Six Sentences

The entire adventure was sparked from six sentence. This was what was responsible our exploration. The six sentence was the collective of two books, the first "Alternatives to the Inca Trail" and the other "Extreme Shoestring Travel Blog 121". This was all the information in existence about a cheap way to reach Machhu Picchu. This was all it took.

For a little background, Machhu Picchu is deep in the jungle. Due to the excessive tourism, the path to the ruins was expensive, very expensive. Ian and I were determined to find another way. So we begin searching. After two days, hours on the blogs and countless conversations with locals, we had found only 6 sentences outlining an alterative. It was a brief explaination and explaination might be too stong of a word. The brief hint of an alternative was nothing more than an allure. There was a way into Machu Picchu, it was cheap, it was involved, it was a mystery and best of all, it was set in a jungle with path to an ancient lost civilization. All criterion met for an Indian Jones adventure, minus the Sallah and the hat. The six sentences in the Lonely Planet Guide

book provided more questions than answer. These sentences were our burnt treasure map. There was a clear start and the X was evident but parts in-between were far from clear. It left more to the imagination and our imaginations were working overtime. I read them over and over as we packed our bag from Cusco. I read them until I memorized them and then I read them again. I reached deep into the subcontext of the measly paragraph, and I felt no more prepared.

The six sentences spoke of a trek deep within the Peruvian jungle. It spoke a journey far away from our grubby existence of hostels and eateries. It spoke of crossing a river that had claimed lives. Under a picture of a raging river it read, "In order to cross the river you've got to balance yourself on a steel platform attached to a large cable, suspended above the raging river. As you pull yourself across hand by hand, try to put out of mind those who have lost their lives in the crossing". Short, sweet, effective. We had found our path to Machu Picchu.

The start of the journey consisted of 15 hour bus ride. 5 hours of walk through villages brought us to a small town with a shuttle. We wedged luggage in our laps. We clung to the back of seats in front of us. I turned back and to see repressed horror on Ian´s face. Maybe it was ignorance. Maybe it was a death wish. Either motive would produce the same reaction. I sat in the middle row of an eight person passenger van, going 50 mph, wheels just 6 inches from a 200 foot drop into a boulder scattered canyon. I was ignorantly laughing. It was half out of entertainment half out of nervous tension. The single-lane, dirt road was poorly etched in the side of a gravely mountain-side. This portion of the trek was a connecting path between the small town of Santa Teresa and an industrial hydro electrical plant. Just one leg of our journey. This was nothing more than a workers access road. A windy, two-way, one lane, no speed limit, dirt road with many blind turns and many wash outs. Maybe I was laughing because I was confident in our 15 year old driver. He showed such little concern for the dire situation so much so that takin

g his eyes off the radio would have been a burden. Maybe I was laughing because the gas gauge hung squarely in the "E" and my happiness was based on my new philosophy of "low tank=small explosion". Or maybe I was laughing because there was little else I could do. I had chosen to laugh so I wasn´t forced to count the endless ways in which I my life could be over in a unpleasant chain of events resulting in a fiery explosive death. Blind turns into oncoming traffic going 40 mph, these were necessary because driving fast on a road of that condition is not nearly a large enough risk. Let´s add ensuing head on collision and inexperienced driver.

We did make it and I was laughing the whole time.

Looking out from the top of Macchu Picchu trivialised the excursion. The beauty and amazement of the ancient city is very consuming. The effort, endurance and craftsmanship of the ruins leaves little else to pondered. It brings a state of awe to see such a pristine glimpse into the elusive past. The ruins bring life to history but only a outline of life. They are a beautiful evocation of curiosity into lives of people long ago. They are important for what they reveal but that is only half their role. The ruins stand to evoke wonderment. They are both objects that fulfill the apex of discovery and a mere looking glass to a civilization past. It was everything we sought to discover. We left the ruins and walked back into the jungle. Our path was Cusco-Machu Picchu-Cusco. We had made it to our destination that sat squarely at the half way point. We aimed toward cusco, our adventure complete but only half over.

Full Contact Driving

The Peruvians abide by the policy of right-of-way being awarded to that which will inflict the most damage. Cyclists will not slow for pedestrians. Cars will not slow for cyclists. And Buses reign king of the roads. The roads of Peru are uneven, rocky, cracked and ridden with potholes. Clearly, the only practical way to operate a motor vehicle over this unrelenting landscape is to drive as fast as possible. Any attempt to avoid these hazards, apply brakes or decrease speed would be deemed as admitting defeat to condition of the road. That is clearly unacceptable. The poor conditions of the road is only a figment of tourists imagination and deserves no endorsement of Peruvian drivers. This policy holds no exceptions. Even in the maze like streets of Cusco, the responsibility of avoiding a human-to-vehicle collision is deferred to the pedestrians.

Cusco streets are a grid-less web of one-ways spreading out in no logic across the city. Most streets are framed by two story buildings made of colorful clay. With the exception of a cross section of major routes, the streets are barely the wide enough for a single small car and an 8 inch sidewalk on one side. This whopping 8 inch allotment is not just intended to provided ample space for two people to pass heading in either direction, it also is space that is taken up by the rear-view mirrors of rapidly moving cars. In most areas of Peru, food poisoning and contaminated water play a large role in afflicting the ales of unsuspecting tourist, Cusco can stand proud of its unique affect; Mirror Checks.

The potential risk is no deterring factor. The city is overwhelmed by a sense of Peruvian communalism. For a center touristic exploration, there is still a distinct feeling of new Peruvian life blended with the inevitable tourist influence. This provides a delicate balance of traveling comfort with interesting and exciting sites. The Plaza de Armas is one of the most pleasing seen so far. Bustling with people at all hours, it´s the most prolific variety of people watching condensed to one area. The center of the city is at a low point of towering hills wrapped around it in panorama. As night sets in, the city lights up above the center and the looming city lights flow seamlessly into the brilliant twinkling stars. This dominance of light against the darkness of night provides a nocturnal energy that is unavoidable. It is intoxicating and consuming in only the most pleasant ways. We have been traveling hard and fast. Without slowing down Cusco allowed us to recharged. It gave us the energy to endure the upcoming trip to Machu Picchu. Little did we know how much energy would be needed.

Much Needed Peace

It is perfect but only in its own definition of the word! It does not compare to an artificial flawlessness that has become the aesthetically norm, but the beauty is revealed through the chaotic rugged discrepancies. The rocky hill of an island is entirely etched with terracing that defines the sever range of elevation as clearly as a three-dimensionally topographical display. The brown soil and green grass distinctly contrasts deep gray and white rocks that frame the endless scattering of boulders. Miles of undeveloped footpaths weave into every corner of the island but leave no evident trace of dominance over the rustic serenity. There is a powerful grip of silence over the island. Noise from the wind rustling bushes is more of an intrusive than commonplace. Daily life is dictated by the patient growth sustainable agriculture and an overwhelming dominance of cultural pride. The 1,700 indigenous Tequilians are proud of their sustainable isolation. They maintain their lifestyle in honor of the ancestry that were near the last to abstain from Spanish conquest. The collectivist lifestyle propagates the Inkan Moral Code of "do not steal, do not lie, do not be lazy". There is not a Tequilians over the age of 8 without dirt under their fingernails. They live hard, complain less and smile more. The Isla Tequile lies just 45km from busy port of Puno but years in the past of modernized life.

Let´s call him, Dick. I never caught his name but it just seems fitting. This proud to be an American, pompous, loud-mouthed ass kindly transformed the serene four hour boat ride to Isla Tequile into a torturous endurance test restraint. Though I quickly learned not to instigate chatter from the 65 year old retired ex-floridian, the blond German sitting to my right found Dick quite engaging. After the first hour conversation, I realized that the Germans minimal comprehension of the English language left unafflicted by the unrelenting annoyance. She must have been dazed by the penatrating volume of his speech.

Honestly, I should have felt fortunate. It is not everyday that I am able to sit next to a man that knows everything. Again, I should concede that it was impressive to the sheer number of times he was able to use the words I and Me. Sometimes, even more than once in the same sentence. I should also be impressed to be in the presence of such a chameleon of inter-cultural relations. This over-weight, white Floridian had no problem telling any of those who would listen that he never looked like a tourist. He largely attributed this to the fact that he died is hair and bread from gray to brown and a wore soccer jersey. Let me lay out some of the other highly education nips of wisdom he shared with those within 100 feet and not entirely deaf.
-Sailboats don´t work on Lake Titicaca because of the elevation.
-Winds increase over water the shallower the water gets.
-Americans have to acquire more Visa´s because other countries are jealous of us.
-He is unaffected by lack of oxygen at elevation because he plays wind instruments. (This was quickly refuted as soon as he began hiking at the island.)
Typically, while I travel I maintain an open mind, enjoy conversations of all types and love meeting people that I normally wouldn´t interact with. Dick was different. Any facsimile of a symbiotic conversation was thwarted with his ability to connect any subject to a particularly bad story about himself. Unable to endure even 4 hours with Dick, I was fearful of the three people that at one point said "I Do" to the man. After only thirty minutes, I knew why the relationships never worked. I almost fear to run into the people that were able to tolerate him for long enough to commit in matrimony.
Dick made quite an impression on me. After he began his endless rants of egotistical enlightenment, it was not a President that made me want to say I was Canadian, it was a Dick.

I Defer to Ian...

One of my personality traits makes me both a successful traveler, and destined to whined up in middle seat in a row of three with 300 pound people on either side. This trait is what leads me to the top of some of the most beautiful mountains in the world but fifteen minutes after sunset. This trait will provide me with the most affordable why to explore a new land but will leave me with a stiff back from rock hard beds. This trait is my only complete adherence when I adventure, explore, discover and wander. This trait allows me to trust something bigger, forget about the nuance of daily expectations and let experiences dictate discourse. It requires complete commitment but provides a pure freedom. It let´s me wake up each morning filled with wonder of what will come today. The trait is nothing more than...spontaneity.

Sitting on a small bench in Puno harbor, I found myself pondering a newly presented option...Should we get on a boat and venture off into the highest navigable lake in the world. With the carefully executed decision making that consistently provides us with either good fortune or comedic reflection, I say "Why not?" and away we go.
Piled into a boat with a dozen other gringos, we putter off into the glistening lake. We watch as the city of Puno, delicately tucked into the hillside, fades to just a small spec on the horizon. We marvel at our fortune when upon arrival in the city, we find a bloom of activity as it is day one of Puno Week. This is a celebration of the city that consists of children dressing up in there school uniforms and marching in totalitarian form through the city streets.
Earlier that morning, Ian and I had been impressed by our powers of deductive reasoning, we spent the some time figuring out the day of the weeks. Having completely lost track of the time, we labored away to determine the date. After coming up with different days, we voted and established that itcouldn ´t possibly be before Saturday. As we began walking the streets, school children everywhere were dressed in there uniforms and running to there respective schools. The only logical conclusion, it was a Monday morning. Concerned now that our trip was going by much faster than we both expected or remember. We talked of plans of moving on to the next city to ensure we covered the tentative highlights we had laid out. As we walked down the cobble street, we began to hear music in the distance. Turning the corner in the direction of noise, we stood at the head of the entire precession of school children. Hundreds of people lined the streets watching the students marching proudly, toward the befuddled tourists.
While I debated as to whether I should turn and join in marching or just them run me over, Ian pulled me to the side. Still grumbling over our lost days, Ian astutely pointed out that because of the parade, the students could be dressed for school and it not be weekday.Puno provided the circumstance to established the brains of our traveling duo. If anyone needs human shield for protection from a runaway stampede, I am your man. If anyone needs a Macgyver solution with any urgency, I defer to Ian.

Peruvian Pizza

Let me just start be saying...we were both very hungry!

Puno has many restaurants and it can be very cumbersome to decide. Ian and I both share both a dedication to flexibility and a desire for the perfect meals. This often leads us to very belabored process of selecting a restaurant for dinner. This night was no exception.
After settling an honest looking pizza place, glimpse briefly at the menu and proceeded to order. Having previously fallen into the trap of ordering the largest pizza on the menu and being disappointed with the size. This time, that was not going to happen. Not even being slightly deterred by the nameSuper gigantico, we order the pie and pie. There were a couple warning signs I could have been conscious to. The reaction from our waiter could have been a give-away. The cost alone should have sounded an alarm. Nearly double the cost of a high priced meal was a small price to pay to avoid beingdoopped again.
If we had spent a minute to covert the 49cm advertised monstrosity into an understood unit, we would have know what we were getting ourselves into. Halfway though a game of cribbage, a pizza box was delivered to our undersized pizza stand otherwise know as the table. 19.29 inches of extra doughy, extra cheesy pizza lied before us. Sitting in front of a picture window on a busy street, two gringo´s began there quest to epitomize American Gluttony. With only four cuts across, the eight slicepartition was inferred as a clear challenge from the pizza makers. We were ready. As a representative of America and American everywhere, we made you proud. We finished that pizza and acted like it was any other one of the ten daily meals required in our country.

Picçure

Endurance Test (El Misti Day 2)

Well-adjusted people might have been discouraged from gusting 20 mph winds. Rational people might be defeated by the freezing temperatures causing numb appendages. Sound-minded people might even be pessimistic of the lack of energy we both suffered from sleeplessness and elevation sickness. Lucking none of that criterion applied to us. With a light breakfast of an orange and coca tea. We zipped our jackets and headed up. The summit beckoned us. It loomed above us in the dark. We knew the top was there but our reality was limited to the 4 foot spotlight from the illumination of our headlights.
To say we were progressing with ferocity and fervor would be a lie. Our blind optimism was quickly replaced with pure endurance. After hour one, I was mentally comparing the hike to to the last three miles of a marathon. The only positive thoughts that guide me to the finish of a marathon is the notion that I am almost done. After hour one, were had completed a mere eighth of our trek.
Each step in the fine lava dust would provide support for only a small stride of gain and the settling of each placed foot would include a half stride of loss. One step for the exertion of two. We cruising up the mountain with momentum of a turtle moving uphill in the wrong direction. The when we reached the steep rocky section we were both grateful and appalled. It was a triumph to transfer of the silty dust paths but of course we had dragged ourselves up to the steep rocky section. The definition of a mixed blessing. We pushed onto the rocky weave bounding up the volcano like a vine up tree. Our pace of ten minutes of progress to two minutes of rest quickly became unmanageable. Ten steps, grasp for air, ten more steps, grasp for air, ten more steps, a silent prayer and then desperate search for the summit to appear in our four foot path of vision.
Five hours into our pathetic trek of self-pity and humility, I collapsed into a pile behind a large boulder. My numb hands and feet welcome the frigid rock as a pleasant escape from the whipping wind that transformed from a gusting nuisance to constant impediment. I had run out of motivation. I was exhausted. My head screamed at me to get more oxygen. The longer I ignored it the more it dominated my awareness. The only two thoughts that gave me hope were one; due to the grade, going down in the dark was not an option and two; the summit MUST be close. A guide and his client, hiking 5 minutes behind us, caught up to our resting point. "How much longer do you think it is to the top?" the client asked.
"Tres Horas," he replied.
First, I was sure he was joking. The statement put me into shock. I was unable to the comprehend the impossibility. Quickly, I realized that I was being irrational. I understood the truth and the weight of the mountain came tumbling down on me. It pinned me to the ground. I had nothing left to give. It was over.
I have never been in fight. I got punched once in High School by a bully but the shock was so powerful that I was left standing in the hall holding my stomach, with a dumb grimace on my face. The punch was not remotely painful but I still processed a consuming power. From this limited experience inflicted bodily harm, I would liken my sensation for the next hour and a half with what a boxer must feel just seconds from knockout. With blurry daze, no feeling of self control, my body rose to my feet and stumble up the path ahead. My oxygen deprived consciousness was merely a passenger in a determined body. It was not providing the commands but clumsily, I proceeded.
The sun began to rise...I kept going.

The ground turned back to the lava silt...I kept going. The wind picked up to a steady 50 miles per hour...I kept going. The path wandered up to false summit after false summit...I kept going.
I small natural steep stair case wound it way around large protruding boulder. I warily plopped my feet on each one and pushed my body higher. My head popped up above in rock and there it was. Less then a mile away a 12 meter cross rose from the highest point of the volcano. Like a shock of lighting, I was back. My body was mine again. The sore muscles, cold appendages, and piercing headache flooded back to reality. These played no match to the last of my cognition that struck me with my destination in sight. I was oozing motivation. It flowed through me with each commanding step. It expanded my lungs and grappled the cold. A smile spread across my face. We pushed our way up to summit elevation and crossed a thin traverse on lava silt with steep drops bounding us to placing our steps immediate succession. Small pebbly rocks were lifted from the mountainside and flung relentlessly sting as it came to contact with our exposed faces. I tilted my shoulder into the wind just to maintain forward momentum against the insistent winds.
100 steps...50...20...10...5...4...3...2...1
I collapsed into the cross. Never has positioned atheist every found so much relief from a cross. I had found GOD!

Yeah, that is bullshit. I was was just relieved to have made it. We rejoiced, rested and downward we went. The worst part of this climb quickly became the best. Only twenty meters on either side of the path to the top were rivers of the disdained lava silt. This was the path to the bottom. Ian and I stood atop with gritty river and in unison, lept forward in the gravity defying glide back to oxygen. The 15 hour pain-staking journey to the top became turned to

a gentle, flowing, rhythmic decent

back to civilization.

Within minutes, we able to slip the grips of asphyxiation. Our exaggerated leaps down the side of the volcano brought us closer to warmth. We had made it. For the first time that day, feeling tingled back into my toes and fingers. My goal was to reach the summit. I had made it but in the process the goal became trivial. I had tested myboundaries. I came close to my edge. My onerous ego was stripped away replaced with glee and humility. I had completed the education of El Misti.