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!

Un Poco De Alimento Para El Pensamiento

In the context of Narrative Studies...

"Human experience is conceived as a process of constructing and reconstructing a life narrative: " 'Life' in this sense is the same kind of construction of the human imagination as a 'narrative' is." (...) If one accepts the premise that "a life is not 'how it was' but how it is interpreted and reinterpreted, told and retold" (...) then the ground rules for scholarly analysis are shifted. (...) "What is most intriguing about the self is that identity may be as determined by events we believe happened to us as ones that did." (...) The concern with the accuracy of memories, so prevalent in experimental cognitive psychology, gives way to an emphasis on the person's beliefs about what happened: psychic reality is as important as historical truth."

"(...) "The narrative movement also has strong adherents within the psychoanalytic and psychotherapeutic communities. (...) the patient's story is a construction in which the teller creates a coherent and convincing personal history (...) the patient's created narrative account is "truthful," but its truth value does not lie in its historical accuracy. (...) Narrative truth is defined as "the criterion we use to decide when a certain experience has been captured to our satisfaction; it depends on continuity and closure and the extent to which the fit of the pieces takes on an aesthetic finality." When we arrive at the historical truth, our description of a prior event is based on the "facts"; when we arrive at the narrative truth, our explanation carries "conviction.""

"In the psychotherapeutic milieu, creating narrative truth may be more important than establishing historical truth: "narrative truth has a special significance in its own right (...) making contact with the actual past may be of far less significance than creating a coherent and consistent account of a particular set of events." (...) If a life story can be truthful even if it does not conform perfectly to the historical past, then personal memories composing a life history are psychologically valid objects of analysis in their own right. "Once a given construction has acquired narrative truth, it becomes just as real as any other kind of truth.""

Peru By 2: Bruised Hearts & Busted Hammocks

So. Since Ian's arrival in Lima on July 5th, the days have been full, and finding a moment to sit at computer has been even more of a challenge than usual. Let me catch you up quickly.

After having summitted Chimborazo back in June, I made a point of laying low for a couple weeks, in part to compensate for all the money I'd blown on two climb trips, and in part because I was straight-up exhausted. Once I was feeling healthy enough to travel again, however, I started by coasting slowly down through southern Ecuador, pausing here for a night, there for two nights, etc. My only real concern was making it into Lima in time to meet Ian at the airport.

Despite my relaxed schedule and retiree lifestyle, I still managed to fall ill with one of the worst cases of traveller's tummy I'd ever experienced. It couldn't have come at a better time schedule-wise, I suppose, for I didn't have much to do, and so could afford to hole-up and nurse myself for a few days. Not the most glamorous part of my trip, I can tell you, but by the time I was ready to move into northern Peru, I was feeling better and so decided to make for the little beach town of Huanchaco to see the Pacific coast again after so long. It was low-season there, and the streets were empty for the most part, so I basically had the place to myself for some four nights or so. Highlights included relaxing walks along the beach, blissful afternoon naps, and late night sea-side, beef-heart-kebabs hot off the grill.

I left Huanchaco on an overnight bus that put me in Lima the morning before Ian's arrival, and took a dormitory room full of Japanese tourists to rest up. I slept deep into the day before deciding to rise and have a wander about the downtown area. I managed to scout out a few good places to eat and maybe grab a beer. I also found the main post office, where I sent a couple parcels off, and asked around some about the chapest way to get out to the airport. By this time, I was almost through my illness, but that felt like quite enough for one day, thank you very much. I hit the sheets again and did my best to rest up in preparation for Ian's arrival the following day.

His flight arrived around 10 PM, and I cabbed it out to meet him, armed with a few hand-made signs to grab his attention. A short wait among the throng of other hopefuls, and there he was. It was good to see him again, and we laughed and talked all the way back into town. It was well past midnight by the time we arrived at our hotel, checked in, and realized we felt a bit like having a beer. I led us down the vacant streets of uptown Lima, to one of the little spots I'd made note of the day before, and we sat and caught ourselves up over a few. I hadn't had a beer in a many weeks, nor had I had the chance to flap my gums with an old friend in this way, and I revelled in the chance to do both. It was a grand pleasure, and our first night wound up being a bit of a late one.

Ian and I had spoken some about travel plans prior to his arrival, and one of the things that had intrigued us most about Peru, was the opportunity to visit the famed city of Iquitos. Tucked away in the northeastern armpit of the country, deep in the heart of the Amazon rainforest, Iquitos bears the unique distinction of being the largest city in the world unreachable by road. It would take a bit of a struggle to get there, and would involve quite a good deal of backtracking, but we were both tempted by the prospect of a multi-day boat journey up the Ucayali River, a major offshoot of the Amazon. We had heard that riverboats to Iquitos were sometimes few and far-between, and so decided to spend only a few nights in Lima before setting out to Pucallpa, the jungleside city from which we hoped to catch our ship.

Our first full day in Lima, we roamed about the downtown core, scoping out the sights and sounds of the big city. One particularly memorable highlight was a tour through one of the larger, more famous churches in town - the Monasterio De San Francisco. Once a Franciscan monastery, this ancient stone building is now home to an incredibly beautiful old library - apparently one of the most significant stores of religious tomes in Latin America - roomfuls of ancient colonial artwork, and an amazing set of catacombs, housing the dusty skeletal remains of some 70,000 individuals!

Quite a thing to walk down the low-ceilinged brick tunnels of these dark catacombs, and breath in the dust and dinge of the old bones. But as we walked on, one immediately noticed that the many thoussandes of bones we saw were made up almost entirely of thigh bones and skulls. Where were all the other bits, we asked? Hands? Ribs? Vertebrae? Left untreated, we were told, most of the bones in the human body quickly deteriorate; only the thickest, most durable parts - i.e. the thigh bones and skulls - remain for any serious length of time. We paused to consider the peculiar fact that someday the last remaining trace of my material existence might be my forehead and femurs. Funny thing, life.

Later, in the afternoon, we caught a taxi into Miraflores - one of the more posh sides of town - and wandered the beautiful, paved promenades overlooking the crashing waves of the Pacific some 40 meters below. Paragliders sailed along in tandem above us, riding the gentle updrafts rising from the cliff face, just low enough for us to hear their faint cries of terror and delight. As the sun set, we again found ourselves plagued by thirst, and cut back into the bustling downtown to find a watering hole.

We quickly located a swank little place (the kind with fancy ripple-cut cheeses and spicy sausage sliced on the diagonal) where they sold beer at decent prices, and sidled up to the bar for a few. It was small and quaint, but full, and it would be misleading to say we didn't stand out some, among the older clientele of winding-down business folk, and well-dressed young uptowners. What did it matter to us, I was just pleased to see Ian interacting with some laid-back Peruanos and brushing up on his Spanish. He'd taken a semester or two back in cegep, but was pretty much relying on body language at this point.

I was more than a little surprised, therefore, when I returned from a bathroom trip and found him immersed in what seemed to be intense conversation with the pleasant looking young Peruvian woman seated next to him. I ribbed him about wasting no time in getting to know the locals, and he informed me that it had been her, in fact - Marina, her name - who had chatted him up, and actually seemed quite keen to know more about him. The only problem was that at this point, Ian could scarcely order a beer in Spanish, let alone make interesting conversation - wouldn't I act as translator for a minute here? I gave Marina the eyeball to make sure she wasn't some kind of con, and finding myself unable to discern any overt nastiness about her, I consented, and set myself to the actually quite enjoyable task of making the two of them clear to one another.

It was clear that she was interested in my new travel mate, and I confess to having played this up some in my new role as hermes/cupid. While their blossoming love - too strong to be hindered by something as petty as a language barrier - was something of a gag at first, it quickly became clear that Marina was not fooling around. Moreover, she seemed earnest and sincere in her attention and interest. Ian and I were getting kind of hungry, however, and so rose to leave in search of a bite to eat for supper. When it became apparent that our parting ways with Marina might prove slightly problematic, however, I - still feeling a little mischievous - suggested we might take her along. She beamed at this Idea, but Ian, now growing aware that this might be a somewhat sticky situation to get out of, gave me a bit of a glare, and off we went. And that is how we came to find ourselves seated to a hearty supper of roasted chicken con papas fritas, and a lone doe-eyed Peruana.

We ate, slightly buzzed, and I did my best to keep a straight face as I translated Marina's stready stream of interview questions - What do you like in a woman? etc. What could Ian do? We were trapped at table now, attempting to have a civilized meal. He answered honestly, doing his best to breath through the thick atmosphere of affection surrounding him. I fall in love fast - she told me, her face wholesome and sincere, turning to Ian and again flashing him the love-eyes. He would meet the gaze of the smitten girl at his elbow, for moments at a time, and then turn to me for some kind of help or advice. My attention would of course always be momentarily diverted at such instants, either by flagging down a waiter, or admiring some of the art hung in the place. But truth be told, it was getting harder and harder for me to conceal the fact that I thought this was a quite hilarious situation. And moreover, I knew we had to get out of here somehow, eventually.

So, when supper was finished, I suggested we all might head back to the bar for a final beer, before we head home - Ian and I were getting tired, and had a big day of travel tomorrow after all. I looked directly at Marina as I said the latter. She seemed to get the picture. Back at the bar, and keenly aware of our intentions to head home, Marina's initiative redoubled in earnest. At this point, it had become undeniably clear that she was out for Ian, and by the time we we had finished our drinks and were ready to go, she was urging him to let her return to the hotel with us on the other side of town - they could take a separate room, she said.

The cards had finally been laid, and what had until then been something of a light-hearted situation came swiftly to a head. Playfully amorous chit-chat with a girl you just met in a country you just arrived in the day before is one thing, but taking her to bed is quite another. Ever the gentleman, Ian managed to find a few warm words to ease our parting, and planted a soft one on Marina's cheek while I donned my coat. I offered a polite goodbye, and we made our escape. Five more mintues in there, and I'd have been translating wedding vows, for sure. We flagged a cab and headed back to our hotel.

Now, I want to make a point of stressing that at no time throughout the evening - even when suggesting the evening's shack-up - did Marina ever lose her poise or pleasantness. On the contrary, she maintained a calmness that made for a startling combination with her incredible forwardness. This strange mixture of traits, along with her age - she was only 22, afterall - seemed to Ian and I, remarkable. How could one explain it? I had heard all the stories of gringo-hunting temptresses, but Marina hardly seemed to fit that description.

As translator, I can vouch for the fact that at no time was she ever anything but perfectly polite and sincere. She was not sloppy and predatory, but composed and straight-talking. Her demeanor was not libidinal, but tender. As we made our way out the door, she seemed more sad than anything, and possessed the air of one bidding a lover fairwell at the train-station. If not broken, her heart surely seemed to have been badly bruised. But could someone really fall in love so fast?

Like me, Ian had also spent some six months or so travelling in India the year before, where men and women alike would look at you sideways for so much as sitting next to a young woman, let alone chatting her up. And here, a casual chat over beers had led to the earnest suggestion of sex from a seemingly sincere young woman. Such a thing would surely be considered a rarity in our comparatively prudish culture. Imagine it - a classy, self-aware young lady, taking up the company of two strange men, promptly falling for one of them, joining them for supper, and then trying to pry loose her new inamorata and take him to bed.

Assuming that we were not simply mistaken about her intentions, and that she was not, in fact, really just some incredible deceptive actress whose sole aim was to dupe and rob us, the best sense I am able to make of this misadventure, and other similar situations, is that they are indicative of a real and palpable cultural difference. That is, that people of Latin descent and upbringing are, or tend to be, particularly amorous folk. Put otherwise, they're a culture of lovers, to draw dangerously near to a common stereotype. But stereotypes, while obviously flawed and often unfair, don't come from nowhere.

A few random examples might help substantiate this claim.

1. Every Latin American city of any size has a downtown riddled with dance halls and malt shops, all overrun with swooners of all ages.

2. The second question anyone ever asks you, after, Where are you from? is invariably: Are you married? Do you have a boyfriend/girlfriend?

3. Spraypainted confessions of adoration - Te amo Jasmine! and the like - adorn the walls of every side alleyway and bathroom stall.

4. Every other song on the radio is about lost love or fiery new passion - Mi corazon! Mi vida! Receurda me! Te amo!

5. The plazas of every city are full of lip-locked youth, and every little cafe has at least one corner table occupied by a teary-eyed young woman seated alone.

The tender slough and jagged debris of love are scattered everywhere you look. I do not think I am exaggerating. That same evening in the bar in Miraflores, in between bouts of translating, I had the priviledge of speaking with an intriguing man in a well-cut suit about various matters related to his work and business. As the night wore on, our talk progressed, as tends to happen, to more serious topics - love, happiness, and the like - and at one point he paused to ask me if I'd like to guess his age. An odd question, I thought, but I took at crack at it anyway - 45 I said. He laughed a good laugh, and told me, with a smile, that he was 81 years old. I didn't believe him, but had to bite my tongue when he pulled out his identification to confirm.

Did I know how he maintained his youth? he asked me. Exercise? I guessed. Nope. Women. Women, he said again - that's the key to longevity, happiness, and everything else desireable in life, really.The moment you stop thinking about women, you may as well be dead - to hell with you, he told me. It's the backbone of everything else in life, he reason for being, the fuel, of all other worldly endeavor.

True, there may be nothing particularly Latin about this view - one would not be surprised to find such words leaping off the tongue of many a man in many a bar the world over at 11PM on a Saturday night. My point in telling you this story is only to say that virtually every time I find myself in a position to receive a few words of wisdom from Latin gentlemen, it unfailingly exhibits this kind of bent. Even older women are quick to point out that young men such as ourselves ought not be without a woman on our arms. A culture of lovers, I repeat, right down to little Marina.

At any rate, it was, I think, this love-infused way of being - so different from the one we grow up with in the cold white North - that threw Ian for a loop that fateful night in Miraflores, and the reason our evening was, I suspect, such a peculiar experience for everyone involved.

So anyway, we left Lima for Pucallpa the next day, on a grueling 24-hour bus ride that cut northeastward up and over the Andean range into Peru's sizable portion of the Amazon rainforest. 24 hours is a long time to sit in a chair, and we quickly set to chatting to pass the time. Again I revelled in the opportunity to talk and talk and talk about all kinds of matters. Several months of solo travel had left me more than primed for a little conversation. I am quite certain that everyone around us thought we were crazy. Talking and singing and arguing and laughing like lunatics for hours on end - and well into the night.

We had opted for a slightly cheaper bus, and so knew we'd be in for a hell of a trip. It was a rough ride - the roads were quite bad in parts - and it was all we could do to squeeze in a few hours of sleep here and there. The scenery however, was beautiful once the sun came out, and we craned our necks to see as much of the beautiful mountains as we could. Sweaty, thirsty, and sore all over, we finally arrived in Pucallpa early the following day, and snagged a rickshaw into the town center where we found a cheapie double room, showered up, and rested a while before setting out to find food.

I don't know if it was the fact that we had missed our chance to sit and drink the night before - being as we were, stuck on the grueling overnight bus ride - or if it was the incredible deals on beer in Pucallpa (four 650ml bottles for 10 Nuevo Soles, that is, roughly USD$3), but after downing another hearty meal of rotisserie chicken con papas fritas, we wandered into one of the shabby little sidestreet watering-holes and set ourselves to business. It was a delightfully unpretentious place full of delightfully unpretentious - and impressively drunk - individuals, mostly men, excepting the portly, wide-smiling woman who ran the place - Mama Cerveza we came to call her, after she "forgot" to charge us for a couple of the many bottles of beer we consumed that night.

At any rate, we drank and spoke and drank and spoke like veterans, laughing and joking with the various salespeople wandering the streets - the five year old trying to part with his stuffed sloth, the fat old man with his single shabby statue of an educated owl, complete with mortorboard and diploma - and the drinks kept coming. By the time the place was ready to close, the once-raucous crowd had dwindled down to the two of us, Owl Man, and a couple of other scragglers who'd stopped to sit and laugh with the foreigners. And of course, Mama Cerveza, who, having finished with the night's clean up, had come to join us on the front steps as well. By this time both Ian and I were pretty much through with drinking, and so bid our gang of merry-makers a muy bueno noche and stumbled off through the vacant early-morning streets of Pucallpa, and home to bed.

The following day, the first order of business was breakfast. How do you feed a hangover in Peru, we asked ourselves? Fruit? Too fibrous. Coffee? Too acidic. Eggs? Too rubbery. Meat? Yeah that felt right, but what kind? Beef? Chicken? Fish. Ah yes - ceviche. So we downed a couple platefulls of delicious dorado cured with lemon juice and nabbed a rickshaw down to the docks to find ourselves a boat up to Iquitos. I say docks, but really there were no docks to speak of, only a muddy stretch of shoreline where the boats all decided to park and tie up. We hopped out and wandered down to the shore to ask about rates.

The boats that make the four to five day journey up-river to Iquitos were impressive vehicles. Some four stories tall, they were made for both cargo, and passengers, with one story devoted entirely to hammock space. Most had a few smallish two-bunk cabins available, but the prices for those were a touch high, and the hammock-thing looked like more fun besides. I had purchased myself a sturdy hammock some months ago back in Guatemala, but Ian, having just arrived, was forced to buy one of the little nylon jobbies for sale on board, which we hung up to hold our place while we returned to our hotel and gathered our things. The boat, we were told would be leaving around noon, so we would have to hurry if we wanted to make it.

Once back at the hotel we quickly packed as the sky darkened outside. It looked like we were going to get a good little downpour. By the time we were all set and ready to go in the foyer, it was coming down in buckets - Amazon rains are no joke - and the idea of taking a ten-minute rickshaw ride down to the river was pretty much out of the question - we and all our gear would have been well soaked-through. Even running across the street to buy some water left me sopping. But our boat is leaving any minute! we explained to anyone who would listen. Thankfully, one kindly young hotel worker did, and darted off to find us someone willing to drive a couple soaking foreigners down to the riverside. We loaded up his shabby car and headed out, our hotel worker in tow to give directions.

A few moments later, we arrived and stepped out into the arms of dozens of local folks all arguing over who would get to help us carry our luggage down the muddy embankment to our vessel. We paid our mickey-mouse taxi man, tipped our hotel assistant handsomely for helping to get us there on time, and selected a couple of porters to carry some of our plastic-wrapped goods down to the boat. Without any docks, the rain had turned the already muddy slope down to the river into a veritable slip and slide, and we did our best not to fall, our boots sinking four inches deep here, and gliding across firmer patches of soil there.

Rivers of rainwater passed beneath our feet as we cut switchbacks across the steepening hill, our clothes now dripping wet. Our boat, it seemed, had since pulled in its gangplank and backed away from the shore, such that we now had to double back around and board another ship, from which we were able to cross onto yet another, and then sidle along the outer part of the deck, dangling precipitously over the river, before making the final small leap onto our proper ship's foredeck.

All smiles and dribbles we climbed the two small sets of stairs up to the public area and nodded to the grinning Peruanos as we sought out our reserved area, dropped our things and had a good laugh at ourselves. We made it! And just on time too, it seemed. Soaked to the skin, but elated, we tipped our porter a few too many soles, and set ourselves to the happy business of drying off and setting up shop. Some few minutes later, after we'd paid our fares, sorted our belongings, and were pretty much ready for the departing to begin, we asked around about the delay, and were told that actually, the boat was expected to leave around 5PM or so, some three hours from now.

About this time, the pounding rain also began to subside, the sun slowly emerged, and what had only moments ago seemed like a triumphant arrival just-in-the-nick-of-time, began to look more like a crazed-and-unnecessary-dash through a violent-but-momentary deluge. Had we decided to wait-out the rain in Pucallpa - sat, perhaps, for a relaxing coffee - we'd have been able to pay far less for an open-air rickshaw ride, doled out fewer soaking wet tips, and been quite able to walk our perfectly dry selves down to our boat with plenty of time to spare. But such is life, and hindsight, as they say, is 20/20.

So we contented ourselves to sit out on deck and watch as the crack team of Peruvian laborers loaded some three dozen Honda motors onto the foredeck by crane, and sang along with the tinny 80's music that blared from the speakers of nearby boats, and a few hours later we were ready to go. Next thing you know we were out on the river, coasting along as the sun slowly set over the Amazon rainforest, the beautiful verdant shoreline hemming-in the cool-grey waters of the Ucayali. It was a calming thing to be swept along thus, and we made light chit-chat with the folks around us. Us? Oh, we're from Canada. No, no, neither of us are married. Yes, Peru is a very beautiful place. I know, I know, we should have girlfriends, yes. And so on, and so on.

There were only a few other foreign tourists on the boat - one young fellow from Switzerland, and a few folks from Domincan republic - so we found ourselves receiving a lot of attention throughout the course of our trip. We would often be chatted up while standing in the food line, or sitting in the restaurant at the rear of the ship, when we could stand the relentless chicken-noodle-blandness of the regulation meals no longer. One old farmer chap with a long wispy beard would make a point of seeking us out at lunchtimes and sit to learn a word or two of English, and have us read passages aloud from his tattered copy of the New Testament.

Those times when we found ourselves alone were also wonderful - four days on a riverboat gives one lots of time to think and talk, and sing and argue and that's just what we did. Often for hours at a time, again, to the great bemusement of those within earshot, I'm sure. We covered a lot of ground those four days - it was a fine time to be traveing. Good health, good weather, good company, decent food, beautiful scenery, and nothing to do but soak it up, and pick away at plans for the future. When it was hot, we would strip down and bask out on deck. When it was rainy, we would retire to the ship's restaurant to play cards and nurse a few beers. It was a good life, to be sure, but let it not be said that life on the river is without it's share of stresses.

The most salient of such stresses, in our experience, had to do with hammocks, specifically, with Ian's newly purchased nylon wonder. Now, Ian had never slept in a hammock before, and was a bit apprehensive about doing it correctly. I'm not exactly an expert, but it had never occured to me that there might be a right way or a wrong way about it - you just get in, and you're in. As a result, my council to him was abrupt and dismissive - just do what feels right, you'll figure it out. You can imagine my reaction therefore, when, early on the first night, as Ian carefully lowered himself into his hammock, doling out his weight in balanced increments, it suddenly gave way beneath him, with an awful, jagged sound of tearing fabric. He turned to me in shock and dismay, and stood immediately to assess the situation.

A small rip, to be sure, but an unfortunately placed rip, directly in the weightbearing center of the thing. The kind of rip that you know is just waiting for you to try again. I did my best to stifle a laugh, and then realized that the only sensitive thing to do would be to go to sleep immediately. That way, Ian could wake me in the middle of the night, and we could trade off shifts sleeping in my sturdier hammock. While I got down to that business, Ian paced about worriedly staring at his torn hammock and managed to attract the attention of a big-hearted Peruvian passerby, who, noticing his predicament, stopped to give him a hand at stitching it up. Thankfully, this first patch-job was enough to get him through the night.

The following morning, despite the fact that he had made it through the evening without event, Ian was still understandably worried about his hammock's ability to last him through the trip. After a short talk, it was therefore decided, that I ought to take his hammock for the second night, on the premise that I am slightly lighter, and slightly more practiced, and thus presumably slightly more adept at sleeping in hammocks, if such a thing is possible. Evening came and soon enough it was time for me to have a go.

A few small whimpers-of-rips as I climbed in, but once I was settled it felt alright. I gave the thumbs up to Ian, who seemed much more at ease in my Guatemalan beauty, and was soon off to sleep. A few more creaks and whinnies throughout the night kept me just on the cusp of sleep, but I must have dozed off eventually, for I recall waking and feeling more or less rested. Unfortunately, in the haze of morning, I rose a touch carelessly and insodoing, tore Ian's already crippled hammock all to hell again. Well, so much for that. What were we going to do now?

Well, as luck would have it, we had managed to forge friendly bonds with the Swiss fellow on board - Damien, his name - who, upon hearing our tale of woe, generously offered to lend us his hammock in the evenings. He had paid for a cabin, and so was only using his hammock for lounging in the daytime. We heartily accepted, and seeing as how Ian was so comfy in my hammock, I opted to be the one to sleep in Damien's.

Unfortunately, the latter was of the same quality of Ian's, purchased only a day ago from the same hammock-salespeople who flood the ship prior to departure, and to make a long story shorter, I ripped the damn thing that very night. Not badly, but again, badly enough to make one wary about using it a second time. At this point, with the blood of two innocent hammocks on my hands, I decided to take action. I took down both the hammocks, and set to stitching them up myself. It took me the better part of the afternoon, but come suppertime, both Ian and Damien's hammocks were all frankensteined up and ready to go.

That afternoon, I took Ian's hammock for a test-nap, and made it out with little more than a tiny rip. Good. But even so, I thought it would be prudent to sleep the night in Damien's, which hadn't suffered so badly as Ian's and seemed more reliable. That night - our second to last on the boat - passed without incident, but again, I made a slight rip upon rising incautiously in the morning. At this point, I decided I'd better leave Damien's hammock alone, I'd already had to fix it once. For the last night on board, I'd have to sleep in Ian's twice-wounded veteran.

This was not a happy hammock. Even as I entered it yielded along stitch lines, and complained under my weight, but did not give. All through the night, it threatened to yield at my every movement, but still it held. Finally, the sun was up, and I knew we'd made it through. I am about to rise in celbration when suddenly, the tattered thing gives way beneath me, and it's all I can do to grab ahold of nearby hammock lines and pull myself afoot. At this point the hole in Ian's hammock is nearly big enough for one to step through, but that matters little now, for we have arrived in Iquitos - manic jungle metropolis and the end of the line for us. Our bags packed once more, we walked down to the foredeck and crossed the threshold, stepping onto dry land for the first time in days.

It had been my intention to give a full and detailed account of this wonderfully boisterous and sweltering city, perched on the banks of the mighty Amazon river, and of all the various adventures and misadventures we experienced in our relatively short time there - wandering the jungle, encountering local villagers and wildlife, fishing pirhana, and dozing off to the haunting chant of a modern-day Amazonian shaman - but I have since reconsidered on the grounds that it seems more appropriate to leave at least some of the magic of the Amazon where we found it. (Besides, this entry is already growing unwieldy, and if I don't post now, I may never get it off.) In lieu, I offer the following few photos which I hope capture something of our time there.

Thanks once more for your patience, I will try to have another post or two off before the end of the month. I miss you all very much!

¡Hasta luego!