucha ala Diabla” – while we sat just a few meters above the port, spying on all the activity of locals and tourists coming and going from the mainland.

 

River Rythms

the creeeek craaaack of hammocks swaying…. the plop plop of fruits escaping from parrot beaks and landing in the river below…. the lapping of ripples against the long wooden skiffs moored to the dock….  the nasal hum of an outboard motor, along with cheerful singing from the boat drivers, fading in and out as they go by…. the threatening roar from a howler monkey…. the emphysemic hacking of the prehistoric, blue-faced, mohawk bird…. the hollow fssssss of a pink dolphin coming up for air…. the silence of the suspiciously still sunbathing gators dangerously nearby on the bank …. the sudden oowahoo-wa-oooo of one bird…. then eeeh! ow! ow! ow! of another…. more intermittent twittering, clucking, clicking, wailing, yapping and screaming from a myriad of other river birds…. and all the while in the background is the seismic drone of mosquitoes far and near…. and the fax machine beeping and buzzing of the countless other insects…. each creature adding its own unique tune to the rhythm of the Rio Yacumo, in the jungle pampas of Bolivia.

Happy Anniversary to Us (Again)!!!

Now over 2 weeks ago, Kristian and I celebrated our 2nd wedding anniversary in Sucre, out for lunch at a fancy restaurant. My parents had deposited $25USD into our bank account along with an e-card to use to celebrate the big day, but the e-card never arrived so we had no idea until just last week, when I talked to them via Skype from La Paz.

But now as I sit in the hammock gazing over a lush garden towards snow-capped peaks looming eerily over the green river valley we just spent a gruelling 4 days hiking through, I think to myself that their anniversary gift could not have come at a better time. We spent a whopping $220 bolivianos (which is just over $25USD) for 2 nights at the Hotel Sol y Luna, in our very own cabaña, secluded in this garden at the top of the hill looking over town and across the valley toward the mountains. It is a thatched-roof, bamboo A-frame and completely open-air towards this stunning view. The designer must have had relaxation in mind, as it has been furnished with lawn chairs, a hammock, and the bed is not only extremely comfortable but includes an elegantly laced mosquito net to keep the bed bugs out and its perch upstairs in the loft provides a perfect view of the sliver moon as we drift off to sleep. Mahalo nui loa Padres!!!

Choro Trail, Bolivia

Day #2 of trekking on our own, and I feel great – and sore. Its been so long since we’ve used our tent that it seemed to resist being unfolded when we set it up last night. And its been so long since we’ve done any serious hiking that every muscle aches, including ones I had long forgotten about. But wow is it great to dive deep into the wilderness, felling like pioneers as we journey on without any guide leading the way.
We are hiking along an ancient Inca road, which in those days was the main route from the highlands of La Paz down to the midland rainforest, or Yungas, 3000 meters below. Our hike actually began high above the city at 4600m called La Cumbre (the Peak). When we stumbled out of the bus we were surrounded by thick cloud, so thick that we couldn’t find the Christ statue whose left hand we were supposed to follow in order to find the trail-head. But luckily I was looking in the right direction just when a gap in the cloud passed by the sculpture and I spotted it! From there we did as the Holy Son suggested and walked eastward until we picked up a dirt road, climbing even higher to a breathless 4800m before the trail officially began its long, steep 3-day descent to the Yungas.

Day #3
So our “3-day descent” turned out to be a 4-day roller-coaster of steep downs AND ups and a serious challenge for both body and mind. I thought that after the 2nd day my muscles and mental outlook would get into the groove of backpacking and the going would get easier. I also thought this trail would be almost entirely downhill since it started at a 4600m Andean “Peak” and ended in a valley barely 1500m above sea level. Our 3rd day proved all of these assumptions wrong as we spent almost 7 hours trudging through deep mud, balancing across rushing rivers and pounding cascades, winding our way around ridges and ravines heading ever more steeply UP with every turn. I was already exhausted from the previous 2 days of hiking when we started that morning and with each consecutive climb gravity’s pull seemed stronger and stronger, forcing me to concentrate harder and harder on nothing else but making the next step. I really felt like my will was being tested by some higher power (like they say, “the path of God” is never easy!). My only salvation was the sheer beauty that seemed to burst forth all around us, from the path overgrown with ferns and vines to the striking vistas rewarding every climb. Everywhere we looked there were long lacy waterfalls spilling out of the soft green cliffs adding to the ever-growing river far below. I can hardly explain my relief when we finally made it to our campsite in the garden of an ancient, hunchbacked Japanese man high on the cliff over the river.

The final day was comparatively easy with a 2-hour descent to the pueblo of Chairo, where we sat around feeding the mosquitoes for another 2 hours hoping for a car to show up and give us a ride. In the end we donned our packs one last time and walked a couple hours along a dirt road until we reached the highway. Just as we were realizing we had no idea where to go from there, a public bus came by, stopped for us in the middle of the road and took us to Coroico for 5 bolivianos. We couldn’t have timed it better if we had planned it. Plus, we just happened to sit next to the owner of a hotel on the hill above town and she offered to give us a lift there if we wanted to check it out…Perfect.

Galloping Through Time

It’s as if the Arizona Anasazi cliff dwellings had persisted into modern day. Espicaya is 24 km. along a little-travelled dirt road through a red rock river canyon from the biggest town in the area, Tupiza. But Tupiza itself requires rough 4×4-ing over the desert mountains for almost 10 hours from the nearest paved road. In Espicaya, the adobe houses seem to emerge as natural formations right out of the curtain of yellow-striped cliffs behind. Looking out across the river from the Iglesia, my eyes feast on the soft green of ripe corn fields, then further to a long, low stretch of jagged, ocre-red rock outcroppings flanking the river in front of a row of copper-green-gray rocks, and finally yellow hills rolling high along behind them both. Suddenly I hear loud grunts and growls bellowing from among the cliffs behind town and I jump with alarm. What the heck…? It sounds like a monster, but later we find out that it was no more than a few donkeys corralled near the cliffs and their barking is amplified and distorted as it echoes off the rock walls.

The town across the river, Monte, has the most antiguo church in the valley and is equally rustic in construction with its melting adobe walls and caved in thatched roofs, yet the people there seemed in-congruently modern. After riding horses all day through the beautiful river valley, we arrived in Monte to find the whole town out and about to celebrate the last day of the last weekend of the month-long Carnaval festivities. The teenagers were all dressed in sexy, hip clothes, their hair done in the Argentine glamour style, and some were even shooting photos with their cell phones!!! Yet they live in mud huts, have running water only a couple of hours a day from one communal water spicket, and they are so far out in the boonies that they stare at us as if they’ve never seen a blonde before! Baffling.

This horseback trip was quite the thrill-ride. We spent so much time crossing the river and when we could resist the water no longer, we ditched our horses to float through the whitewater and cover ourselves in mud. In one of the river crossings Kristian’s horse sank up to his knees in the mud and fell over. Luckily Kristian jumped off before being squished underneath, and like some kind of superhero managed to get his horse out of the mud while he too got sucked further and further in. Kristian’s horse was a constant challenge as he was considered the wildest one of the bunch and was even named “Bronco.” More than once Bronco broke into a sprint with no warning, Kristian hanging on for dear life, while myself, and our 15-year-old guide were left in the dust to grab Kristian’s hat, water bottle and whatever else flew off during take-off. On the second day, my horse decided he felt like running also, and in the end we spent most of the way back galloping at top speed, eyes closed to protect ourselves from the barrage of mud and rocks spraying from the hooves, and thighs squeezing so tight, just to hang on. For the next three days, walking was a major challenge. We loved it!!!