June 1999

[Note to reader: I’ve refrained from making any edits to this excerpt from my travel journal in an attempt to maintain a level of faithfulness to my thoughts at the time I wrote this. Relationships, opinions, and attitudes by now have changed – some for the better, some for the worse. Those of you who’ve known me over the last couple of years will understand. Hindsight’s always 20/20 as they say. – Mike, December 1, 2000]

There are three points for the reader to ponder upon when reading this. First, I’d rather not think of the following list as a 10-best list. Rather, I’d like to think of this as a list of my most vivid memories – memories that are sure to remain fresh in my mind for years to come. Second, I experienced a tremendous amount of difficulty in writing this entry due to the diversity seen over a short three week span – a diversity that, I reckon, would require months to cover had I traveled solo. If I had to write this all over again, this list could very well have included sand-boarding at the oasis, cramming into a Chevy Impala to get to Nazca, or downing a few too many pisco sours in Pisco. Finally, there is a commonality in almost each selection that refers to the people that I traveled with. Without them, this list could just as well have been a top-10 mediocre list at best:

Dancing without inhibition has always been something I’ve enjoyed doing. I’m not inferring anything sexual or erotic – simply a complete submission to the music of the moment. You can tell a lot about a people by observing the active clientele in a local dance club. For instance, the mind-numbing and boring way most Singaporeans dance is a perfect reflection of a repressed Asian mentality. Latin America, however, is a completely different story with its dancers falling on the other side of the personality spectrum. The passion, rhythm and free spirit that Latinos dance with are things uncommon even in countries such as Canada or the US. It was therefore a surprising treat that Sylvana and I accidentally came across a local rave and danced amongst the world’s dance gods and goddesses for almost 7 hours with anyone who would dance with us. Immediately upon entering the warehouse-like structure, I was brought back to my raving days back in undergrad complete with the empathic feeling amongst the crowd. I merengued and danced the salsa with every Jennifer Lopez look-alike there, and head-banged with every rocker-chick with big hair. It was the last time I drank excessively on the trip as well as the last time I had a cigarette. And for the record, despite the fact that it was my turn to have the single room, as wrecked as I was I went home alone. Sure, I might’ve been staggering like a drunken fool, but I staggered alone (unlike someone I know…Sylvana!).

As a young lad, I used to spend hours thoroughly reading the likes of Bigfoot, the Loch Ness Monster, and UFO’s. Even now, I find myself skimming bookstore shelves and web sites for literature on unsolved mysteries and the paranormal. So it was a great pleasure to be able to finally see a mystery that I had read so much about. Although they officially remain "unexplained", the purpose of these lines became immediately evident to me while banking in that little plane amongst the splatters of puke coming from our French "turtle" passenger, Celine. Straight lines on the ground that go on for kilometers and arrows pointing in certain directions suggested a landing site for aerial objects. Perhaps the pictures that could only be seen from high in the air, including the alien-like Mr. Spaceman, were created for the gods of the sky and not for the appreciation of the Nazcans themselves. Where are these gods now you ask? And who were they? Well, Andean history tells us of the arrival of the conquistadors and the effective elimination of most Andean wise-men and priests. Unknown to the Spanish, these wise men were in fact ambassadors of the sky. Arrogance and greediness so disgusted our alien friends that they abandoned earth as a place of habitation effectively allowing us to destroy our planet through environmental and social irresponsibility. You see, had the aliens stayed amongst us, they would’ve had a positive influence on the way we see and treat Mother Earth. We are now being punished through their disappearance and for the atrocities that the ambassadors of "civilized" earth committed. Note to the reader: I believe that telling stories like this is how various religions around the world came about. Personally, more credibility might be better attached to the story about a serpent that tempted a naked couple with a fruit.

The children of Peru – especially those of indigenous blood – are gorgeous kids. Under less brutal circumstances, it would seem to me that they would develop into physically gorgeous grown ups. However, Peru’s sub-zero standard of living and the harshness of the Andean environment make the young look old and the old look dead. Weather beaten, haggered faces abounded us, and I found myself indulging in the beauty and innocence of the children as if their beauty was sure to last for only seconds. One thing bothered me constantly, however, and that was their eternally snot-filled noses. As Sherri had so wisely suggested, we should be giving these kids tissues – not money. At one point while sitting on the streets of Aguas Calientes playing cards, we were both astounded to find a kid with a clean nose. "Hey! How did that clean kid get in here?", asked Sherri. "Tourist’s kid," was my immediate reply.

Imagine walking down a historically fascinating city where the histories of two pasts are ever present. Walls and pathways of incredible masonry from the ancient Incan era form the basis of the beautiful structures of the Spanish era. Splash the scene with some Moorish architectural influence and locals in their colourful tribal-wear, and you’d swear you were walking on a movie set. Imagine the mixed emotions you would feel while walking down the streets filled with such fascinating sights on either side when all of a sudden you get a whiff of what smells like a truck stop washroom. Or maybe you catch a glimpse of the common "local yokels" pissing on these walls. At times the stench is so strong, your eyes start to tear or you start to feel sick. At other times, there’s so much urine on the streets that it snakes it’s way down the curb and you’d think it was raining piss. As we often said, Peru is one big natural lavatory, and the streets are its toilets.

Hammocking is a very simple self-indulgence that easily lends itself to various activities such as resting, relaxing, and doing absolutely nothing. I believe that it can easily become a way of life for me. It became a ritual for us to hammock after dinner on a deck overlooking the jungle interior and talk about nothing and everything until the last kerosene lamp was put out. The occasional call of the wild and rustling noises in the bush made us feel vulnerable at times. As a professional swinger, I created enough motion to cause a slight refreshing breeze against the stale, humid, hot forest air. Every establishment should have a hammock, and every person with a type-A personality would greatly benefit by putting a hammock to good use everyday. The stuffiness of an MBA program might actually be tolerable with the sense of balance that might occur.

After a rocky four hour boat trip, it was another 1.5 hour hike up a steep cliff-like hill at an altitude of 3,800 meters. With our packs and bags of fruit intended for our local hosts, we grudgingly slugged our way to the top of Taquille Island – an island literally lost in time. Vehicles, electricity, and running water did not exist; abortion was frowned upon. I was hungry enough, but too exhausted, to kill one of the numerous cows we passed. Our fellow tourists began grumbling, and the tension was thick; the only thing that kept me going were thoughts of the greasy local cuisine that awaited me at the top as well as the cigarette that I would never have after such a scrumptious meal.

We spent the night in rooms that could easily have been mistaken for shit holes. They lacked electricity and warmth but were fortunately located near a kitchen-like hut that I dared not look in but that Sherri described as something to the effect of "the kitchen from hell." The smoke from the fire within this kitchen seeped through the cracks of our rooms and I would wake up thinking I was back in high school camping in New Mexico or North Dakota. When the night couldn’t get any better, the baby sleeping next door started wailing at 3:30 am. Why no one thought of recording a baby’s wail in addition to the peaceful sounds of a flowing stream or light rain fall for the purposes of relaxation is beyond me. For as the crying continued for an hour, I was able to sleep like a baby…the baby next door.

Educational and enlightening would be the words to describe this memory. I believe that in knowing other people with similar shopping habits to my wife, I have become even more tolerant of an activity that I normally loathe. That is not to say I didn’t enjoy myself shopping with my friends. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever had such a pleasurable time shopping as then. My eyes are now open to a different shopping perspective, for had I been alone, I would’ve chilled at a bar, taken more naps, watched more TV. Instead, we pushed ourselves to the corners of every market to observe modern Andean entrepreneurism at work while fascinating ourselves with, and exploring, everything else in between. The corner stalls had the least expensive artistries and the best food. The stores deep within the darkest alleys had the friendliest shop owners. I conversed in Spanish with these people who were more than happy to tell me stories of their Andean lifestyle and point us to roads less traveled.

The first memorable trip was the 9-10 hour bus ride from Nazca to Arequipa. As we stepped on the bus, a warm humid air blasted us on our faces. It was like a sauna in there, only instead of the smell of steam from lava rocks and pine walls (or whatever they make saunas out of), the heat and steam on the bus were generated by about 50 smelly, sweaty "local yokels" who were literally sprawled in the seats, aisles and the luggage compartments above. All I can say is thank God for my travel companions as we took advantage of the time we had by conversing about such intellectual things as different words for vomit and diarrhea. It was on this trip that we began to open up to each other about personal things in our lives which I very much appreciated. The bonding had begun.

The second memorable trip was the train ride from Puno to Cuzco – a 12 hour trip on possibly the most breath-taking and scenic route in the world. It was fascinating to pass through the various villages along the way with the local peddlers selling their specialties at each stop. Images of isolated Andean life – with llamas and alpacas dotting the plains amongst snow-capped mountains were with us the entire time. At the suggestion of Mr. Kenneth Follet, whom I had met in Quito, I pretended to be a hobo the entire time by sitting on the train steps with the doors open – smoking cigarettes, drinking beer, and contemplating philosophical issues as the train whisked by what could only be a painting. At times, I could’ve dipped my hands into the river below we were so close to nature. At other times, we were speeding along the edge of a cliff, and the ravine deep down below seemed to beckon me to jump.

The third trip from Aguas Caliente to Ollataytambo was possible worse than my bus trip from Quito to Mindo (the trip with the live chicken). The heat and stench in our local train car was stronger than what we faced in our 9 hour bus ride to Arequipa. Sylvana, our trusty tour leader had to fight for our seats, while we had to fight through a jam-packed aisle. The train was so crammed that people were hanging out of the doors and windows! A kid in the aisle was helped by her mother to urinate in a blue plastic cup – the contents of which were fortunately disposed of on Chris’ and Markus’ side of the train. Five minutes later, that same cup was used to drink a beverage out of. Thank God the mother had a filthy rag to wipe the cup of its former contents. I myself avoided any notice of this act as best I could, but one can always count on Sherri to point out the obviously disgusting as she cried, "Is that girl peeing in that blue plastic cup?!" In all this chaos, the ice cream ladies were still able to climb on heads to get the various passengers their share of sweets. And musical bands were able to hang from the roof at every stop to entertain us with their amazing Andean music.

As harrowing and nerve-wracking as this experience was, I’m still very appreciative of the decision to take this little side trip. After being gringoed at our hotel, we proceeded to watch the initial procession from the Temple of the Sun to the Plaza Del Amas. It was a relatively good start with the colourful costumes and sexy snake ladies. Upon our arrival at the Plaza, however, we made the quickly made the decision to make our way up to the Sacsayhuaman (Sexy Thing) ruins where the play was to take place to "beat the crowd". On the way, we saw thousands of locals all over the place, thousands of vendors, and temporary earth ovens – a very interesting sight. Even more interesting was the local delicacy being cooked in these ovens – guinea pig. Like most things in life, it tastes like chicken. We were in for a surprise when attempting to find a seat though. Immediately, we regretted not purchasing the bleacher seats as there was not a place to sit in sight! By chance, a lady gave us her spot near the edge of a cliff which we gladly took. However, the only way we could see anything was to stand up, and when we did so, we were pelted with fruit from behind! When fruit didn’t sit the people in front down, there was a mad rush around us and a steady push towards the cliff! Inches from fatal injury, we found another spot and stood for an hour or so while watching a part of the play through the spaces in between the local’s heads. When we finally decided to leave the mountain, we realized there was no way out! We pushed and pushed and through all the confusion my camera was stolen! Gringoed for the umpteenth time on my South American trip, I literally lost it and chased down a suspect with the aid of a local (he was only a suspect however as I had no idea who stole it), and I was content in making him cry by grabbing him by the shirt and threatening to kill him in Spanish. I don’t think any of what I said came out right, but I was about to crack. A little disappointed in the whole Inti Raymi thing, we headed to the market below and soothed ourselves by shopping and drinking ourselves silly.

With an absolutely stunning background and the immediate sense of awe one gets at looking at ruins as fascinating as these, Macchu Pichu was indeed the climax of our trip. With a guide who truly loved his job, we had a fine time exploring the site even though we had to get up at 5:00 in the morning. Ironically, one memory at Macchu Pichu takes precedence over the ruins themselves – and that was the hike up the Incan trail to the Temple of the Sun. A little tiresome going up, it was made enjoyable with the company of my partners in crime. Upon completion of our victory dance and shots of each other at the top, we proceeded to sing and dance our way all the way down. Usually modest with my God-given vocal talents, even I sang various Beatles and Van Morrison songs remembered from my karaokeing days in Singapore. Even Sherri, whose humming of the Condor song (Hammer and a Nail) usually hurt all our ears, had a voice that could’ve successfully cut an album, and Celine had dance moves that would’ve put her in an Aerosmith video. In short, what might have been just a normal hike up a hill was made exceptional through our refreshingly silly antics.

Prepared to have been alone the entire time, the friendships I made with my fellow passengers made a potentially mediocre trip into one that went way over the top. And in a world where acquaintances abound but true friends are few, I’m happy to include them in what I would consider the highest rankings of friendship. What I would do for just one more day of nonsensical talk in an exotic land with my friends. I highly doubt similar circumstances will occur again, but we’ll always have Peru…and Inca Cola (which by the way is the only soft drink in the world that sells more in its own country of production than Coke)!