Peru By 2: Rise Early, Move Swiftly, Drink Much

Now then, where were we...

Ah yes - deep in the heart of the Peruvian jungle! So anyway, once we had shaken off most of the ancient mystical spell of the Amazon, and found ourselves back in Iquitos, we were faced with an important choice - how to get out of Iquitos. You'll recall that we only had two options: plane or riverboat. In light of the fact, however, that we had only just a few days ago completed an epic five-night riverboat journey to get there, and given also the relative brevity of Ian's trip, I allowed myself to be talked into opting for the far quicker (and far more expensive) plane trip - the first of my travels so far - to nearby Tarapoto, a smallish city just on the western cusp of the jungle, from whence we could travel by land, first west, and then southward along the Pacific coast.

So we flew. And after one night's rest in well-situated-but-otherwise-boring Tarapoto, we nabbed a lengthy bus to the quaint little town of Chachapoyas. I had heard from a travelling friend that there were some wonderfully well-preserved and incredibly beautiful ruins to be visited nearby, so we decided to make that our first stop. As it happened, however, they were just far enough away so as to require an early morning ride out to the site, so we had to wait until the following day. We rose at the ungodly hour of 3AM and made our way down to the minibus pick-up site, where we met with a small gaggle of other puffy-eyed travellers, and set off towards the ruins of Kuelap.

After a few hours drive we arrived on site and were, to our great dissatisfaction, actually too early. The folks who ran the entrance booth had yet to arrive, and so rather than wait around, Ian and I decided to wander up the little stone path and have a look around - surely we could purchase tickets later on. It was a pleasant walk up the site - actually an ancient fortified city balanced atop a high mountain plateau - and we were able to snap a few photos of the impressive outer walls of the thing as the sun made its way up the mountainside. It occured to us then, that we might be able to find a bite to eat somewhere while we waited for the place to open up, and asked some of the workmen engaged in restoring the site where to find some grub.

They directed us downhill to some little stone homes with smoking chimneys, where we found a few tubby Peruvian women cooking up simple fare. I broke fast on a heaping plateful of tallarin - basically spaghetti, coated in a savory meat-flavoured oil - and Ian enjoyed the local specialty of cecina - thinly cut dry beef (or pork) which has been smoked (read: hung over the fire until black and stiff as an old boot), tenderized (read: pounded by hand between two rocks until flimsy) and then briefly deep fried. It was a bit like hot oily jerky - quite salty, and a real work-out for the jaws, but delicious if you were up for it.

Once finished, we wandered back up to the site entrance and found the rest of our tourist friends, all seated around the local guide who would be showing them around the site. We asked to join their group, had a few introductions, and were soon on our way. It was a lovely time, and all very beautiful, but reading about ancient ruins is more than a mite less interesting than seeing them, so rather than try to capture the beauty of the place in words, I'll refer those of you interested to the following photos.

One particularly enjoyable aspect of the tour for us was the fact that a few of the tourists we'd bumped into were from France, giving Ian - a dyed-in-the-wool Montrealer - and, to a lesser extent, myself, an excuse to converse in French. (I must confess that after some seven and a half months of trying to make due in Spanish, my French is pretty much shot. I reach for the words, but they simply do not come. It will take, I think, some time fully immersed in a French-speaking culture for my language to return, but that's another story...) They were intersting enough folks, but a touch serious, and we quickly asserted ourselves as the clowns of the group.

After the tour, Ian and I had planned to spend the afternoon making the some-3-hour climb down the side of the mountain atop which the site was situated into a nearby village where we were told rides could be had back into Chachapoyas. As it happened, the other members of our group had planned on the same and so after a short bite to eat, we all set off together. It must have been about mid-morning, for the sun was still climbing, but out of the protective shade of the site, it's heat could be felt en serio. As we walked on down the steepening slope, our group slowly sectioned off into smaller units, as often happens when folks walk together, and Ian and I inevitably fell once more into our particular brand of talk/song/argument/laughter, although for some reason - perhaps because we were marching, rather than seated on a bus or boat - today, we were particularly given to singing.

Nothing in particular really, although we did seem to favor the Beatles, Kinks, Doors, and various other artists having contributed to the great mass of eminently singable rock-songs of yesteryear. At any rate, as the day wore on, and the sun reached it's peak, the heat came on something fierce, and it soon became clear that the morale of our group was dwindling. The hot, sweaty walk was wearing our European friends down, there was no hiding it. It was perhaps in response to this fact - although Ian and I certainly didn't conceive of it this way at the time, we were just having fun - that our singing became all the more fervent. Whistling, humming, clapping, it didn't seem to matter. There was no tune we couldn't handle that day, and soon enough the laughter was flowing, and requests were coming in from all sides. Don't get me wrong, we were hot and tired too - it was one long walk down - but once we got started, we couldn't stop, and were almost saddened when we finally reached our destination at the bottom of the hill.

Exhausted and sunburned, we all sat in a line along the shady side of a little string of shops and took a moment to rest. Incidentally, a largeish truck had driven a few of its rear wheels over the small curb of the one bridge out of town, making us effectively stranded there until the crack team of Peruvian passersby were able to shimmy it loose. And so boots came off, food was produced and/or purchased, and a little roadside luncheon ensued while we all waited. The French had packed bread, ham, cheese and tomatoes, and so made themselves delightful little French-tourist sandwiches, while the rest of us had to make due with fresh avocadoes, bananas, mandarins, and big fat Peruvian peanuts (which tasted, to my naive amazement almost exactly like raw peas). Luckily, a German girl among us had brought along some salt and spices of which we all made good use, until at last the truck was freed-up, and we all went our separate ways.

Our next stop was Chiclayo, on the coast, which, as it turns out, would wind up being the only city (apart from Lima) which I would visit more than once, despite having already made my way down this road - the Panamericana - to meet Ian earlier in the month. We took a room at the same little cheapie place I'd stayed prior, and after goofing around a bit in the city's huge central market, rewarded ourselves for the big trek with a delicious meal of clay-oven-pizza and a sizable carafe of vino. It would be big travel the next few days down to Chimbote and then on to the little coastal city of Casma, from whence we planned to make a short dash East into the heart of the Peruvian Andes, to Huaraz. We wound up arriving in Casma in the late afternoon, just a touch tardy, we learned, to find buses up to Huaraz that day, and so opted to spend the night there, and leave early the following morning, again.

With little to do in Casma that night, we found ourselves out wandering the streets once more in search of a cold drink. We found a place, in a little square on the edge of town, and sat for a few as the sun went down. The following morning we stumbled out into the still-dark streets and caught our little minibus up into the hills. As the sun rose we shook the sleep from our eyes and took in the breathtaking views offered on all sides. It had been hard for me to drive past these incredible mountains on my way down to meet Ian, but seeing them now in the fresh morning sunlight, it was well worth the wait. Soon after we began to see the string of glaciated peaks along the horizon, we began to descend, and as we wove switchback after switchback down the face of the hill, the beautiful city of Huaraz began slowly to emerge, nestled into the bosom of its great snowy matriarchal guardians.

Incidentally, the day of our arrival in Huaraz was none other than Huaraz Day, and the great sweeping streets and main plazas were all clogged with marching bands and soldiers in full get-up, and the sidewalks all lined with Peruvians of all ages come out to see the festivities. It was all very nice, and Ian and I made sure to count our blessings at having arrived on such a lucky day, but we were pooped from our lengthy bus ride too, and pushing our way through the crowds began to wear on us after a while, especially when it became apparent that finding a cheap room might be harder than we thought. We eventually did find one however, not far from the main square, and after a short rest, we ventured out once more, to soak up some of the festivities in better humour.

The following day, we figured that since we'd made it this far up already, we'd better have a crack at venturing a little further into the mountains to have a look around at this incredibly beautiful and rugged part of the world. Ian wasn't too keen on making any serious climbs, and I'd already had my fill of that in Equador anyway, so we figured we'd just ask around about a suitable daytrip, and see how far up we could get before we started to tire out. The folks at our hotel suggested a lovely little glacier-bound lake not too far up, and gave us directions on how to get there. We'd risen early this day, as usual, but had shared a leisurely breakfast before asking at the front desk, and so it was a bit late in the morning before we actually got moving.

We found a little bus stand nearby, as per our directions, and were quickly scooted up to the last little village on the outskirts of town where we were dropped off and commenced our walk up to the national park of which this particular lake was a central feature. It was hot and dusty throughout, but once we got into the wider spaces, and could see the snowy Andean peaks on the horizon ahead of us, we knew we'd be in for a good walk. The heavy silence of open space swept through the valley all around us, and we settled into a steady rhythm, our breath growing heavy for the altitude. Not only had Ian never been up this high before (3500-4000m) but we had only just yesterday been at sea level, making our ascent a rapid one, even by the standards of seasoned climbers. So we were pushing our luck a bit. That said, it was nice to sweat a little, and again we laughed and chatted in our customary way as wandered along.

After about two hours, we came to the entrance of the national park, and were told by the only other person around - a young fellow selling entrance tickets - that it would likely be another three hours or so up to the lake - but well worth it. We had been told that minibuses back into town stopped around 6PM, and were a bit wary about making it back down in time, but I for one, was excited to have a go at it. Ian indulged me at first, and we started up toward the sizable mountain looming before us. It was a fair bit steeper now than it had been before, and we were both puffing pretty hard. I was doing my best to encourage Ian to continue, but began to back off some when he started complaining of headache and diziness. As I had learned in Equador, such symptoms are not to be taken lightly, and so when he informed me that he'd be far happier sitting to enjoy the afternoon sun at the mountain's base while I went on ahead and had a crack at making it to the lake, I was bummed, but decided it was probably the best idea.

We agreed on a meeting time, after which he would head back down toward town and wait for me there, and I set off up the hill at my best pace. I knew it would be tight, but I wanted to make it. It wasn't long before I was puffing good and hard, and after a few breaks, I realized that I really didn't have sufficient water to be taking a trek like this so fast. I resolved to slacken my pace some, and continued on. Soon enough, I bumped into some folks coming down, and interrogated them about how long it ought to take me to make it to the lake. Whatever they told me, it was more time than I had to work with if I wanted to make it back down in time to meet Ian, so I thanked them and hustled along.

It's a funny thing being so high up in a place like that - the sun is hot, and you're working hard, so with a heavy coat on, you'll sweat to death, but take it off, even for a moment, and that high-altitude wind will make you sorry you did. The trick is to keep a good enough pace to stay warm inside, but not sweat too much and overheat, so that's what I tried to do, jogging a bit wherever the trail flattened out, and slowing-up again when it steepened.

Just as my water was running out, I noticed some young Peruvian kids coming down at a pretty good pace, and it occured to me that they might be able to share some of their water with me if they had any remaining. I greeted them and asked if they had water to spare, but unfortunately they did not. What they did have, however, was a few grocery bags full of crystal clear glacier ice, a sizable hunk of which they offered to me with a smile, and for which I thanked them profusely. Perfectly safe and pure, they assured me, and delicious too. A touch cold in the hand, but oh-so-sweet to my dry mouth, and I did my best to make it last as I pressed on. I couldn't devour it too slowly, however, for the sun and my warm hands were shrinking it as fast as I could consume it.

To make a long story short, I eventually did make it to the lake, but only after another hour or so of climbing and finally scaling a near-vertical rock wall (with the help of some strategically placed steel cables - obviously installed to facilitate the climb). Exhausted but elated, I jogged across a few of the huge boulders lining the amazing blue-green lake, and sat for a moment to soak it up, and make chit chat with the few other tourists who had made the trek up earlier in the day. I knew I didn't have much time to tarry however if I wanted to catch Ian before he left, and so after snapping a few photos, started back down the hill at a good clip, stopping only at a small glacial waterfall to drink my fill, and top-up my waterbottle so that Ian might have a taste of the Andes too when I reached bottom.

There are few things as satisfying as cruising down a mountain one has just climbed at well over five times the speed of ascent - gravity, once the hateful enemy, is now on your side, carrying you on and down over your own heavy footprints. I am not exaggerating when I say that the mountain it had taken me over two hours to climb, took me a mere 35 minutes or so to decend. I was flying down that sucker - laughing as I passed several of the same folks I had met on my way up, each step taking me lower and lower into thicker, juicier air. It was a hell of a time. Despite my best efforts however, I was still late - almost 45 minutes late - for our appointed meeting time, and I was afraid Ian would be halfway back to town by now. Happily, he had decided to hang around, and we two made the journey back down together, both of us sun-burned again, and more than a little tuckered out from what had turned into quite a long day. We slept well that night.

The following day we had planned to make up for the trek by visiting some nearby hotsprings, and so after a leisurely breakfast and popping into a local music shop to hijack a guitar and sing songs in the street for a while, we set off in a taxi. We arrived around mid-morning at a big gated complex, paid our entrance fee and strolled down a little pavillion toward what seemed to be the place to be. To our surprise, the complex was quite full, with folks all lined up along the walls, waiting to enter various doors, all labelled with numbers indicating temperatures in degrees celcius: 33, 36, 46, 48, 56. What was behind these doors, we wondered to ourselves as we sat in our line of choice - little hottub-like pools? Moreover, why was everyone just waiting around outside? What was taking so long?

We asked some folks next to us, and were told that each group of people (could be one person, could be five) were given 15 minutes inside, though they could take longer if they liked. When they were through they'd come out, and the next group could go ahead. Seemed a strange process to us, but we sat and waited our turn like everyone else, and a whopping two hours later (what else did we have to do that day?) it was finally our turn. We passed through our door (48) and found ourselves inside a small changing area which opened up into a kind of natural dry sauna-cave cut right into the side of the mountain. There was a small light, and a little rickety bench, but that was it, you were just sitting there in a 48 degree cave, sweating it out. It was unlike anything either of us had seen before in our travels, and although I'm not sure I'd wait two hours again for another crack at it, it was a fairly pleasant experience, and left us both red-faced and refreshed.

Since we were planning on heading into Lima on a long busride the following morning anyway, that night found us in search of cerveza once more, and after stopping for a bite at a little street-food kiosk by the name of Sex Burger - where we indulged in some delicious sandwiches worthy of the name, I can tell you - we found our drink, at none other than Mr. Beer Bar. Evidently folks in Huaraz have a thing for goofily named establishments. But goofily named or not, Mr. Beer did not disappoint, and we put away our fair share that night, as we chatted it up with a few locals, and joked with the pleasant owners of the place. (They talked us into leaving our emails and have written us since.)

Up first thing the following morning, as per usual, we set out on foot and a touch behind schedule towards the bus station. In my groggy wisdom, I was sure I had the map all figured out, and that we had plenty of time. However, when the station did not appear where I thought it ought to have, things quickly became serious, and we found ourselves speed-walking down the busy streets of Huaraz with only minutes to spare. There was a moment when I thought we wouldn't make it, but as luck would have it, just over the next knoll the station emerged, and we shuffled our thick-headed selves through the check-in process and had just enough time to share a pained smile and take our seats before the bus pulled out of the station.

It was a long ride, but coming down out of the Andes, the views were splendid, and when we weren't napping, we both enjoyed them very much through the huge second-story windows of our double-decker bus. We arrived in Lima late that evening, excited to have come full circle, and cabbed it uptown, arriving just in time to find a cheap double near the city's main plaza and pass out.

As luck would have it, the following day happened to be none other than Peru Day - that is to say, Peruvian Independence Day - and here we were in the country's capital city! We rose early and filed out into the streets to catch some of the festivities - we had been informed that there would be a sizable parade, and that Alan Garcia Perez, the current president of Peru would be passing by. As it happened, said parade was actually taking place on our very street, such that we walked directly into it upon exiting our hotel. That's handy, we thought, and took our place among the other lookiloos hoping to catch a glimpse of their beloved president. As in Huraz, the streets were lined with young soldiers as far as you could see, decked out with bayonets and rifles, only now riot police were also out in full force as well, lest things get out of control.

Well, we waited as long as we could stand it, and saw some interesting things go by, including some well-disciplined squadrons of soldiers, and an impressive horseback marching band, but as far as the president goes, we saw little more than a fleet of sleek black cars cruise by with tinted windows. So much for that. We were hungry for all the waiting, and since residual police presence uptown restricted our movement and thus forbade us going to the spot of our preference, we sat for a shitty breakfast at the first open place we could find. Only later did we realize that it was also the closing day of Annual Peruvian Food Week, or some such thing, and one of the main boardwalks just around the way was full of buffet tables and mobile kiosks serving up all kinds of goodies from around the country. We sampled a few things, despite being stuffed from our crummy breakfast.

An enjoyable morning, but time was on our minds this day - Ian's trip was now over half-gone, and so we set ourselves to planning our next step - south to Arequipa. Turns out the only bus thereto the following day was a 17 hour doozy leaving first thing in the morning. Well we knew how to handle that one didn't we - go drinking. (I'd like to take this opportunity to point out that this little strategy of ours - drinking heavily before all instances of early morning and/or lengthy bus travel - was not something we planned at all, but rather noticed as a trend in our behavior. Of course, once we did notice it, we promptly took ownership thereof, and began celebrating it as a kind of absurd tradition.)

Since we were back in Lima, and staying in the same part of town, we thought it might be nice to make the short trip out to Miraflores once more and see if we could find the selfsame spot where we'd enjoyed ourselves so much before, and the site of Ian's brush with true Peruvian love - The Flying Dog. Of course, our state of mind last time we were there was not exactly conducive to remembering things like directions, and so it took us quite a while to get there. We were about ready to give up, when a casual glance down a sidestreet triggered some dormant muscle memory, and we knew we'd found it. We bellied up to the bar once more and had made some new friends in no time. Young men this time, who after a few rounds, eventually convinced us to accompany them to a favorite German-style bar of theirs just around the bend.

Once there, however, it quickly became evident that at least one of our new drinking partners was interested in more than mere brotherly camaraderie with his new-found foreign friends - particularly, yours truly - which he made clear quite openly. This was not quite as awkward as one might imagine, however, since this chap was actually a quite pleasant fellow with a decent sense of humour and a good command of English, and I was able to laugh us all through the sometimes delicate dance of love without incident. In the end, a good time was had by all, as were quite a few too many drinks. Suffice it to say, we were more than well-prepared for the lengthy bus ride awaiting us in the morning.

As planned, we boarded our bus early in the day, and didn't arrive in Arequipa until 3AM that evening - the following morning, that is. We found ourselves a taxi, and asked him to take us to a place of our choosing. As it happened, however, Arequipa was particularly packed at this time - part of the celebrations surrounding Peruvian Independence Day - and we wound up driving around town in the pitch black of early morning for some time, trying to find a place with space enough for two more. We eventually found a decent spot not far from the center and flopped out until around noon, when we woke hungry for breakfast, which we found not far from our front door in the form of delicious trout ceviche.

Known as one of Peru's most cultured and artisitc cities, Arequipa is full of little posh cafes and restuarants, many of which we availed ourselves of in the two days or so we spent there. One favorite memory is of an uptown French-run bistro called El Mono Blanco - The White Monkey - where we sat for beers and french-onion soup, and made hilariously innacurate sketches of one another late into the evening. Our second day in town, I became suddenly possessed by the strange notion that the heavy hooded sweater I had purchased back in Equador was now clogging up my pack, and that it had to be sold or swapped at once, along with a few other pieces of clothing that had fallen out of favor. Leaving Ian alone to trip around some local museums, I caught a cab to the daily flea-market over on the wrong side of the tracks, and set about trying to part with my goods.

Remarkably, this was an easier process that I'd thought, for on the whole, folks seemed more than interested in talking to the clothes-peddling foreigner, and having a look in his little bag of tricks. But despite all the attention I was getting, actually selling my stuff was another matter - folks simply didn't want to pay what I expected, and in the end I wound up parting with most of my things via swaps, or letting them go for mere pennies. Except the sweater which had precipitated the whole journey - on that item I could not be moved. I knew what I paid, and I would not accept less than half of that price. Eventually, I took the advice of some locals and decided to head to another part of town, where fancy sweaters such as mine are sold at cost in shops, along with other hand-made goods, and try my hand at street-selling there.

On the way, I explained my situation to my cabbie, who, to my surprise, took an intense interest in my one item, and actually made me the best offer I would receive that day. In my stubborness however, I turned him down, although I did take his number and promise to call him if I couldn't find another buyer. He dropped me at a local market and I immediately set to wandering about, sweater in hand, calling out to passers-by, and doing my best to look approachable. I'll tell you, after having spent so much time shutting down peddlers, it was an interesting experience to be on the other end of the sales pitch for once. Selling in the street is harder than it looks, but I did my best, cracking jokes, and talking up my product to obviously uninterested (and slightly bemused) bystanders. Despite my best efforts, however, I was ultimately unsuccessful - I still have my sweater. (When I called up my cabbie later that day, he no longer had the spare money to buy, or so he claimed.)

That night, Ian and I shared a delicious and overpriced supper at swanky Topitop Restaurant overlooking Arequipa's beautiful central plaza - now lit-up and glittering from end to end - before boarding another cheap overnight bus into Cuzco. There was obviously some kind of ventilation problem on this bus, for the cool air of Peru's southern flatlands whipped at our quivering blanketless bodies all night, and we arrived in Cuzco, around 6AM the following day, half-frozen, and half-dead from fatigue, neither of us having slept a wink. Inside the bus-station, we were immediately snatched-up by a particularly persuasive hostel-pusher, who seemed to have an answer to all our questions, and was quick to lower his prices to suit us. He swept us off, free of charge, to what turned out to be a lovely little hostel a few blocks from the center, where we would wind up spending two nights.

After sleeping off the ride, we again woke around noon and made for the heart of town where we sat for some time people-watching from a second-story cafe balcony. Still too tired to make the rounds of this obviously interesting and historically rich city, we killed time uptown until we got hungry for supper. We found the latter at a local rotisserie chicken joint, and sat shoulder to shoulder with hungry locals watching Harry Potter and abusing our all-you-can-eat-salad-bar privileges. Early to bed that night.

The following morning, Ian woke early, convinced that he must change his flight home. He had been considering for some time trying to organize a return flight out of Lima, so as to skip the long ride down to Buenos Aires, his present departure city. So, while he dashed off to see about making this change, I returned uptown and sat again in our second-story cafe to doodle and catch up on some journaling. A short time later, Ian returned having successfully changed his departure city to Lima. Wonderful! This would leave us more time to explore the many remaining wonders of Peru. Speaking of that - hadn't we better go see about buying our train tickets to Machu Picchu? Oh yeah! We'd better not forget that one. So off we went to the train station, which we found closed for lunch, and, after killing an hour in the market waiting for it to open, eventually learned was not even the right one.

The station we wanted was on the other side of town, so we hopped in a cab and found our way there, and purchased two overpriced return tickets from Ollantaytambo to Aguas Calientes (also known as Machu Picchu Pueblo), for the following morning. We would have to bus it to Ollantaytambo in the morning in order to catch our train, and since that would involve rising relatively early, we promptly made for Paddy's, a posh second-story establishment that billed itself as the highest Irish-owned pub in the world which we'd spotted earlier in the day. A few pints of Guiness and much loud talk with some rather boisterous European tourists made for a pleasant, if expensive evening.

The next day we rose early, managed to make our way through the now-familiar motions of a quick breakfast, walked down to the minibus terminal, and were soon on our way to Ollantaytambo. A few hours later we arrived, enjoyed a peaceful lunch, and boarded our train without incident. Next thing we knew, we were winding our way through a gorgeous mountain-rimmed valley as the sun slowly set. We arrived in bustling little Aguas Calientes shortly after dark, and hustled off immediately to the official Machu Picchu ticket office to buy our wildly overpriced entrance vouchers, and before so much as sitting down, pin-balled back across town to the bus stand to book our also wildly overpriced tickets up to the site itself, with a mere twenty minutes to spare before it closed for the day.

That bit of business taken care of, we found ourselves a satisfactory room, dumped our goods and hit the streets in search of some cheap grub - a couple of delicious hamburguesas complete with hickory-stick potatoes, and a strange hot honey-fruit drink, very pleasant if not for its having a consistency just a bit too much like snot. Afterward, a beer or two in a little backstreet hole-in-the-wall was just the ticket to wash it all down.

The next day found us standing in line for our bus amid throngs of other bleary-eyed travellers around 4AM. Warm coffee and chocolate brownies helped to snap us out of it, and around 5AM or so we had boarded our bus and were off up the hill into the famed cloud forests of the Sacred Valley. Amazingly, even though we had been among the first groups to arrive by bus, there were still many hundreds of people in line ahead of us by the time we arrived at the entrance to the site. These folks, we learned, had journeyed up the hill on foot around 2 or 3 AM in order to make the front of the line and get a chance to climb Wayna Picchu - a nearby mountain that offers incredible views of the site. The Peruvian government allows precisely 400 people to climb it daily, on a first-come first-served basis.

I thought for sure we'd be among the first 400 if we caught the first bus up, but apparently underestimated the zealousness of my fellow travellers, and unfortunately - if a bit hilariously - Ian and I wound up being numbers 403 and 404 in line. That is to say, we missed our chance at the famed climb by two spots. It was hard for us to complain too much however, since the two girls in front of us - numbers 401 and 402 - had already visited the site once, and having missed their crack at Wayna Picchu the first time, had returned today precisely to climb it. We laughed with them, and did our best to console them regarding their bad luck.

What can I say about the site itself? Amazing to be sure, and Ian and I spent a full six hours (6AM to 12PM) exploring its many nooks and crannies, venturing up to some of the outer regions of the complex, and also making the well-trodden rounds within its center. Visibility was a bit poor at first - it is a high-altitude cloud forest afterall - but things cleared up a bit by noon, and we managed to snap some decent shots of the ancient Incan city. It was a marvelous climax to our trip, and, we both agreed, all grumbling aside, well worth all price.

After a short for lunch - sweet biscuits and water - we found ourselves quite ready to be on our way, and casting one final glance about the place, headed back down to the exit, and boarded the next bus back into town, the air around and between us now carrying something of the flavour of denouement. A quick rest in our hotel, and an unremarkable supper later, we found ourselves back in our little hole-in-the-wall bar for another brew or two, and for once, an early night.

Our return travel the following day involved all the same steps in reverse order - an early morning train back to Ollantaytambo, where we gulped down egg sandwiches and hot chocolate, and a shortish minibus ride back into Cuzco. As we'd done upon our return to Lima, once back in Cuzco, we ceremonially retraced our steps, enjoying a second rotisserie chiken dinner, and more drinks at Paddy's, although this time our rowdy chit-chat was replaced by some subdued reminiscences about our trip. Ian's flight out of Lima wasn't for another few days yet, but it was a long bus ride away, and he intended to head out a bit early so as to have some time there to reflect and prepare for home. It had been a wonderful trip for both of us - more than we'd both expected in many ways - we had much to look back on that last night.

I left for Puno the following morning, after a hurried breakfast in the market, and a few last words of farewell. Ian left for Lima later that same day, August 6th - exactly one month after his arrival. Not a long time perhaps, but a full one, and more than sufficient for us to have had a decent look around this amazing country - a thorough perusal, one might say, if one were partial to such quips. For Ian, the end of a journey, and for me the end of a wonderful chapter in my ongoing adventure.

Since we parted ways, I've been exploring the western portion of Bolivia, and enjoying it very much. A dry, dusty country, breathtakingly high up, and therefore chilly despite the ample sunshine. One higlight has been a short stay in Copacabana, a lively little Bolivian town on the banks of Lake Titicaca, where again I was fortunate enough to have arrived smack in the middle of the biggest festival of the year. The craziness of the festivities was a bit much for me at first - everyone swilling beer and blaring loud repetitive music; garbage discarded all across the beach and people tar-and-feathering everything with wine and confetti, etc. etc. - but I'd loosened up some by the end of my stay there, and managed to join in a little.

But as fun as it was to be part of such a fiesta, it was no comparison to what I felt when I finally arrived in La Paz a few days ago, and made the long-awaited walk down to the Central Post Office, where I was happily met by all my mail, and even a thing or two I wasn't expecting! Thanks so very much to everyone who took the time to send along such thoughtful items. It was an incredible pleasure to tear into all those bubble-wrapped parcels, letters and postcards. Couldn't have come at a better time as well, given my sadness at having just lost a superb travel-mate, so again, a million thanks.

So. Having got this update off, my plan was to head southeast toward Potosi - famed as the highest city in the world. However, this morning I heard that there is some conflict in that region at the moment, with neighbouring states up in arms about border-lines and who exactly has rights to what. So, I may have to come up with a new idea, and more importantly, another way to find my way south into northern Chile.

Shockingly, my flight out of Buenos Aires leaves in just under a month - on September 10th - leaving me precious little time to make it down to the southern tip of the continent. It's going to take some squirming to make it happen at a healthy pace, I think, but I'm looking forward to the challenge of filling out what I can hardly believe to be calling the last big leg of my trip! How time flies!

I'll be talking to you all very soon.

Best wishes from chilly La Paz!