Come fly with me, let’s float down to Peru

I’m currently sitting in the car, driving through soybean fields in Delaware on my way to the beach. There’s an iced tea in the cupholder, Taylor Swift in the stereo, and my sister in the passenger seat.

I’m physically moving in a new direction, and it would be easy to mentally do the same. It’s unthinkable that I was in Peru only three days ago. The transition from third-world living to my house in Bethesda occurred in less than 24 hours, a testament to the power of modern transportation and very short layovers.

If I’d been living one hundred years ago, and I’d taken a six-month ship voyage home, I might have had more time to reflect on the transition. But I guess I might have had the opportunity to get scurvy too.

I’m back in the land of hot showers and fresh vegetables, humid D.C. heat and U.S. Treasury dollars. And it feels good. Eight weeks is a long time to be away from home and morning delivery of the Washington Post. But there are things that I miss.

I miss freshly-squeezed orange juice. I miss Dilmar making a  beeline for my knees in the morning. I miss the Puka Rumi steak sandwich Kelsey is so fond of, and taking a comvi ride with twenty people, plus livestock. I miss my host mother’s horror at my lack of reaction to the “chilly” Peruvian weather or her attempts to feed me endless amounts of soup. I miss Choko Soda cookies. And I’m going to sorely miss attending little Paulita’s baptism in two weeks.

I feel indescribably lucky to have had the summer I had. I’d never traveled to another country before except to Canada. (Which I’m not sure even really counts). I relished the opportunity to live in another culture and work with children so appreciative of my attention and affection for them. I am grateful to everyone who was patient with my poor attempts to speak in Spanish. I can now successfully tell jokes, yell at kids, and deflect comments from sketchy men in another language. I’m basically set.

So this is it. I’m heading off to school in three weeks and back to work at the Daily Tar Heel. Hopefully my compadres will make it back from the Amazon in one piece, and we might even get some more pictures out of Jarrard. Who knows.

I want to thank all of our readers, of whom there are a creepily large number, for following our exploits and my stories so avidly. Really, the ridiculous number of you who visited the site each day gave a huge boost to my self-esteem. And made me want to give up on school and become a professional travel writer.

I realized that I neglected to write about some great stories from out trip, such as the man driving a motorcycle with a broken leg or our friend performing an autopsy on someone in the health clinic while drinking chicha. I guess you’ll just have to come find me in the fall to catch up. I’ll be the one in the corner, drinking coffee and singing “Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes” in Spanish. Ciao!

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On the way home…

I have officially left Ollantaytambo and am embarking on my journey home. We arrived in Cusco at our gorgeous hotel this morning, and will spend three days here before I fly home on Wednesday and Kelsey and Jarrard head off to Arequipa and the Amazon.

It´s really too close to everything to have any clear thoughts about leaving, but last night we had a great send-off. We started with a despedida, or goodbye party, at our friend´s house. There was chocolate cake like you can´t even imagine. It was delicious. We ended the party in the Plaza, hanging out and telling stories with the police on duty. It was quite spectacular.

I went to Cusco last week and bought paint and canvases and got a chance to finish one painting and start another before a five-day monsoon started and we had to leave. Below are some photos of the paintings. Even though I bought a lot of beautiful things as mementos of my trip, I have a feeling that my 16 sole canvas might be my favorite thing crowding my suitcase.

We met up with Jacob for lunch at Jacks, a popular gringo establishement that serves such items as ¨big juicy hamburgers.¨

My painting of the valley looking down towards Ollantaytambo.

My unfinished sketch of the train tracks going toward Machu Picchu.

Me and Kelsey with our host family. They gave us gorgeous flowers with an unpronounceable name.

Our first farewell party, hosted by our host family.

The calendar we had band-aided to our wall for eight weeks.

At the party hosted by Awamaki volunteers.

Me and Jen giggling in the rain.

There´s not a lot to do in Ollanta on a Sunday night but take silly pictures of yourself.

This guy was hilarious. He kept asking Ann Marie if she was from laska. I mocked him in two languages.

Cheesing for the photo with the Ollanta police. They loved us.

A Morehead reunion in Cusco for lunch at Jack´s.

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Machu Picchu

This weekend we finally bit the bullet and did it: we made the trek to Machu Picchu. Living in Ollantaytambo, we see people passing through either on their way to, or from, the sacred site all the time. ¨When are you going to Machu Picchu?¨ is almost an acceptable introduction when you meet someone here. We wanted to wait until close to the end of our trip to make the journey.

We left Saturday afternoon, taking the Vistadome Valley train from Ollantaytambo to Aguas Calientes, the town that sits at the base of Machu Picchu. Peru Rail, the company with the monopoly on the train line through the Sacred Valley, runs trains from Cusco to Aguas Calientes for as little as $60 USD round-trip for the budget ¨backpacker¨ train, to $500 for the ridiculous ¨Hiram Bingham¨ train.

We boarded the train in the afternoon, stopping first at The Albergue for cookies. Neither Jarrard nor Kelsey have ridden many trains, and were disproportionately excited about the thing, in my opinion. The ride was pretty cool though. It took about 90 minutes to reach Aguas Calientes, dropping at least 2,000 feet in elevation and heading into what starts to feel like the jungle.

Strangely enough, when you´re at Machu Picchu, you feel as though you´re up in the clouds. And you are. Sort of. The site is only about 8,000 feet above sea level, lower than Ollantaytambo at 9,000 feet and much lower than Cusco at 11,000. So we had to adjust to warmer, more humid weather.

We arrived in Aguas Calientes after dark, and all I can say is that it reminded me of that town in Pirates of the Caribbean, where it´s kind of creepy and horrible and people are leering at you and you just want to run really far away. I did not like Aguas Calientes. I decided I would rather be the garbage collector man in Ollanta than the wealthiest man in Aguas Calientes.

We met up with our two friends, who took buses and hiked from Ollantaytambo. They probably saved about $90 USD, but they had to stand for a six-hour bus ride and then hike on railroad tracks for a few hours, hoping the train would not come. Needless to say, I think it was $90 well-spent for the train.

But we all arrived around dinnertime on Saturday, and bought our bus tickets up to Machu Picchu and our actual tickets to get into the site. $14 USD and $40 USD, respectively. If I hadn´t idiotically left my UNC OneCard at home, I could have been admitted to Machu Picchu for only $20. I tried to use my Maryland driver´s license. It didn´t work, and I wasn´t too surprised.

We had dinner in Aguas Calientes, a really gross experience. The town has experienced urban sprawl to the extreme, and should be an example of how not to construct a tourist town. We ate in a grossly-overpriced restaurant because the person at the door told us we could havefree nachos and drinks. Well. The ¨nachos¨ consisted of about five plain tortilla chips sitting on a plate, and we discovered that only pisco sours and wine were free- water you´d have to pay $3 USD for. We were not pleased.

Then we headed to our hostel. Dear lord. Lonely Planet describes it:

Well, it ain’t much to look at. But this ramshackle multistory guesthouse overlooking the noisiest part of town along the west end of the train tracks just couldn’t be cheaper. It’s for penny-pinchers, or anyone else who finds themselves stuck without a room.

This description was kind. Another book described it as ¨decrepit but classic.¨ Let me just say, there was nothing classic about this structure masquerading as a hostel.

It was 15 soles, or about $5 per person, per night. That was its only redeeming quality. Less redeeming was the horror-film-haunted-house ambiance, the padlock used to keep the door shut, or the fleas we discovered later. The sad excuse for a building was conveniently situated next to the train tracks, so it felt as though we were experiencing an earthquake every time one went by. It was lovely.

So we were only two pleased to wake up at 4 a.m. the next morning and leave our mildewed room as fast as humanly possible. We stumbled down the street to the bus line by 5 a.m., where people were lined up in the dark to board the first buses up to the ruins.

So, here´s the thing. We´d wanted to climb Huayna Picchu, the huge mountain looming in the back of every postcard picture of Machu Picchu. We´d heard it was a killer hike straight up, with some stomach-turning cliffs next to the stairs, but totally worth it for the gorgeous views at the top.

But they only let 400 people up there every day, so you need to be on one of the first buses up there to run and get your name on the list if you want to hike. Thus the getting up at 4 a.m. We got on maybe the twelfth bus of the morning up to the ruins, and we were thinking this wasn´t bad. Jacob went last weekend, hadn´t even woken up till 5:30, and still hiked Huaynu Picchu. We assumed we were fine.

Our bus arrived at the top of the mountain as it was starting to get light out, and we easily passed through the gate and ran toward the Huaynu Picchu check-in. I even elbowed a few people out of the way. As we were running, someone saw my UNC hat, and yelled ¨Go Heels,¨ to which I responded in kind. Nothing like some good Tar Heel spirit on the top of a mountain in South America to put you in a good mood.

But much to our dismay, we were numbers 406, 407, and 408 in line. We missed the hike by five people. It was a bummer. But the upside was, we were in Machu Picchuto see the sun rise, before the massive arrival of tourists began. After we finished haggling with the man guarding the line, I turned around and all of the sudden, realized where I was. It was breathtaking.

Machu Picchu is draped across the saddle of two mountains and covers several acres. The entire area protected by UNESCO covers 80,000 acres, and it´s magnificent. While many people think it was a religious temple or military complex for the Incas, current academic theory is that it served as a winter retreat for the leaders who needed a break from the chillier Cusco. It was certainly built by slaves or conscripted labor, and would have brought food up from lower climates to support the people living there.

We stayed in the park for about 10 hours, until leaving when it closed at 5 p.m. From about 10 a.m. to 3 p.m., it was horrendously packed with tourists, streaming through every crack and crevice through which people are permitted to walk. During that time, when it was also pretty hot, we hiked up to a neighboring mountain from which we had a great view of the ruins. Easier to hike and more peaceful than Huayna Picchu, it had equally good views, according to a hiker who´d been to both.

In the afternoon, we started to drag a bit. We obviously hadn´t slept much the night before, and it had been a long day. At one ponit, we went and sat on a cool set of stairs between two stone walls and took a lot of pictures of ourselves. It was very mature. We then decided it was time to take a break.

We left the site briefly and gulped ice tea (which I haven´t seen anywhere else in Peru) and frozen yogurt at the hideously overpriced cafe by the gate.

When we headed back in to the ruins around 3 pm., almost everyone had disapeared, and the experience became much more pleasant. We took our picture on the classic spot overlooking the ruins where everyone else takes pictures, wearing UNC paraphernalia. At one point, we were taking a picture while spelling out ¨UNC¨with our arms. ¨It´s not the freaking YMCA!¨ some man yelled at us. Thanks buddy. Thanks a lot.

We spent the last hour in the park sitting on terraces overlooking the entire ruins as the sun started to set behind the mountains. It was perhaps the most peaceful experience I´ve had in Peru. As I fell asleep on the train home listening to Paul Simon and watching the scenery pass, I decided I would come back to Machu Picchu again at some point in my life. Although maybe next time I´ll spring for a hotel sans fleas.

Kelsey was super excited about the train.

I was not super excited about our hostel room.

Dinner in Aguas Calientes. Where water cost more than a pisco sour.

Lunch on top of the mountain.

Waiting in line for the bus at 5 a.m.

Me in a doorway.

Hanging out on an Inca wall.

Looking good on top of Machu Picchu. You know.

Anyone (mom?) know what flower this is? It´s everywhere.

I´m chilling, Jarrard´s looking at his camera. Typical.

Kelsey´s glamour shot.

Making unhappy faces. For no particular reason.

Trying to set the self-timer.

The three of us in a stairwell. Figuring out the self-timer.

The three of us with the funerary rock.

Annoyed at Jarrard, who was making his guess his favorite photo he took.

We entertained ourselves by taking pictures.

Me by the Huaynu Picchu sign-in.

Kelsey doing a split.

Pre-trip cookies at the Albergue.

Train station, and our train.

The three of us have an unnatural adoration for Mount Veronica. Isn´t she gorgeous?

Kelsey was also displeased with our room.

Being told we could have free nachos and drinks with dinner. Lies.

¨Nachos¨

A sign in Aguas Calientes. Escape? Yes please.

Wandering around Aguas Calientes.

Fake Starbucks

We look really tired waiting in line.

The line for the first bus up.

The lucky folks who got into Huaynu Picchu. And the mountain behind.

Jarrard taking pictures in the ruins.

The three windows.

The vista.

Jarrard leading the way.

Looking out.

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I swear I´m not a tourist

I spend a lot of time here trying not to be a tourist. I never assume people speak English. I don´t take rude pictures of locals out doing their shopping, even if they are dressed equisitely or their baby is really cute. I avoid touristy locales and politely say ¨no gracias,¨ when asked to buy something.

But today I caved and went to the market at Pisac, embracing my inner American, my inner shopper, my inner commercialist. It feel guilty for saying so, but it was fun.

The market at Pisac on Sundays was originally a place for Peruvians to bring their crops to town in exchange for goods such as sugar or oil. And to some extent, it still serves this purpose.

But it has grown to fame for its market aimed at tourists, larger and more spectacular than any I´ve seen so far in Peru. The Pisac market made San Pedro look tiny in comparison. There were street after street of vendors, selling any kind of trinket or souvenir a person could want.

There were a lot of things I didn´t want. Alpaca sweaters in garish colors, which Hugh Thomson so accurately described as making the wearer appear to be a molting hamster. CDs of the horrific ¨huayno¨ music, pronounced ¨whine-o,¨ and sounding even worse than their name suggests. Textiles created on machines using distinctly not-natural dyes. Coca leaves, which are gross and illegal to bring home to the states. Ugly pottery. Keychains displaying an image of Machu Picchu. Ponchos.

But there were a lot of things I did want, once I dug past the initial layer of tourist trinkets. I bought a beautiful carved wooden Inca mask for $7. A pair of earrings made from a brilliant red seed which supposedly brings the wearer good luck for $1. Silver and turquoise earrings for $3. A long wool skirt with a woven design at the bottom for $12. A carved wooden soup spoon for $2 (because why the heck not).

It was a success, and my Spanish has finally gotten good enough to make jokes and small talk with vendors, extremely helpful in the bargaining process. And when someone tries to sell me hand-woven textiles of natural dyes, I explain that I work with weavers in Patacancha and have no need for more scarves or blankets.

It´s fun to see the look of shock on the faces of vendors, who are used to someone who A. speaks no Spanish and B. has no idea what a hand-woven textile looks like. The guy today looked shocked that the silly gringa even knew what Patacancha or a backstrap loom was. Heck, I´m not even sure he knew.

But after about two hours of shopping, I got tired of being approached by people trying to sell me things and saying no or feigning interest. So we ate some tamales and ally called it quits. But not before making a vow to bring Kelsey and Jarrard back, to maybe buy another pair of earrings.

Things for sale.

A little further from the main Plaza.

One of the many street selling stuff.

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Robbery on the Peruvian highway: why monuments should be free

Growing up in Washington, D.C., I feel entitled to enter museums and national parks for free. From my mother, I inherited a sense of glee in saving money. And from my father, an attitude of skepticism toward absolute rules.

With these three elements of my personality fully developed, I´ve been annoyed by the Peruvian stance on entry requirements to popular tourist sites.

I don´t mind paying a small fee to support the upkeep of a beautiful park or museum. But when a three-course meal here costs approximately 15 soles, I am fundamentally opposed to paying 70 soles to wander around some ruins, no matter how sacred or breathtakingly beautiful they are. Sorry, but I´m just not. 70 soles, or more than $20 USD for a wander, is robbery.

Sites like Machu Picchu and the ruins in Ollantaytambo are clearly designed to wring as much money out of unsuspecting tourists as possible. I suppose if this money went to support local communities, that would be one thing. But I´m not convinced it is.

We dont´charge people to visit Mount Rushmore or the Grand Canyon, and I think that´s the way it should be. I´m proud of the fact that anyone, regardless of economic means, can see the Alexander Calder sculptures at the National Gallery or the flag that flew over Fort McHenry at American History. Even the entrance fee at the MET is suggested, not obligatory. Monuments of national pride should should be available to the public as just that, national pride. Not national moneymaker.

I have the financial means to pay the fee to enter every tourist attraction here. But not everyone does, and it doesn´t seem right to me that structures built by the Incas 500 years ago as religious devotions are becoming commercialized sources of cash flow.

So we´ve spent time here talking to other volunteers and locals, finding out ways to enter these public places of natural and Inca-made beauty for free.

We haven´t yet visited Machu Picchu, and that will be the ultimate exercise in sticking it to the Peruvian man. But we´ve learned that there are many beautiful ruins such as Pumamarka and our solstice hike that are yet undiscovered by tourists and entirely free.

Getting into the main ruins for which Ollantaytambo is famous is a slightly greater challenge. These ruins sits on the side of a jut coming out of the mountain. Jarrard and I hiked up the back of the mountain and came down into the site from the top about two weeks ago. But the climb is pretty much straight uphill for 30 minutes. Actually, imagine climbing a ladder with no rungs. That´s more what it´s like.

So yesterday we decided to try out a different route suggested by the locals. We had a hand-drawn map from Jarrard´s Spanish teacher, who´s never let us down. (She was the one who suggested the restaurant Las Machitas). But somehow we still got really lost.

We spent about two hours climbing through chakrahs, or fields, waving to local farmers, climbing hills, stumbling through rockslides, hopping streams, and doing just about everything but actually reaching the ruins. We saw two spiders of approximately golf ball size, and Kelsey almost fell down the mountain with fright upon seeing a large brown snake with a diamond pattern on its back. At least we got a definitive answer on snakes in Peru.

So we probably won´t take that route to the ruins again, as nice as it was to commune with Peruvian nature. But we will keep trying to find the path in. Because really, if visiting Kermit the Frog is free, what could possibly be worth paying for?

Jarrard, Catherine, and Sara, trying to determine how we got so lost. And so completely stuck on a ledge.

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