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.

Ignorant Motivation (El Misti Day 1)

I would be easier to outline what we didn´t know about El Misti for the list is far shorter then that of which we did. We didn´t know what 5822 meters was in feet. We didn´t know that the guides carried much of the equipment required for this two day hike. We didn´t know the symptoms of elevation sickness. We didn´t know that 3 people without guides had gotten lost on this trek the previous year. And finally, we didn´t know that this cliff exceeds the elevation of Base Camp One on everest, any point in the continental U.S. and is only 200 feet shy of Mt. Kilimanjaro. Luckily, Ian and I both hold all this knowledge, but the method of education was hands on, head first and jump without looking. We also will never forget that at 19,101 feet, the air only holds half the amount of oxygen compared to that of sea-level.

In full disclosure, the success of our trip was contingent on our short sidedness. We would have had no chance at success if not for our fearless ignorance. We like our general ignorance of the expedition to the night hiking that took place on day two. If we were able to see the summit looming above us, we would have been discourage by our meager progression and suffered certain retreat. Similar to the success of the entire trip, we were motivated by our optimistic ignorance.

As assured by my selective reading of the Lonely Planet Guide book, he first day of hiking was easy. We of course struggled with the acclimation reduce oxygen levels. We forced ourselves to take one deep breath each time we took a step. It seemed to work well. We controlled to the headaches by aggressively gasping for air as we walked. This was successful until about 500 feet below our campsite for the first night. That is when no amount of desperate gasps could prevent tighten of the vice against our skulls.

On the first, day we stopped every ten minutes to fifteen minutes to hydrate. Hydration was merely the excuse we used, we both had ulterior motives. We both wanted to lighten the water weight that made up over 50% of backpack´s heft. We also wanted to ensure our heart´s were not going to spontaneously combust. Only seconds after resuming from long rest, our heart rate jumped to a lightning speed. There was no controlling it. There was just too little oxygen to let our hearts work at any less the maximum capacity. After only five and half hours of hiking, we arrived our camp. With uncontrollable headaches and sunburned faces, we pitched a tent and settled in. The effort of bending over was weighed carefully against the inevitable head-rush that would take control for at least 30 seconds.

The pot of rice and vegetables look most appealing immediately before we realized we brought no utensils. Our appetites quickly took precedent and we watched the sun set far below us as we feasted off our grit covered hands. If we had read the symptoms for altitude sickness, we would know that the speed of digestion drops off exponentially. We also would have know that a common symptom is sleeplessness. Again, comforted by our ignorance we settled in for restless night. The accent to the peak began at 1 AM

How it All Begins

Once the headache´s set in, it becomes the only focus. The world around me slips away. The hiking becomes secondary. All of my energy is focus on the inhale and the exhale. At 15,000 feet, breathing becomes a discipline. The commonly thoughtless act becomes a conscious effort. I find myself questioning what I am doing half way up an 19,101 foot, active volcano with less then two days of acclimation in modest elevation. I´d like to say that I was prepared. I´d like to say I trained for this. I wish I could say I knew what I was getting myself into. But I think of myself as an honest man so I admit with humility that El Misti chewed me up and spit me out.

A mere 12 hours prior, Ian and I sit in the office of Quechua Explorer staring at poster of Mount Everest.

"No Problem!" I say to Ian nodding at the poster, "El Misti today, Everest tomorrow." Thoughts of Krakauer´s Into Thin Air flashed through my head. What´s the worst that could happen, I thought as a you Peruvian woman named Sylvia settled in behind the office desk. We entered the office to hire guide to bring us up the volcano that towered of Arequipa. We had read in the our guide book that it was the easiest accent of a mountain its size. My selective focus allowed me to focus on one word and one word alone...easy.

"60 dollars?" I gawked, in my awkward Spanish. "Per person?" I spit out in disgust. The dream of ascending El Misti was quickly slipping away. I looked at Ian and without saying anything I knew that our combined frugality would not allow us to splurge on the expedition. Not ready to see this day old dream slip away, I asked the only other logical question.

"How much without a guide? How much for ride only to mountain?" I asked, looking for a glimpse of understanding hoping she could translate what could only be associated to Spanish in the loosest of terms. She pause for a minute, realizing what cheap grigo´s we were.

"30 dollars for both," Sylvia said, seeing her opportunity to make the sale quickly fleeting. I looked at Ian. He gave me a nod. We were hooked. We had just booked ourselves a deal for a leisurely stroll up El Misti.

Adventure´s in Arequipa

The Plaza de Armas in Arequepa became our central resting place. Each tour of the city was bookended by a rest in the park. The block-wide plaza was home to a large fountain, communal meeting point of local Peruvian and pigeons adoringly pecking away at the bountiful feed sold by vendors. The city was surrounded by the a never-ending maze of canyons, three daunting volcanoes and sprawling desert with endless volcanic dust. We started off our explorations with a tour of the some churches and religious centers. The dated structure evoke awe in there enormity and grandiosity but the unquestioned catholic commitment leaves me with a bad taste. The endurance of architecture of the 400 year old city is only emphasized by survival of a volcano eruption sweeping away part of the city. The building seem to reflect the same altitude of endurance that is evident in Peruvians.
We quickly are loured into a tourist booking agency with prospect of rock climbing in the canyonous outskirts of the city. After renting gear, we meet a local guide that has plans to climb with his friend in the morning. Inviting us along, he offers us all the services of a guide but with no expectation of money. After find a hostel that is immediately upstairs from the agency. We eat our third meal ofChifa (Chinese in Spanish...I´ll explain in a later post) and rest for the next days adventure.The next morning, we take a cab through the city with the guide pointing out historical attractions and the driver acting in solidarity with the rest of traffic by refusing to use a turn signal at any of the dozens of turns. We walk out from the edge of town and wander through a raw materials mining area to a 200 ft cliff. The volcanic rock is beautifully alluring with its jagged holds and offers precarious assurance that these holds will not crystallize in our hands. I take first lead on the rock. On first inspection. I grab a large parturition of rock and pull myself off the ground, or at least that was my intention. The large chunk of rock detaches for the cliff and leaves stumbling away from the rock face. The guide looks nonchalant and acts as if it the normal start to the climb. As it turns out, this seemed to be the case. I let out a nervous laugh and say to Ian
"At least I know what I getting myself into." I turn back to the cliff and proceed by placing more pieces of protection than my usually adrenaline seeker self is used to. "The goal of this cliff was to climb faster then the falling rocks." I joked to Ian after my climb. The unique rock provided an exciting climbing experience that I would be inclined to return to soon. But I must follow my mother advice when she told me to try everything at least once. It was either that or make sure you stay safe. Sometimes it´s hard to recall motherly advice.
Arequipa lies at 7,550 feet. It is the perfect stopping off point to acclimate to the higher elevations around Peru. It is suggested that travelers spend at least two days here to avoid the altitude sickness that can occur in cities likePuno , the city tucked in the major port of Lake Titicaca. We of course read this after our time in Arequipa. We spent adequate time to adjust to a city likePuno, but not for adventure we had in store. We took a seat on a bench in La Plaza de Armas. We rested our bodies from hiking and climbing of the day. We flipped open our guide book to get some information about the towering volcano looming just north of the city. The brief description left us with more questions then answers. These answers would not come from a book, they would not come from a guide, they were our motivation. They were sought after. They were left to be discovered.

Wake up in a Dream

I squint my eyes to check if they are working. It is pitch dark. The light of a passing truck ensures me my vision still works. Confusion sets in as I am jostled for a deep sleep. I begin searching for clues to reveal how long I have been asleep. Or am I still dreaming. It is too dark. Too quite. I peer around the seat in front of me. A blink green digital clock flashes 12:00. Each flash taunts my curiosity. The blinking doesn´t change but it slowly erodes me sanity.
The bus floats through a mountain pass with mountains loom over the bus n both sides. This sixteen hour bus ride from Lima to Arequipa turns from a sleeper bus ride to a catastrophic containment. The only certainly I can cling to is we are bound by a goal. With each passing minute I am closer to my destination. But with each passing moment, the clock continues to strip away my sanity.
I must to anything to slow the blinking of the clock. My eyes are glued to it. It tells me time is passing but with no context it has the opposite effect than desired. I am left with no judgment of reality based on my surroundings. Is it my surroundings or is it me?
It is not the darkness that leaves me with no concrete reality.
It is my mind.
I will not give into the clock. I take charge of my sanity. I drop my footrest, pull my recliner lever and slop into an uneasy slumber. I will dream away my nightmare.

I again awake into another dream. The widows are light with a hazy white glow. The bus rocks gently as it passes through thick clouds. It winds gently atop a narrow road. The road winds through a rolling mountainous pass with a gray sand complementing the hazy glow of the cloud. The mystic landscape seamlessly is framed by the mountainous surrounding. The cloud impede a clear view of the mountain-tops. The valley is surrounded by unlimited elevation all around. The clouds part the mountains a grant access to our bus. The road dips and rises, perfectly bisecting the cloud bottom and gravelly earth below. The majestic landscape again forces me to question reality over again. The landscape acts as a blank canvas that encourages imagination from all that look upon it. The path climbs and descends three mountain rages. My sanity, perspective and discourse fluctuate accordingly.

A Gentle Transition

The Cab Drive´s eyes spent more time glued to the radio display and his cell phone the on the road. The car sped away from the airport in Lima with a chaotic serenity. The cabbie spewed broken English much faster then he could handle. Ian and I clutched the back seat of the cab and focused on the driver to distract us from the potential accident perpetually occurring at every no-single pass and careless text message.
"I love country!!¨ The drive exclaims turning to look at the two wide eyed patrons clinging to the back of each seat. "What is your favorite type of music?" he asks us, furiously pecking at his cellphone. "I have it all." He begins to list his extensive range of music which included Kenny Chesney, Dolly Parton and Toby Keith. Even with comprehension of the language we didn´t share a common definition with meaning of "having it all".
I could only assume that the Cabbie assume we were flat out racists. Not by anything that we were doing but the cursed skin and American look on our face. Mr. Cab Driver felt it was necessary to take the long way around Lima to show us the groups of white tourists.
"See, See!" he said excitedly pointing at a group of preppy white tourists walking along the stony seaside. "I told you there were lots of Gringo´s like you." I felt much more comfortable having left my KKK mask at home as it was clearly evident just at a glance to tell I disdained diversity.
Our vehicular tour of Lima was not just limited to a comprehensive list of white hangouts. He was also inclined to highlight every attraction that we would already have available to use in the U.S. Prior this cab ride I thought I would have to experience Peruvian culture. I thought I might have to meet new people. I was was concerned I might have to experience something new. Luckily, thanks to the Cabbie, I found a way to experience Lima that would make me feel as comfortable as being in strip mall in NJ.
But alas, I will do the unexpected. I will try something new. I have vowed to super-size every meal I eat at McDonalds!

Reading This Blog May be Hazardous to Your Health

Welcome to Part 2 of the Vagabond Blog Series. For Vagabond Thailand please click here vagabondthailand.blogspot.com

*The Disclaimer*

Everything that will be written in this blog will be some facsimile of the truth. Extravagant embellishment should not just be tollerated, they should be expected. It is the only requirement of Vagabond Peru posts.

I will update as often as possible. That being said, if I am without internet, I cannot post, so don't be concerned by inconsistencies.

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A Journey Begins

The dryer comes to rest with the lapse of its cycle. The clothes, tangled, warm, clean, await the methodical folding and hanging that inevitably follows. The light splashes in on the clothes as the door is pulled open. The inside-out sleeve of a knit polo tangles around the leg of a boot-cut khaki and clings furiously with the aid of static electricity. To the clothes, this is like any other wash. Like all that have taken place previous and all that are soon to come. But the man pulling the clothes out of the dryer knows the truth. The man takes extra care to crease each item. He ensures the seams are in just the right place. The man hangs each item carefully, with care, with an additional precision that is typically lost to monotony. The clothes are unaware of the separation that will come between them and the man. The laundry hangs in the closet, as it always does. Nothing is different. They know nothing of the adventures they are about to miss. But why would a shirt know such a thing? Why would a sock care of lands unexplored?

The clothes are left to hang in the closet. They know nothing of the man's adventures, but the man knows little more.

A bag is packed...
A flight is boarded...
A journey begins...
Peru awaits