Echoes of Ecuador, a bit o' Brazil and a piece of Paraguay

The Ecuadorian Amazon
Though I didn't get a chance to explore the Ecuadorian Amazon, the way I did the Brazilian and Peruvian Amazon, I did get the chance to photograph myself with a real shrunken head and see a fossilized candiru (toothpick) fish. Not a myth:  If you pee in the water, you attract this fish and it swims up your genitals!  Men beware, the swimming in is very streamlined, but once it is nicely ensconced in the penis, it shoots out little spires like an anchor and the extraction process is ten times as painful.  And here I was worried about piranhas.  Speaking of penises, the Amazonians had an interesting way of protecting their penises -- slinging them into a ponytail.  Well, more of a chignon, when you think about it.  They take the penis upright, flush against their bellies and belt it to their waists with a piece of string.  When the guide told us this, and asked if there were any questions, I said,  "Uh...how is that protection, exactly?"  The guide responded, "Well, that way it didn't get nibbled on by  fish as they were running through the water or snagged on brambles in the rainforest."  Obviously this time preceded jockstraps.

Pigeons and Patacones
Some days you have to get to bed early, because "Tomorrow's a Big Day".  But some days you just want a small day.  So that's what my friend Janice (whose apartment I was crashing at) and I had some days.  Looking at sundresses in the market.  Feeding the pigeons in the square.  Sharing a decadent chocolate brownie with chocolate icing and chocolate chips at Coffee and Sweet.  Or just relaxing in Janice's apartment with its soft ice-cream colours, pistachio, strawberry, peach, listening to "Cholo Soy", eating patacones (plantain chips) and sipping batidos (smoothies).


Banos
Banos is just one of those places you travel to that you could easily stay a day, but something hooks you and you end up extending for one more day, and then one more, and one more.  I felt the same allure in Sagada, in the Philippines, which to this day is one of my favorite places on earth.  Banos, of course has the titled draw of the public thermal baths, which I went to the evening after canyoning.  I didn't realize the full extent of my ropeburned knuckles until submersing myself in the hot water (40 degrees!).  As the shadows of the evening fell, so did a light misty drizzle, and capsule cloud cover, what the Ecuadorians call "garua".  Nothing feels better on achy muscles than a thermal soak.  Like going to the onsen in Japan after snowboarding. 

One day, I rented a bike and a not-to-scale map and biked to Pailon de Diablo, making pitstops to take photos of murals and shop windows with strings of weiners and speared pig heads, and to ride the rickety cablecar to the waterfall with the onductor's two boys playing soccer around me.  By the time I reached Pailon de Diablo, which I thought was just a cool lookout, it was already late afternoon.  Little did I know it was this amazing waterfall with tiered balconies that take you right up close and personal.  Though I have since been to Iguazu Falls, one of the finalists for the new Seven Natural Wonders of the World, this waterfall is still carved in my mind for its sheer impact.  I met some Ecuadorian Californians there, and they showed me the bottom balcony where you get splashed by sheets of omnipotent cascade.  The water is so cold it literally takes your breath away.  We even explored these crawl caves and tunnels that lead under and through the falls.  Of course, I got distracted cavorting with the Californians, and dusk started to fall.  We hightailed it back up the path (the guy from the coffee shop said he'd lead us with his flashlight but then lazed out.)   He also told me I would have no trouble finding transport.  Another lie since there was not a vehicle in sight.  I had to plea bargain with some random truck driver to take me into town, and he charged me a cuota six times the day rate, which was still only six bucks, so hey.  I noted down his license plate number and gave it to one of the Californians, just in case, and let the driver know I was doing it, but the entire twenty minute ride back to Banos felt like a horror movie, nonetheless.  Unbeknownst to me, the Californians had followed me in their car (even though they were going the other way) to ensure my safekeeping:)

I also had a day of canyoning and chocolate massage (separate blog) and one day just prowling the parks and coffee shop hopping, consumed by a good book.  Of course, when I tried to find a bookstore to get another book to read, I got a lot of blank stares.  In one Papeleria I think I found the town's only two books:
Los Caballeros las prefieren las Brutas (Gentlemen Prefer Ditzes)
La Culpa Es De La Vaca (It's the Cow's Fault)
Both self-help manuals!

So despite the quaint seven-dollar-a-night Hotel Transylvania, and the thermal baths, chocolate massages, canyoning and spectacular waterfall, I had to go to Quito, if only to find more reading material!

Galleries
Being that I spent a lot of time in Ecuador with my friend, Janice, who's an artist, we went to a few Artist's markets, a gallery opening and an art fair.  Funnily enough, when I was in Argentina I bought a Karina Chavin original from her gallery and had to listen to my brother's tsktsktsk's:  "Why would you spend that kind of money on a painting, when you can buy one that's the same style at the San Telmo Art Fair for a quarter of the cost?"  In Peru and Ecuador I bought knock off's of Botero and Guayasamin originals and had to hang my head in shame at these artists' reunions while the artists commiserate over the fact that no one is paying top dollar for real, true art, and they can't sell their beautiful work.  The way I look at it is this:  Just as in Mercado de la Cruz in Mexico there are always the two markets:  the pirate market and the original market.  When it comes to Botero and Guayacamin, I will always be part of the former, but Karina Chavin, that's one original I can afford!

Cuicocha and Cotacachi 
Janice, being the networked girl that she is, hooked me up with a driver she knows to take me on an 8 hour tour of the Otavalo area.  We spent the day lounging on the shores of Cuicocha (Crater Lake) drinking hot chocolate, visiting la Cascade de Peguche, boating through el Lago de Sangre (with a twelve-year old boat operator) and visiting Cotacachi, the leather town.


Funny little story about a leather bag:  Back in 1999, I was in Korea and found a marvelous wine-coloured leather bag for 16 bucks.  Okay, it was pleather.  I loved it.  I later acquired a wine coloured leather jacket that matched it perfectly (2004).  In 2005, my malevolent black cat, KitKat, angered by my constant traveling, peed inside this bag, rendering it unusable (seriously, cat urine is ineradicable!), and for six years I have searched for a replacement bag I love as much.  This February, in SanFran, I found an amazing pair of wine-coloured leather boots, and was again lamenting the loss of my favorite bag.  2011:  I go to Cotacachi, this famous little leather town on the outskirts of Otavalo, with the shadow of a hope of finding something. I did find some half-decent wine-coloured bags, and was debating on a couple of them, when I met this crunched-over little beggar man, requiring a dollar.  I gave it to him in return for his photo (he's a character) and when he stepped out of the store, just like clouds parting to reveal the sun,  I saw behind him The Perfect Bag.  A new and improved version of my Korea bag.  Same same but metamorphosized!  And only fifty bucks!  Twelve years later, I am redeemed!

Puerto Lopez
One week, Janice's boyfriend took us on a roadtrip up the Costa del Sol, and dropped us off in Puerto Lopez for the week.  This is where I got to see the transformation of City-Janice to Sea-Janice.  I think for the first time I understood that old urban myth (or is it) that when you're sick, you should go to the seaside.  Here I was thinking that posting a 'Gone Fishing' sign on the door would do anyone a world of good (it's worked for me:), but I think there's really something to the sea.  Janice is like a mermaid in the salt water, cavorting and laughing, spinning kites and spotting starfish and sand dollars.  She swears the salt water is the best way to detoxify your system, and I'd be inclined to agree (Back in Canada now, I just spent the afternoon trying not to capsize my kayak because of the e.coli in the water.  Swimmer's itch, no thanks!)  Puerto Lopez was also an amazing launching pad for...


Bosque Humeda
The enigmatic cloud forest.  I almost had to pay the single supplement on this tour as no one was signing up, but Janice's Travel Agent friend somehow convinced a German family of three to accompany me.  No small feat, since this was essentially six hours of horsebackriding through what amounted to a vertical mudslide through dense foliage.  My horse didn't have a name so they let me name him.  I named him "Ambicioso" (Ambitious) because at the start of the journey, he was chomping at the bit, impatient with the lack of 'get-up-and-go' in the other horses.  Seemingly.  Later on, he didn't seem quite so fired up.  The older German couple were stoic and still on their horses, (calling out far less than I did) during the adventurous ride.  When I asked them what they thought of their first time horsebackriding at the end of the day, the woman responded:  "It was the first time.  And the last time."  Lunch was provided.  Each person got a plastic cup of Coca Cola, a pear and a package of Ritz Crackers which we could dip into the communal Philadelphia cream cheese! ("Vegetarian Lunch").  Later one of the guides jimmied up a tree to pitch oranges down to us, and they were the most succulent oranges I have ever tasted.  Either that, or a package of Ritz after hours on a horse, just didn't cut it.  One of the guide's names was "Policarpio".  If I ever get a dog, I'm naming him that.  I am.

Isla de la Plata
Ah, the Poor Man's Galapagos!  Here, I went on a trail and saw Piqueros de Patas Azules (blue footed boobies!)  They are amazing creatures.  They hang out in pairs, with their cerulean blue feet, looking at everything in unison, the male whistling and the female grunting.  Our guide told us these guys are not monogamous but they look so united in everything they do, truly symbiotic, that it's hard to imagine.  The red-breasted frigates are also spectacularly red-breasted (our red-breasted robbins got nothing on these guys), roosting in the colourless trees, but the Blue Footed Boobies are by far my favorites. Snorkeling we saw butterfly fish, balloon fish and Angel Fish; there is a black-spotted angel fish that can change from female to male if the Alpha male of the school dies.   However, the piece-de-resistance of Isla de la Plata had to be the whale watching.  We had the spectacular luck of sighting at least twenty whales during our outing!  I always thought sheer momentum would make their splashing in the water pendulous and heavy, like a file cabinet falling to the carpet, but the whales have a sinewy strength.  When they carve out of the water to twist in the air, it's like seeing a kite twine in slow motion.  They spin like ballerinas, a powerful grace to their bodies, and when they arch back into the water it is with a gymnastic propulsion.  I got to sit up on the top deck and just watch them, while one of the cabin crew took photos for me on my camera.

Agua Blanca
Agua Blanca is a fantastic pre-Colombian Mantena commune and archeological site, a mere thirty minute moto-taxi ride from Puerto Lopez.  The very, very cool thing about Agua Blanca is that you can cover your body entirely in natural mud, let yourself cake dry like a piece of Gingerbread, and then wash off in the thermal sulphur water. It feels fantastic, a truly natural spa day, same same but different to the chocolate massage!

El Crater and Pululahua Volcano
While I was in Quito, Janice had me do a little recon for her La Sirena yoga retreats, and check out a hotel she plans to use for the retreats.  This luxury hotel stands on the brink of a crater, and coming upon it by taxi at night was like arriving at an Irish castle, rising out of the mist.  The proprietor, an elfin man with a charming smile and white beard, had absolutely no idea who I was (guess his wife didn't pass on the message that I was coming) and seemed discombobulated by my arrival, asking me if I needed the kitchen, because it was closed and pointing out that there were no other guests. I didn't eat all day because I was craving a meal at this nationally acclaimed restaurant.  The mist continued to swirl and he continued to smile.  It was something right out of "The Shining".  He did end up cooking a meal just for me, while I stared out the lighted dining room through the pitch black picture windows.  I ended up taking a glass of wine and his daughter's laptop  to my luxury room with HD TV, leather chairs and sofa, and King Sized bed overlooking the crater.  After a little brekky before the trekky the next morning, I headed into the crater which is one of only two populated craters, worldwide.  I was drinking tons of water, it was so hot and was dying to use a bathroom, but whenever I asked one of the farmers in the crater, they told me they didn't have one.  There's a youth hostel in the middle of the crater, and I made it with cobbled and crossed knees to the gate, only to find it abandoned with crazy dogs chasing me out.  I was so very close to peeing on a cow when I found some workers at an abandoned house who let me use the facilities.  So I guess the only inhabited crater has no bathrooms.  Flashback to Vietnam, when I asked this guy where the washroom was, and gesturing to the fields surrounding us, he replied, "The washroom is everywhere."

Animal Farm
When I was in Otavalo I woke up at 5 a.m. one Saturday to go to this world-famous Animal Fair.  It was quite the show.  Everything you would ever want to eat and not, on sale.  Baskets of bunnies (very Fatal Attraction), guinea pigs, rows of sheep, pick-ups of pigs, a tiny kitten tied to a crate with a blue piece of twine, goats, cows...  Locals were milling and pushing and craning to get the best piece of meat.  I saw a rabid pig-on-a-spit roasting right in front of five live little Wilburs.

Buses
The buses in Ecuador are cheap, I'll give you that.  Three bucks for a short trip, eight for a long one.  But you never know what you're going to get.  I tried to get a bus ticket from Otavalo to Guayacil (after being denied a plane ticket because I didn't have my passport on me.  Really?  On a domestic flight?  In a county with no rules?).  First, I was told there was no such thing, then I was sold a ticket and promised a ride to the bus stop. Then, I ended up having to flag the bus down from the highway myself.  When I got on the bus, the driver glanced at my ticket and told me my seat 21 was taken, but that I could ride on the dashboard.  I told him that wasn't going to happen and he gave me a 'Suit yourself' look.   I explained to him that I'd paid for a seat, and that I would be getting a seat, and that if he thought I was going to sit on the dash and be the first thing flying out the windshield in a crash (especially after the fatal bus accident only 15 days back) he was mistaken.  Exasperated, he burst out, "Es que no hay asientos, Senorita!!! Que quieres que yo haga?!"  (WhaddayawantmetoDO!)  As though I'm asking for the moon.  Finally, he sent the trouble-shooter boy to see if someone else wanted to sit on the dash and trade with me, and there was a taker.  So I spent the 11 hour bus ride sitting beside a woman who'd paid for one seat but had two kids, one of whom tantrumed his way onto my lap, while we watched the acclaimed Ecuatorian film "500 Bullets".  (There was an actress in the film who actually got up from a death scene to check if the scene was over [it wasn't] and then laid back down 'dead'.)

Las Idiosincrasias del Pueblo
Janice's boyfriend would often make me chuckle, using this phrase to describe various peculiarities of Ecuadorian life. No seat on the bus?  Es una idiosincrasia del pueblo.  Your masseuse brings her four year old daughter into the massage room and the daughter confides in you about her father's mistress?  Es una idiosincrasia del Pueblo.  You take a walk on the beach and pass by four men, broadside, peeing against the side of their fishing boat?  Es una idiosincrasia del pueblo.  Janice was telling me about a time when she visited the restaurant of a friend of a friend, and upon seeing one of the employees leave the washroom without washing her hands, mentioned it to the owner.  The owner gave her a blank look.  Janice asked, "Well, is she going to wash her hands in the kitchen?  What's the procedure?"  More blank looks.  Finally, Janice commente to her friend, "Well, I can't eat here. I'm just recovering from being sick.  I can't get sick again."  And she was the bad guy in this little scenario!  The owner castigated her for being rude and even her friend was appalled that she would say such a thing!  Es la idiosincrasia del pueblo.

Iguassu Falls
After Ecuador, I got to spend an amazing week in Iguassu with Nem, seeing the falls from the Argentinian side, and the Brazilian side.  Pailon de Diablo really blew my mind and I have been to Niagra Falls (and the fudge shops and wax museums) countless times, so I wasn't sure how impressed I was going to be.  But it truly earns its place as one of the top contenders for the new Seven Natural Wonders of the World. It looks just as though God were carrying a stolen stash of waterfalls in her purse and twenty-five of them slipped to the Earth in the escape.  Just when you marvel over one waterfall, there's another around the corner.  You slip through a curtain of falls, and seven tiny cascades twine together in the distance.  Rainbows crystalize in the mist, linking Falls to Falls.  Some look like giant honeycombs, golden with sun-kissed soil.  Some rage like spit from a Monster's mouth.  We ran in our raincoats up to the balcony ledges and marveled in the spray, letting the coldness of it soak our bodies and steal our breath.  It was amazing to take the boat out into the run-off between the Falls and do 180 turns and sudden stops, creeping as close as we dared to the majestic drop.  It's fantastic to be right under this stupendous shower.  The power and magnificence of Nature.

Paraguay 
I wasn't really intending on going to Paraguay, but when Nem arrived he was armed with the wish list of his friends, who all needed items-on-the-cheap.  (I guess it's like shopping in Buffalo, for us Torontonians).  We headed into Cidade del Este over the bridge and I decided to get a stamp in my passport for the hell of it, since I wasn't going for the goods.  The immigration officer charged me ten bucks, telling me Canadians need a visa to go to Paraguay.  I paid in reais and he tried to stiff me on my change.  I said, "I want my two bucks."  He rolled his eyes and gave me 2000 Guarani, which is all of 50 cents, but it was all I was gonna get out of that stiff.  Then, going into Paraguay, I tried to get a bottle of water, and the guy tells me it's 14 000 Guarani.  And this is where people come to get cheap stuff?  Nem and I pushed our way through deisel-spilled alleys crammed with vendors, wayward motorcycles and piles of cheap jerseys and socks.  At every corner someone is in your face.  They asked Nem, "You wanna buy cocaine?"
"I don't need it."
"Why not?"
"I'm an athlete."
"Okay.  What about Viagra?"
"I don't need it."
"Yeah, all right.  How about a pistol?"
Yes, in lovely Cidade del Este, you can buy a pistol, straight off the street, for a couple of hundred dollars.  (You take me to the most romantic places, baby.)  Nem, to his credit, came back across the bridge with stereo speakers, a memory stick, and those mats you put under the brake pedal in your car, all at bargain basement prices.  The Santa Claus of Brazil.  He even went back early the next morning to get a stopwatch he regretted not buying.  I decided to skip that trip, and sleep in.  Later, over churasco, Nem was incredulously marveling over  how any shops on the Brazil side can possibly do business when right across the border there are deals like THAT.  I said, "Well, perhaps it's not worth it for some people to be almost run over multiple times, cheated, and harassed by pistol-wielding, coked-up Viagra vendors.  Perhaps the inflated cost could cover 'peace of mind'."

A footnote about L.A.
My year odyssey ended with a pitstop in L.A. I'd like to say it was my segue back into the reality of North American living, but it was L.A.  Still, I treated myself to getting my hair done in a shi-shi Los Angeles spa (after a year of no haircuts, it was starting to dread itself), attended the live taping of the Bill Maher show with my host(s)-with-the-most, Lindsay and Scott, ate hotdogs at Pink's, hamburger's at Duke's and cruised Sunset, Melrose and the Palms, in Lindsay's hot red convertible, top-down.  That was my taste of reality.  Just like life at home.  Back to the grind.

Hopscotching Around Peru: 10 Hotspots!

1.  Pisco
Land of the Pisco sour.  Despite the 72 hour moratorium on alcohol due to the Federal Elections, we managed to find a few places that served.  Lovin' Latin America!  The drinks were strong, so strong I faded in and out of the Ballestas Islands tour the next day (they say it's the 'Poor Man's Galapagos', but I like Ecuador's' Poor Man's Galapagos' a bit better, Isla de la Plata.)  That said, we did see pelicans, red-footed boobies, flamingos, sea lions and penguins.  Another interesting thing about Pisco:  No one finishes their houses here because once they do, the steep property tax kicks in.  So you see a lot of roofless houses.  Also some cool punch buggy-esque cars in bright colours toting around the small plaza.  Gotta love the Peruvian honesty.  En entertainer in the square was calling up volunteers, and he pointed at one boy:  "Gordo (Fatso), queires participar?" And to the boy to his left: "Y tu!  Aqui, al lado del Gordo!" (You, right here next to Fatso.)

2.  Nazca Lines
The Nazca Lines...one of those great mysteries of the universe, compelling to me since studying them with my Grade Fives as part of Ancient Civilizations.  Obviously, going to Peru meant flying over the Nazca Lines, but I was a little freaked out due to the huge disclaimer put out by Intrepid in their Trip Notes and the red-boxed warning on the Canadian Government's Travel Advisory.  You see, the aircraft are not exactly up to par in a lot of cases.  Many of the aircraft are over 50 years old and poorly maintained, leading to a number of fatal crashes.  In  April 2008, there was a plane crash in which 5 French tourists died (but the pilot survived!)  They discovered that although they had blamed the crash on mechanical failure, there was actually no fuel on board, in a cost-saving measure (and I get peeved when Air Canada charges for snacks).  They thought they would just glide back on the runway with the engine turned off.  Then in February of 2010, there was another fatal crash with 4 Peruvians and 3 Chileans on-board, followed by yet another crash in October of that same year in which four 30-something Britons and their pilot died.

After all the crashes, some of which happened during the "zero tolerance" period (I know how well that works from my experience in inner-city schools), the government "really" buckled down and gave 7 out of dozens of planes permission to resume flights.  They canned 10 air companies and only let Aero Diana, Aero Paracas, Alas Peruanas and Travel Air back up in the skies, with 7 operational planes between them.

So, I was a little leary about flying.  On top of that, these are small Cessna planes that are nausea-inducing and swervy on the best of days.  My best friend Sandy wrote me an admonitory email about her experiences over the Nazca Lines, which included being thrown up on by a man who decided spaghetti would make an appropriate pre-flight meal, followed by another email, the subject line being:  DO NOT FLY OVER THE NAZCA LINES.

But despite all these warnings, I just had to see for myself.  You can only really see the figures properly from up in the air, and some of them are 10 km long!  I bit the bullet and took a Travel Air plane.  My three flight partners did consume an inordinate amount of Gummy bears and Snickers bars pre-flight and the two in the back spent most of their flight over their sickie bags (really, who eats before boarding a Cessna!) but for me it was worth every penny and pound of panic to see the giant astronaut, monkey, condor and spider (my faves) etched into the rock over 500 years before the Incas even came.  No one really knows why they were made...Nazca calendars mapping the summer and winter solstices, star maps, water maps...but they are technically and mathematically accurate and entrancing.


3.  The Oasis of Huacachina
Here, we got to go sandbuggying over the dunes, doing donuts and sudden stops, and (yay!) more sandboarding, though only tummy-style this time.  We did mini-comps to see who could skid the furthest and I placed third!  Not too shabby.

4.  The Cemetary of Chauchilla
This is a truly amazing cemetary deep in the desert where all the Nazca people are buried with colourful textiles and ceramics.  They are positioned in their caverns in the fetal position, to return to the Next World as they entered it.  The arid climate has naturally mummified the bodies for over 1500 years and their true hair stays long, strong and coiled around their bones, unweathered and intact.  It is truly a site to see!

5.  Lake Titicaca
By far, one of my favorite places! Off the coast of Puno, it's the highest navigable lake in the world (3820 metres above sea level).  But the coolest thing are the Uros floating islands.  They are built completely from layers upon layers of totora reeds.  When the reeds closest to the water start to rot, they just add more layers on top.  Refresh and recycle.  Repeat.  They make everything on the island from reeds, including their houses and boats, which last up to 12 months.  We went joyriding on one; they're like the Three Little Pigs' Viking boat, made from straw.  They have solar-run TVs, and the islands are moored with ropes attached to sticks which they drive into the lake bottom.  If need be, they can split the islands in half, and float them to another region of the lake (handy for sparring couples).  The only sad thing is when an emergency happens.  There were some small children caught in a fire on one of the islands, but by the time they rowed them in one of the totora boats, back to Puno, it was too late.  They had already died from smoke inhalation.

6.  Colca Canyon
Colca Canyon is a really marvelous place, about two times as big as the Grand Canyon and filled with majestic soaring condors.  They look so effortlessly noble when they fly, hardly moving in the air at all.  The Canyon is surrounded by Incan and pre-Incan terraces, so hiking is lovely, punctuated by the strong black and white stripes of the condors against a cerulean blue sky.  We passed through Patapampa on our way to Colca, 4800 metres above sea level and flocked with llamas, alpacas and vicunas.  We stocked up on Coca Tea (and Devil Balaclavas!) here, and after a day of prowling through the canyons, relaxed in the hot thermal baths under a terrific night sky.  Nothing like hot coca tea in the belly and steaming vocanic water on the back!

7.  Cuzco
We hit the continent's oldest, continuously inhabited city at just the right time.  We arrived before the Inti Raymi (Festival of the Sun), and this year marks the 100th year of Macchu Pichu's discovery, so there were celebrations galore -- parades and dances all through the streets and in the Plaza de Armas.  This was the home of the Incas for two centuries before the Spanish built their capital there, and as a result there are many Incan built walls in the snaking alleyways (which reek of pee!)  Michael, in our Intrepid group, celebrated his 19th birthday here, and there were even more of those notorious Peruvian fireworks to inaugurate the festivities.  I explored the Sacred Valley and Andean lifestyle just outside of Cuzco and we drove past the stone  fortress of Sacsayhuaman (better known as 'Sexy Woman', said with a Spanish accent).  They also had the best stuffed avocados here!

8.  Lima
My first impression of Lima was of the permeating smell of fish, and short, stout brown-skinned people scurrying through the streets, women with babies tied to their backs in towels. (Perhaps because I had just spent two months among the very European-looking Portenos, the fashion mongers of Latin America, the contrast was more striking.)  Miraflores is stunning with its bright red flower gardens salted and peppered with a myriad of black and white stray cats.  Pirate taxis troll the streets looking for fares, especially now that tourists are afraid of express kidnappings, where the driver takes you to a remote location and demands your credit and debit cards and PIN numbers at gunpoint.  (This is why the daily cash extraction limit at some ATMs is so low.)  There is also no way to prove that you were robbed, so you can kiss that cash goodbye.  Though some things are very lax in Peru, they mean business in their parks.  I was admonished by two security guards in Miraflores' parks, one time for lying on a park bench on my stomach to read a book; another time for propping my foot on the bench to tie my shoe.  And I saw one guard go awol on a five-year-old girl who dared to pick a flower.

The people are very, very friendly.  I met a sweet little old lady on the public bus while en-route to the Gold Museum.  She held my hand and wished me a good stay in Peru, and it wasn't even a ruse to rob me.  I found this amazing fried chicken place on the corner of Angamos and Arequipa and always wrapped up half to take to the lady manning the convection stand on the corner.  She was so elated to have hot food, and hugged me and gave me mini Sublime chocolates as a thank you.  People on street corners have invited me out for a coffee and chitchatted away crossing the crosswalks.  

I tried to see a theatre show while I was there, La Ex-Senorita, but the first night no one showed up because of the Federal Elections, the next night it was cancelled, and the third night I was the only one who showed up, so they asked me to come back with a group!  I have to do my own marketing to see a play.

The Arts Scene is pretty interesting.  I was painting shopping one day with my Intrepid mate, Andre, and we ended up finding this artist I was looking for crunched up into a tiny room with a wooden stool in a back, cobbled alleyway.  His name is Javier Gonzalo Perez Silva and he does knock offs of famous artists like Botero. (For those of us who can't shell out  $8000 for a painting, Silva paints us one for $60, with his "tendencies".)  After purchasing my Silva-tendencied version of Botero's Baillerini, Andre and I went to a few more warehouses of paintings.  I saw a haunting piece, all hues of blue and black, of houses up on stilts dripping their reflections into the lake of a bayou.  It was disturbing, but unique.  The vendor asked if I wanted to buy it and I asked about  this great, green shrub incongruously (in my opinion) painted into the middle of the row of houses.  The vendor, sensing my ambivalence to the tree, immediately clapped his hands, and called out to a man in the back, "Jorge!  Jorge!  She doesn't like the tree.  You paint it out!  Come!"  Then, he turns to me, "Yes? You buy?"  So must for artistic integrity!

9.  Arequipa
Arequipa is a beautiful city, built out of pale volcanic rock, called sillar.  It's called the White City, and it glistens in the sun, with its views of the snow-peaked mountains like El Misti in the distance.  One really inspiring place we visited here was the Monasterio de Santa Catalina.  It's a gorgeous monastery with vivid royal blues and striking oranges, surrounded by bright green cacti and magenta flowers.  It was founded by a rich widow in the 16th century and only high-class Spanish families sent their daughters there.  They paid a dowry to have her enter which was the equivalent of $50 000 USD today.  That's the cost of my entire 360-day trip-around-the-world!  The nuns had up to four servants each and had their own musicians and lavish parties, surrounded by silk rugs, silk curtains and fine china. A little different from the monastery where my Great-Aunt spends her days! However, they were enthroned though they were, they were still enclosured.  Our guide showed us these beautiful paintings with mantras on them, that the nuns had to spend hours and hours memorizing. It was a beautiful place, but sad in that any place you can't leave, no matter how beautiful, is a prison.  Arequipa is also the place I ate my first (and last) guinea pig meal at the local Picanteria.

10.  The Amazon
I  flew with my Intrepid Group up to Puerto Maldonado in Madre de Dios Territory.  We stayed in beautiful eco-cabins with solar-heated showers in plastic curtains outlooking the wild.  We hiked up tall towers overlooking the Amazon and met a few cool flora and fauna along the way, including the eponymous Penis Tree (which is a huge trunk sprouting many long wooden, uncircumsized penis-like growths) and the ubiquitous tarantula.  This time around I wasn't nearly so nervous (there's nothing like the first time, is there?) and one day, when a tarantula ignominiously marched into the dining room where we have all our meals, I could actually appreciate its beauty.  It's so sinewy and furry, like a cat stretching in the sun, only with eight legs to stretch, instead of two.  At one point during our stay, our guide had us watch the David Suzuki film "The Real Avatar" which exposes avaricious Canadian oil companies who are invading and destroying the Amazon and royally pissing off the Awajun and Wampis peoples (never conquered by the Incas or Spanish, but now conquered by companies like Talisman and Petrolifera?)  They feel sabotaged by these companies who promise to build them schools, but at the cost of their lifestyles.  The people here have natural ways of hunting, like using a special home-brewed poison that paralyzes the fish, and scooping up only  the ones they can kill to eat.  After a few hours, the paralytic wears off and the fish can return to their natural habitats.  However, the Canadian oilverlords and other interests are spoiling this way of life; they say 72% of the jungle is now owned by oil developers.  Sad, considering we went on a tour of a Healing Sanctuary and witnessed the medicinal properties of these plants which cure everything from cancer, to grout, to impotence.  These evil oilverlords may end up powerfully impotent one day.  I had to hang my head in shame for the rest of the day amongst all the Aussies and Kiwis.  The standalone evil Canadian.  One great thing about the Amazon is hammock time.  We had open cabins with no walls, and lovely hammocks swinging in the breeze exposing us to all the sounds and sights of nature, day or night!

Pedacitos of Peru

Firecrackers
The connotation of the word firecrackers is that of cute little sparky spritzers going off in the backyard, or a carefully manned and orchestrated extravaganza replete with safety standards and cordoned-off areas.  Not so in Peru.  In Peru they're not so much firecrackers like the Burning SchoolHouse, they are definitely more like sticks of dynamite stuck in cardboard boxes of sand, being manned by people scurrying around in hardhats, through a small patio in the Plaza, which has been cordonned off by caution tape.  Which does nothing to keep out a) the milling children or b) the milling dogs.  It was a complete miracle that nothing got blown up and that the millions of leafy green trees in the Plaza did not ignite.  And how does a hardhat protect you from getting your face blown off?  (That said, I just found out an old friend of mine is moving to Lima, Peru for 3 years so her husband can build a new mine.  I tell you, if he uses the firecracker dynamite to blast -- no problem!  It'll be done in 3 months!)  No one seems in the least phased by it though, and the photos I have of these puppies on 'Fireworks setting' are bold Pollack-esque Fireworks of Art.

Food
You know how they say, "When in Rome..."  Yeah, had to try the guinea pig.  Had to.  You know how they also say, "It tastes like chicken"...also true.  With one major difference. When you eat chicken, you don't see it in all its breaded horror, its cryogenic scream frozen in time like a carbonited Hans Solo in The Empire Strikes Back.  My dinner companions had to help me finish it off.  The gnarled claws, clutched in defensive stance are also offputting.

Rivalling cuy is the yummy alpaca meat. Though my brother's girlfriend keeps telling me to stop eating the cute, furry animals of Peru, I really can't seem to.  Alpaca tastes a lot like gyuten, that lean, succulent meat that picks up well in chopsticks; I always used to eat it while living in Koshigaya.  A month in, my co-workers informed me that gyuten translates to "cow's tongue", but by that point it was already too late.  In my defense, alpaca is the only red meat with zero cholesteral.  Sad, but true.  (Especially after you hug one!)


Meds
Like in many Latin American countries, you can just self-prescribe, and if all you want is two painkillers, they snip two out of the foil.  Not necessary to buy the whole pack.  I also know for a fact that you can buy singles of Viagra, right over the counter (buying for a friend, not a "friend";)  However, one day I went to the pharmacy to just get some paracetamol for the onset of a cold, since I didn't want to be even more breathing-impaired than I already would be at altitude.  I don't know why I did this, but on a whim I said, "This doesn't have amoxycillin in it, right...I mean, I guess that's a ridiculous question, I know it's just Paracetamol, it's just that I'm allergic..." and the pharmacist responded, "Yes, it is amoxycillin!"  Dear Lord!  Who prescribes amoxycillin for "the onset of a cold"!!?  I could have been killed, dear woman!  (More likely, turned into a giant hive).

Homestays
#1  I explored most of Peru as part of an Intrepid Group; after visiting Colca Canyon, twice as deep as the Grand Canyon, hosting the majestic soaring condors, and a pit stop to see the alpacas, vicunas and llamas of Patapampa, 4800 metres above sea level, where my Intrepid mate Bernie and I bought our Devil Balaclavas (well, I did), we made off to Chivay, the site of Homestay Number One.  It was a long and dusty drive, so the first thing I saw in this quaintly cobbled town was the washroom!  Our host moms came to the town square to pick us up in their embroidered bolero jackets, ground-sweeping skirts and cowboy hats, and after a tour of the premises (several buildings made of stone and cement with wooden beams and thatched rooves) we started in on the chores (collecting twigs for the clay oven).  We had the amazing luck to chance into the Alpaca beauty contest, and outfitted traditionally, the women in their embroidered outfits, and men in colourful ponchos, we headed to the outskirts of town where alpacas strutted in their finest, winning ribbons and getting towed and toured by the locals.  You've got your Huacaya alpaca (the full, puffy, granny-perm variety, shorn once a year and comprising 82% of the alpaca population) and your Suri alpaca (is that where Tom and Katie stole the name?), the dreadlocked variety shorn every two years.  There were faun alpacas, beige alpacas, brown alpacas.  Silver grey and rose gray.  White and black.   For supper, Mama Julia cooked alpaca meet in the clay oven, with only ignitable twigs to fuel the fire.  It was freezing in that little stone enclave and all Mama Julia had to warm her was another embroidered mantle and her Keiko propaganda apron.  I lent her my silver survival suit and she kept popping the paracetamol I gave her, but the poor thing was just frozen.  We went to our stone sleeping quarters and huddled there from six p.m. onwards with alpaca socks and hot water bottles.  Julia introduced me to her son; she told me he was nineteen.  When I met him, he told me he was sixteen.  A couple in my Intrepid group (the girl is 18, the guy is 19) were asked by their homestay mom if they had children yet, and were surprised when the answer was no!

#2  Our second homestay was on the shores of Lake Titicaca.  We always did a little shopping before our homestays, stocking our "Plastic is Not Fantastic" canvas Intrepid carry-alls with oranges, sugar, flour and Milo.  If our first homestay was made of stones, this one was made of straw.  Straw and mudbrick.  With thatched rooves and wooden doors.  Even the water supply was sheathed in long bundles of straw.  The walkways were made of bottle ends.  Men here wear woolen pants and vests with bowler hats and the women wear embroidered blouses, full colourful skirts and their long black hair twined in two braids with pompoms on the ends.  Married women wear flat hats with upturned edges and pompoms, like the Queen of Hearts.  Single women wear a colourfully striped nightcap with a pompon at its tip.  At this homestay, I was with Rosemary and Tony, and Rosemary and I joined Florentina in her chore of peeling potatoes. However, the potatoes are miniscule and covered with tiny eyes.  It is a painstaking and laborious job and when you see the pile of potatoes, its like an unending sea of bobbing corks!  Richard, the homestay dad, was hanging laundry in the sunlight and that looked like a lot more fun.  My two host families taught me some Quechua words and counting from one to ten, before we set out to play a little volley bolley, Foreigners against the Locals.  Those people know how to play!  At night, we lucked into another local festival, where we got to guss up in our traditional attire, and see the parades of people dancing in brilliant orange and blue tunics with brightly striped scarves called chaleco de Tinkus.  Lots of people drinking Pilsen, and of course the omnipresent fireworks.  Lots of what I call 'roller-coaster' fireworks wherein the people have this pinball structure of several metres for the sparks to ignite.  Sometimes the sparks go along a wheel, or giant flower, or spell out the name 'Jesus'.  In Mexico it was the outline of Benito Juarez.  Young children used to shield themselves from the errant sparks with cardboard shells on their backs, but I didn't have one and when a stray 'chispa' ignited my hair, my friends had to put it out, to the mantra of passersby telling me, "No pasa nada."


Elections
Exciting times.  Elections were on while we were in Peru.  On the left, we had Ollanta.  49 years old.  Lieutenant Colonel in the army, who fought against the Shining Path (Maoist insurgent guerrilla organization).  Fighting for a more equitable distribution of wealth from the country's key natural resources.  Better minimum wage and pension packages.  On the right we have Keiko.  36 years old.  Former First Lady of Peru (at nineteen!).  Got her MBA from NYC.  Constructed many orphanages and created the first pediatric cardiovascular intensive care unit.  Lots of campaigning and postering and general fanfare.  I got handed an Ollanta matchbook and calendar at one point, but had to hide them lest some incendiary right winger attack me!  Also, a 72 hour moratorium on alcohol (sober votes only, please!)  Ollanta ended up winning (Peru's 94th President), probably because Keiko's father, and former President, Fujimori is in jail for corruption and human rights abuse after a self-imposed exile in Chile and fleeing to Japan.  Among other things, he sterilized 300,000 women against their will (some of whom died) to meet international population targets, back in the 90s.  At my homestay, they were talking about how he slipped sterilizer into the food packages he handed out to the impoverished rural people.  Nice to know women have a choice in their own fertility.

10 Things I Love About Being Back in Canada, 5 Days In.

10.  No one steals my underwear from the laundry.
I am still missing my 90-peso-purchased-in-Argentina-but-100%-Brazilian Triumph underwear! Brazilian underwear is so ergonomic and aerodynamic.  I knew when I was piling stuff into the the bag to go to the laundress in Lima that it was a bit of a risk, but the soap in my dorm was so dodgy with more hair sticking out of it than a pigskin, that I couldn't be bothered to go the whole handwashing in the basin route.  And I thought, "Who's going to steal my underwear?!" (Not that hygiene is necessarily priority one (See items 9 and 5)) Now I know. Do miss those freebie shirts from mixed-up orders though!  Good thing I ended up back in Brazil to restock the underwear supply;)


9.  Gloves
So nice to see employees in the Food Preparation Industry using gloves (without holes in them) to make sandwiches (and then removing the gloves to make change.  Or go to the washroom.) Of course, I am pretty much basing this on a recent trip to Subway.  An now that I am writing this, I am remembering that dude selling hotdogs outside the nudist beach.  He didn't have gloves.  And he was a Jack-of-All-Trades, making change, roasting weiners.  And who knows which washroom he was using.  Probably not the swanky hotel next door...so, same same.


8.  Pedestrians Have the Right of Way
The first time I was back in Canada at the crosswalk and the cars let me by, I was pleasantly surprised.  The second time I was downright suspicious. Why would so many people be giving me the right-of-way with no good reason.  Then I remembered, it's the law here, and for some reason, people respect that.  Also, we don't have much of a population.  So, why not.  However, I still feel subconsciously that the drivers are secretly waiting to gun me down the minute I step onto the zebra crossing.  I zoom it across, never breaking the 'eye contact contract'.  That said, I actually do miss those timed lights across the four-tiered Paseo Colon in Buenos Aires..  If I gunned it, I could just make it in the 30-second allotment without getting sideswiped.


7.  Bagels and Salads (with a little bit of PB and J on the side)
So excited to have bagels back!  Thick, oil-dipped, ponchy, spongy whole-wheat(ish) goodness toasted golden brown and slathered with PB and J!  Not "marmelada" but actual jelly.  Or banana.  Or honey.  Do miss Argentina's media-lunas with melted cheese and ham, and submarinos (how can you not love a chocolate bar dissolved in milk) but cannot live without bagels. And salads! Eating without fear.  Salads with lots of random veggies: avocados, alfalfa sprouts, cherry tomatoes, blueberries, baby carrots, cucumber...

6.  Hot Water Showers
Forget hot water.  Running water. Period.  It is absolute genius.  You turn on the tap, water comes out.  Every time.  After running.  After cooking.  After using the washroom.  Nine times out of ten you get soap, toilet paper, paper towel.  Provided to the public. In your home, you get HOT water.  Really hot water.  Not tepid-masquerading-as-hot, or hot-if-you-land-in-the-lucky-two-minute-time-slot.  Decadent!  And bubble baths with your toes poking out of the bubbles and a glass of red wine perched on the tub ledge!

5.  I can flush toilet paper down the toilet
Another small miracle.  So cool.  So efficient.  All the smelly tissues immediately evacuated from the vicinity.  No worries about emptying the wastebasket every day or having mischeivous pets upend and dismantle the waste basket.  Or worse, mini sewage disasters because tourists don't understand signs that say "Please pull the paper in the basket" or "Please do now throw tissue to the bowl of the bath".


4.  I can walk the streets at midnight
The first night I got back, I forgot it was a Civic Holiday.  I took a cab to my friend's but she was already in bed, and the house dark.  Like the entire street.  And the street after that, and the one after that as I walked back to the main street seeking another cab to take me home.  It was like being in a ghost town.  I did get accosted by a lady begging money and then scoffing "Yeah, right!" when I didn't cough up change, so I felt less culture shocked.  I later saw her chugging back a Coke at the same Internet cafe I was in.  Seriously.  Where are the people in this city?  Surely with a population of two and a half million, they can't all be at the cottage!


3.  I can hail a cab.  Right off the street.
Once I did finally locate a cab, I could hop right in it.  So nice not to have to pre-call or find a swanky hotel and get a cab from their vetted stock.  So nice to not have the worry of express kidnappings; to not have the fear that after shopping at a mall, the cab driver parked outside will take you to a remote location and demand your debit and credit cards and PIN numbers at gunpoint.  Sadly, when I was in Guayacil, two Dutch tourists were kidnapped by a taxi driver and gang-raped by him and two accomplices.  It's such a good feeling to know that the majority of our cab drivers are above-board and safe.


2.  It is what it is:  Prices. 
Sure the HST is annoying and 'what you see' is not actually 'what you get', but at least if you can do mental math you know what you'll be paying once you get to the register.  It may seem overpriced and inflated, but at least you know everyone's paying that same overpriced and inflated price.  It's nice to know you're not being charged 'the gringa price', that although the price says "500 Dong" the guy is going to look you in the eye and say, "For you, 1000 Dong" and not back down.  It's nice not to have that Egyptian guy in Aswan tearing a strip out of you because you actually know the price is six times too high, denying that his register does in fact have change although he just made some for the Muslim woman next to you, counting on your baksheesh to pay his rent. It is nice not to be yelled at, or have that rude flicking-of-the-wrist-off-the-chin-gesture aimed at you.  And hey, it's nice to just throw your wallet on the coffee table and know it will be there twenty minutes later.  Or stroll down the street with a shoulder bag and have someone actually respond to your smile instead of your sack!


1.  Steven Harper and Rob Ford
Just kidding.  I think I was back all of twenty-four hours before having to write a vitriolic email petition to Rob Ford's "people" about saving our public libraries.  What is this nonsense about having more libraries than Tim Hortons'?  Isn't it sad when more people are addicted to caffeine than literacy?  Harper...well at least he is "thickening the relationship" with Brazil;)  But I digress.  Reason Number One is actually:  Family and Friends!  Upon arriving in Toronto I was inaugurated back into city life by Alexa with caipirinhas on the back patio (nice segue back from Brazilian life).  Day Two was a lovely stroll in High Park (the old hood) with Sara and an evening of blackbox theatre with Sheena, Claire, and Kathleen tailgated by bar-hopping with Jenny and Steve, ending at Sweaty Betty's in the wee hours in the morning.  Then there was the day at the nudist beach with Janice, keeping it real, a quick lowdown with my supreme travel agent and neighbor with flavour, Andrea, and dinner and drinks after a shopping spree in Mirvish Village with Vicki, Diego and Claire.  Looking forward to more GT's in the GTA come late Augz.

Now, I'm up here in Thunder Bay relaxing with the fam, welcomed back with banners and fanfare at the airport. My mom got me books by all my  favorite authors and movies from...yuppers...the public library!  She baked me my favorite chocolate cake, among many other meal requests, and we just spent a lovely afternoon at the art gallery.  Went canoeing with my Dad yesterday and tomorrow morning he's cooking me pancakes!  And I can run the trails every evening, without fear of bandits, rapist, or trampling wildebeests.  Life is good.  Life is very, very good.

(I have to put in a disclaimer here that I did have a great mid-way-point dose of friends and fam when the girls came to visit me in SanFran and L.A.  Hanging with Edith, Em and Sara in our townhouse, visiting Alcatraz and joyriding the coast, gave me a much-needed dose of home, after which I was subsequently spoiled rotten by my brother who actually made me Montreal-style bagels from scratch, cooked my fave macaroni, (and rigged me up with an archaic, yet fully-functioning internet connection in my loft room) in good ol' Argentina.

Still, I've been to see the Wizard, and though the yellow brick road was epic and demands to be revisted, there truly is no place like home!

Following in the Footsteps of the Incas: The Trek to Machu Picchu

The  Trail

Though most people know the route to Macchu Picchi as being the incredibly popular and populated Inca Trail, the trail I was on was actually the Socma-Kachiqata Trail.  But who's going to remember that?  This is basically a new trail of which the guys at Intepid are doing a recon.  They tell us it's been hiked before but our group of four hikers was the only group of hikers on the trail, so it's quite possible we were the recon.  It is a cool trail, full of divergent scenery, terraces, small villages, and Incan ruins.  The trails twist and zigzag along the mountainside. We encountered little kids all along the route, cute little imps with chapped cheeks and runny noses.  Though we aren't supposed to give them gifts, we did end up giving them snacks of saltines and apples and I squirted sunblock for them to rub on their cheeks, because they seemed to get a kick out of that. They didn't really know what it was though, and one little guy rubbed it all over his face, eyes and mouth, lathering it up like soap!  I met a pair of brothers on the hill and though the older brother chatted with me in Spanish, the little guy was mute.  I said to the older sibling, "This one doesn't talk yet, then?" to which the little brother burst out in an animated natter of Quechua.

The Passes

 The two passes we hit were the Pucakasa Pass at 4300 meters and the Kachiqita Pass at 4400 metres, but our campsites were a mere 3680 and 3600 metres.  The nights were see-your-breath-cold, and despite the fact that I had a "minus-five-according-to-the-Peruvians" sleeping bag, and despite the fact that I was wearing thermal underwear, two sweaters, alpaca socks and my Canadian Tire silver survival suit, I still froze my ass off (an expression I fully understand now.  Literally.)  I did not sleep a wink, but daydreamed and cursed my awesome, sweat-inducing MEC sleeping bag, lost somewhere in the mountains of Swaziland.

The Food

When we think of camping in Canadian terms, we picture frankfurters with baked beans, and sealed silver tins with forgotten can openers on the kitchen counter back home.  On this Intrepid Trek, we literally had 3 course meals.  Our porters, replete with little Chef's Caps and aprons, would present us with hot mate de Coca or Chicha (this yummy, hot fermented corn drink) with bowls of popcorn and plates of crackers while we played the cardgame Shithead and warmed up. That would usually be followed by some appetizer like a steaming soup or tortilla chips with guacamole.  The main course was ample, with rice or potatoes accompanied by a traditional Peruvian dish like lomo saltado (succulent, juicy meat) or Aji de Gallina (a spicy chicken dish in a decadently creamy sauce) or Rocoto Relleno (stuffed peppers).  Followed by dessert...soaked peach halfs, accompanied by a hot toddy or some other elixir while listening to Third Eye Blind or Linkin Park on Raul's IPod and playing more rounds of Shithead.  Come morningtime, the guides proffered cups of warm tea through the tent flaps to wake you up and brought basins of hot water for sponge bathing.

Chemical Toilets

The only real downside (yet, upside) to the camping was the chemical toilets.  First of all, due to the inordinate number of "wild" horses and cows on our route, we were always camped out in the middle of meadow muffins.  The chemical toilets, at first glance, seem on the up-and-up with their neat little Intrepid logo stamped on the tidy blue tent flaps.   However, when you're getting up at 4 a.m. for your third bathroom run of the night, since it is freakin' cold and you've just drank 3/4 of the jug of chicha (in addition to the 3 Litres of water you have to consume daily to combat altitude sickness), it is all you can do to hover yourself above the chemical toilet making sure no pant legs or sleeves touch anything and hold your breath over a toilet containing the entire camps' intestinal contents.  It is not a pretty site, and though we all eat the exact same food on this trip, seeing this gigantic mass of what looks like writhing worms of all shapes, colours, and consistencies, you have to wonder.  You really do.

Altitude pills

Initially, I was popping these Sorochi pills every 8 hours to try to combat altitude sickness.  As we climbed from coastal Lima towards the Andes, finally reaching Cusco at 3400 metres,  I could really feel the headaches. Like a vise grip on the skull.  The shortness of breath wasn't nearly as bad.  Despite being trainer-less for over a year, I think all those times my trainer made me run up and down flights of stairs must have done something for me.  I switched the Sorochi pills up for some glucose sucky lozenges that are supposed to be more natural, and then upon my Guide Tomy's advice, reverted back to just downing 3 litres of water a day, and the headaches completely disappeared.  That said, on Day Three of the Hike, Sonia and I separated from the others, and got a wee bit lost in the rain.  We headed toward one of the ruins, figuring our campsites were usually close to some archaeological site, when we saw our companions, one of them on a rescue horse, heading down the other path, far in the distance.  We were sopping wet by that point (I had forgotten to pack my damn Rain poncho) and whether it was the lack of insulation in my sleeping bag, eating those salads at the 11-sol fried chicken place on Angamos Street, back in Lima, or hiking in the rain for three hours followed by trying to dry off like a one-legged dog inside the tent, when I got back that night, things were not looking good, health-wise.  The five o'clock wake-up call with the Hot Mate Tea on the final morning of our hike left me feeling dizzy and spirally, and things just got worse from there.  Hiking down to Ollantaytambo, everyone was fascinated by the skeletal remains tucked into rock-strewn cubby holes in the mountain and fetal-positioned skeletons, looking like they were stargazing from their stone shrines.  I was busy looking for shrubbery to throw up in, and pretty much christened the entire last section of the Socma-Kachiqata with the ghosts of meals past.

Porterhorses

On the Inca Trail, the porters (actual people) carry all the trekkers' luggage, sleeping bags, and assorted paraphernalia, but on the Socma-Kachiqata Trail, we had packhorses.  Three packhorses and one rescue horse.  For much of the journey the rescue horse did a lot of 'nothing much' and got cut-eye from some of the other horses, but on the final days, one of our travelmates got sick and Lady Godiva'ed it up to the final campsite.  Also, Sonia, one of my travelmates, got to ride a horse for the first time!

The IV

That night in Aguas Calientes, I discovered the true meaning of bone-chilling cold.  Despite the multitudinous layers of blankets, sweaters and thermals, (my Diablo Balaclava and gloves notwithstanding), I could not stop shaking, or keep even Gatorade down.  My Tour Leader, Ollie ended up calling in the Doctor and Nurse when I started hallucinating about snakes, and they hooked me up to an IV right inside my hotel room.  New experience.  Can't say I enjoyed the sensation of having  a needle skewered into my bony hand.  Or the feeling of a thousand ants sandpapering across my skin as the meds plummeted into my bloodstream.  Even weirder was that I paid the doctor in cash (100 dollars) under the table, literally, at a restaurant in Agua Calientes the next day.  The main thing though, was that I was able to visit Machu Picchu.  I was intending to wake up at 3 a.m. and queue up to hike Wynu Picchu to the top. But that didn't happen.  I even missed the 6 a.m. trip with my Inca Guide, Tomy.  Luckily, my Trip Leader, Ollie, knows all there is to know about Machu Picchu, and took me on a private tour at 8.

Machu Picchu

I thought that after all the trouble of hauling my sick ass to Machu Picchu, I might have felt oversold, but it truly was spectacular.  It's a lot lower than some of the passes we took, at 2430 metres above sea level, 80 northwest of Cusco.  Archaeologists believe it was built as an estate for the Incan Emperor, Pachacuti in the 15th century.  It truly is a "Lost City" rising up on this sheer montain, with spectacular condor views.  It reminded me a bit of Tulum in Mexico, the soft grey of the stones contrasting with the deep blue of the sky, and verdant green patchworks everywhere.  Like wandering through an interrupted croquet party at an abandoned estate, in Alice in Wonderland.  Dehydrated and hallucinogenic as I was, it was the perfect setting!

Canyoning and Chocolate Therapy: A Quickie Blog

Canyoning. 
Basically, rapelling down a mountain while a waterfall smacks you about.  Being that I´m in Ecuador, canyoning went something like this:  Guide collects our money (I was accompanied by a French tourist who let me practice my beleagered and battered French on him.  My words hobble around on crutches). Guide then proceeds to chitchat on his cell phone while Jean Francois and I roast on benches in our wetsuits.  We get on the road about an hour behind schedule.  Guide drives up to the first set of Falls, near Rio Verde, which are pounding down in a murkey coffee colour.  Pronounces the Falls too dangerous to canyon and tells us the trip is cancelled. Then, in a sudden epiphany, he wrenches the steering wheel 180 degrees and takes us to Rio Blanca, which he pronounces okay to canyon down.  And in fact, there are a few other groups canyoning there.  I ask if there are any gloves.  There aren´t.  (This is Ecuador).  I am asked why I would need them.  My hands now look like I played Bloody Knuckles with the mountain.  The guide gives a couple of instructions about how to loop the rope through the ocho (metal device in the shape of an eight) and to spread our legs against the rocks on the descent, but there are no instructions given on:
how to position our backs in relation to the mountain
what to do when the waterfall is pounding you in the face
what to do when the waterfall completely knocks you off course and you can t get your footing back
what to do when the rope slices your first layer of skin off, because you ve skidded off the rope and are falling ass over teakettle down the mountainside.
It s pretty much old school instruction.  You just watch the elders.  That said, you get an incredible rush once you get the hang of it and can skuttle your feet like a little crab or ping pong off the mountainside like a frog with fresh spray in your face.  We descended four sets of falls, increasing in complexity and dimension.  I think the longest fall was about 30 metres.  Some of the advanced guys harnessed the ropes over their shoulders and ran frontways down the mountain, bodies parallel to the falls.  And at the very end, we got to try the vertical waterslide, kind of similar to that scene at the beginning of "127 Hours" with  James Franco and the two girls.  We rode back to Banos like wet dogs in the back of a pickup.  Cratered knuckles aside, a great day!

Chocolate Therapy.
After a nice long soak in the Thermal Baths back in Banos (stings the knuckles but soothes the muscles), I went for Chocolate Therapy.  Being that this is Ecuador, the masseuse s four-year-old daughter was peppercorning around the massage table, blowing air in my ears, and peeking at the chocolate process, nattering on about everything and anything.  She was like a little sea urchin, and unbelievably cute.  While watching her mom paint the chocolate sauce on me, she commented, "Now, you are getting brown.  My mom is white.  Well, she used to be... I m black!"  She told me about her old dog that snores, what she does in Kindergarten, the yellow princess bike she wants...She was asking if her mom was going to put chocolate sauce on my face, and warned me to close my eyes and mouth.  At one point, she overturned and smashed something, and the Mom told her to skedaddle. But she protested quite logically:  "It already happened, Mom.  It s not going to happen again. It s already over."  She asked me if I have any babies, and I said, "No, not yet.  They re in the sky."  I forgot that in Spanish "en el cielo" means "in heaven", so she responded quite conversationally, "Oh, your babies are dead."  I quickly corrected her, "No, no. I mean they re not invented yet.  They re waiting for me to be ready to have them." (I think she was less confused when she thought they were dead.)  Then, after a few moments of silence, a propos of nothing, she props her chin up on the massage table, heaves a great sigh and says, "It s because my Dad has another woman!"  It was so out-of-the-blue that I burst out laughing.  I felt so badly for the masseuse and was worried she was going to feel I was laughing at her life, but thankfully she burst into giggles too.  After that, she did shepherd her daughter from the room, and I lay drying in chocolate mask on the table trying to control myself.  Once the chocolate is dry, you pop into the hot shower, (being that we re in Ecuador, "hot" means "tepid"), and then finish off with a decadent massage.  Because it s so cold, you get massaged under a fleece blanket.  Weird, but so cozy!  I gave the woman a huge tip at the end.  Towards the yellow princess bike fund.  Don t think Daddy s funds will cover it, what with his "other woman" expenses!

10 Things to Miss about Argentina

Ten Things to Miss About Argentina

1.  Media Lunas and Submarinos, Pizza, Steak and Red Wine

Argentina has the, bar none, most amazing pastries in the world, stuffed with dulce de leche (this soft, caramelized goo), croissants made with butter or fat (yum yum), and not just hot chocolate, but submarines, which are bars of chocolate dunked in boiled milk, such that they sink to the bottom and melt.  And for lunchtime, they have huge flakey croissants stuffed with ham and melted cheese.  There´s just something about the food here.  On the pizzas, the pepperoni is like silk, your teeth cut right through it, it´s so soft, no tug-of-warring, like a dog with a bone, over tough salami.  And the steaks are juicy and succulent, the crème brulee with a light caramelized crust that pops and flakes with the tine of a fork, and red wine that hums.  I have no idea how the Argentinians stay the size of their shadows, eating so decadently so late at night.  They must be vampires.

2.  Theatre and Film

Argentina has all kinds of interesting theatre pieces.  I went with Chris, his girlfriend Lucia, and Lucia´s family to see Dracula.  It´s been on run for 20 years, which is probably how long ago I saw the movie.  The craziest part was when they killed Dracula and has this bizarre SFX not unlike some of the wizardry you see at Screamers at the Ex, whereby a mechanized demon came out of Dracula´s chest and danced around like a bobbit.  There is some cool black box stuff too.  Ale and I saw a one woman show where the woman wore a white eyelet gown and placed all kinds of crystalware and food colouring splashes across an overhead projector, letting the shapes and colours drape across her body, which acted as the screen. We also saw a play at the National Theatre about the immigration wave, spoken in ´´broken Spanish”.  I was relieved to discover Ale didn´t understand much of it, either.  Another night, Lucia and her family took me to hear Lu´s brother perform in ´Teatro de los Ciegos´.  The entire theatre is in darkness while the orchestra plays.  Though it does challenge you to augment your sense of hearing, and learn to truly isolate and appreciate the sounds, it did cause me to feel claustrophic and anxious.  I tried the Temezcal a couple of years ago in Mexico, and while the shaman was chanting in the pitch black cave and we all gave each other domino massages, I had the same feeling.  If anything, the feeling for me exiting was euphoric and such a relief, it felt like an epiphany.

There was an interesting film fest on while I was there as well, and unlike TIFF where I´m working and miss a lot of the good films, this time I was off and could see as much as I liked.  I saw a bizarre French love triangle film with misplaced subtitles that made it all the more mysterious, a profoundly disturbing French film,  a non-sequential German film, an interesting Canadian film, where the director spoke about the film for about as long as the film lasted, an Argentinian documentary and a really eclectic and disturbing film called “Behind the Red Door” which shows the subculture of a seedy hotel and all the various dramas playing out behind each red door as the dusk heads towards dawn.

3.  Stoneface and The Hand

Argentinians have a certain fame for being quite proud and dignified (some would say “presumido”, a stereotype I heard a lot while living in Mexico).  The Mexicans would often claim to identify an Argentinian according to their long, straight hair, thin body, gypsy aspect, and over-confident air.  What I found in going through Argentina were two extremes.  At one end of the spectrum, people bend over backwards for you, stopping construction work momentarily to allow you access along the sidewalk, moving an obstacle out of the way to let you pass, or jumping out of their chairs and squeezing into a table to let you by in a restaurant.  This is always accompanied by a ´´por favor” and grandstanding hand flourish when you thank them, as though this is the absolute minimum they can do to accommodate you, though their grand sentiment far outweighs this tiny gesture.

The other extreme is what I like to call stoneface.  This happens a lot when vendors don´t have change.  Which happens a lot.  Especially when I go to the Shell Station on Paseo Colon.  Once I was trying to buy a Gatorade and some Doritoes with a 100 peso note (the equivalent of 25 dollars).  The woman gave me stoneface, with a slightly arched brow, as though to say, “I don´t know what you want me to do with that.”  She proceeded to tell me they were out of change, and didn´t make a move like they sometimes do, to procure any.  I asked, “So, what…I can´t buy these things then?”  She replied (as the Argentinians do), with “Obvio”, and continued to stoneface me, as though to say, “I don´t understand why you don´t carry your own float, if you want to buy things.”  I don´t understand this, when they have an ATM dispensing 100 peso notes.  At the back of their store.

4.  Psychologists

Psychologists are a bit of a phenomenon in Buenos Aires.  Apparently, Buenos Aires, as a city, has one of the highest concentrations of psychologists per capita. They say there are 111 psychologists for every 100, 000 inhabitants.   Everyone is one or is seeing one; some people are even seeing two.  Apparently the number of psychotherapists (including psychologists and psychiatrists) jumped from 5500 in 1974 to 37,000 today.  A cab driver once compared Brazilians to the samba, sultry, sexy and steamy and Argentinians to the Tango, intense and brooding.  I´m not sure why all the psychoanalysis but the city does thrum and vibe with intensity and passion.   

5.  Taxi Cab Drivers

Speaking of taxis and psychology,  I find that the taxi cab drivers are excellent psychoanalysts.  In a cab ride from San Telmo to Palermo, a cab driver can have you sorted on the problem of the day.  I´ve also learned a lot about the crime rate and political manifestos of the day.  Riding back from Arenal one night, Yaelle, Luca and I got an earful about the Armenian Genocide, and resulting diaspora in Armenia Street in Buenos Aires.
Of course, the taxi drivers aren´t always reliable.  I went to this ”remissario” service to get a round trip ride (discounted) to pick up Nem from the airport, but after waiting for 20 minutes (with 2 phone calls where the guy assured me the taxista was on his way), I gave up and hailed one on the street for 160 pesos one-way instead of 130 round-trip.  I was complaining to Lucia on my cell that I was getting charged double, and the driver, overhearing me hollered, “No es el doble!!  No es!!” (Es el doble!)  Then he told me the remissario driver never showed up “because the price didn´t suit him”.  The price didn´t suit him?  He made the damn price.  He should have quoted another price if the price wasn´t going to suit him. Then, my brother told me the remissario driver did actually show, but an hour late, with an hangdog expressions and excuses and denial. And these are the guys bringing you to the airport!

6.  Entwined Cats and Entwined Couples

The first time I was ever in Buenos Aires, I felt like a peeping tom, compelled by all the entwined couples on park benches and promenades.  I´ve since been to Brazil, so my impression has downgraded from R to AA.  Still, it is quite something to see so many couples as you walk through the plazas and mercados, so completely entwined in passionate kisses that last the length of a four-circuits-around-the-park run at the Parque Lezama.  The other species twining through the parks are the cats (Though I am currently in Peru, and would have to say the sheer numbers of cats here rival the number in Buenos Aires.  I was at the Parque Central today and saw 17 cats at a glance, stomping through the cantuta beds.  I was reading in the park, and a stray cat hopped up into my lap and napped there while I read.)  The cats in the Recoleta are especially prevalent, all these live furry creatures scampering among the still tombstones.

7.  Thursday Night Dinner Parties

When I first arrived in Buenos Aires, Chris had these cool Montrealer neighbors, Yaelle and Luca (and their two-year old son, Yohan).  They were travelling the world, like me, for six months (thus dispelling the belief that once you are married with children the moratorium on travel begins.)  Luca is a chef, and Chris an aspiring-chef, so on Thursdays they would concoct all kinds of culinary delights for an array of tourists and ex-pats, including some tangueros from Luca and Yaelle´s tango studio (which I later joined), Chris´ PhD. Student, and some visiting Chileans (though Chris drew the line at the homeless man (and poet, I might add), Roberto, who I befriended on my runs through the park).  After Yaelle and Luca departed for Brazil (along with me), the dinner parties were put on hold.  But as luck would have it I met Nem in Brazil (also an aspiring Chef!) so when he came to visit, we reinstated the dinner parties, with an amazing Bahiano flavor.  After Nem went back to Florianopolis, we tried to keep up the tradition, but with me as co-pilot, things just weren´t the same.  Apparently keeping the al dente pasta boiling for an hour doesn´t fly!

I was also spoiled with Sunday teas at Lucia´s grandparents home, and impromptu lunches at her parents´ home.  Being in Argentina was such a change from the usual backpacking drill.

8.  Milongas and Manifestos

Of course, while in Buenos Aires, I studied Tango with a whole slew of tango instructors.   The way they tell it, it´s a straightforward dance all based on walking, but studying tango makes you forget how to walk.  It´s like doing a kissing scene in a play.  Suddenly you forget what is naturally driven by feeling and examine the mechanics and logistics of what looks good.  In tango, I started to forget how to move my heels and toes, and when advised to ´´walk normally´´, would start walking like a caricature of Charlie Chaplin.  I think having a background in ballet, jazz and salsa further confused me, the way that knowing Spanish before you speak Portuguese confuses you.  That said, I went to some cool milongas with Yaelle, Luca, Amy, Martin, and Alberto (all people I met through Chris and Luca´s Thursday night dinner parties), and later with Juan Pablo and Raul, my Practica Instructors.  Places with cool names like ´´La Catedral” and “La Viruta”.

While Milongas are places you go to on purpose, the Manifestaciones are places you end up in by-the-way.  Manifestaciones can happen anywhere at any time.  Sometimes they are about labour disputes, sometimes about the rise in the cost of living.  Exiting the subway at Bolivar one day, I had to plough through a manifestation by angry futbolistas demanding that the San Lorenzo de Almagro football club be moved back to the working class barrio of Boeda.  Another more serious protest downtown was led by the Qom community, an indigenous group from the province of Formoso, over the police dismantling of a roadblock which led to two deaths.  These manifestations are so frequent and spontaneous that most residents, when questioned, can´t even tell you what the manifestation is about.  Going to pilates one day, I heard what sounded like bombs going off above the station.  Ascending the steps, I saw scarved men with nunchuks carrying signs with Che Guevara plastered all over them.  Though he died over forty years ago, his legend lives on, inspiring roadblocks which close down the central streets for miles.  That said there is always a lot of “luz y fuerza” and are sometimes accompanied by costumes, cat-piss wine, and even a live band.

9.  VIP gates and secret clubs

Due to the vast amount of robberies and scams occurring in Buenos Aires, everything is under lock and key.  When you arrive at a nice restaurant, when I go to pilates class at Lu´s dance studio, when you go to a fancy lingerie shop, or to take a tango class, the gates are locked and you have to ring a bell to get in.  It´s very ´´Bethlehem” with the ´´innkeepers´´ either assessing you as a legitimate client, or reputable looking enough to be buzzed in.    A lot of places, like theatres and clubs are simply neoclassical buildings with no placards to announce what they are.  You have to know the address of where you are going or ask around, and the whole thing has a very ¨open sesame” aspect to it.  I was talking to the owner of a lingerie shop who informed me she was once robbed at knifepoint by an eight-month-pregnant woman and her accomplice, and scammed once by an elegant looking foreigner who paid for all her items with counterfeit money (which the owner only discovered later when she went to exchange it.)  I was victim to the age-old spill-and-steal scam in the Nuevo de Julio subway station.  Two men approached me for directions, while another ´´innocently” splashed paint on my back.  Then I had a few helpful passersby offering to do the wipedown.  I clutched my bag and told them I didn´t need their help, but they were persistent, and sent in two or three more alloys after I refused the first.  I glared at them, and hopped on the subway home.  But I have met several tourists here who have been pickpocketed in similar heists.

10.  Antiques and Street Fairs

I love just prowling through the cobbled streets and looking at all the antique shops crammed with everything from ancient record collections and dolls, to hideously ornate candelabra.  It´s like your grandmother´s attic, but transplanted and multiplied across entire blocks.  They also have the Defensa Street Fair every Sunday with buskers and tangueros, where you can buy original art, mate tea holders, innovative clothing and scarves, handcrafted jewelry, funky Tango CDs, kitchen tiles, and about a million and one other things you don´t realize you need.

A sidenote about laughter:  A friend and I were chatting the other day about how, in text talk, laughter is written as “jajajajajajaja” in Spanish and “rsrsrsrsrsrsr” in Portuguese (or “kkkkkkkkkkkkk” if it´s something really funny), but in North America, our laughter is only denoted as “lol”.  So restrained.