Journey Man

Private room?  Heck yes. Only the best for El Presidente!  Something seems off with my en suite bathroom though.

A little rough but a great place to chat with a good, midwestern fella until four in the morning.

So, as I stated in my last post, I woke at 8 a.m. and started the morning with two cups of coffee on the roof where I ended my evening just 4 hours earlier.  I borrowed a metropolitano card from Lien at the front desk. Then began a journey of epic proprtion that will certainly go down in my history as a day to be remembered and a day to try and forget. Many obstacles were overcome, none larger than a tired phone battery that could simply not keep up with the demands of its master.

Out the door and facing a 20 minute walk to the bus station which actually took 40 minutes just to find it, I was greeted by a potential breakfast selection on the street.Because I don’t like chicken for breakfast, I proceeded onward assuming, naturally, that I would find some type of breakfast food. Let me save you the suspense. I did not. So, after realizing that speaking Spanish or rather, not speaking Spanish would potentially be a problem for me and the fact that no one spoke English nor was there anyone compassionate enough to assist, I managed to stumble across the bus station thanks to Google.  Confusion, however, was never far from my side. Once again, since I do not understand Spanish any more than I am able to read Spanish I had to choose one of four buses going two different directions without any assistance. I managed to cram myself into one of these machines along with what had to be several hundred other like-minded individuals who clearly knew where they were going but not how to cleanse or deodorize their bodies.  So, I passed by Hotel Marco and took a photo but I will spare you the boredom. I got to Plaza Norte and had to choose between Happyland or a movie with selections in Spanish except for My Little Pony. I passed.

Once I got off the bus in an area that was certainly nowhere near my destination, I began to lay rubber on the streets with my new Adidas.  Remember, I haven’t had breakfast yet. I’m seeing all kinds of what could potentially be something delicious but rather than risk being grossed out and potentially physically harmed internally, I was excited when I spotted the familiar golden arches in the distance as an oasis amid the chaos. Upon entering this fine, unfamiliar establishment, I approached the counter and asked the girls for a hamburger because I didn’t recognize the pictures they were displaying on the board. This was followed by laughter. To which I replied, “Are you still serving breakfast at 10:45 a.m.?”  The reply was more laughter and giggling. At this point, I was fairly certain that I was not going to be having a hamburger or any of my usual favorites. With hunger firmly entrenched and disappointment cloaked around me, I simply turned and slinked out the door. It would be another 4 hours before any food passed my lips.

Next, I was on to the sites that Google Trips recommended for me. The plaza de San Martin, the government house, some cathedrals, etc. Again, for your sake I will not include those photos in this blog. For those of you who are extremely disappointed by that last statement, reach out to me personally and I’ll be more than happy to share them.

Now, I’m walking around Lima taking pictures of anything that interested me. Little did I know it at the time but I took a photo of a mountain in the background behind some flowers that I approved of. I loved the juxtaposition of the hill with the hillside houses and the flora in the foreground. It really spoke to me. I even noticed on the top of the hill, a cross, but I didn’t pay much attention to it other than, I liked it.

Bored with the “clean” side of the city, I decided to cross a pedestrian bridge into what I would refer to as perhaps the “neglected” part of the city. What really caught my attention was all of these colorful hillside homes. I wondered, who lives in these houses and what does life look like for them?  I had no idea the adventure of which I would soon embark.

Things started off slow enough and much as I would have expected. The familiar smell of urine and dog feces in every conceivable place except where it would belong. Houses of all types of construction and random dogs walking about trying to scare me to no avail. Secretly, I was scared inside but I know that you’re not supposed to show fear to a dog so I just didn’t do it.

I was really making some progress up the hill. Amidst all of the dogs and subsequent dog turds everywhere, I watch kids play in the street, I saw soccer balls lodged on the top of a tin roof that will never be recovered because to go out and get it would mean you would certainly land inside the house. Now, when I say house, you must understand that I just mean something with some walls and some corrugated steel on the roof or anything else they can find.

I really started to notice at this point or should I say it was really confirmed for me at that moment that the people of Lima, Peru have no interest in saying hello or even acknowledging that there’s another living being facing them and smiling at them and saying “hola”. Because they don’t respond and they act as if I’m invisible. Which is hard to imagine since I am the only white person that I saw for the entire day. Spoiler alert! Wait, that reminds me, someone did speak to me.  Two homeless ladies or maybe just two ladies sitting on the sidewalk; “Gringo”, said one followed by “Norway?” from the other.

Now it really starts to get juicy.  As I’m deciding which path to take, left or right, I hear someone say, “Chico”, to which I of course ignored because that’s not my name and I don’t even know what that means. Upon hearing that phrase uttered a couple of more times, I thought it warranted my attention and so I turned. A gentleman began waving me towards him, back down the very steps I had just acended.  I approached and he started speaking in Spanish. I said, “no ingles”.  Now, in retrospect, I realize that means I don’t speak English. But that doesn’t stop him as he continues to go on and on and I don’t know what he’s talking about but I did recognize the word “cuidad”. Danger. I said Danger? He says something about, you can’t be up here, it’s dangerous so I proceed to follow him down and listen to him tell me what I think he was telling me. I ascertained that he was perhaps a history teacher. He rattled off places like New York, Maryland, Delaware, which led me to believe that he may have been a history teacher in those places. However, due to his inability to converse in English, I don’t think that was the case. But again, let’s remember I told him that I didn’t speak English.

So I tell him that I would like to find the bus station. I would soon find out that not only does he not understand that, neither did the people in the morning and neither would anybody understand that question for the rest of the day.

I never caught the man’s name and it’s probably because I never asked. What I did notice was when he mentioned the word Museum and started ascending the steps in a different area. I also noticed right away that this gentleman had a very difficult time breathing. True, we were at a high elevation and I’m much younger than him but I seem to be doing okay. So, while dodging puddles of urine and misplaced dog feces I was finding myself concerned for this man’s health. Wondering what I would do if he simply died on me. Would I just walk away because I have no idea what to do? I couldn’t really issue CPR because, quite frankly I don’t know how to do that except for what I’ve seen on TV. I can’t speak the language so I can’t ask for help from anybody. So, as he rested multiple times I found myself in that familiar place of impatience. Waiting for someone who is clearly incapable of walking the steps to guide me to wherever he is guiding me.

It’s at this point that an idea creeps into my head that begins to grow. I start wondering where this man is taking me and why I would be allowing him to do so. I feel like I’m getting further and further away from civilization. Like the higher we go the less likely anyone is going to be able to hear me scream. As we near the top I’m trying to tell him that I’ve seen enough but again, he doesn’t understand English. We come around a bend and he knocks on some ramshackle huts wooden door and I’m certain that that’s a que to the inhabitant that a victim has been brought for sacrifice, that we will be right back down, and he needs to be ready for me.

So all the while this so-called history teacher from New York who can’t speak English is planning my demise, I’m already planning my retaliation and how I would strike back to save myself and to counter any attack by these potential scoundrels, when the unexpected happens. We round the bend and he simply said, “fini”, and waved his hand gesturing me to finish the walk alone.  He said, “bye”.  To which I responded, “caio”.  I continued to walk the steps to the top.

I reached the top. I’m amazed by the views. I’m further amazed that I can still hear all of the sounds of the city below. It’s just me and some lady trying to light a candle and a guy selling some stuff.  I was grateful for the guy because I didn’t have any water for my entire hike and he sold me a bottle of water. I had half a sole to use for the bathroom that’s up there but since it had a big padlock on it that didn’t accept coins, I basically realized I was not going to be using the bathroom. At the top I found the cross that I had seen from way down in Lima. I took a couple selfies and started to piece together a plan to avert the danger that likely waited me if I descended this mountain in the same manner in which I had conquered it. Surely there were villains waiting for me around the corner on those very stairs that I had just laid to rest.

I noticed a paved road below where I had exited the stairs. Surely this road would lead to the town below and allow me to evade my attackers on the stairs. Of course it would also be likely free of urine and dog feces. Rather than take the obvious approach and quite frankly to add some adventure, I decided to scramble down the mountainous terrain, freeform, in a straight shot to intersect the paved road approximately 100 yards below. The decision may have saved my life. Or the lives of those would-be attackers. I proceeded down the hill, at times running until I felt a blister forming on the bottom of my foot. I came upon a small village or better yet, an area where, through some slick negotiating, using my complete lack of English to understand, I somehow managed to get into a motor Taxi with a young man who drove me down to the valley below, all the while dodging every conceivable obstacle as I am sure you can imagine. Once again I was dropped into an area that was completely unfamiliar and the slate was once again wiped clean allowing me to start all over again to gain my bearings.I failed to mention earlier but due to my complete lack of communication skills in this country I have not been able to utilize public transportation effectively. So essentially, I’m walking everywhere that I go. I have however up to this point now paid to enter the bus area only to stand around confused and ultimately leave and decide it would be quicker for me to walk than it would be for me to figure this out and potentially go the wrong direction if I’m wrong.

My next destination is Miraflores. It’s a town with some parks located on the ocean. The west coast of Peru. Some pretty iconic places there. So, as I make my way through the streets of Lima in search of a bus station I find myself making my way slowly toward the ocean and it’s a gradual and almost imperceptible decline to the ocean.

I make my way through San Isidro. Finally, I was seeing some clean streets and some nice homes.  The streets are lined with trees and the chirping sound of birds is wonderful, although I can’t seem to locate any of them in the trees.  I continue on through San Isidro to the ocean where I walk straight into the first park on my list. It’s marginal at best. I take some photos along the way to Park of Love.

I begin my trek back to the hostel. At this point I’m at the ocean and I’ve got about 10% power left on my phone. I locate a possible bus station and start walking that direction.

As I’m walking I begin contemplating the day. While I’m grateful for the opportunity to experience this culture, it is with little sadness that I depart the capital city vowing never to return.   I have seen the streets and walked what feels like many of them. I left a piece of me in this town. I left a lot of my shoe in this town.  I entered a situation, that of which I did not belong.  The odds were stacked clearly against me and I’m proud to say that I prevailed.  I accomplished everything that I wanted to accomplish. I saw everything that I wanted to see and more. The city was merciless as it tried to beat me down with odors and noise and confusion and ignorance and inhospitality.  I was hungry.  I was thirsty.  I was lost most of the time. But I kept moving forward, regardless of where that led me and I achieved my goals. For that I say thank you Lima.  I may be better for it.

I climbed a mountain to the highest peak. I walked almost 22 miles, 43,060 steps, and experienced a capital city in ways that I never need to do again. The streets smell of urine similar to that of New York City. The noise ceaselessly pounded me until I almost gave up. Garbage is discarded as though it’s a national pastime. I literally got bit on the leg by a dog. It was a clean escape and I was able to shoo him away before either one of us incurred further damage.

I reached the bus station for the final time and began the process of negotiating which train to get on. Have I learned nothing today? It was time for some luck and so I chose Expreso Ocho. I loaded myself into this end-to-end box with everyone else in Lima. Holding on to anything to keep from falling over was truly unnecessary. My mind was focused on the different parts of my body that I could not reach if someone were to decide to take something from me. Once again, I stuck out like a sore white thumb. No one was friendly or hospitable. Everyone fighting for more space even though there was none. The stench of the bus, to which I contributed, was something to behold.  I exited the bus and walked the remaining 30 minutes to my hostel through what had to be one of the most incredible traffic scenes I have ever seen. Navigating through the incredibly large roundabout was surely the result of luck as well as ingenuity, frustration, and impatience. But I made it back to my hostel safely and for that I’m grateful. Because I’m able to type this blog, I am certain that you are grateful.

Until tomorrow.

I’m headed to the airport this morning to fly to Cusco, Peru. Packed high expectations. Texted with a friend last night who I haven’t heard from in a long time. She used to live in Miraflores, the area I mentioned briefly in yesterday’s blog. It’s down by the water. Anyhow, she says I must return on my last day for ceviche, supposedly the best in all the world. Oh, and Carne Assad.

So, ciao, Tupac Hostel. You served me well. See you in a week.

Well, the cab driver showed up on time, we made it to the airport with time to spare, and I made it through check-in with no problema.  I even found a place where I could get a sandwich and a strawberry smoothie.  After taking a bus to the plane, I boarded and, taking my seat, I noticed that someone had removed the seat in front of me.  Exit row I guess.  Looks like today was going to be my day…..Flying over the Andes and coming into Cusco was better than expected.  I suppose however, when you expect little, you are rarely disappointed.  I crack open the window shade in time to capture some snow covered peak poking through the clouds and welcoming me to the Andean city of Cusco.

So, as I was saying, I drop into Cusco cautiously optimistic that I would not only fall in love with this place but that great things would happen.  After all, so far so good and flying over the Andes was magnificent.

I exit the airport and am greeted by warm weather.  The sun shining brightly and reminding me that not only had I packed sunglasses but that I was sunburned from yesterday in Lima even though I never saw the sun.

Navigating the horde of taxidrivers with varying sales techniques, any of which may have worked had I known what they were saying or what to tell them.  As it turns out, accepting an offer from one of these road warriors may have saved me hours of walking and exploration but I may have missed some of what I consider to be extraordinary experiences.  Some that will surely sound made up, but let me get to that.

Plugging Antawara Hostel into my GPS, I see that it is a mere 3.6 km away from my current location.  So naturally, I start walking.  I want to get there and get my bearings before setting out to explore.  First order of business, sunscreen.

I notice right away that while the architecture is much the same, the air smells fresh.  Absent that familiar urine smell that I have grown used to.  The elevation change is palpable. Even a stroll along this level ground becomes slightly difficult.  I guess more different than difficult.  Plenty of dogs as usual.

Interesting story about the sunscreen.  I pop my head into a shop that looks like it might sell such a product.  Not surprised by my incredible deductive skills, it turns out I was right.  After the usual, “I don’t know what you are saying, what do you want, speak english, how much, etc.”, I arrive at a decision.  What transpired next was an impressive display of cunning and math, neither of which was provided by me.  The suncreen was 25 Soles.  Now, I typically get around 3 to 3.25 Soles per US dollar.  So I’m expecting it to cost right around $8 dollars US so I transfer a ten dollar US bill from my hand to hers.  She takes out the standard calculator and looks me in the eye and says, “2.5 Sole per US?”.  I say ok.  She types that into her calculator and joilà, it comes out to $10 US dollars.

Back to the walk. Unlike the bustling city of Lima, where the cars battle eachother constantly for supremacy, I find that the drivers here are more docile and cooperative.  In Lima, each of these wheeled machines makes their way through the streets haphazardly and yet effectively.  Each beast showing the scars of battle and yet they continue the grind fearlessly.  They know every inch of their machine and just how much space is between them and any given obstacle.  While they are certainly not required to have working turn signals, they absolutely MUST have a working horn.  It is a magnificent and mildly terrifying dance I witnessed as I walked those streets.  Cusco, in the historic district, shows some evidence that they too like to dance in the streets.

Back to the walk.  As I approach what Google Maps is assuring me is my destination, things are not looking good for me.  Quite frankly, I am concerned.  I walk along and over roads of dirt and broken concrete next to auto shops and machine shops.  No restaurants, no hostels.  “You have arrived”, makes its way from the phone in my pocket to my ears.  That feeling of being let down by Google again, creeps into my head.  Ever the challenger, I am up to this.  I walk around the block many times searching.  Always arriving.  Never arriving.  I am very hungry.  It is time to settle down and regroup.

I find a restaurant and wander inside with absolutely no notion other than to eat whatever they will give me.  I am seated by a young man with no English skills of course, but then a miracle happens.  He opens a menu and points to Ceviche Classico.  I say yes.  Flipping the menu over, I point to the dark cervesa I like.  Away he goes.  Meanwhile, I catch up with work and download Google Translate.  I ask how to find my hostel and no one knows.  The beer and food arrive and to my delight, I have found what I have been searching for.  I ate and drank as a king.  Through Google, I locate a promising lead.  Could it be that a mere hour and twenty minute walk from here to historic Cusco would be where I would find my hostel?  What the hell else was I going to do, so I start walking.

Here is where it gets fun and maybe, at times, fantastical.  I am walking along through neighborhoods with children in school and playing.  I come across a park with a huge slide. The kind you see at a fair and you slide down on a potato sack.  No potato sacks, just kids sliding down and releasing the laughter they probably held in all day in school.  I decide to make my way to an area of even more familiarity.  A group of men playing soccer on a concrete field with concrete walls and steel goals.  I take off my super heavy backback that I forgot to mention I have been carrying for miles and plan to rest.  Not long after, I am invited to join.  Seriously?  Hell yeah!  Just like playing with the Latinos back on Hilton Head.  I fit in like I expected to and had one of the best times in the sport since playing in the Amazon.  The day was starting to shape up.  I bid the gentlemen adios, and started walking.  As I walked, I wondered what so many men were doing gathered in that spot.  Didn’t they have work?

So, I am walking.  Thinking.  Walking.  Thinking more.  Some good.  Some not so.  I see a young man throwing bigs bags of onions on his back from the truck I just walked by and disappear into a building.  I had seen this yesterday in Lima and wanted to help but thought it an imposition or rude.  This was my moment.  I tossed my backpack into the back of the truck and took on one of those massive bags.  I shouldered it through the door, past the counter where more unrecognizable food was being prepared and into the back where the young man gently lowered his bag to the concrete and leaned it against the wall.  Turning, I think he was startled to see me.  True to form however, no smile or thank you, just a curious look of acceptance that I was there to help until the job was done.  As if I had arrived here with him in that truck and jumped out to unload.  Sadly, there were only three bags remaining.  He got one, I got one, he got the last one.  A small nod of the head and that was it.  I climbed into my backpack.  I started walking.

Following the GPS, I am entrusting Google once again to bring me in for a landing.  Was I wrong in trusting such incredible technology with satellite imagery?  Would I be wrong to assume that a website like Travelocity would know if they booked me into a hostel that no longer exists?  I think I was wrong guys.  I arrive at a street that should house a hostel by the name Antawara, and Calle Nueve Baja 464 is the address.  Well, once again I find nothing as it should be.  I circle the block a few times.  “You have arrived”.  Shut the heck up, dammit.  I think I would know if I have arrived.  So, I calm down and ask for help.  Insert laugh right here.  I move to the other side of the street and study the building across the street for any clue.  I see it!  A small “464”.  I cross the street for a closer look at this bright blue door that is only about four feet high and could not possibly be the place.  Upon further examination, I see a doorbell with several businesses and names listed.  I will be damned, one is Antawara.  I press the button which emits the sound of a gym coaches whistle.  This happens several times until I get buzzed in only to meet a gentleman who, get this, doesn’t speak English.  He directs me to another lady even though behind him I see what I saw in the pictures when I booked.  The lady sends me away saying something about Air BnB.  I find the man again as I stand literally where the photos for the marketing of this hostel were taken.  I show the man my phone indicating my reservation.  He speaks broken English saying simply, “Closed”.

Wow!  So, long story short, I sat on the curb searching for a nearby hostel and I found Atawkama.  Definitely a downgrade from the last place but it has a bed.  This place is cold and I am shivering as I type this.  I will plant myself in one of the bars I passed in my journey and make it a great night.

Side note, the crossing guards here are all women dressed like this and full make up.

Later y’all…….

It’s a pretty uneventful evening for me here in Cusco, but as you know from my latest post I have found a place to lay my head for the next two evenings. It’s pretty basic as basic goes. I will include a photo montage to try to give you a flavor for this place. Followed up shortly there after with commentary.

The courtyard right outside my door is somewhat entertaining as I try to figure the vision of the garden space.  I open my doors right out onto the courtyard. My door is an interesting story in and of it’s self. It’s locked with a padlock from the outside and some type of ancient mechanism for locking it on the inside. I suppose I feel safe because of the massive green door that you see in the photo that somebody would have to break through to get in here. Of course we had to break out of the place earlier so I could get some dinner. I did take time to stop on my way out and appreciate the Peruvian painting of a woman apparently breast-feeding, except the child doesn’t seem to be taking the milk. I stared at the painting for a long time to try to find its true meaning and was unable to do so and for that I am ashamed.

I look across to the unisex bathroom.  The few strands of some type of vine provide so much privacy!  I am reminded once again that in South America the plumbing is not set up to accept toilet paper but a trashcan is. I get little satisfaction out of opening the container to put my toilet paper in there but I do find solace knowing that the next person may have the same feelings as they look upon the layer I leave behind

I make it through the rain to a place that I believe serves chicken. I was afraid to go in because I don’t know how to order food so I stood outside for a moment. I gathered what little strenth I had left today and crossed the threshold into this chicken establishment. The familiar exchange of, I don’t speak Spanish took place again. I have yet to perfect this dance. I stood there in a stalemate staring at the woman who was staring at me.  I simply did not know what to do but I knew that I was hungry. I looked at the man who was pulling chicken out of his rotisserie as he chopped the chicken with a butcher knife and placed it on a plate snuggled up with a pile of what appeared to be french fries and a small pile of rice that at one time dominated the plate before the fries came in and the chicken made it made itself at home.  As our eyes met, I looked to the chef and indicated by hand gesture that I would like one of those plates. He gave me a thumbs up and I knew I was about to eat some food shortly.  I went to get a soda out of the refrigerator and I found it was merely something that resembled refrigerator but didn’t actually keep things cold. I settled for an orange Fanta.

Dinner started with a bowl of soup which is apparently customary here. My first spoonful brought out something I had never seen before in a bowl of soup. A chicken foot. I went ahead and removed that completely placed it on the saucer. My next spoonful pulled up something that I knew to be some type of organ and against my better judgment I ate it because I was hungry. Powdery like liver.

Meanwhile, The Gladiator was playing in Spanish with Spanish subtitles. A little redundant and it didn’t help me get into the story.

The soup was tasty and it was perfect on a cold rainy night. Once my food arrived, I dug into, honestly, the best rotisserie chicken I have ever tasted and may ever taste in my entire lifetime and for that I am sad.  The rice was cold as to be expected since it was the first inhabitant on that cold plate. I sprinkled what would appear to be a very fine dusting of salt on my french fries. After a couple of french fries were consumed, I decided I might opt for a condiment. Which one to choose however? There was a green one, a red one, a white one, and a yellow one. I’m pretty sure I know what was in each but I opted for the red one since it was probably ketchup.  I went to dispense the ketchup onto my fries and was unexpectedly greeted with a watery red substance that jumped across my plate and onto my pants. I managed to get a drop of it on my plate and it tasted like ketchup. But more importantly, the pants.

These pants and I have been through a lot over the last three days. I’ve worn them every day and they have served me well. I have not wanted to part with them because I feel like they would be sad. I have the brother pair of pants in my backpack waiting to get called up to the big league. Waiting and wanting to do battle. To smell the smells, to absorb the food that gets wiped on them.  The water from washed hands without any paper towels. I’m just not sure they’re ready for it yet though. These pants just have a never say die attitude about them that I’ve grown quite fond of.

One last observation is that when it rains,  as it is, and hasn’t stopped, the rain pours down outside my door sending shards of rain to litter my door. From there, the water runs down my door and invites itself into my room. Makes itself at home on the floor and in the floor.  Somebody came out and put a large garbage can out there to catch the water which turned into quite a large ruckus. But now with the bucket laid on its side to deflect the water away from my door we appear to be drying up in here.

So, I want to sit in here and read my book and get some good rest and prepare for hopefully a day without rain tomorrow.

Good night.

This is gonna be a long one folks.  BIG day!  Grab a drink, make it look like you are working, put the kids to bed, tell your spouse you are reading an article on Russian politics.  Here it comes.

Waking to see the sun rise, looking out my barely there curtain, I see we are overcast, the sky and me.  I get up anyway, get packed for departure, have coffee and breakfast, scrambled eggs on some bread, and I bid adios to my host.

My feet start in the proper direction and I am walking again.  I am going to meet my driver of the collectivo to take me to Ollantaytambo.  First thing I notice is fewer dogs on the street.  Perhaps the death match from last night ended in a lot of fatalities or perhaps all of the popping noises I heard last night was gunfire, mixed with barking of course.  Maybe its dog hunting season, maybe its the purge.  Anyway, I digress.  I find a better collectivo than expected.  It’s me in the front seat of a newer sedan and a couple of Peruvians in the back.  We had to wait until our driver found one more for the backseat and magically, he did.  It’s tight back there but I’m doing just fine, thanks.

Passing through Poroy was nice.  Rolling hills and lots of farms.  But something caught my attention that got me thinking.  It seems like when I see these Peruvian ladies, the ones with the familiar colorful clothing and the sling around their shoulders hunched under the weight of God only knows what, that none are young.  Are the youth getting out of this place in a search for a more modern lifestyle?  Is this a dying generation?  What happens when there is no one coming up to replace this generation?  Do they just never die?  Access to media and technology has surely rung the death knell for these interesting and historically cultural people.  The youth does not want to walk around all day doing who knows what, carrying who knows what.  They want to live!

Winding through the hills at a breezy 80 km per hour, the scenery is absolutely delicious.  Hills, farms.  I eat it up by the spoonful.  An air freshener in the cup holder makes this part of Peru smell great.  Fruity even.

As we wind, I can’t help but wonder why the construction process is the way it is in third world countries.  They start a building and seem to be rolling right along.  Hey, someone has probably drawn up plans, figured out how to pay for material and then they go at it.  The foundation gets laid.  Rebar juts up from the foundation.  Walls of brick start to rise.  Things are looking good.  Then at some point someone says, “You know what, let’s just stop here.  We don’t need a second story, windows, a roof.”  And there these place sit.  I have yet to see one person working on building a structure.  Are there no window people?  No project managers?  Should I move here and be a General Contractor?

I have so much to say about Ollantaytambo, I am just gonna say, I am there now.  I tell my driver to drop me at the hostel which is on the way.  I hop out and immediately have a good feeling.  This is my place.  I know I said that about Cusco but just wait.  Janaxpacha, my hostel, greets me as I walk down the street expertly crafted of stone.  An aqueduct runs the length of the street with crisp and clear mountain water flowing with the perfect amount of force to deliver those notes we all love of a mountain stream.  There is about two feet between the street and the residences.  Each entrance to a residence has a short, flat, stone bridge that leads to its entrance.

I walk into Janaxpacha and I am met by Carl, the owner, and he speaks English!  Carl, I don’t have much time.  Let me pay you, have some of this fresh ground coffee brewed in that French press, some scramble eggs, and get situated.  I have one day to explore and don’t have time for chit chat.  No dogs here but plenty of cats.  A terrace behind the main building provides the ideal place to lounge as it sits, carved from the rock face, sheltered by a thatch roof, and looks straight out to the Andes.

So, if someone were to ask you to imagine something, like a city or anything else without giving you much detail, that would be a difficult thing to do, right?  But that is what makes this world such a marvelous place because our imagination creates wonderful things.  If someone asked me to imagine Ollantaytambo, or the perfect Peruvian town, I would not come close to what is in front of me now.

In the central plaza, as I walk through to purchase a hat and make my way to the mountain trails and the ruins I came here to see, I am taken by the charm.  I love the way they burn incense in bowls by the doors of the shops.  It permeates the entire square.  I make my way to the first mountain I would climb today.

I begin my trek up the mountain to revel in the ruins of long forgotten terraces, no longer maintained, villages no longer vibrating with life and laughter, passageways that no longer endure purposeful and playful traffic, and I end up atop the temple of the sun.  I lingered a while to eavesdrop on a tour group and what their guide had to say about this long forgotten temple until I felt like I was stealing.  At this point I see a peak much higher in the distance and I knew at once that I had to press on.  Of course, in my naivete, I started this trek with only a small portion of water left in my bottle which I carried in my bag.

I was taking in this amazing trek which was extremely strenuous and beautiful at the same time when I was overcome with a perfect moment of clarity.  Everything else faded away.  Finally, I knew what I would give Mary Hartman as a gift when I return.

Now, for those of us who are hikers and climbers, we know the code.  Keep your eyes to the ground and watch where you are walking so you don’t hurt yourself or twist an ankle.  However, you also know that you must stop and look around and appreciate your surroundings.

Like a woodworker rubs his polished bench that he has just constructed with his own hands, pride oozing from his pores, I crest the hill and feel that pride.  There is an ever-present jingle of change in my pocket as it mingles with my reading glasses with every step.  At 9,500 feet I lose the trail.  I look up to the final peak and I see a gentleman resting on the precipice.  Naturally, I holler up to him and ask for assistance with my hands.  He gestures back indicating that I am still on track.  I scramble over a section of rock and pick up the trail.  At the top I meet this young, German man and thank him for his assistance.  We begin to chat.  We try to figure out how to get elevation on my watch so I don’t have to rely on Siri.  We talk about technology and how we are programmed to take a pic of everything we see that we think is interesting.  That there is no way a photo could ever include what we are experiencing in that moment.  Sure, I may look at a photo and remember what I was feeling in that moment, but if I show you that same photo it means nothing to you.  Photos simply cannot capture the emotion and scale of a moment like this and my German friend agrees.

German man shows me a straighter line to the base so I take that in my descent.  Having celebrated the peak with a capful of water, I am ready to get back to civilization and fill up.  So, I literally race down the mountain.  The elevation is once again palpable but I am breathing fine.  I am putting my body to the test and it is responding pleasingly well.

I want to try to wrap this up but I still have another mountain climb.  Let’s speed read, shall we?

I made it to the bottom, running down the last set of stairs.  Went over to a valley ruin and marveled at the aqueduct system in ways that would surely bore you.  Had a satisfactory calzone with fresh lemonade.  Got a bottle of water and started my next climb.

Walked through the perfect little village to the entrance of Pinkuylluna.  I began the climb.  The ruins on this side of the valley are much different and for those of you who want details, just ask.  Including my awesome aqueduct videos, the videos from this side really tell the story.  But absent that, let me give it a try.  The climb was steep and trying.  But I had a goal in mind and no hill is ever going to beat me.

The most surreal moment was at the highest point, close to 9,800 feet above the level of the sea, in an area I should not have been based on the yellow caution tape, my phone began to ring in my bag.  Now, at the same time my eyes caught sight of a cave.  Big enough and inviting enough that I would certainly explore.  Anyway, the phone.  So, I pull the phone out and it is my oldest son, Seth, calling me.  Considering it an absolute privilege to talk with him, I press the green button.  He can’t understand me because I am breathing so hard so he says goodbye and hangs up.  I call him back and we begin our conversation.  Seth has had his car towed and needs the VIN number to find out where it is.  So, here I am, 9,800 feet up, on the side of a mountain talking to my son and figuring it all out.  A moment I shall never forget.  Once resolved and the VIN located, I told him about the cave I was about to enter.  We agreed that I would leave my bag outside which included my drivers license, in case I never made it back.  Also, that I would text him if I did make it out.  We bid each other farewell.

Dropping my bag, I entered the cave.  It was about twelve feet high and three feet wide, angling to a point at the top.  Tan dusty earth and rock underfoot, I walked as far as I could and began to crawl.  Once I determined that I would not attempt to slither through the crevice ahead of me, I backed out and then walked out.

So, the rest of the trek, as they say, is downhill from here.  I want to let the photos show you what I saw.  I, however, will tell you how I felt.  Quite frankly, I felt as though I was a child playing about on this mountain top.  Hopping from rock to rock, exploring homes that once housed a long lost generation.  I played and hopped, I took time to rest and absorb my surroundings.  I made my way to edge of shear drops and lay in the gravel staring at the sky and the mountains while a constant strong breeze blew over me.  The wind was the perfect scent and temperature.  I wore only my pants and a t-shirt and was sufficiently comfortable.

With all of the of the twists and turns each path presented me today I pondered on how life is like that.  A series of twists and turns and you never really know which direction it is going or where it will end up.  We make decisions that lead us in one direction for a while and then we make another decision that changes our course for a bit and so this goes on.  All we can do is hope that one day, one day we will figure it out.

Before I leave, I have one funny story and one sweet story.

The funny story is that I asked Google maps to take me to the first mountain and I followed her directions to a T. The funny thing is that when she told me to turn left down the road it turned out to be just a large stone.

The other story is of a boy that I met after leaving my second mountain of the day.  I noticed he had a walking stick that I instantly knew I wanted. I asked him to stop and, using Google translate, I asked him, “How much for the stick?” He replied, “No, it’s lucky.”  I told him I could tell it was a very special stick. The stick stood about 3 1/2 feet tall.  It was clearly well used. It had black stain about 8 inches long with alternating natural wood between. It had a red ribbon tied around it near the top.  I can only imagine that he went back and told his family that some gringo offered to buy his walking stick. I wonder if he’ll remember that as he grows older and abandons that stick. But I hope, more than any of that, that he will keep that stick and it will indeed bring him luck and that for years to come he will remember the day someone offered to buy that stick from him and he refused.

Oh, and I met a smiley little kid at the hostel.

So, I conclude  this ridiculously long blog, which took me three hours to complete, by sitting out on the terrace as the sound of flute music drifts through the air coming from the Central Square. I’m grateful to be alive and I’m looking forward to another day.

Adios.

This post will be lengthy as I spend the day far from comedic interactions and closer to personal.  There is lots of introspection, outrospection, contemplation, revelation, and recommendation.  So let’s get to it!

From my last entry you would assume that I am on my way hiking to a mountain right now. And that is the plan. I pass through the central square along the way.    Not a lot of activity but I captured this photo for you guys.

Staying only long enough to snap a quick picture, I continue on my journey. Along the way I see all different kinds of flowering plants laid out along a purpose made walkway next to the river.   Looking to my left at the river as I stroll, I take note of the incredibly, unimaginably large boulders that are in the river and worn so smooth. I wonder how they could be so smooth because it doesn’t look like they are ever underwater and also because I don’t know anything about geology.  All around me sheer mountains jut up almost vertically all around me. Unusual bird noises are everywhere.

I make my way away from the city and closer to the base of the mountain and I seem to be the only one going this direction.  I think I am passing by weary travelers in the final stretch of their three hour hike down from Machu Picchu.

At this point my GPS has me lost. I’m walking along the train tracks following the river looking for the trailhead. I’m not alone so I must be going somewhere.  I planned to hike a mountain and ended up walking the tracks for miles.  At no time did I have any idea where I was going, what I was looking for, nor where I would end up.  As they say, and I can attest to, it’s not the destination but the journey. Every bend brought new possibilities.  The anticipation was killing me.

Walking the tracks, I see more and more people headed the same direction as me. About the same amount of people heading back as well.  I feel like they all know where they’re going so there’s that sort of trust thing going on right now.  Have you ever been on a long hike where you’ve been following people ahead of you and trying to anticipate when they would turn off leading to potentially your destination?  In my case, I look ahead of me for as far as I can see and I keep seeing people walk in the same direction as me.  At one point, I heard roaring water and wonder if maybe I’m walking to a waterfall.  It keeps getting louder and I’m seeing fewer and fewer people in front of me headed that direction and more and more people headed back.  I have picked up my pace out of shear anticipation, begin passing everyone, and now I am in the strange situation of having no one in front of me to follow, which is always my preference, but now I have to continue to look back to see if anyone is going to same direction as me. They are.  As I walk the tracks the sound of a train whistle echoes somewhere in the valley and I hope it’s headed this way. With the train passing I marvel at how a huge metal beast like this is so out of place slithering through the jungle.

The tracks end in San Teresa.  Not wanting to be the fool who gets to within inches of the prize only to give up or turn the wrong way, I seek out any possible lead that I can.  Coming up with nothing, I decide it’s time to eat and head back.  Seating myself at another oddly named restaurant that I pay no attention to, I attempt to order.  They were out of empanadas so I ordered the American sandwich.  What a treat because I just can’t find these in America.  Three pieces of white toast formed into somewhat of a club sandwich with slices of cucumber perhaps, tomato, cheese, ham, some flat fried chicken, and a fried egg.  Whatever. I ate it.

Disappointed by the destination, loving the journey.  If I’m going to preach that it’s the journey and not the destination then I need to be alright with this destination.

As I turn to head back, having already put 20,000 steps on the ground today, a slow, cool rain begins to fall that’s absolutely refreshing.  Just enough rain to shine the rocks along my path.

Passing my fellow adventures, I take note of this universal greeting that is so common amongst people other than most of the Peruvians I have encountered.  I say hello and while they respond in their own language, there is a mutual understanding that we are both reading each other. In the South I think we take it for granted that we greet each other as we pass, in the grocery store, whenever.  Out here on the trail I seem to be the one initiating the greetings.   It’s always a pleasure to hear how they respond and with which accent.

While I was fast paced getting to wherever I was getting to on the way there, I’ll take a liesurely, relaxing walk home.  I get to take in everything that was behind me on the way to lunch.

Along the tracks you can stop at one of the trailside refreshment areas and get yourself anything from a beer, to coffee, to a candy bar,  and you can rest in a hammock.

On the walk back I come across a thick stream of ants, marching up from the riverbank, across the gravel, over both railroad rails, across more gravel, and up a super tall vine for as far as I could see.  I thought if I put an obstacle in their way they would freak and have to figure out what to do.  Not the case.

These ants never skipped a beat as they negotiated the obstacle with ease, simply going underneath I suppose. They never seemed to lose focus at whatever their mission was at hand.  So, I suppose if you see an obstacle, just keep going.  Move it, go around it, go under it, just don’t let it stop you.  One could also say, “Where there is a will, there is a way.”

My thoughts drive to work.  Soon I will be returning and leaving my travels behind. I suppose that would cause me great sadness if I wasn’t going back to a work family that I love.  Most of the people that I know cannot understand what it is that we have there as a work family but I  hope one day they will find something so special.  I fell completely backwards into my opportunity.  However, I realize the blessing of my situation, almost daily, and I make the most of it.  My hope is that I can inspire others to have an appreciation for their blessings and that they would make the most of them as well.  That being said if my life could consist of wandering that is what I would do.  Certainly, I want to go home and see my boys and my friends.  Whether I go home or wander, I win either way.

Did I fail to mention the rock in the title?  I did and so I now must share something with you.  In previous entries I failed to mention that I picked up a rock that I liked, about the size of half of a thumb when I was on the top of one of the mountains exploring the ruins.   I felt a strange connection to the rock, or better yet I wanted it.  I’ve been carrying it ever since.  Wherever I am, walking, riding, mostly while walking, I rub my thumb and fingers over the rock repeatedly.  I know every crevice, every imperfection,  and where the smooth spots are.  My rock is very smooth on one side with just a few indentations and a small ridge barely perceptible to the naked eye.  The other side of the rock is more rough and detailed.  It is different, with more indentations, more scars, and perhaps more character.  I love both sides the same.

Now, at one point I arrive at a train trestle.  When I crossed the trestle the first time with everyone, I did what was expected of me and took the pedestrian side.  One the return, however, I walked right down the middle as I crossed, a la “Stand by me”.  Isn’t it interesting that when no one is around you can take your own path without fear of judgment or reprimand?  I do the things I do because I’m fearless and I write the things I write because I’m fearless.

When I think of all of the places that I have been in this world compared to all of the places there is to see, I’m reminded of what a neophyte I truly am.  I am reminded that the world will not come to see me I have to go see the world.

So, while I did not run into calamity or any humorous situations, I did find plenty of time inside my head and outside as well.

When this trip was just a dry erase dream on a calendar, a friend encouraged me to get out there and find myself.  Maybe do some soul searching.  That my life was a complete mess. Certainly on the outside looking in and probably vice a versa, things do not seem to be in order. But “in order” sounds boring to me.

I love y’all and thanks for riding along.