Hit Me Lima One More Time - Our Trip Concludes

[For the full Peru experience, scroll down to the first Peru entry and work your way up]


Jay and I, Before Going To Peru

We were different men from the ones we were when we first arrived in Peru, fifteen long days ago. We now knew how to ward off street peddlers ("No gracias, Tenemos"). We now knew how much a cab cost from the airport (30 soles... not $30 dollars). Our faces were now outlined in thick, uneven beards, our muscles were toned and refined from intensive high altitude hiking. Our lungs were... ok, you get the point.

We had been through a lot by the time we came back to Lima. And we were the better for it.

Our last night in Peru was both remarkably similar and markedly different from our first. We were in Lima, staying at the Inka Lodge. But this time, we shared a room. I asked the old man at the front desk who we'd be rooming with, where were they from?

"They're Columbians," he replied.

So this is how you punish us for keeping you up all night, I thought to myself. Sticking us with a couple coke smugglers.

But while initially we thought we might have to lock up our bags, in fact, the two Columbian guys staying with us were incredibly nice. We had a good discussion about the girls in South America. Our roommates had a strong opinion: "Peruvian girls are the ugliest in South America, Columbian girls are the most beautiful."

Jay and I didn't believe Peruvian girls were the ugliest, but had little basis for comparison. "Gisele is nice," I said.


Is Tom Brady Really Dating Her Now? After Bridget Moynihan?? What's He Got That I Don't???

"She's from Brazil. They're beautiful too," the Columbian guy replied. "But in Columbia, they're more beautiful."

I'll admit, the most I know about Columbia is what I learned in the Harrison Ford movie "Clear and Present Danger." But I may be willing to risk being blown up by a drug cartel if what our Columbian roommates said is true.

Jay and I went out for Chinese food (chifa). Lima allegedly has the largest chinese population in South America, but I can guarentee you that none of them took any part in preparing our meal-- it was truly gross.

But it was funny when our waiter found out we were from the United States. He rushed over with a newspaper and excitedly pointed at the front page. There was Saddam Hussein.

"Saddam esta muerto."

We had heard about Saddam's demise previously, but I don't think I realized till that moment what a huge deal it was. (I wouldn't find out what a amateur job the execution was until I got home.)

After dinner, Jay and I headed to the Marriott Casino Hotel. "We're going to go home with more money than we started," I said to Jay. "Hey, If we win big enough, we can stay at the Marriott tonight," Jay replied.


It's No Inka Lodge...

Before we sat down at the blackjack table, I sunk a dollar into a slot machine. "If I don't win at all, I'm not gambling," I said.

After a few pulls of the lever, I left empty handed.

"Let's hit up the blackjack tables," I said.

Five minutes after sitting down, I was down $50. And that didn't include the $20 Jay lent me that I promptly lost. Jay, on the other hand, was cruising. He was up about $90. He was even thinking about joining the high rollers at the poker table.

While I was losing my money, and Jay was winning his, we ordered free drinks. A couple Whiskys and Sprites. We had four each. By the time we left, Jay was still up by $60, and we were both feeling pretty buzzed. We wanted to head back to the main street in Miraflores, where we had gone to the salsa bar on our first night. But we didn't know the name.

So when we got into the cab, we tried to describe the street to him. "Muchos discoteques, Muchos bares, Muchos bailandos y fiestas, Muchas muchachas bonitas."

"Si, si," said the cab driver.

After the cab turned down some dark streets, Jay and I started to wonder where the guy was taking us. We had heard that some parts of Lima were not as nice as Miraflores... and it appeared we were in those parts now.

The cabbie pulled up to a club. A strip club. Nothing else around but dark buildings for as far as we could see. Two men in dark suits and glasses standing at the entrance.

"Uh... no. No aqui," we tried to tell the cabbie.

"Si, aqui. Tu pagas." The cabbie demanded we pay and get out.

Jay and I looked at each other. On one hand, a strip club could be fun. On the other hand, considering how shady the place was, it could also end with both of us getting our organs removed.

Mabel!

Luckily, I still had Mabel's number, the girl I met our first night in Peru. I called her up and explained the situation. "Put me on with the cab driver," she said.

I handed the cabbie the phone. He did not look happy. But he finally understood where to take us. We gave him a few extra soles for his trouble, but probably not as many as he would have gotten kicked back from that strip club.

We bumped into a group of California students who were staying at our hostel. We went with them to a bar, got some drinks, danced a bit. One hot chick seemed like she was into Jay, but then she said she had a boyfriend. We decided to get out of there and head someplace else.

On the street, Jay went back into his Cusco-coca-tea-crazy mode and began mimicking the people who stood outside the various bars, pitching free drinks and deals. "Free Pisco Sours," one woman called out, and Jay immediately turned to two Peruvian girls who were walking by us. "Free Pisco Sours! You girls want free pisco sours? Y bailando?"

The girls spoke three words of english, but they understood "Pisco Sour" and "Bailando." We went inside the bar, the bartender gave us our free Pisco sours, and we danced to 80's videos projected onto a big white screen. Jay's girl was pretty hot and he was enjoying himself. I, in my wingman role, was less enthused. But what the hell, when in Peru...

The time came when we wanted to leave, so we picked up our stuff and headed for the door-- where we were stopped by the bartender. "Tienes que pagar por los bebes," he demanded. We had to pay for our Pisco Sours.

Now, the woman at the door said "Free Pisco Sours." And Jay and I argued this. But the bartender wouldn't budge. There were, apparently, conditions attatched to the free Pisco Sour offer. We were required to purchase other drinks as well. The woman at the door had neglected to inform us of the fine print.

Jay and I were still arguing when a bouncer and a security guard/policeman came over. Now things were getting serious. We couldn't understand them, they couldn't understand us. The girls were no help at all, telling us to just pay. And the fact that both Jay and I were wasted probably didn't help.

Seconds away from being led off to jail, we agreed to pay. But we were both pissed. Ripped off on that first cab from the airport, ripped off on the Lake Titicaca tour, ripped off at our hotel in lake titicaca-- now we were ripped off here. Had we learned nothing?? After two weeks, had we remained the same chumps we were in the beginning?

The girls lived close by, so we walked them home. We could have taken them to our hostel, but we didn't know if the Columbian guys would be there (turns out, they didn't come back until 5 am). Jay got a kiss goodnight from his second Peruvian girl of the trip.

Drunkenly, we stumbled into a McDonalds, got some Big Macs and ice cream. Jay dropped his ice cream after barely a lick. Somehow, we made it back to the hostel. Not bad for a last night. Tomorrow, we'd catch a cab to the airport at 8 PM.

The next day, we decided we should actually do something touristy. So we went to the Museo De Oro, The Gold Museum, billed as the most impressive in Lima. We were more impressed with the attached Weapons Museum, with guns, swords and uniforms from warfaring countries all over the world. The gift shop also had stunningly cheap souveneirs, which we stocked up on.

From there, we took a cab into central Lima for lunch. There was a street directly across from the palace, across the square, that was lined with cafes and restaurants. All of them offered competing prix fixe lunches. We sat down at the one that looked the best, ordered some fried yuca and a menu that consisted of ceviche (national dish of peru), baked chicken with a pink tomato sauce, rice and potatoes. Only 10 soles each.


Ceviche, Lima's Famous Dish

Traveler's Tip: Ceviche is a white fish marinated in lime juice, accompanied by onions, sweet potato, and corn. Eat it only in Lima and other coastal towns, where the fish is fresh.

It was a warm day, and Jay and I debated going to the beach. Finally, we decided we'd try to get into the Marriott rooftop pool. We could lie out on the roof deck, maybe go for a swim. The only question was, could we get in? Would there be public access, or would we need a Mission Impossible-style plan to get past security?

We stepped into the elevator, wearing swimsuits and carrying our towels. So far so good. We went up to floor 6, the health club level.

"Can I help you?" the woman at the desk asks.

"Yes, um.. where is the pool?"

"Right through those glass doors and to your left," she answers.

We look. We can almost smell the pool. But those glass doors are closed, and next to them is a key card reader.

"Do you have the key?" Jay asks loudly.

"Oh shoot, I don't. Dave has it."

"Oh man. I can't believe you forgot it."

We look around, no one offers to help.

"Well, I guess we'll have to find Dave."

We walk back to the elevator, dejected.

"There's got to be another way."

We go back downstairs, get the lay of the land. I ask the consierge where the pool is. "The sixth floor," he replies. "But the best way is through the health club."

The best way. So there is another way! "Sixth floor, right?" I ask.

"Sixth floor."

We head back to the elevator. This time, however, we get out at the second floor lobby. There's another bank of elevators there... which lead to the other side of the sixth floor. Pool deck baby, here we come!

We step into the elevator, along with another man. Immediately, we see we're screwed. The elevator requires a key card too. My heart sinks.

Then, the man swipes his key card. "What floor?" he asks.

"Six," Jay and I say in unison.

The door shuts, we head up. How about that for timing!?

The elevator stops at six, we get out. Almost there!! But then, we're confronted with another obstacle. Two glass doors. On the other side, we see the pool deck. But the doors are locked. The only way to get through? You guessed it. A key card.

Just then, a family, three little kids and their mother and father, walk down the hall. They put their key card in, the doors open. We walk in behind them. How about that for timing?!


The Pool Was Too Cold To Swim In

The pool deck was the best thing we could have done. Relaxing and quiet (that family was the only other group on the pool deck that afternoon). We laid down in the cushy lounge chairs and took a nap, listening to the ocean waves crash in the distance. At around 5:30, the sun started to go down and we were treated to the most beautiful sunset.


One Of A Dozen Pictures I Took

As the sun set, a still, tiny light emerged from the gathering darkness. As I lay on my lounge chair, facing the ocean, I could see it's orange, eerie glow peek out from underneath an overhanging roof, far in the distance. Jay saw it as well.

"Do you see what I see?" he asked.

"I do."


Where Dreams Come True

So it came to pass that on our final night in Peru, we ate at Hooters. While the meal was terrible, and they only had xtra-large t-shirts for sale, at least we could say we'd had a genuine Peruvian experience.

Before going Hooters, we made the mistake of hitting up the casino again. I lost twenty more dollars. Jay lost his $60. We left our hearts in Lima, and our wallets as well.

At the airport, we made some more Peruvian friends at Papa Johns when Jay tried to pay for water in Bolivianos. Who knows? An extra day in Peru and both Jay and I might have been married to Peruvian chicks. But alas, it was not meant to be.

On our flight home, I watched Little Miss Sunshine. If that doesn't win something at the Oscars I'll be very disappointed.


Us With One Of The Jersey Locals

And that was our trip. Peruvian girls and Carne Corazon. Seven hour hikes and paddle boat rides. Macchu Picchu and floating islands. Beautiful vistas and powerful pisco sours. Fifteen days in a country where everyone calls you "mi amigo." The trip of a lifetime.

Next year, Columbia.

Day 4 & 5 Lake Titicaca - Copacabana, Drinking With The Irish, And I Almost Kill Jay


Not What Barry Manilow Was Singing About

The bus ride to Copacabana was uneventful, save for a brief pit stop by our bus driver, who decided he'd have a leisurely breakfast while everyone on the bus waited for him. Nevertheless, we got to the border, got our passports stamped and walked over, the first time either of us had ever walked across an international border. Needless to say, we took a lot of photographs.


Note: We Found Out The Actual Border Was A Hundred Feet Beyond This

On our bus were those same two Irish guys from Cusco and Puno. They let us borrow their guidebook. When we got to Copacabana, Jay and I figured we'd ask them what they were up to that night. Maybe we could get some drinks. The Irish guys told us they'd be at this restaurant, La Orilla, at 8.

As we walked away, Jay and I realized it sounded like a double date. "You think they think we're gay?" I asked. "You think they're gay?" Jay replied. We figured we'd go to the restaurant at 8 and get some drinks either way.

We had booked our hotel on Expedia ahead of time, because it was listed as the best place to stay in Copacabana and we wanted to make sure we would get a room. And it was only $45 dollars a night!

Traveler's Tip- Hostel rooms in Copacabana start at as little as $1 a night. According to the register we glanced at, people at our hotel were paying as little as $25 dollars a night. You only need to book in advance if there's a major festival in town.

The hotel was called Hotel Rosario del Lago. Our room was small but comfortable, with a fantastic view of the lake. The staff was helpful, the hotel was environmentally friendly (the tv, lights and heater won't turn on unless the room key is inserted) and they had a decent buffet breakfast. It was no Qelqatani, but nice anyways.

We took a walk around town. First, we walked along the "beach." While not a beach in anything but the most basic definition of the word, it was a fun scene. Carnival-style gambling and shooting games, colorfully painted foosball tables, duck shaped paddleboats, fried fish vendors and kiddie rides. There were also people selling horseback rides and excursions to nearby (2 hours) Isla Del Sol.


Copacabana: Like Seaside Heights, Except More Classy

We soaked it in for a few minutes and headed back up to the main square, where we saw the spectacular white cathedral the Spanish had built there:


Not a Synagogue

The church has a role in a unique and bizarre practice in Bolivian culture-- a blessing over motor vehicles. People travel from all over Bolivia to the church to have their rides blessed. They decorate their cars, trucks and SUVs with flowers, streamers and religious icons, the priest says a prayer, and suddenly, who needs auto insurance?


Pimp My Ride, Bolivian Style

We came upon a farmacia (pharmacy), so we decided to ask if they had any Cipro. Perhaps my doctor from home could fax them a prescription. "Tienes Cipro?" I asked. "Si," the pharmacist replied, taking a pack of ten pills from the shelf. "Quince bolivianos," he said. 15 Bolivian dollars.

"Para uno?"

"No," the pharmacist replied. "Para diez."

Now, Cipro is around $7 per pill in the U.S. (according to a google search). 15 Bolivianos is less than $2... for a pack of ten!! And no prescription necessary!!! At that moment I began to love Bolivia.

We headed back to the beach. We shot some targets and won lollipops (which Jay gave to some local kids.)


Me, as a Republican

We played a gambling game where you throw ten cents onto a board and try to land on more money. Jay and I kept feeding Bolivian dimes to one little kid, who hit a lucky streak and was up about 5 bolivianos. "How do you say 'Quit while you're ahead'?" Jay asked, but we couldn't figure out how to say it in time before the kid promptly went cold and lost all the money.

We also drank a beer and ate pistachio-type nuts with an old Bolivian man and his wife of over 50 years, who were in Copacabana for vacation with their family. While communication was difficult, we managed to have a conversation. It was a nice moment of the trip where we could just chill and relax.


Partyin With The Locals

That night we meet up with the Irish guys, who tell us they were thinking the same thing we were. We have a good laugh. They're already drinking, so Jay and I order drinks. I order a Bolivian beer, Jay gets a Pina Colada.

"Why don't we get some wine to go with dinner," one of the Irish guys proposes. "Sure, we'll get a bottle," I say. "How about two," the Irish guy replies.

It's no stereotype. Irish people can drink!

We down the bottles of wine, the Irish guys buy us two white russians and we down those as well. I think I ate a steak sometime in between. We talk about politics, both in the U.S. and Ireland. We make fun of Bush. Then we head to a bar down the street where we have some more strange drinks. From there, it starts to get hazy, but we end up shooting pool (badly) with a couple of locals before me and Jay somehow manage to stumble back to the hotel. The gate is locked, and there doesn't appear to be any way in. We start yelling, banging on the windows. Finally, a man comes out and opens the gate, pointing a a doorbell in plain view. Estabamos borrachos.

The next day we rented a mallard-shaped paddleboat and went out on the lake. Jay laid down in the back while I occasionally steered us away from oncoming boats. I hiked up my jeans for about ten minutes to get some color-- and was sunburned pretty instantly. At high altitude, the sun hits hard.


What, You've Never Seen Two Straight Guys Sailing In A Flamboyantly Colored Duck Before?

We ate lunch at La Orilla, the place where we had met the Irish guys. They have a roof deck, so we sat up there and had some pizza for lunch. As we're sitting there, Jay looks down on the street and sees someone familiar... one of the OC girls from our Inca Trail hike.

She sees us and comes up to sit at our table. "Hey guys!" she yells. "Where are your friends?" we ask her. "Oh, yeah, well, they kinda ditched me," she says, and proceeds to tell us...

1) She hooked up with one of the porters.

2) Her friends were pissed because she ditched them for the porter on New Year's.

3) A variety of different wealthy older South American men have bankrolled her various travels.

That was enough entertainment for us. We said our goodbyes and headed back to the hotel to take a nap (and watch Kindergarten Cop on TV).

That's about when Jay suggested I look at our bus ticket for our return to Puno. We had timed it just right so we could get back to Qelqatani, pick up the bags we had stored (and our beloved walking sticks), have lunch, and take a cab to the Juliaca airport in time for our 5:30 flight to Lima. We were told we had tickets for the 9 AM bus, which would arrive in Puno around 12:30.

Then I looked at the ticket.

Departs Copacabana: 12:30
Arrives Puno: 5:30

"Um... Jay."

"Yes?"

"We have the wrong ticket."

A bit of panic ensued. If we missed our flight to Lima, we'd basically have to spend the night in Puno, would need to spend an additional day traveling and it would kill the next two days of the trip. The man at the front desk assured us that if we went early to the bus stop, we would probably be able to get on the morning bus.

That night we ate at a small restaurant down by the beach, where a four course meal cost $1.50. We tipped the guy 20 Bolivianos (about $2.50) and he was very appreciative.

The next morning, we woke up at around 7 AM, ate breakfast and headed to the bus stop. That's when the trouble began.

(Let me say first that Jay will probably have a different version of this story. He's welcome to post it in the comment section below.)

At the first ticket kiosk, a woman says that all the buses are full. At the next, a man says they're full as well. But then the woman runs over and says the bus isn't full, and seconds later, the man says there's room too. A minute passes, and the man now says there isn't room on the main bus, but there is a second, smaller bus. The prices quoted by both the man and the woman change 5 times in a minute. One second, they're telling us 150 Bolivianos, the next second they're telling us $50 dollars. After we negotiate to pay 35 Bolivianos (i think), they usher us onto the bus, which has only one seat left. Then they bring on a folding chair. Jay refuses to sit in it, saying he'd rather sit on the floor. Meanwhile, I'm worried that if we don't make this bus, we'll miss our flight. To my eyes, we have no other choice. It's either this bus or that's it for the next two days of our trip. Then, a woman runs up to us and says there's a mini-bus that will take us across the border to transfer to a bus to Puno.

If this sounds confusing to you, just imagine how it was for us, two people with nothing but pigeon spanish under our belts.

Jay, then refuses to get on either bus. I'm getting f*cking pissed at him. Yeah, I know that probably 85% of the people "helping" us at this point are actually trying to squeeze every last buck out of us. Yes, I agree with Jay that the whole mini-bus thing is shady. But I honestly, at this point, didn't see any other option. The woman at the ticket kiosk assures me that the mini bus will get us to Puno. She assures me it will get there in plenty of time for us to make our flight. So I'm about ready to knock Jay out and drag his unconscious body onto the minibus with me, if that's what it's going to take.

Fortunately, after repeating the same questions I had asked, and getting the same answers, Jay finally gets on the minibus. Also on the minibus are a group of Argentinian teenagers. They assure us that the minibus will get us to Puno, somehow.

We get to the border, and it seems everything is going to turn out alright. We get our stamps, cross over, and there's another minibus waiting for us on the other side. We step in, sit down, and off we go.

For about two minutes. Then it stops in an alleyway, and we're told to get out. Jay and I look at each other uneasily. What the hell is going on??

A rickety, small red bus pulls up. It's already packed with people. All of them locals. The dreaded local bus.

There aren't any people with chickens on their laps, as we'd been told to expect, but it certainly smells like there are.

We cram in to two seats in the back. Leg room is non existent. I'm half dangling into the aisle. The bus begins driving, bouncing along the road. Then it stops, picks up some more people, and keeps going. It repeats this process several times. Every time I think they can't fit anymore people in, they somehow manage to find room. Most of the room they manage to find in is located around me.


Crammed Onto The Local Bus With Our Argentinian Amigos

After several hours in the packed bus, we finally get to Puno. I feel vindicated. I said if we got on the bus, we'd get to Puno. Jay doesn't see it that way. He thinks he was right. "I said we'd probably get stuck on some local bus," Jay says. "That couldn't have been the only way to get here."

"Who cares? We got here, didn't we?" I say back. We get into a cab to take us to the Qelqatani, still arguing back and forth. "If we didn't get on that bus, we'd still be in Copacabana," I say. "No, we could have gotten another bus," Jay insists. "What other bus??!!" I yell back. We're almost ready to fist fight by the time we get to the hotel. I lost you in Puno before, Jay, I think to myself. I can lose you again.

We manage to declare a truce, eat lunch, and change our flight to 3:30, so we don't have to wait in Puno that long. A cab comes and drives us to the airport. We get in another fight once we're there, because when they make the boarding announcement, I want to go and get on the plane. Jay insists on waiting to be last on. That bastard. I'll kill him!!!

The flight was pretty quick, with a brief stopover in Arequipa. Looking out the window, I was glad we decided not to go. I don't think we could have handled more hiking at that point.

By the time we got back to Lima, I think both of us realized our fight was stupid. All trip, we managed to avoid fighting. Even when a certain someone (who shall remain nameless) chose to expel gas in our small closed tent. But our travel day from Copacabana to Lima was our most stressful, and it clearly brought out the worst in us.

The Lima air though (sea level! finally!) would do us good.

Check back tomorrow for the stunning conclusion to "Peru: The Incredible Journey..."

Day 2 & 3, Lake Titicaca- Walking On Water, The Ball Drops, We Discover A Miracle Drug, Rocky Defies The MPAA


Lake Titicaca

New Year's Eve. Parties, fireworks, the ball drop, Ryan Seacrest. That's how we do it up in the States. In Peru, we were to have quite a different experience... staying with a family on tiny Amantani Island, 2 hours from the mainland in the middle of Lake Titicaca.

That morning we visited the Uros Islands, floating islands woven out of reeds by an indigenous group that was forced into the lake hundreds of years ago by encroaching civilizations.


Walking On Reeds

The Uros still live on these overgrown lilypads, in simple teepees and shacks. They have to maintain the islands with new reeds every few weeks, otherwise, the ground rots and it becomes very easy to step through and end up in the lake. When we were sitting listening to a family on the island sing a traditional song, a wave rippled through the lake, causing the island to buckle briefly. It was pretty cool.



They not only use reeds to build their islands, homes, and boats, they also eat them, peeling back their green sheaths and munching on the white, waterlogged stalks underneath.



We thought we'd be staying on an island like the Uros, but Amantani was a lot nicer. First, it's a real island. Most homes have solar power, and clean beds they make available to tourists. While they live a simple lifestyle, it's far from sleeping in haystacks under thatched roofs, which we thought it was going to be.

On the way to the island, we started to feel seasick-- in addition to our lingering health problems. By the time we got to Amantani, Jay was in bad shape, barely making it to our host family's house, passing out the moment he collapsed on the bed.

Before we left on our trip, I got a prescription from my doctor for Cipro, reccommended in case of anthrax attacks and also a powerful antibiotic useful for fighting funky bacteria introduced to the body via bad water or, as it was in our case, bad food. There were ten pills, and the instructions very clearly said to be sure to finish the whole dose, or risk creating a superbug that could wipe out humanity 12 Monkeys-style. (Do you want your future in Bruce Willis's hands???)

When we came down with our illness, I considered taking the pills. Why didn't I? Well, I felt a bit guilty that Jay didn't have any. I reasoned that if I took them and felt better, Jay would still feel like shit, and my trip would be ruined cause I'd be wanting to go out and do things while an ill Jay would hold me back. Better for us both to be suffering than just one of us. Also, I wasn't quite sure what the antibiotics would do. I already witnessed the effects of the Australian antibiotics on Jay, and was not impressed with the results. So we suffered, while the bottle of miracle pills went unused.

Until New Year's...

I decided to fight off my desire to sleep and hiked up to the Temple of Pachytata with some other members of our Lake Titicaca group. Then I ate dinner with our host family. Thankfully, it was rice, potatoes, and a thin broth. That was about all I could handle. The family was very nice, although I suspected the little girl hated me.

"Tonight," our guide told us, "The villagers will be hosting a New Year's party for you." The dress code, he explained, would be traditional Amantani clothing. Dancing and music would be provided. Beer would be available for an additional charge.

Even though I wasn't in the best of shape, I sensed that this was an experience not to be missed. Jay meanwhile pondered his own funeral arrangements. The family kept offering him herbal tea, which Jay had little faith in. One person on our tour was a Dutch pharmacist. He gave the family some pills to give to Jay. The fact that Jay took them with little hesitation should show you how sick he was feeling.

I think however, his spirits were somewhat buoyed when he saw me dressed like this:


Me, In My Normal Clothes

The youngest girl of the family led me down to the rec hall. There were the other 20 or so members of our group, all dressed up like natives. I hung out with an Irish guy who was here with his Chilean fiancee, who he had met online (what's with all these long distance internet relationships??). Also chillin with us was a very nice French guy, the Dutch pharmacist and his mistress/girlfriend/fiancee, and a 40 year old American woman who was spending a college semester abroad in Peru. Yes. Everyone we met on our trip led more interesting lives than us.


I Left Before The Ponchos vs. Skins Limbo Contest

The band consisted of drummers, two pan flutists, a guitarist and guy playing a ukelele (a ukeleist?). They opened up with a rousing traditional number, which they proceeded to repeat, with minor variations, throughout the night.


Ashlee Simpson Was A No-Show

After a few awkward dances with my host mother and the host daughter, I decided I needed a beer. One beer turned into two, and in the high altitude, two 22 oz. bottles was all I needed.

"Estas borracha," my host mother said.

I knew enough spanish to know she was calling me a dirty drunk.

The dancing was pretty fun. I especially enjoyed my dance with an attractive Argentinian girl. Had I not been suffering from fourteen different intestinal parasites, I maybe would have made a move.

But as it was, I was drunk, sick, and tired. I didn't make it to midnight. At 11, my host mother led me home (much to her relief, I think) and I collapsed onto my bed.

"I'm not doing well, man," Jay says.

"Neither am I," I reply.

"Maybe we should just fly back to Lima early," Jay says.

"Maybe we should just fly home early," I say.

There's a silent pause. "Adam, I'm serious about this. If I'm not feeling better in the morning, we've got to take a boat back to Puno and maybe look at flights to go home."

It was the moment of truth. Minutes to midnight, minutes to a new year of hope and promise, and we were at our most desperate hour. I reach into my bag and pick up the Cipro. Future of humanity be damned, this sickness could not go on.

"I have ten pills," I hear myself saying. "We have five days left. It's one pill per day. If we split the dose, we can get new prescriptions back in the states."

"Maybe we can have a doctor meet us at the airport."

"Yes! That's completely possible!"

We decide to take the pills the next morning. "Happy New Year," I say to Jay, even though its only 11:30. "Happy New Year," he says, and we both pass out until the bah-ing of our host family's sheep wakes us up the next morning.


Cipro, Breakfast Of Champions

One of the first things we do is take the pills. Only afterwards do I look at the label. Take TWO a day. Not one. I ask the dutch pharmacist if I've inadvertantly doomed myself and mankind. He assures me we should be fine.

Traveler's Tip: Bring Cipro or a similar antibiotic. A lot of it. If you don't, however, it can be purchased without a prescription in a Bolivian pharmacy for a little over 2 bucks for ten pills. Something we found out later.



We tour the island of Taquille (see the video above), have lunch, walk down the island's giant staircase, head back to Puno. The views around the lake are beautiful:


I'm Accepting Photography Awards...

We both feel a lot better already. Our boat rescues another boat that's stranded, and together, our tied together boats slowly eke towards shore. Another boat speeds past us heading into the harbor--weirdly enough with the two Irish guys we met on the bus from Cusco on board.


Jay Participates In The Rescue Effort

We get back to the Qelqatani and watch USC clobber Michigan (hey, um, Michigan, might wanna use the Shotgun formation). We flip through channels, and see one of the Rocky movies is on. "Which one is this?" we wonder. We figure it must be Rocky 4. Later, when we flip back, we realize it's the brand new Rocky that's just been released in theaters. That can't be legal. Great TV in Peru!


Rocky, Pre-Geriatric

We get some more lomo saltado room service, and I finally get in touch with my parents, who I find out had called every hotel in Puno looking for me (no cell phone reception on Lake Titicaca). Ah my parents, such worryworts.

And that's 2 & 3 in Lake Titicaca. The next day, we planned to travel by bus to spend two days in Copacabana, Bolivia, primarily because we wanted another stamp on our passports and wanted to relax at "Bolivia's Largest Beach Resort." In a land-locked country, I can assure you, that claim is boldly misleading.

Day 1 Lake Titicaca - The Day I Almost Lost Jay


High Drama Unfolded Upon Our Arrival In Puno

The next stop on our Peruvian adventure was the world's funniest named lake: Lake Titicaca. Also the world's highest lake, Titicaca straddles the border of Peru and Bolivia. For the next few days, we planned to base ourselves in Puno, touring the lake's islands and recovering from our trek.

We booked our activities in Puno in advance, through our hostel in Cusco. Vicki, the woman who worked at our hostel, sold us a tour package for 45 dollars each. That included a boat ride to the Uros' Floating islands, an overnight with a family on Amantani Island for new years, a trip to Taquille Island, and transportation to and from our lodgings in Puno. She also made a reservation for us at the Hostel Margartita in Puno. We'd be picked up from the bus and driven there. It seemed like a great deal.

The six hour bus ride gave us both plenty of time to do something we should have done all along... actually read the guidebooks we had purchased back in the States. In them, we found out some fascinating information. Including the following tidbit:

"Tours of Lake Titicaca, including the floating islands and an overnight with an indigenous family on Amantani Island start at around $12."

$12.

We asked these two Irish guys who were on our bus how much they paid for their Lake Titicaca tour.

"20 bucks," they said.

So we got screwed out of $25 bucks each. Not a huge deal. But it got us thinking. After 4 days roughing it, and a week of nice but basic hostels, we weren't sure we wanted to stay in the hostel Vicki had set up for us. We hadn't paid for the hostel yet, so it seemed we were free to look around. The guidebook listed about a hundred different places to stay in Puno, including 4-star hotels for just $45 a night. We decided that there was nothing we could do about overpaying for the tour, but at least we could find a hotel on our own that was worth the money.

Traveler's Tip: The bus service we took from Cusco to Puno was iMexo, for $20. Comfortable, pleasant ride with free cake and fanta. Also stopped at a great viewpoint, see below. Highly recommended.

I had a lot of fun looking out the windows while we were on our long bus rides. They may seem like the perfect time to sleep, but if you keep your eyes open you'll really get to see the Peruvian countryside.


A Quick Stop Along The Way To Puno

Our bus arrives in Puno, and the second we step off, we see a woman holding a sign with my name. Vicki's counterpart at the Hostel Margarita. She's with a cab driver and another guy, who's some sort of tourist agent.

We get in the car, but try to explain that we're not sure if we want to stay at the hostel. We'd like to look around and see what else is out there. The woman doesn't speak a word of english, and doesn't seem to understand our butchered spanish. Luckily, the tourist agent translates our message. The woman seems fine with this.

We get to the hostel, check it out. It's nice enough, but nothing special. Jay meanwhile, has already picked out a hotel from the guidebook. "Large spacious rooms, cable tv, room service, three stars..." I have to agree, it sounds awesome.

So we tell the woman thanks, but we'd like to look around. We may end up coming back
if we don't find another place that's better. We walk out into the street and begin heading down the block.

Suddenly, the woman races down the street after us, shouting in Spanish. We stop. "Tu Pagas Para Taxi," she demands. "Dinero para taxi."

She wants us to pay for the cab, which we were pretty sure was included in the $25 bucks we overpaid. We're tired, we're pissed, we just want to get away from this woman. She demands 3 soles... 1 buck. But I don't have any small change on me. Not that I feel like paying anyway. We said we might come back... if we went back, would she give us the cab money back? All this shouting just convinced us not to stay at her place.

"Come on, we don't have to deal with this crap," Jay says, and starts walking away.

I continue trying to reason with the woman, who is becoming more irate each second. A woman on the street connects eyes with me and gives me a "I-feel-your-pain" look.

I turn around, and see Jay disappear behind a corner. "I've got to go... mi amigo..."

"Tu es rata! Rata!" The woman snarls angrily.

I assume that means I'm a rat. I apologize, and run down the street, my huge backpack bouncing up and down.

But I get to the corner, and don't see Jay. Maybe he headed towards that hotel... what was it's name? Started with a Q? How do you say Q in spanish?

I walk further down the block and reach a main street. I look off in both directions. No giant backpacks. No Jay. Did he run to get away from that woman? Where could he be? I'm starting to panic. Jay doesn't have a cell phone. We've been in town for five minutes and don't know the lay of the land. We have no established meeting place. To top it off, I'm pretty paranoid that the lady at the hostel called the cops.

I wander down to the Plaza de Armas. Still no Jay. I'm a little afraid to head back to where I lost him, because that woman might still be there. But it's the best option if I'm ever going to see Jay again. Now... where was it? Did I turn right or left? ...sh*t.

I'm lost in a foreign city, no way of contacting Jay. I almost sit down on the curb and cry. Then a little boy comes running around the corner.

"Buscando por Tu amigo?"

My heart leaps. "Mi amigo! Si! Donde esta?"

The boy beckons me to follow him. We walk up the street, turn a corner, and there, in the distance, is a big gray backpack.

"Jay!"

He turns. "Huntman!" (its a nickname)

We hug. Yeah, its not manly to admit that, but it was a pretty cinematic moment.

The woman who witnessed the argument with the hostel lady had sent her son to reunite us. We thanked her profusely.

Then, together, we walked into the Qelqatani Hotel. Or as I call it.. heaven.


They've Put In A New TV Since This Pic Was Taken

Big, american style hotel rooms, plush king size beds, a shower with a detachable showerhead, room service, complimentary bottled water... Jay and I immediately decided that this was where we'd stay.

We decided then and there to cancel our plans to travel the 12 hour or so bus ride to Arequipa (where we would probably have to do more hiking) and stay instead in the Lake Titicaca area.

That night we dined on lomo saltado (stir fried beef with tomatoes, onions and fried potatoes) with apple pie and ice cream for dessert. And a bottle of wine. All delivered to our room while we watched "The OC." After four days of living the dirt life, we were ready for a bit of luxury.


A Qelqatani Room, Similar To Ours

Qelqatani, how I love thee.

(In case you're wondering, we did go back and pay the woman her 3 soles. People hate Americans as it is)

Tomorrow, the floating Islands, New Year's Eve on Amantani, and The End of El Corazon.

--------------------
--------------------

On a different note:

Did you watch Fox News call Obama a terrorist? Let the ridiculous smear campaigns begin.

Fox issues a half-assed mea culpa.

Tonight, The State Of The Union. Don't you wish it was the season premiere of Lost instead??
----------

Inca Trail Day 3 & 4 - Making Friends, Real Beds, Slowpokes, and Macchu Picchu, finally


Our Group Before Heading To Winay Winya

Day three was a lot more relaxed than day two. With only about 11 km to cover until our next campsite of Winay Wayna, we could move at a slower pace and got to actually know the other people in our group.

I ended up teaching a bit of American History to Kerry, who was on our trek with her husband (the other) Simon from the UK. "What did that George Washington fellow do?" she wanted to know. "What was that whole civil war about?" In her defense, I couldn't tell you the first thing about British history. I think I impressed her. Unfortunately, I didn't impress the Advance Placement board, which gave me a 3 on my high school exam (out of 5). But that was Mr. Winkler's fault for telling us we didn't need to know about anything past 1940.

But I digress. Kerry, for her part, taught Jay and I a wonderful English phrase, "Timmy Trots," in reference to a certain stomach ailment.

Another couple we got to know on our tour was Janette and Esmond, from Australia. The Inca trail was actually their third adventure in South America... they had come straight from hiking in the Amazon jungle for a week, and had been in the Galapagos before that. Janette very nonchalantly showed us where an unknown rainforest insect had bitten her, causing a fist-sized welt on her leg. She then showed us where she had gashed her leg before going into the lagoons in the Galapagos. "It was bleeding everywhere," she said. "And then I looked down into the water, and there was a shark coming right at me." Her husband, Esmond, who brought with him a professional grade camera, had apparently just stood by snapping pictures while his wife tried to avoid becoming shark food. "The photos came out beautifully," he said.

They were prepared for everything. They gave Jay an antibiotic so powerful it only had to be taken once (at this point, we'd take medicine from a witch doctor), and on day three, when blisters on my feet threatened to reduce me to tears, they produced special blister band-aids from their knapsack. They also must have had a stash of uppers, because they were always so cheerful throughout the grueling hike.


Day 3 Wasn't All Puppy Dogs and Ice Cream

Midway through day three the group all stopped at a lookout point for a rest. Simon and Avi threw a raquetball around, which shortly bounced off the mountain. Two of the girls from the OC braided each others hair. The other one sauntered slowly up the hill with one of our porters, Oscar. That morning, when we had been introduced to all our porters, Jay and I commented on how all of them looked 20 years old than they actually were. Apparently chicks from the OC are into that, as we'd find out later in our trip.

A little after noon, we arrive at Winay Wayna. There's a small lodge with a bar, some showers, and the dirtiest bathrooms you've ever seen in your life, unless you've seen the bathrooms elsewhere on the Inca trail. Nevertheless, it's wonderful to have some semblance of civilization after two days of nothing. Jay collapses in the tent while I go to check out the lodge. There's a bunch of other groups staying in the surrounding campsite, including SAS, South American Explorers, which has a bunch of blonde girls from Holland or some place like that. I'm checking one of them out when Avi gives a nudge.

"Hairy legs."

I check it out. Sure enough, he's right. Yuck. Then again, after 3 days of hiking, I'm not exactly the height of attractiveness.

At that moment, Lobo comes by, dangling a key. "Simon, Avi. Here's the key. The hostel is right up this hill."

My brain does a double take. Say what? Hostel?

"There's an abandoned hostel up on the hill that they used to use for people on the two-day hike," Lobo explains.

Say what?

"Because our tent got flooded last night, they're putting us up in the hostel," Avi explains.

I go with them to check it out. It's pretty basic, but it's got some advantages...

A) It's indoors
B) It's dry
C) It's got beds

"Lobo... um... you think Jay and I can stay here too?"

"25 soles."

I never ran so fast in my life. I dash down to the campsite, and unzip the tent. Jay is tucked into his sleeping bag, looking like he's at death's door. "Jay! Jay! You won't believe it!" I shout. "There's a hostel, they've got beds, real beds and... WE CAN STAY THERE!!!"

"Let's do it," Jay says.

Lobo didn't want the word getting out, because technically, I guess you're supposed to stay in the tents. But everyone found out anyway. I admit, I felt bad getting ribbed about it by the OC girls. But only for a second. I got a bed, bitches...

For the rest of the day, most of the group chilled in the dining tent, trading riddles back and forth. Then at about 4:30 we went to the most impressive ruins before Macchu Picchu: Winay Wayna. After the group had a heated discussion on how much to tip the porters, cook, and guides, Jay and I explored the ruins for about an hour. Then the fog and rain and night rolled in, seemingly all at once, and we headed back to the campsite.


How much do we tip???

That night we all chilled in the lodge, playing cards and drinking beers. Afterward, Jay and I went back to the hostel, having to climb over the numerous porters from other trek groups using the building's overhangs as shelter (not every Inca trail group treats its porters as well as our group did). Jay and I discovered that the hostel housed some of the largest insects we'd ever seen, but somehow got over it (spraying lethal amounts of deet helped) and we tucked ourselves tight into our sleeping bags, calling it a night. We'd have to wake up at 4 so we could leave and catch the sunrise over Macchu Picchu.

The next morning, it was pouring. Every group at the campsite huddled in the lodge a little after 4, waiting for the right time to depart. Our group was among the last to leave because, as Lobo said, if it's raining, then there's no rush.

Before we depart, me and Jay switch iPods and pump ourselves up. I select "Born To Run," and somehow, it's like Springsteen himself is injecting power back into my legs. Jay listens to Leaving Las Vegas by Sheryl Crow.

The final leg to Macchu Picchu sucks. Not only isn't there anything to see through the dense fog and misting rain, but the trail is a traffic jam. All during the hike we've barely seen other people, except at the campsites. But now, every Tom, Dick and Sven is in front of us, walking slowly. Using my best Madden juke moves (R button), I weave my way past the slow pokes. This causes some people to get upset. One man tries to trip me with his walking stick. Another yells "It's not a race." One woman stops to look at an orchid, and her fat ass is blocking the narrow trail. "Excuse me," I say, as I almost fall off the mountain to get past her.

"How rude," she says.

"You're a bitch," I say. It's Day 4. Don't f-cking mess with me.

I reach the sun gate third out of our group. Simon and Avi are long ahead. Just before the sun gate is a flight of stairs designed by M.C. Escher. I finally get to the top, expecting to see the view of a lifetime. Instead, I see this:


Beautiful Macchu Picchu

Nobody is happy. Four days, and all I get is fog?? Dejected, our group walks down to Macchu Picchu.

Then, the most magical thing happens. The fog parts, and the sun comes streaming in. Suddenly, Macchu Picchu is bathed in white light. It's the most magnificent thing I've ever seen.


That's More Like It

Words can't really describe it. Pictures don't really do it justice. Kicks the Parthenon's ass, I can tell you that.

Every so often we'd see some day tripper--who had arrived that day by train, walking up a few steps in their clean shirt, clean pants, clean underwear, clean everything. "Ooh, I'm so tired, it's so hot," they'd say. I couldn't help but laugh.

Huyana Picchu?? Not a chance. We consider hiking up it, but when they say it's a long wait, we decide to head to the bus station. We get a little food once we're there. The first time we've eaten in 4 days. I have a hamburger. Jay has a panini. "Best panini I ever ate," Jay declares.

We take the bus to Aguas Calientes, a town that I can best describe as a tiny mountain town that had spring break vomited onto it. It's pretty damn touristy. But we did get to see entertaining signs like this one:


A Typical Aguas Calientes Restaurant

Even though we knew it was like a municipal pool, Jay and I decide to take a dip in the hot springs. Peter and Belinda, an Australian couple from our tour, were already there. We chilled with them in the hot pool, until some young punks came and started doing chicken fights.


Jay and I with Peter

On the train back, we sat with Alper and Camilla, another couple from our trek. Alper was from California, Camilla from Hong Kong. They had met online, and now Alper was considering moving to Hong Kong to be with her. I have to say, if they could survive four days hiking with each other, camping in tents, I think they've got a future.

There were some beautiful views from the train. Snow capped peaks, corn fields, tiny farming villages. I bought some giant-kerneled corn and snacked on it. Jay mostly slept. Upon arrival in Cusco, the train did about 4 or 5 switchbacks down the mountain, which took forever. It turned out the hostel where we had stayed before didn't have room for us, so they set us up at their "sister" hostel. We drove in a cab over to a very luxurious looking hostel... before walking a block to a hostel apparent located behind someone's chicken coop. It didn't matter. There was a hot shower, the first either of us had taken in days, and we were happy with that.


Jay On The Train

Tomorrow morning, we'd catch the bus for Puno, on the shores of Lake Titicaca.

Inca Trail, Day 2: Why Most People Take The Train, Rain, and Lobo's 20 Minutes


Perhaps My Face Betrays My Feelings About Day 2??

I'm an athletic guy.

In high school, I got a Varsity letter in Football and Lacrosse. I played Lacrosse on NYU's club team. I go to the gym at least 3 times a week. I own many pairs of athletic shorts.

Why am I telling you this? To impress the ladies? Yes. But also, to impress upon you how serious I am when I say that there were many moments during Day 2 of the Inca Trail that made me want to die just so I wouldn't have to hike anymore.

Before we departed, Lobo informed us that, on day two, we'd be going from 3000 meters to 4200 meters in elevation. At that same meeting, shortly after he told us that, I very seriously asked if we would have time at Macchu Picchu to do the optional, extra steep hike to the top of Huanya Picchu. Clearly, I had no grasp of what 1200 meters really is. We don't do metric in the Kick Ass States Of America.

The day was to take 7 1/2 hours. 3 hours up to the first mountain pass, 2 1/2 hours down to our lunch site. Then an hour and a half up, and two hours down. Wait.. that's 9 hours. Well, that's what I recall anyway. It seemed much, MUCH longer.

There's a little drizzle coming down as we begin our ascent to the first pass, through forest, alongside waterfalls, up a steep, stepped path "paved" with rocks resembling the "Astrocrag" from the classic Nickelodeon game show "GUTS." The steps never end. I keep looking ahead, expecting things to be flat around the next corner, so that finally my burning lungs, aching quads, searing calves and crunching knees can take a little breather. But it doesn't happen. Every time I turn a corner, the trail keeps snaking upward. By the end of the first hour, I'm leaning on my walking stick pretty heavily, praying that it won't break under my weight.

Meanwhile, the weather alternates rapidly, without warning. One second it's chilly and rainy, and I zip up my sweater and rain jacket, putting on my winter hat. Then, around the next bend, the fog clears and the sun shines down with all its might. We strip off our layers and reapply sun screen, only to have a new cloud descend and the cold rain whip down again. I can't tell if my sweater is soaked from the rain or from my sweat. Probably both.

At one point, we're continuing our climb when we hear a sound in the distance. Jay points at a tiny orange speck, high on top of the next mountain range, barely visible through the fog. "I think that's where we have to go," he says.

"That's impossible," I reply.

At this point, I'm having delusions. Beneath the rocky path, to the right, is a mountain valley filled with green fields of grass. I fantasize about rolling down from the path to lie in the meadow. Perhaps it's an easier hike down there! I should just do it! I should just jump off this cliff right now! I'll land on the pillow soft grass below! It looks like such a gentle slope!!

I almost did it. Jay had no idea how close he came to travelling the rest of Peru alone.

Somehow, we make it to the top of the FIRST pass. The FIRST. Of THREE. See the video below. I say, "Nunca Otra Vez," which I believe means "Never Again." But my Spanish isn't very good.



Lobo tells us that the archaeological sites are spaced out perfectly, the same amount of meters between each one. Simon asks him how the Incas could measure those distances.

"That's how far a llama can walk," Lobo replied.

Yes. That's right. Every llama can walk the same distance. They're like a walking tape measure. That's not a Snapple Fact, that's a fact.

According to Lobo anyway. You learn something new everyday.

I must be stupid, because at this point I was looking forward to the downhill section. I'll just roll down...

Within 5 minutes of beginning our descent, Jay and I fall on our asses. We just eat it, brutally. It's barely a path we're walking down, its more like jagged rocks drowned in rainwater. Actually, that's exactly what it is.

Somehow, we soldier on to the lunch site. It starts pouring. Our group huddles in the tent. It's coming down harder and harder. From the inside of the tent, we have to push up parts of the roof because rainwater is puddling up. Lobo says we can wait 20 more minutes, but if it hasn't cleared up by then, we have to troop on. This meets with groans from the group. Other trek groups are camping down here for the evening (and according to the online Andean Life itinerary, so should we), but there's no more room for us. And if we're going to make it to the next campsite before dark, we'll have to brave the downpour.

When 20 minutes are up, the rain has let up a bit, so we continue on. Up and up. By now, the rocks we're stepping on have practically become a waterfall. After about 30 minutes we reach Runkuraqay, some circular ruins that overlook the valley. From there it's a steep waterslide climb to the second pass. There's supposed to be a great view from there, but all we see is fog (this was to be a reoccurring thing).


Leaving Runkuraqay, To The Second Pass (No, that's not the top)

By the time we reach the third pass, I've figured out how to use my walking stick as a lever, holding it in two hands in front of me, stabbing the ground and pulling myself forward. It works great, although one time I slip and almost end the family lineage (you guys know what I'm talking about).

We get to the turn off for Sayaqmarka, which Lobo informs us means "Inaccessible Town." Thankfully, we're not headed up that way. Lobo says to me, "Only 20 minutes to the campsite."

20 minutes! I feel a burst of adrenaline. I can make it. 20 short minutes, and I'll be able to lie on the cold, hard ground in my tent! Never has that sounded so inviting.

A second wind flows through my body. I jab the stick into the ground. Step step. Another jab. Step step. I'm really moving now, ahead of the whole pack, save for Simon and Avi, and one of the Australians, Peter. Jay, who ran the NYC marathon, is lagging behind. I'm feeling pretty good about myself.

But after 20 minutes, the campsite is nowhere in sight. Lobo that bastard!!

Don't lose hope, my mind screams. Strangely, it's the beef corazon that drives me forward. Must... make... it... to... facilities...

After another 20 minutes, I see a guide from another tour. "How much longer?" I ask him.

"5 minutes," he says, and I almost hug him.

In actuality, it's more like 15. But when I get to the campsite, I'm so happy I almost forget the horror I just put my body through. "Piece of cake," I say to Alex. "I'm ready to go to Macchu Picchu right now..."

(...on the train)

Everything I brought with me was soaked, despite carefully putting my clothes in plastic bags. My one sweater was a sopping mess.

Traveler's Tip: Don't be an idiot. Bring at least two lightweight but warm sweaters. Cotton tends to get soaked and stay soaked.

Other things I wish I brought:

More than one "Sweat-wicking" Shirt From Eastern Mountain Sports
Blister Pads
Face Wipes or Moist Towelettes
A Port-a-John

After seeing me show up to dinner in my only dry thing, a short sleeve t-shirt--despite the frigid night air--Lobo takes pity on me and lends me an extra sweater he was using as a pillow. I love this guy!


Jay and I with our awesome guides, Alex and Lobo

And so concluded day 2. For us anyway. Simon and Avi were not as lucky. Since they arrived first, they chose the tents set up closest to the trail, at the bottom of a steep hill that the rest of us had to climb to get to our tents.

That night, a storm hit. Their tent was flooded, all their stuff got soaked.

Traveler's Tip: Camp on High Ground.

Ironically, their tragedy would turn out to be one of the best things to happen to me and Jay on the hike. More on this tomorrow.

Day 3-5 - The Valley, My Stick, Cow Pies, Nicholas Cage, Macchu Picchu Here We Come...


Valle Sagrado

Day 3 was spent on a tour of the Valle Sagrado, the Sacred Valley-- a lush green valley cut by the Urabamba river and spotted here and there with old towns and tiny farming villages. I started that morning feeling pretty ill, and probably didn't help things by trying an Andean beer called "chicha," which is prepared by fermenting chewed corn. Yep, that's right. They chew corn, spit it out, and then, a few days later, viola! It's beer. Kind of. Like beer that someone's spit chewed up corn into, anyway.


A girl paints ceramic musical instruments in the Sacred Valley town of Pisac

In the valley town of Pisac (which the Spanish built as a ghetto to contain the Quecha people), we bought some souvenirs from the large street market. In one shop we found off the beaten trail, we found a girl painting pottery. I bought some for myself and my parents. Jay bought a souvenir from the girl too... a 2006 calendar of naked women that was hanging on the wall. Only 5 soles! (which he dropped, losing it under a display case. Graciously, the girl said it was ok, and Jay didn't need to shell out 5 more soles.)

We also got the first preview of what we'd be up against hiking the Inca Trail. The short climb to the top of Ollantaytambo, an impressive-looking Inca fortress. If you're planning on going to Peru, I suggest preparing by taking the stairs instead of the elevator... for like three months-- because walking up those uneven Incan steps at the high altitude isn't easy (especially with some angry beef corazon still coursing through your veins).


Ollantaytambo

We made it to the top. But on the way home, I partially passed out in the back seat while Jay made friends with some of the others on our tour bus. I was not doing well.

The next day was Christmas, and a lot of things were closed up during the day, so we took it easy. That night we met the group we'd be hiking with- 13 others, not including me and Jay. The Jets-Dolphins game was on TV that evening, which made me happy (and it's pretty funny listening to the all spanish commentary interrupted by familiar phrases like "Chad Penning-tone"). But I had to turn it off before the end because we were getting picked up at 5:30 AM to be driven to the start of the trail.

After picking everybody up, including several of the porters, the bus drove to Ollantaytambo, where we'd stay for a half hour to pick up supplies and eat breakfast. I bought a Kit Kat, which was the only solid food I'd eat on day 1 of the hike. Jay bought a flashlight from a girl on the street, which he then discovered didn't work.

Jay: "That little..."

Adam: "Jay, forget it... let it go..."

Jay didn't of course. He went back to the girl. I was all prepared for an embarrassing scene, but to my surprise, the girl gave Jay a new flashlight that worked (at least for a couple of hours).

Several village children were selling walking sticks, from 3 - 7 soles each (of course, depending on how rich you look, they'll start at 10 or 15). Should I get a walking stick? I wondered. Will I really need it? Or will I just end up getting stuck carrying it around? After a moment of deliberation, I purchased a stick for 3 soles. I can always ditch it on the trail, I thought.

Traveler's Tip: It was the best purchase I made all trip. That stick became my best friend, and later, during the particularly hard moments on the trail, I proposed marriage to it (We get hitched this summer). A dollar on a walking stick is little compared to the value it brings on those dire, hopeless, no-end-in-sight climbs and descents.

Jay bought a walking stick too, an impressively decorated one, for 7 soles. We then hopped back on the bus for a brief drive to Kilometer 82 of the Inca Trail, where we'd begin our journey. The raging Vilcanota River flowed rapidly below us as we crossed the wooden bridge onto the same trail where, thousands of years ago, Quecha pilgrims walked to Macchu Picchu. Of course, they were without hiking boots, waterproof rain jackets, and our special "sweat-wicking" t-shirts.


Our Inca Trail Friends

And so we begin...



The trail's pretty easy. The most difficult thing I find immediately is avoiding the cow, donkey, horse and llama poop that litters the ground. It's everywhere! What do they feed these things?? I find myself looking down a lot more often than I'd like, just because I have no desire to have my boots smelling like crap all four days.


Watch your step!

But whenever I look up, it's beautiful. The weather is cool, the rain is holding off. There's fog, but it mostly hangs just around the mountain tops. Along the way we pass some very tiny shanty towns. Before we started the day, our guide, Lobo, gave us small packages with snacks, candy and juice-- none of which I feel like consuming. So I give it to some little kids.

(The True story- I couldn't get my damn juice package open, so I gave up and gave everything to the kids.)

The first Inca ruins we see are at Llactapata. We stand on the hill above, staring down at the small town, nestled at the foot of a mountain, right along the river.


Our Guide, Lobo, Shows Us Llactapata

From there, we go downhill a bit, where I meet an old couple from Seattle. They have to be at least 60. We have a discussion about the movie, "The Family Man," starring Nicholas Cage, which they had seen a few nights before.

Old Man: So... the message of the movie is, you can't be both a successful businessman and have a family?

Me: Yeah, what's with that moral?

Old Man: I mean, and then he gets back from that alternate reality, and that woman who was his loving wife (Tea Leoni) doesn't even care to see him, really.

Me: Yeah, she's got a serious job. Are we supposed to believe she quits it so she and Nick Cage can start a family?

Old Man: And also, those two adorable little kids he has in that alternate life... they just don't exist? What's with that?

Me: Yeah! I thought the same thing. Why couldn't he just stay in that life?

Old Man: It just doesn't make any damn sense.

We stop for lunch, and are greeted by our porters (who all ran past us earlier, carrying all our tents, cooking supplies, and other essentials). We're given warm blueberry tea/juice, which was pretty damn tasty and refreshing. When we all sit down in the dining tent, we're presented with an avocado salad done up as if it were served in a fine restaurant. Impressive. The spaghetti con watery tomato sauce? Not so much. But still, quite a surprise. Of course, me and Jay can't really eat anything.

I talk with Alex, our assistant guide. He's a young guy, working his way up the ranks to someday become a head guide. We have a talk, in mixed spanish and english, about America. He asks about immigration. "Are illegal immigrants a big problem?"

I try and explain that, no, it isn't actually a big problem, but our politicians make it into one for political purposes. "En Nuevo York, personas no preoccupan sobre immigracion. Pero, en otros estados (por ejemplo, Texas), muchas personas no se gusta immigrantes, ilegales y legales. Es un mejor problema aquella."

Thanks Mr. Russo!! (9th grade Spanish teacher)

Of course, Alex speaks better English than I speak Spanish.

Back on the trail, it starts to get a bit tougher. Just a little incline, but enough to feel the altitude draining the air from your lungs. Still, we press on. Jay, the two English blokes on our trek, Simon and Avi, and I are well ahead of the rest of the group, not quite sure where to stop for our campsite. I'm nearing my limit. It's getting dark. That's when Lobo comes running up the trail behind us.

"You guys passed the campsite!"

We all look at each other.

"How far," I ask.

"About 40 minutes," Lobo replies.

I'm about to cry. Nobody else looks too happy either. 40 extra minutes of hiking!!!

"Your kidding, right?" I say.

"Yes," Lobo replies.

Turns out the campsite is about two minutes ahead. Oh Lobo, what a kidder!

The camp site was already set up when we arrived, on a grassy patch overlooking a foggy ravine. There I was introduced to the concept of a campsite toilet, or as the Peruvians might call it, "el hoyo jodida en el suelo." At dinner, Lobo gave us some pills (hey, when in Peru...) and some strange vegetable tea that tasted like sort of like "chicha." Everyone in the group talked about other treks they'd been on. Jay, not so casually mentioned he'd been to Mount Everest base camp. Only reluctantly did he provide the small detail that he'd traveled there by bus. Meanwhile, I'd only hiked down Mt. Washington. It was clear we were the least experienced of the group. Even including the three girls from The OC on our tour("Oh, we're like totally not like those Laguna Beach girls...). Sing it with me, kids: "Macchu Picchu... Macchu Picchu... here we commmmmmmmmmmmme..."

Then, still feeling pretty terrible, me and Jay bickered about where to put our boots and bags in the tent and soon passed out.



Hike, Day 1, over. Tomorrow-- "the hardest day," according to Lobo. How bad can it be?

Day 2: Getting High in Cusco, Llamas, And Carne Corazon



We spent the next day walking around Lima. Saw the changing of the guard (i swear, its the same boring ceremony everywhere). Drank Pisco Sours at the Gran Hotel Bolivar (best drink in town). Lost some money in the Hotel Sheraton casino (and smoked some Cubans). At night, we met up with Mabel and her other friend and went Salsa dancing again, this time until 2:30. Then we slept about a half hour before getting picked up by the taxi driver for the ride back to the airport (not only did he show up, but he slept in his car outside our hostel to make sure he'd be on time-- great service for $20).

I passed out before the plane took off. Next thing I knew, we were landing in Cuzco, (elevation 11,150 ft), former capital of the Incan Empire. The second we got off the plane, I was suffocating. The air up there is so thin, you have to remind yourself to breathe twice as deep or you start getting a pounding headache. Even walking a couple steps makes you feel tired and nauseous. You feel bloated and gassy. Now I know how Rosie O'Donnell feels everyday (I'm trying to get this blog sponsored by Trump).

We get to our hostel and the woman who works there tries to get us to fill out forms, but realizes we're too tired and lets us pass out in our room. We wake up around noon, still not feeling that refreshed. The woman, who introduces herself as Vicki, gives us Coca Tea, made from the same leaves as cocaine. Despite fearing that I'll start becoming really annoying and talkative (seriously, does coke make anybody NOT act like an asshole?), I drink the tea because it's supposed to help with altitude sickness. It just makes me tired, but Jay immediately perks up (later he'd be offering strangers massages in Cuzco's central square).

Traveler's Tip: Coca Tea does not cure altitude sickness ("soroche" in spanish). It may however, make you tired and/or loopy.

Beggars are everywhere in Cuzco. Ranging from those simply standing with their hands out to those wearing traditional outfits and charging for photographs. There are also people everywhere offering massages, selling watercolor paintings and postcards.

You can also buy some pretty cheap mittens, scarves and hats... useful at Cuzco's altitude. Less useful? A shoeshine, offered by several local boys.

Kid: "Sir, I shine your shoes?"

Me: "I'm wearing sneakers."

Kid: "International Suede, we shine"

Me: "Um... these are New Balances"

Kid: "Si, International Suede. Yes, yes. I shine."

Me: "Um... No, Gracias."

Ah yes. Those two magic words. No, Gracias. The first Spanish phrase we said with any conviction. If you go to Peru, you'll probably be saying it alot. So practice!

Travelers Tip: "No, Gracias" is good, but there are other ways of politely refusing the services and/or good of a Peruvian street peddler:

"No para mi, gracias" - the addition of "For me" is a classy, more Spanish way of saying No thank you.

"Tengo" or "Tenemos" - These came in real handy for us. Literally "I have" and "We have." Like when someone offers you the same gray alpaca sweater you've seen in 3 cities, you can say "Tengo. No gracias." Overuse, though, of this verb will lead people to call you a liar (the verb "miente.")

"No Me Gusta" or "No quiero" - A little less polite, but somewhat effective. Means "I don't like it." and "I don't want it," respectively.

Finally, there's "No entiendo," which means "I don't understand." For this to work, you usually need to pretend you don't understand Spanish or English, and you're blind.

We get some lunch at Patiti, a nice enough place on the Plaza De Armas. We order llama steak. It tastes like really lean beef, by which I mean, is not as good as real steak. We then step outside and take a picture with a woman holding a baby llama.



I give the woman two soles. But as Jay takes the picture of me, a woman sneaks up behind and gets in the photo too. She wants two soles too. Now, she wasn't the one with the llama, but I'm not about to argue over 66 cents. But I only have a 5 sole coin. "Tiene cambio?" I ask. I assume that means "Do you have change?"

"Si."

So I give her the five sole. She fishes around, gives me two sole back. I look at her. She looks at me.

Fine. Take the damn extra sole. I feel bad though that I didn't give an extra sole to the llama lady, who's gone off somewhere else.

We walk around a bit more... catch some of a Cuzco basketball game (basketball, from what I can tell, seems to be the second most popular sport after soccer in Peru). Visit the office of the group we'd be trekking with, Jay makes a friend with one of the local boys by giving him cream filled cookies he bought earlier at a bakery in town.

Something else we see people selling on the street are tickets. Curious, we ask what they're for. Turns out, tonight, in Cuzco, is the national championship soccer game between Cuzco and Lima. After checking with our hostel that the tickets sold on the street are legit, we purchase a pair. I never went to a soccer game in the States, or anywhere else, so I'm really excited. We buy Cuzco soccer jerseys for about $4.50 each.

That night, we go to the stadium. The streets around are filled with people. Lines snake into the stadium from everywhere. We have no idea where to go. Luckily, we spot the only other foreigners in the crowd, and they direct us where to go. We're practically pushed into the stadium by security, and as we enter through the gate, the roar of the crowd gets louder and louder. We emerge into the glow of the stadium lights, and the scene is wild. People jumping up and down everywhere. Red flares being set off. A brass band is playing a marching song. The concrete stands seem to have no order, people are jammed in everywhere. We see an open space and sit down, but are immediately yelled at in Spanish by everyone behind us. Fortunately, a kind Peruvian man takes pity on us, and, without a word, guides us to the foot of the concrete bleachers, where he sits us down. Every so often, someone would try and sit down in the space in front of us, and people would go crazy-- because, as we saw now, they'd be blocking the view of the field. Eventually, we join in, yelling nonsense at whoever tries to creep in front.

Some action here:


At halftime, a woman comes around with a white bucket full of beef skewers w/ a potato speared on top. They're sellin like hotcakes. People are throwing money at her. Jay and I decide--sure, why not? When in Peru...

We start chowing down. It's pretty good! A little tough, but grilled in a spicy sauce. Well worth the 3 soles (1 buck) we spent.



It was to be, possibly, the worst mistake we made all trip.

As the woman walks away, she starts shouting, hawking her food. "Beef Corazon! Beef Corazon!!!"

The word "corazon" strikes me. In my head, my brain digs through several drawers of dusty files before it locates the one bearing the manila folder from high school spanish class. Slowly the folder opens, and it takes only a few pages to thumb through before the word "corazon" is found, emblazoned in bold letters...

CORAZON = HEART

We were eating beef hearts. Cow heart to be exact.

"Hmm," I said. "Well, when in Peru..."

Somewhere inside my stomach, alarms began to blare. It wouldn't be long before Peruvian Food-Bourne Bacteria had its way with both of us. For the next week of the trip.

The Cusquenos won, 1-0, setting themselves up nicely for the second part of the championship match, which would take place in Lima two days later. The mood outside the stadium was celebratory. The streets were lined with people making soup, cooking chicken and selling team merchandise. It was a Peruvian tailgate party.

We went to bed that night feeling pretty good. The next day, we planned to take a tour of the Sacred Valley around Cuzco (only 19 bucks each). Little did we know, that as we slept, the Osama Bin beef corazon was already beginning its campaign of terror...