La Francia!

We stepped off the plane into a fresh view of everything new, everything shiny, everything clean, everything class. What a stark contrast to our world in South America! Here, in Paris, the name lives up to all it is written in the movies to be - the City of Romance, the City of Lights, the European capital of Beauty. Fashion is never compromised here; every one is dressed in clothes I could only purchase for special events once a year, adorned in accessories from stores I've only seen on Sex and the City, and most importantly, donning their cigarette butt in their hand. A t-shirt and tennis shoes is forbidden, obesity is obsolete, and high heels are always in style - whether riding your bike to work or taking a stroll in one of the beautiful parks. By the way, these fashion faux-pas are not exclusive to women, the men all look like they're about to step on set of an Armani commercial. This city reeks of class, not only in its dress, but in the mid-day wine excursions, the always up-town prices, and of course the enchanting language an American can only envy. I'm not sure I could spend a long time here, because it sure would take a long time to make myself French enough to fit in; however, its inspired me to be a little more beautiful myself!

We spent the first day in the Luxemborg park, strolling the beautiful, flowered walkways and taking a rest in the softness of the perfect grass. Afterwards, we spent a lovely dinner at an outdoor cafe (the weather is only comparable to that one cool, September day in Oklahoma we get when everyone skips class or jobs to run outside at their only chance of the year!), an interesting walk across the bridge through Party Central for young Parisians, and a restless night in a peculiar Student Hostel that creepily reminded us of Hogwarts. The first half of day two was spent on the Metro trying to get from one side of this gigantic city to the other for a different hotel; we apparently failed at our fail-proof plan and ended up taking a pleasant bicycle-taxi across town to the relaxation of our Mariott hotel (Thanks to our good friend and Mariott employee Trevor Sharon). That night, we walked to the Eiffel Tower and enjoyed the light show over a bottle of wine in the grassy park (why can't you drink in Public in America again...?) I made sure to utilize the fantastic amenities of the hotel and gave myself a long, much-needed, warm bath that night. 

Our attempts for jobs are on to Bordeaux, the most famous wine region in the world, tomorrow morning.

Bagpipes, Whisky and dreams of William Wallace

So, I think I've officially found my new favorite European city - Edinburgh Scotland. A country filled with thousands of years of prideful Scots, and a capital city lined with medieval castles and dark, dreary ghost stories. Forgive me for the bad blog entry on this one because I'm currently sitting in Istanbul, Turkey trying to write about my new favorite European city while I'm surrounded by such a new and different atmosphere - my attention span is suffering. I took a free walking tour of the city, which blessed me with three hours of tales of spirits roaming the streets of the "most haunted city in the world", history of all the famous names coming out of Scotland (Sir Walter Scott, David Hume the philosopher, the original Dr. Jekyl and Mr. Hyde, and so many more), and I even caught a site of Dolly the Sheep - the first cloned mammal, she was from Scotland! 

I also took a tour up to the highlands where I really felt the zeal and passion of William Wallace and his successor to FREEDOM! Robert the Bruce. The whole, panoramic, 360 view is shockingly green - the fluorescent colors make your eyes squint like the sun on a bright day. A visit to Loch Lomond and a hike up to the top of the hill in the rain really put me in the Scottish mind while I drove home with my tour guide, a native of the land, telling me all the years that have lead up to the current status of Scotland: a referendum vote soon to secede from the UK altogether and become their own, separate country! If I were able, I would vote, in remembrance of the thousands of names who have been vying for that independence for over 800 years. The Scottish hate the English, maybe even more than the Irish. 

Maybe I'll come back and edit this entry more later, but I just have to leave and go see the Hagia Sophia and the Palace of the Ottoman Sultans right now - my imagination can't wait any longer.

A Welsh-ful Experience

Canyoning; a.k.a. Gorge-Walking; a.k.a traversing down a river in a canyon, making your way by jumping, wading, swimming, floating, or whatever means possible. Canyoning in Wales: follow a footpath to a misty, pebbly river in the Brecon Beacon mountains of South Wales, throw on a wetsuit and helmet (or, rather, take about 30 minutes to try to fit into a wetsuit), fill your face with a ear-to-ear grin thinking of the thrills to come, and tiptoe to the edge of the river where you then dive into the most freezing water you've ever felt before; next, remind yourself that Rose survived the icy Atlantic even after Jack "never let go", so if she can do it so can you. This was my Saturday experience with Call of the Wild adventure tours in Wales. Canyoning consists of a number of physical activites made for fun to get you down about a 5-mile stretch of the river tucked deep in the lush, green mountains of Stouth Wales, with only rolling hills and... sheep... in sight; jumping off waterfalls, crawling under waterfalls, wading through shallow water, floating in the current through some rapids, hiking, and of course freezing your ass off and bruising up your body. But did I mention it was beautiful? The morning sun crept through the trees, peeking onto the shallow waters and illuminating the unbelievably clear, fresh water beneath us, filled with bright red sandstones. The smell was constant, of the nature of the pleasant aroma you immediately sense when you step out of the car and onto the campsite in the Rocky's or even Lake Carlblackwell - smokey, woody campfires waiting for smores to be made. 

I'm not sure if I can fully describe what I did (maybe pictures uploaded later can better detail) besides traverse down a freezing river in the September sunlight of Autumn in Wales, being led by nature to discover that my body was not made for this sort of thing! At one point I was shaking so uncontrollably they took out some emergency ginger tea and an extra fleece to wear under my wetsuit (which didn't help by the way). The company along the trip was great, as a group of ten young British men came out to celebrate their "stag weekend" - better known to us as a bachelor party. 

Accomadation was provided in a nearly small town of Ystradganleis - don't try to pronounce the Welsh; I can barely understand their English let alone the old, native words. Ystradganleis apparently has a whopping two bars (!) and absolutely no diversity; so when the three lovely female strangers came down for drink before heading up to bed, all heads turned - I felt like Kevin Bacon breaking into Town Hall in footloose. When "America" was given in response to the question of where we strangers came from, we were immediately the talk of the town. Free drinks and free lessons in Welsh, we were escorted by two friends: Michael and a round, jolly man simply known as "Spud". They took us to the two town pubs, showed us off to their friends, and struggled through conversations lost in translation despite our common language. Apparently the Welsh are the "southern hospitality" of the UK, willing to talk to anyone and eager to share their blues over a drink. We even got hit on by th eyoung crowd on the way out, of which I can only remember the following phrases: "You're awesome - your arms are like a bodybuilder!" and "hey girls - shagadellic!" I'm not sure what they were trying to do: impress us or get cast for a movie. All in all, it was nice to start off Wales in a small own in the mountains; now I move to Cardiff, the capital, where life is sure to move a bit differently than the life of "Spud" back in memorable Ystradganleis.

Beware, Elderly Crossing!

I arrived here to the city of Salisbury with little knowledge of just what I was arriving to; with only images of the mysterious "Stonehenge" dancing in my head, evoking wonder and excitement about seeing a monument that I knew only as probably the oldest structure I will have ever seen. It turns out, Salisbury is quite the place to be! A quiet town dated back to circa 1200 when it was moved from the medieval civilization of Old Sarum further south. Moving this large Norman population here, brought with it the eager Catholic leaders longing to attempt to astound God yet again with one of their architectural marvels. Although sites of interest mentioned to the European tourist haveing anything to do with Cathedrals can get quite tiring, the Cathedral of Salisbury is one I'm glad I didn't pass up. With the tallest spire in the UK, a Gothic-style structure adorned in detailed carvings, and surviving so many generations of wars and bombings, this cathedral was of its own category. I dropped by just at dusk, as the spire lit up and the high school kids in their private uniforms gathered to share pizza in the large frotn lawn, giggling and teasing their gender counter-parts. Yet again, I find the similarities of humans all over the world to far outnumber their differences.

I have been staying in the Youth Hostel Association villas of the UK. Government-run and apparently begun nearly 50 years ago, the "youth" inhabiting the hallways of these villas were, in fact, truly at their youth prime in the 1960s. Sixty-year-old British grandmothers are my dorm-mates here; most still traveling independently, out of a back pack, and easefully crawling up to their top bunks after a night of drinks downstairs with their new-found friends. There are numerous opportunities for easeful hikes and walking tours for the elderly around the UK, and Salibury even proudly protects its majority clientelle with road signs stating: "Caution: Elderly"; the sign has the outline of two hunched over beings, arm-in-arm with the assistance of a cane. It is a different atmosphere from my usual hostel experiences, and I particularly love it. Instead of being the only bum, twenty-something traveler to wake up for breakfast, my morning tea blesses me with widely-differed opinions from elderly men and women of the war generation of the UK, what an opportunity for chatting!

In the morning, I caught the cheap tour bus through the countryside of the Wiltshire Region of Southwest England, up to the mythical location of the Stones. Surprisingly, this mythical location captured in cloudy, ominous photographs seen round the world, is not so mythical after all. Maybe I just caughtit one one of England's only sunny days, or maybe I'm jaded after my National Geographic-esque Machu Picchu trip, but Stonehenge sits on a hill in the middle of two bustling highways carrying Brits to and from the city. But wait.. it gets better. 

The stones are thought to have been gathere dand placed in the current circular form nearly 5,000 years ago during the Neolithic period. Apparently, archeologists (I don't know how) estimate this to be around the same time the pyramids were being erected in Egypt. On the contrary to the great Egyptians, not much at all is known of the people who inhabited these lands so ong ago, but from the structure, we've derived som egood hypotheses. Despite the lack of Galileo's telescope and Copernicus' theory's of the sun-centered universe, these ancient architects seemed to have discovered that the sun moved across the sky in different patterns throughout the year, particularly the solstices. The monument was constructred, thereafter, in conjunction with the patterns of the sun, providing an archway for the sun to shine directly through at each months passing. Some believe this indicates a worship of the sun, common trait of ancient people; yet others think Stonhenge was simply the world's first scientists' laboratory, where they could examine the movements of the sun and moon. Whatever the case, one cannot help but be awed and agape at the sheer size of these monolith rocks, drug from a quarry 50 miles away, lifted upright with ropes and possibly only by the strenth of giants, all erected to form a clearly defined circular form with the axis of the sun's trace directly through the center. 

Every time I turn around I am being amazed and humbled by the achievenments, diligence, and intellect of my ancestors in the human race.

Detour to the UK

In the absence of labor opportunities in France due to that old trouble we call technology (that would be.. machines that pick the grapes), we have decided to detour until our next destination of Turkey in two weeks. I have chosen the blessed United Kingdom as my choice of refuge, and Michael is... well I don't know where for the time being. I'm excited for the opportunity to take a break from the hectic life on the road with painful attempts at conversations in a foreign language, mysterious meals that never come out like you thought they would (how does frommage even sound like cheese?, and to visit a friend from home that is studying over here in England. It has been a sigh of relief reading menus in English, resupplying my stash of books, and getting to share travel stories with new friends. My sites on the itenerary as of now are: Stonehenge, Canyoning in Wales for the weekend, the countryside of Scotland and the beautiful city of Edinburough, a possible stint in the land of the Irish for a few days (?), and of course the lovely but dreadfully bad-weathered London. So far I spent my first night trapsing the streets of London with my self and my big backpack until 4 AM looking for the hostel my friends were at. After many stressful encounters I won't recall here, I found the Brits to be surprisngly helpful and kind, and I'm glad they speak English. After a day in the city visiting the Tower of London and its historical references to the past Kings and Queens (including the most famous jewels in the world), I made it here to Cambridge where I'm enjoying the sites of the many, historic universities and the intellectual chatterings at the local pub. We will see where I go next.

Por Favor Espana!

After relaxing days spent on the beach we boarded a train to Barcelona for our small excursion into Spanish country – however, I soon learned we were in Catalania, not Spain. Catalan is a region in the North East part of Spain, bordering France and the Mediterranean sea, where there is a different dialect (Catalan), different cuisine, and different people. Literally, everything is translated into 3-4 languages, Spanish, Catalan, English, and French. 

Barcelona is the most beautiful European city I have seen thus far. All European cities knock the U.S. out of the water with their enormous public parks, their cleanliness, their old buildings, and their narrow, bricked streets. However, Barcelona has the most impressive architecture I have seen of all these European wonders. Apparently, some guy named Gaudi, who, by the way was chums with Dali and other famous-names-you-can’t-remember-from-art 101 artists, loved his homeland of Catalania and decided he would pretty much build the majority of the city up himself, with his own architectural designs. This provides a stunning tourist-bus drive (yes, I did one of those double-decker sight-seeing buses, strapped with my camera around my neck and my sunscreen on) of stunning buildings built not to expected style, but with curved or rounded tops, deep metallic colors of blues and greens, and the most famous of all, the Sagrada Familia – a cathedral so vast and beautiful you can’t really capture it all in one photograph no matter where you stand (google it for pictures). The cathedral itself is not even finished yet, as Gaudi died before his dream of 18 steeple tops that shoot into the sky could be completed; the construction continues from anonymous donors finances. 

La Rambla is another famous site of Barcelona that all tourists are sure to experience since it houses most of the hotels and hostels. What is it? Just a street. But a street with a walkway down the center that is lined with everything one could ever want to peak their interest: birds, turtles, guinea pigs, newsstands, flowers, characters dressed up in extravagant costumes, soccer players showing off their juggling skills, or human statues painted head to toe in metallic body-cover. Least to say, this is where all the tourists hang out and get drunk, and to try to sleep at night before 5AM is a lost cause. 

To our luck, we were there during the week of the big football World-cup qualifier game between England and Andorra, to be played at the famous Olympic Stadium in Barcelona; if you’ve never experienced English fans, well, imagine those annoying little girls that like to make up cheers and chant them all night long behind you at an OSU football game or something, then multiply that by about 20,000 Brits who want to be noticed in all their glory, all over Barcelona. They have hundreds of songs they enjoy getting started, one right after the other, in every bar you step into along La Rambla. After our pub crawl one evening, our last stop brought us into, I believe, the most crowded English pub with screaming, drunk Brits donned in their red and white jerseys. We finally engaged a sensible (if you can call it that) conversation with one group and were educated about the superiority of the English, the arrogance and ignorance of the Americans, and all about those “F***ing French collaborators! The rumors are true, the English hate the French. 

The next day, we took a tour through the wine country of Rioja Spain, to two vineyards owned by the “Wine Kings of Spain”, the Torres family. The countryside where these vineyards produce that drink that entices us all are so peaceful and uninterrupted by buildings or electrical lines or even people, you can’t imagine. We got to see the whole process of wine making: the cycle of the vine over a year, the picking, the fermenting, the aging in those dark, scary cellars, and the bottling with a pretty Spanish label slapped on. It is quite intricate and detailed. 

After the trip, we were determined to make it to this English football game and see these crazy fans at their best. A long walk over and an expensive taxi ride brought us up to the Olympic village, a beautiful sight, but a disappointing ending as the game was sold out. All we were going to experience was the sound of the screaming 23,000 fans from outside the stadium. I started strolling away, trying to console poor Michael and his loss of the one truly, manly thing he wanted to do in Barcelona… and someone offered to sell us tickets – not to the game, but to the COLDPLAY concert! Coldplay was playing in the Olympic dome the very same night, by my luck, and we went!! Although all concerts will forever be jaded by my incomparable experience with U2, this particular concert may have given them a run for their money. A truly talented band, they sound just as perfect live as they do on the radio, and their improvisation with their music proves they are real artists with a love for making new sounds. They played all their songs from the new album, while making sure to please with all their old favorites. Chris tried with all his might to speak a little Spanish to please the crowd, and the Spaniards we sat next to were incredibly friendly and fun to share the experience with. Coldplay loves its fans, even jumping in the middle of the stands to play one of their songs, and bowing for five minutes at the end while applauding their fans. It was an unexpected, unpredictable joy …. Much like much of this trip.

Le Plage

From Perpignan we took a short bus down to the beach community of Canet Plage – plage being the snooty-French sounding word, like all French words, as compared to our lousy Beach or the fun, Spanish playa. We spent two days here relaxing at the sight of the many shades of the blue in the Mediterranean sea that stretched it seemed forever into the horizon. The plage was one of the most peaceful beaches I’ve ever spent time on (besides the East of Oahu.. Kaneohe for anyone who knows, you’ll understand). There were few people, nice people, and a large stretch of sand almost 6 km long where everyone could have their personal space. 

I love Europe! I went for a walk tonight. First, I sat amidst the dark backdrop of the powerful Mediterranean ocean, with its booming waves pounding the shore in a mess of unpredictable patterns – it was like that poor sea just wanted to go to sleep but couldn’t stop tossing and turning in the sheets. I sat in the sand moistened by the rain a few hours earlier, looked out into that mysterious power that never ceases to amaze me, closed my eyes, and entered into meditation with myself and the intoxicating tune of the tide. Solitude is a precious thing that I don’t get to experience too often – it comes in small portions, is always tampered by distractions, and it only allows me sparing moments to capture the essence. But the solitude by the Sea, this is indescribable. The presence of a power as strong and as big and as mysterious as the Ocean cannot be subsided. The distractions seem to wither away. I feel small. I feel humbled. I feel calm. I feel outside of the control of things, and its nice. After a relaxing and reinvigorating number of minutes I couldn’t count, I continued the stroll down the beach. 

I had no direction, but was pleased to see the guiding light when I noticed the local bookstore was still open and, just to my luck, had a section of English novels. After the loss of my highly-interesting book about the Isreali-Arab conflict after only 30 pages read, I was having that yearn for a nice, soothing read to revitalize my imagination and intellect. I found just that, in a novel of four characters who crash into each other literally and historically in Hong Kong. 

After the purchase of the book, I turned back towards the hotel, thinking the night had been pleasant and ready for a slumber; yet, I was yet again given a blessing from the strength of the universe – the sound of the Spanish Morena music being played down the street in the center of town. I walked over to a stage set up in the surroundings of the cafes and restaurants with small area in front to dance. The site was beautiful. Couples danced the Mamba, the Pase Double, the Tengo Camisa Negra, the Por Favor Espana, and many more. Two couples in particular were quite impressive, knowing the steps to every type of dance and in sync the whole way. Some couples new some simple steps to some of the dances, and some just had no rhythm and looked ridiculous. But the beauty, the beauty is in their eyes and their smiles and their joy. The music took them back to their romantic twenty’s when they fell in love. They danced flirtatiously. The women felt beautiful. The men couldn’t stop adoring their brides. The little girls couldn’t stop smiling at their daddies. The grandmother’s adoringly looked on snapping photos.

A hitch-hiker's guide to the South of France

It all started when we stepped off the train and into the reality of signs marked only in French. Of the few French words I have learned, Sortie (exit), is one of them; therefore I followed the signs. That Sortie brought us to a deserted, ugly, completely non-French town that burned our expectations and left us walking aimlessly up the street in hopes of a helpful taxi. The aimless walking lead us to a SUV of men (whom I realized were drunk only after I got in the car) who wanted to take us to the nearest hotel. The nearest hotel was a lonely building in the midst of an abandoned area on the North side of Bordeaux with no restaurants, a dirty river, and only industrial plants for entertainment. We thought we had made a mistake, decided to cut our losses and take a tram to the center of Bordeaux and see if we could find some information about picking grapes. Our luck seemed to change... 

The next morning, the receptionist/owner of the hotel we had determined must be going out of business (for our perception we were the only occupants of a room that night in the abandoned hotel in the middle of no where!) turned out to speak perfect English, had contacts with a nearby vineyard in the Medoc wine-making region, and was eager to help the lost, American travelers. After informing us the grape-picking, or Les Vendages as it is called here in France, doesn't start until the 15th of September, she suggested us making the short trip across the border to Barcelona for the weekend. "Would you like to go by train (expensive) or hitch-hiking?" she asked. My response, "So hitch-hiking is a possibility?" Some might say this may not have been the smartest move, but hey - when in Rome, right? So, we hitch-hiked. 

After desperately standing at the corner of an intersection, a friendly telecommunications Frenchman drove us to the main highway entrance to Toulose. There, it didn't take long to meet a young married couple on their way back to their hometown of Toulouse who offered a ride in the back of their black, sleek car and with entertainment from 100s of favorite American bands all the way back to Bob Dylan and Elivs Presley! In Toulouse, we met the traditional semi-truck driver who carried us on to the truck stop at the highway split to Perignan, where a disabled women in a wheel chair opened her door for a free ride into the center of Perignan...Which is where I sit now, in a humble hostel amid the streets of a Mediterranean city in the South of France. I had a 2003 Bordeaux wine for only 15 euros tonight, sitting in an outdoor cafe, breathing in the fresh, clean air and admiring the beautiful, flowered apartment balconies of the European buildings. 

Surprisingly, the rides were neither scary nor difficult to find! At each stop, we waited no more than 5 minutes for a someone to offer their free seats, and none of the drivers lived up to the legend of snooty Frenchman. Each spoke at least a little English, and all at least understood the most important English phrase when passing through traffic with inept drivers, "Bullshit!" The road trip was indescribably beautiful. To the South lay the Pyrenees, to the North lay the Alps, but here I was riding through the flat lands of South-Central France that oddly reminded me of Oklahoma. Lots of agriculture (especially grapes!) and rolling hills dyed with colors of yellow, brown and green - I wondered, isn't this the France everyone should see? So different from the bustling city of Paris, flooded with noses stuck in the air. The countryside - this is the real France, the simple France, the France that can remind you of Southern hospitality at home - however, this France has the Mediterranean sea that I get to visit tomorrow, and Oklahoma has... lake Grand Lake?

If it wouldn't have been for that wrong turn out the back door of the Train station, if it wouldn't have been for that crazy group of men taking us to the abandoned hotel; if it wouldn't have been for that owner who suggested hitch-hiking to Barcelona... where would I be now?

Arequipa

Arequipa is apparently the Intellectual center of modern Peru, and by far one of the most beautiful cities I have visited here; so beautiful and popular that there is a following of people who want to move the capital from Lima to Arequipa! The plaza is pretty and peaceful, scattered with palm trees, flowers and an ever-flowing fountain, all lit by the lamps of the cafes and restaurants lining the sides with a mesh of all age groups and nationalities filling the spaces in between– very Europeanesque. We spent our first day celebrating the Areguipan football team at the local stadium (we figured, don’t you have to see a soccer game when you’re in South America?). Although the game resulted in a tie of 0-0, it was a fulfilling two hours of crazy, angry fans shouting phrases I was never given the privilege to learn in Spanish class. 

Arequipa also houses the gateway to the Colca Canyon, the Grand Canyon of South America, in which the sacred Condors of the ancient Incas fly and the green, mountainous views marvel; however, I regret to say, we failed to see the great Colca Canyon. Traveling always brings surprises and unpredictable mistakes - we have had few, but one occurred yesterday when our supposed bus ticket to the Colca Canyon led us only to an extremely small, desolate, almost abandoned town in the middle of everything dry. The whole day wasn’t a waste, as we walked to some natural hot springs and relaxed in the Equatorial sun in complete solitude. 

Today, we enjoy the sights of Arequipa once more until our overnight bus will take us to Lima where we will fly off to France. My South American portion of the journey is almost over. I feel ready to move on. I have learned so much Spanish, have met so many great people, have lived a rather poor lifestyle (at least for an American) with dirty bathrooms, bugs, and desert sand, and I have felt the dramatic, romantic aura of the Latin-American dreams. Now, on to Europe where I will attempt to work in the French countryside, enduring back-breaking labor for three weeks in order to make a couple extra bucks… it’s all for the experience, right?

The lost city of the Incas

Machu Picchu. Possibly one of the only Tourist Meccas I’ve seen that fully deserves its renowned stature. Beginning construction on the will of the great Incan leader and architect Pachacutec in the 15th century at the height of the Incan Empire, and abandoned by the Incas in 1536 in lieu of the incoming Spanish slaughterers, this city is the only remaining ruins of the Incan Empire never found by the Spanish Conquistadors, and therefore never destroyed. Thought to be the intellectual center of the Incas Sacred Valley inhabitants, Machu Picchu was a legendary city in the ears of the Spanish that was never to be discovered, thanks to the Incans decision to destroy the only remaining Incan Trail leading to the city, in hopes to preserve their magnificent architecture. That is until Hiram Bingham, an American anthropologist in search of Vilcabamba, the home of the last living Incan civilization, fell upon this New Wonder of the World by accident in 1911. Bingham, by the way, took up many of the gold, silver, idols, and other artifacts he found and brought them back to Yale where they are still housed today; the Peruvian government, as you can imagine, has some opinionated thoughts about this. 

As tradition goes (at least for the real travelers, we woke up at about 4:45 AM to meet our guide and head up to the bus station that would take us up the curvy mountain road, back 500 years, into the history and culture of the most famous Empire to inhabit the South American continent. Starting our journey into the city at about 6:00 AM and with a mystical fog and light drizzle hanging over us that only National Geographic can mimic in its special editions, my breath was literally taken away (how many times am I going to say that on this trip?) by the grandiose size of the site – it is bigger than you could ever imagine. Not until the fog cleared about two hours later could I really appreciate how vast this civilization really was. We began with the numerous terraces, cut in the side of the mountain in order to catch rain and better cultivate the crops that were grown to feed the city. Sprinkled amongst these terraces were the homes of the daily citizens, built with stones and mud; and don’t kid yourself, they had running water in this ancient city as well – springs in the mountainside were tapped and led to canals which fled into the city for showering, irrigating, or spiritual rituals. We moved on to the religious center of worship which was built a bit higher than the houses. This spiritual center was made only of the largest, monolith stones dragged from faraway peaks and chiseled into perfect rectangular pieces, placed together like a puzzle with no mistakes. There was a window to the East, where the sun could shine in on the stone structure in the middle, which would then cast a shadow on the ground in the shape of the Andean Cross. Also, there was a large figure in the middle resembling a Condor, the sacred bird of the Incas which had a wing-span of almost 6 feet! In some of the other, small places of daily worship, they constructed niches (windows but with no openings) where they could place there heads in to hum and meditate; the resonance of the sounds were said to go straight to the gods, and could also be heard from almost anywhere else in the city. We saw the plaza, the center of town where large gatherings were held and the Incan leader could speak to his people from a lookout point high above; a symbolic structure in the center was also destroyed by current president Alan Garcia when he decided to fly a helicopter in and land in the plaza. 

All in all, I was most impressed with the architecture and intricate construction of everything in the city. Large stones dragged from mountaintops could take months or even years to reach their destination for construction, and the chiseling and carving of the stones was usually one person’s life-long career. There was no money in Incan society; however, there were taxes – paid by one’s manual labor. Citizens from surrounding areas of the empire would travel especially to Machu Picchu to participate in the construction of the marvel. The abundant presence of their sophistication and civilization makes one wonder why the Spanish ever thought these “barbarians” needed saving; it also makes one wonder what the empire could have amounted to had the West not interfered. 

Fransisco Pizzarro and his Spanish conquistadors fled into the Incan Empire in 1536 and destroyed most of the civilizations they found including Ollantaytambo, Pisaq, and the capital Cusco. They heard of the intellectual center of Machu Picchu (which, by the way literally means “Old Mountain” and was not the original name of the city) but could never find it because of the destroyed path, and because of their preoccupation with finding the “El Dorado” of the Incas, Vilcabamba. After years of fighting and struggling with the Spanish to preserve their culture, the last Incan King took about 500 of his people and hid in the valley of Vilcabamba, continuing the Incan culture and customs, hidden from the Spanish for almost 100 more years. Finally, he was found and killed, along with the legend of the Incas. However, some believe the Incan spirit and heritage still live on in Peru, through the blood line of those who were captured forced into slavery by the Spanish, but never converted from the Incan treasures in their heart. 

After the fog lifted and the rain stopped, I headed back out to explore the highest point of the ruins, Incahuapac. It was an extremely long hike up (which makes me appreciate how great of shape these people were in!) but completely worth it. You can’t appreciate the size of this untouched city until you see it from the top, in broad daylight, with the backdrop of the green Andes behind it. I felt like an Incan, breathing in the fresh, mountain air and feeling the serene tranquility of being in the presence of such a magnificent ancient peoples. Although you must always come down the mountain, the surreal experience will remain in my thoughts forever.

Cusco

We made it to Cusco safely but sorely after the lovely Peruvian bus company failed to inform us that the “18 hour” prediction on the ticket was more like a 23 hour excursion in freezing conditions and switchback roads that woke you up to the sound of screeching metal every time you were just about to doze off. Maybe it was the fault of the bus attendant serving our food who admitted to smoking marijuana in the cockpit three times during the drive…? Least to say, we didn’t get much sleep but I finished my book, made a good start on my blanket I’m making, and met a nice girl from Florida.

Cusco is a brighten-your-day sight as you roll in, seeing the mountainside lit up by all the colors of the rainbow painted on the houses – just as any other Latin American proud city would be; it reminds me of flying in over Mexico City.

The city is very old and beautifully built, mixing the remains of the ancient civilizations that inhabited it with the European influences of brick roads, breathtaking churches, and narrow streets filled with cafes. It is also a tourist-packed city with people of all ages and nationalities being swarmed by the many street vendors offering the best package for this or that adventurous tour of the Incan ruins. We have a wonderful hotel in the town center, properly equipped with 4 blankets on each bed (to save us from the bitter cold in the evenings) and an endless supply of Coca Tea, made from the coca leaves of the region (to help with altitude woes!)

Overwhelmed with the opportunities abounding me here, I was glad to have the friendly Floridan allow me to tag along her hike to the city of Pisaq, a site of more Incan ruins (they are everywhere!) in what they call El Valle Sagrado, the Sacred Valley – a region of geographical and climatic benefits for the Incans, stretching throughout the length of the Sacred River. We took a short bus packed to the full with native Peruvians of descent I haven’t witnessed yet in the North – the traditional woman you see on the cover of National Geographic with her colorful skirt, long, dark braids, and a top hat to top it off. They all carry unbelievable loads of .. I don’t know what over their shoulder by a blanket tied to double as a satchel bag, and they have the most beautiful wrinkles and white teeth of anyone I’ve seen. On departing the bus, we were pleased to find the first thing we notice in this small Peruvian town in the Andes mountains is a coffee shop – a coffee shop owned by 5 traveling hippies from Argentina, Brazil, and Bolivia with long dreadlocks and a wonderful taste for making empanadas, a favorite breakfast substitute here. We chatted, drank the traditional coca tea, and made a friend named Junior from Brazil to accompany us on the hike.

Unfortunately, I got the Battery Blues and my camera went dead about 10 minutes after we commenced the hike. And, as always, the sights are indescribable. We didn’t want to be “touristy”, so Junior sort of formed our own path up the side of the mountain, through the business of some workers building a retaining wall, and literally straight up about a half mile of stairs from the old Incan city. Not too mention that I’m probably not the strongest person alive, but the mountain air requires about four breaths for every one I should need – I was tiiiired. Junior just laughed and strolled easefully up the stairs, whistling Brazilian tunes all the way. At the top, it was relaxing and beautiful, including the murmur of over 15 languages around me. The mountains were different than the Andes of Ecuador – much more inhabited and much less green, but anyone could see why the Sacred Valley was so sacred. As for the structure of the ancient city, one has to wonder how arrogant the Spaniards must have been in their assumption that these “barbarians of the New World” needed their help – canals, stairwells, rooms of all uses, and perfectly square stones placed in perfectly straight patterns obviate the intelligence of the Incas.

I hurried back to meet Michael and we rushed off to by some tickets for Macchu Picchu – an endeavor in which we failed. We are going to have to end up paying about $300 for the both of us to enter unless we can figure out a way to cheat the system (and don’t doubt us..) Also, there’s no seats until Friday so it looks like we’ll be spending a few more days here, which I don’t mind at all. We spent the evening in a packed Irish pub, the only place in town (maybe the country) with Guinness beer and good company from fellow travelers. Today, off to discover all the historically elegant legends and levels of Incan and Spanish history.

Layover in Lima

After the 14 hour ride from Piura, we found ourselves waking up to two excruciatingly sore backs, unstoppable yawns, and a foggy sky with no intention of lifting in sight. Lima hasn’t seen sun in weeks, maybe months, according to locals and the frequent Peace Corps visitors. After being disappointed by the lack of available seats on the continuing bus to Cusco we were hoping to catch that night, we opted to stay a night in Lima at the party hostel, Loki.

Our adventures have brought us terrible luck thus far after losing some precious goods to the charms of thieves; so we find ourselves in a capital city with the underworld of the market awaiting our heavy wallets. After a long taxi ride and a couple compliments from the driver on my ever-improving Spanish skills, we arrived at Polvos Azules, the blackest of black markets – so black, there are several venders armed with original boxes, stamped with brand names, wrapped in cellophane, ready for you purchase with a smile, until you return home to open the box and find, to your surprise, a rock instead of that $300 camera you thought you purchased. We came prepared, however, and left with some much-needed goodies bought at cheap prices; Michael’s Peruvian futball jacket was the buy of the day. We purchased our bus tickets for the following day and headed off on a long walk back towards Miraflores district in lieu of our lack of change for a taxi.

Craving a delicious meal, one that would break the mold of Santa Isabel’s limited options, we decided to head off to Larcomar, a shopping district built on a cliff overlooking the Ocean. Although the view was quite unimpressive due to the looming gray smog over the landscape, the meal was refreshing and overloading! Food has become my weakness in this trip. I fear I may really gain some weight on this year in world if I don’t start controlling my ravenous appetite for anything tasty! However, I digress on this guilt and give in because, hey, it is my year in the world, and if eating adventurously is something that adds to the experience, so be it. Michael got so excited at the word of an Irish Pub in the area of the hostel; the possibility of an ice-cold, tall Guinness was ringing in his mind as we headed off on the search for Murphy’s Irish Pub, advertised to the Western travelers. Yet to our dismay, the pub was closed and now we find ourselves tucked away at the bar in a popular backpacker’s hostel, soaked with travelers from numerous countries – all most likely dubbed the “hippies” of their culture: sporting sandals with socks, shaggy, unwashed hair, and a jacket that has traversed the whole of South America without seeing the inside of a washing machine.

We are soon off to Cusco, but first we must endure another excruciating 18-hour bus ride to reach our destination.

Independence

To my surprise, I had a common-day event in my activities this morning: I attended a parade in honor of Peru’s Independence Day. This amplifies my theory of the world as I travel and encounter people of every kind and make: people are simply people all over the world. This may seem no profound thought, but it is truer to me now than any other view I have of the world. I have come to find, I am essentially no different than my mysterious counterparts inhabiting faraway lands. We all eat, we all sleep, we all want to succeed, we want to live peacefully, we get frustrated when we don’t, we love, we lose … and we celebrate our country’s Independence proudly each passing year.
In an all too familiar scene, the kids dressed up in the adornments of their forefathers (although Peru’s history possesses a much longer timeline of history to choose from than the United States), donning fake beards and stately top hats, and delivering powerful speeches remembered from the days of their emergence from colonialism. The other toddlers donned the dress of the various indigenous Indians from the many different regions of the country: the Nazcas (famous for the Nazca lines seem from Space – look it up!), those from Lake Titicaca (highest lake in the world!) and, of course, the famous Incans.

They marched down the dirt road as the entire neighborhood eagerly cast their eyes on their prized children, and the few with cameras snapped priceless photos of the memories. The flag was hung, the anthem was sung, and just as the proud Americans did just a month ago, the right arm was raised and placed over the heart in respect to their precious homeland. No matter how much material possession, or depth of knowledge, or individual strength one may have to himself, everyone needs a place to belong – everyone needs a sense of pride in belonging, to something. 

I placed my right arm over my heart as the anthem played as well, as an emblem of my appreciation to the diligently kind and joyful people of Peru.

Vilcabamba!

Vilcabamba, Ecuador, the Valley of Longevity, the humble town trapped by lush, green mountains that forces one into a state of incomparable serenity. The last five days I have arisen to a never-ending vista of rolling hills and numerous shades of green being brightened by the morning sun peaking over the mountains. The hostel provides a quaint patio overlooking the beautiful valley as I sip on my coffee and sigh in relief at the quiet. It is not surprising that the inhabitants of this paradise live to be 135 years – the presence of something divine refuses non-spirituality; the resources of mineral water and fresh fruit provide for a healthy mind and body; and the absence of technology and modernization that confuse us helps you to stay in the present moment.

Hillsides of the Andes during our hike

It’s a small hostel tucked away on the side of the mountain with no internet, no air conditioning, and plants and flowers surrounding you everywhere! It reminds me of Manoa in Hawaii. It is so beautiful here, I even tried to get a job at the Hostel but an Australian beat me to it by a day! There are people here from everywhere – and mostly not from the U.S. (I’ve began to notice that Americans just don’t travel like the rest of the world). Especially, we have befriended an Israeli, Hagar, on her quest ‘round South America – all Israelis are obligated to two years of service in the army after high school, after which they all travel in South America or East Asia for 6 months; Israelis are everywhere! It has been interesting exchanging stories and theories on the age-old conflict in her country, and noting the irony at the difference of information we each receive from our governments or media. I always think differently about a situation once I meet a real, live person surviving it.
The three of us set out on the Izhcayluma Hike through the Ecuadorian Andes, which got Michael and I into much more than we were prepared for! The hike was about 6.5 hours and returned us just before the sun fell in the valley. The ascent was not bad and the views were, to use the cliché but appropriate phrase, truly breath-taking! Rising only about 6,000 feet, the mountains are still covered in beautiful shades of green, have wild horses roaming, and have no power lines to ruin the panorama either! However, the descent consisted of a purely ridgeline hike for about two hours on a path 1.5 feet wide, straight across and down the face of the mountain. We lost the blue rocks guiding our way at one point and went an hour out of the way only to turn around and climb straight back up. My legs were shaking in fatigue, my ankles hurt, and the equatorial sun was rough – but we made it! We trekked the Andes!

Are we in trouble yet?

Day two consisted of a massage from the Hostel and relaxation. We rode horses up to the beautiful mountain views on Sunday as well; however, I believe that will be my last horse ride for me – the pains from that 3 hour bull ride (as it seemed to me) are still piercing my back and butt as I type this message now.
We met a French couple, German medical missionaries, an intelligent Dutch couple traveling for a year (who just couldn’t understand that phenomenon we call Privatized Health Care in the U.S.), and so many more. The weekend was a breath of fresh air, literally, and I miss it already! I can’t say much more, just look at the pictures!

What do I do here, you may ask?

The first sounds I hear when I squint my eyes to let in some sunshine at 7:00 are the desperate shouts of the salesmen, beginning their daily route through the neighborhood, on their bicycle with their fruits in stowe: “Pina, Papaya, Platanos!!” And don’t you fear, if you didn’t hear it the first time, he will repeat it about 20 more times before he reaches the end of your street. After eggs, toast and Pineapplae juice for breakfast, I head off on a twenty minute walk through the market to the Church of Santisimo Sacremento, which hosts the social program that I volunteer for. SOme days, there isn’t much for me to do; however, if the construction team is out, I am eager to jump on the back of the truck and head to the “barrios pobres”.

About 12 of us – mixed Peruvians and Americans – pile into the back of a truck with ladders and tools, and enjoy the packed, rickety ride to the shanty towns where we’ll get down to business. The villages usually have no electricity, no running water, thatch houses with dirt floors, and dirty dogs running everywhere. As a team, we start by tearing down whatever structure is attempting to remain standing at the site so we can replace it; this is when all the little critters like mice and scorpions come running out of the sand to make the day a little more interesting. After teardown, we begin with the most difficult task of the day: using old, rusty post-hole diggers to dig 5-foot deep holes in the dry, sandy desert – I can only help you imagine how difficult this is. Bamboo is placed in these holes as the wall support. Woven thatch is then run from each bamboo pole to another, creating the walls, which are held together by simple wire. Rather than nailguns and levels being the most important tools in the US, wire cutters and saws are highly prized here – I would say about 20 nails are used in total. The Peruvians usually handle the roof of tin material and attach a door – which probably has the only real lock on the block. No floors, no insulation, no separate rooms, and no electrical outlets. This simple structure, however, changes the lives of every family, which come out crying when they see their new sleeping quarters, and are to provide up to 7 years of stability. The equatorial sun beats down pretty hard in the afternoon, and water is hard to come by, but it is pretty neat working with Peruvians and gazing at their almost acrobatic constructional techniques.

If I don’t go to the church, sometimes we go to the Community Center to see our roomate JA at work. In his time here, JA has noticed the lack of discipline and and lack of encouragement for creativity or goal-planning. To incorporate these important methods he has implemented the use of the wonderful game of Chess. It’s incredible to see the transformation from chaotic mayhem when I first walked into the classroom, to complete silence and concentration as the Chess boards were revealed. It helps them practice staying focused for long periods of time, and to set long-term goals – in order to Checkmate, they have to know the extended goals of their opponent and try to decipher a counter attack far in the future.

I run in the afternoons, which I wish I could say was motivated by my overly-ambitious personality (!), but truly its because I’m trying to get as sweaty as possible before stepping into the stream of icy water in the shower that causes continual shivers for the entire 10 minutes I suffer in that damn thing! Dinner is usually a satifying meal: we have Chinese, Pizza, Hamburgers, and even a little Cuban place that has traditional Peruvian food – all for around 4$ for a full plate and a beer.

We have a different bottle of wine each week (Argentinan and Chilean wine are so cheap here!), and head off to bed fairly early after reading a bit.

Next stop – the Valley of Longevity in Ecuador tomorrow!

My Piuran Life

The 12 year old professional chess players of rural Piura

We have been adopted into a family of multi-lingual, multi-cultural, multi-personae people employed by the Peace Corps. A large black man with dreadlocks from South Carolina with a generous heart simply known as “JA” has taken a liking to us, as he is our roommate, and kindly invited us into his world of Peace Corps friends. Elena, a wordy, eccentric girl with a boyfriend teaching English here is also nearby. It is nice to have friends here who speak English and can join in the celebration of July 4 with some grilled hamburgers, deviled eggs, and home-made pasta salad: a highly prized American mean in the land of chicken and rice.

It is a world of chaos here; it is the Wild West, South American style. The breath of fresh air and sigh of relief one may receive when catching glimpse of a marked police car when traipsing through a bad neighborhood is nonexistent here; the police are participators in the untamed world of drug exchange and theft, merely with a uniform to disguise their intentions. Men whistle and hiss at me no matter how conservative I choose to adorn myself. My senses peak at the presence of danger all hours of the day; whether it be fear of the children pick-pocketing me in the market, or that I may err in my taxi choice at night and receive violent repercussions, or simply that I may be trampled by a combi whizzing by.

The streets have a separate paradigm. The taxis have no obligation to heed the sparsely located stop signs or traffic lines, adhering only to their version of order: a short honk of the horn before passing through an intersection. Surprisingly, the chaos produces no extraordinary number of traffic collisions, yet each time I enter a cab I am prepared to see my life pass before my eyes at least three times, as a foreboding wreck is inches away at each intersection. Cabs are small but agile through the packed streets, but there also exists a cheaper alternative in transit with the moto-taxis: each time I crawl in and sit, I feel as though my measly 125 pounds may fall through, as I observe my only support is a wooden bench built onto the back of a motorcycle. Public transportation has not been forgotten here, a Combi, as it is called, runs routes (though where these routes are determined or publicized I do not know) and will fit as many persons as can stand to sit on top of each other. Most Combis are recycled, old buses with few remaining seats, those of which are torn and tattered; the door remains constantly open and people simply jump on and off whenever they please for 70 centicimos.

Typical restaurant/house in Piura

It is a dirty city. The dust from the desert blows in my skin, my hair, my fingernails wherever I go. The city has no definite infrastructure; the buildings lack finish, the streets are poorly paved with mixed concrete and pebbles (which evokes frequent rolled ankles while running and walking through town), and strange smells of rotten foods or uncleanly boutiques fill the polluted air.

The list of rules our government imposes upon is extensive, to say the least, and this is a more stark realization when I travel to countries in which no regulation exists! There are no city limit excitations – Chickens and goats run wild throughout neighborhoods. The FDA has no power here – family-operated restaurants flood the streets, popping up in every home with a couple tables and chairs on a dirt floor are served from the family’s kitchen in the back of the house. No Health and Human Services corps comes here to check that public places are providing safe water to drink. And OSHA would have a fit watching the construction proceed in the city, with rickety wooden ladders and rusted tools that make a standing, but not stable buildings.

Peru is...

Peru is interesting (surprise, surprise!)

In this emerging Third World Country, the trash sprinkles the barren, desert land like Easter morning – shining in the sun and longing to be gathered up. Despite the severe uncleanliness of the countryside (dirty water, dirty streets, and not to mention the dirt everywhere due to the desrt), the people have an incredible pride for their land and their people; people diligently sweep the dust off the streets with their make-shift broom made of stiff straw only to repèat their perseverance throughout the day as the wind blows it right back.

I notice the people here possess a sense of fearlessness, particularly of one another. As they overload bodies into small buses sitting on top of perfect strangers; as the elderly frail women cross the street with the assistance of their cane, completely trusting that the lawless moto-taxis won´t run them over; or as people stand outside their homes for hours (unemployment flourishes) and say, ¨Buenas Dias¨ even to the gringos. In America, we can barely get out of our car to get gas – let alone talk to another human being attendant there – how dare us!

But the people are beautiful – you can only imagine (or see in my pictures later). Dark hair, dark eyes, dark skin – they lure you in with a mysterious entrapment that makes you want to know what it is about these people that, in lieu of their poverty, makes them so pleasantly joyful!

Progress

Well, we have successfully arrived to our first destination to the rest of the world!!

Currently, I am typìng on a computer with unknown and mysterious symbols I can´t decipher despite my limited Spanish skills in a small internet cafe two blocks from my new humble abode. After four complete days with no belongings, no change of clothes, no toothpaste or deoderant (I´ll let your mind wander on the repprocussions of that..), and only one cold shower, we arrived in Piura to our new apartment WITH our bags back in stowe. The place is completely satisfying: a small kitchen with a portable stove (perhaps like one would take with them camping; a perfectly clean and desirable bathroom despite the freezing temperature of the water; and two beds shoved together to form a slightly uncomfortable and lumpy cot. We live on a safe street with the rather wealthy residents in the district, and we have been blessed with an incredible family to take care of us; Wily is an engineer in Peru and his wife Lali is a journalist and teacher – two very intelligent people with English skills struggling but improving rapidly as they host a Peace Corps volunteer and two crazy Oklahomans traveling the world.

No complaints as of yet. I miss my hot shower, and I miss peanut butter (foudn in the market, but severely pricey) But all in all, I feel the ease of existence I´ve been longing for. Perhaps not having a home is, ironically, where I feel most at home.