Scouting The Ecuador Coast

As it turns out in daylight, Canoa has a first class beach.  It is lined with shaded cabanas just inviting visitors, a broad expanse of soft sand bereft of rocks, and surf that is perfect for the waveboarder.  Beachside shacks on the frontal road adjacent to the beach serve every kind of beachside delicacy ever known to make their way to a seaside resort.  But the town itself is a pig.  It is dirty, dusty, lacks any uniformity to its architecture, has no major stores or points of interest to speak of, and otherwise lacks inspiration.  Period.  No idea why somebody would want to retire here.  Except for cheap property prices.  Saw one 3-bedroom condo priced at $50,000 fairly close to the beach.  Land is $55 per meter of frontage away from the beach, and about $70,000 for a beachside lot.  Too much, in my estimation, considering the surroundings and lack of ambience there.  Too much for a population of only 2500.

On the other hand, nearby Bahia (about a 15 minute dirve to the south, much enhanced by the addition of a new bridge between the two back in November of 2010) has much more to offer as a metropolis.  The streets are paved, and relatively clean.  There are high rises here.  The restaurants are larger, cleaner, classier, and air conditioned.  I dined briefly at the best in town, CialcoteL La Piedra [www.hotellapiedra.com.ec] just long enough to gain some information about the surroundings.  This courtesy of Maria Santos and her real estate husband, Ney Gutierrrez.  The population is about 5700.  Very few beachfront apartments or condos or houses are available.  They sell quickly.  A recent sale, for a three bedroom beachfront home, went for $95,000.  US money, remember.  They even use US standard electrical plugs here.  I asked Maria why anybody would consider retiring here, in this beautiful area but still quite removed from any major city (Manta is a 75 minute drive away, and most go there for their major shopping).  She answered: it is fresh.  It is cheap.  It is beautiful.  Not humid.  Has a constant temperature around 75 degrees farenheit.  Taxis are cheap (my ride across town later to the bus station cost $2).  There is no need for a car.  There is a great museum here.  The boat people coming in off their yachts to visit keep things interesting.  There is also always a festival or carnival going on.  And perhaps above all, it is safe.  I’d have liked to stay, to see the pueblo in a broader context.  But Porto Lopez and Salinas still called, and I have only two days before I must fly out of Quayaquil to Lima and then to Iguazu Falls.  That means a lot of bus travel still.

So I catch the taxi, arrive at the bus terminal, and immediately head for Porto Viejo.  Two and one-half hours.  It is a way station.  Not even on my list of places recommended, or places considered to stop.  It is in fact not even a port.  Too far inland for that.  Cost though: only $1.50 !  Immediately head for Porto Lopez, my objective for the night.  Or so I thought.  “No directivo,” I am told.  Have to go via another place called Jitijapa (the spelling is close).  Cost once more is $1.50 for a 90 minute drive.  Third leg to Porto Lopez, after being dropped off in the middle of nowhere for an unannounced transfer and being saved at the last minute by a Spanish woman named Elena who directs me to the right hidden bus at the last moment, is again $1.50.  A little over an hour, this time.  At times, the road was quite good.  No rhyme or reason though as to when you hit firm concrete, asphalt, cobblestone, flat dirt, or rutted tracks.  They all appear, and in random order.

Porto Lopez has been recommended to me as far back as Lima.  So it appears to be something to look forward to.  I arrive in the dark, and can really only take advantage of the internet café (my access to direct Wi-Fi has been compromised during the last week).  Afterward, I wander the playa – the beachfront with all its food and drink shacks and loud Latino music.  The town appears to be a ‘tweener with Canoa’s fine beach, and paved streets and housing much better than found in Canoa (but not quite to Bahia’s standards).  Knowing there are few other pursuits to enjoy at this hour, I sit down at one shack to enjoy one of the best Mojitos I’ve ever had, along with the absolute best bowl of ceviche I’ve ever had.  Cost: $7 total.   During daylight, the beach is really good quite.  Lots of shelters, lots of boats, lots of color, very clean, plenty of beachside restaurants and cook shacks to serve both tourists and locals, and a good location.  My purview of the town in daylight is not as flattering.  Better than Canoa, but not a place one would want to retire.  I keep thinking to myself: if one is use to the threatre, the opera, the movies, maybe the philharmonic, what would you do without a vehicle or with such extended distances here to find anything?  The travel pros write about Ecuador as the # 1 retirement spot in the world right now, for economy and value.  Depends on what you want.  If you want a slow, economical life and don’t mind some irregularities, I think they are probably spot on.  I’m not persuaded yet.

Salinas.  Ah, where did the time go?  It is Saturday night.  I was to head off to Salinas in the morning, and enjoy the beaches today, and asked many questions about local hot spots areas for both visiting and living.  Made a visit to a very secluded and beautiful beach nearby Porto Lopez called La Play Los Frailes.  Beautiful, hooking scimitar of a beach punctuated by two rocky promontories sheltering a gentle bay.  Perfect sand bottom, fish all around, very few rocks, and a wonderful setting for blankets and shelters.  Truly worth the 20 minutes extra to get outside of town.  Upon my return, made a routine check of my calendar.  I don’t leave for Iguazu Falls on Monday morning, it is tomorrow morning.  Holy s--- !  I am going to have to scramble, or pay a very expensive taxi fare into the airport at Guayaquil.  Did find this out about Salinas: it is much larger than Canoa or Bahia or Porto Lopez.  It is more cosmopolitan.  More businesslike.  Cleaner as a city.  Still affordable.  Still has nice beaches.  Much busier, with many more citizens.  About an hour and one-half west of Quayaquil, probably the westernmost projection for all of Ecuador into the Pacific.  Very good reputation though, for retirement.  And that is all I can say for now.  Plane leaves in 12 hours and I am in the middle of nowhere.  Have no idea if buses run on Saturday night, or how far !

Next: Iguazu Falls !  (Widest and Most Powerful in the World)

Quito, Quayaquil and with a roll of the dice ... Canoa !

Quito, Quayaquil, and with a roll of the dice … Canoa !

I am learning to really dislike the big cities in this 80 day tour.  But they are necessary, since they contain the airports that are getting me around this huge continent on my LAN Pass flight segments.  In Quito, capital of Ecuador, I broke the rule.  Only two days here.  Didn’t even bother with the usual museums (though the Museo Todos Del Mundo, having something to do with the equator, was highly recommended by everybody).  Even the more highly recommended church of Compania was not on my radar.  Nor the personally inviting artist workshop of Guajasamin, “Ecuador’s Picasso”and the most famous artisan this country has ever had.  I also did not visit the esteemed Old Town in Quito, that of the colonial architecture I so adored in Cuzco.  None of it.  First, with all the early wakesups lately, just slept in on Monday.  Spent the rest of the day, catching up on e-mail, and blogging about Machu Picchu and the Sacred Valley of the Incas and adding photos.  Before you know it, the time is past 2 AM.  Tuesday, another lazy day.  No motivation at all.  An admin day of sorts.  Decompression probably, from the incredible trip to “The Lost City of The Incas.”  Mailed some gifts and personal effects back to the US so I would have continued room in my large bag.  This was a maddening process, that took an hour and one-half with the El Correo (post office) in Ecuador.  And you thought they were slow and indifferent in the US!  Needed a shot of sanity.  They don’t have shops for this on every corner, like they do for Starbucks.  But a little sleuthing got me to the right place.

Decided to visit an English speaking bar.  Now, I am not a bar person.  Never have been.  Not in college, and not afterward.  But the truth is, you always pick up the best bullshit and the best scouting reports, in bars.  The one I got referred to by a Canadian gal on the street, who was leaving town in 15 minutes, was Hostal Villa Cayetano.  Bar, hostel, and Internet Café combo.  Proprietor was Canadian Christian Ramirez.  First of all, no struggling with the language and having multiple misunderstandings in the process of making a deal or trying to buy something.  Got three beers, two hamburgers (only meal of the day), chips, and the whole kit with tip for $13.  Better yet, I was advised for four hours on what I should see, what wasn’t worth seeing (despite the reputation), some great soccer on the TV, fluent English, and a referral for where I should head the next day.  More on that in a moment.  I also met Minneapolis journalist Tom Bartel, who – with his wife Chris –  does freelance journalism throughout South America.  Seems almost like they have the ideal job.  Best thing I picked up from Tom (besides engaging good company) was his story about a book deal he may pursue.  Seems there is “old knowledge” about the final “Lost City of The Incas” that has ben narrowed down from legend, old trails, old maps, and Spanish records.  The Spaniards knew it existed, and like Machu Picchu, could not find it.  Three others like it have been found by acquaintances of his  since 1980.  It is out there somewhere.  Trouble is, you can’t find it with satellite photography.  It is grown over with jungle.  And it is somewhere in Ecuador between 5000 and 13,000 feet in altitude.  You have to find the right old trail, hack your way in for miles and miles, and get lucky.  But they know it is there.  Tom promised to keep me posted.

On the way back to my hostel, my cabbie asks me if I am aware of the chairlift called “El Teleferico” leading up to the local volcano at 4300 meters.  Now, this is a comical conversation, conducted one word at a time, but largely successful due to some Italian interloping (hand gestures) and major interpolating on both our parts.  Quito, in fact, is flanked by five of these cone-shaped puppies.  I indicate “no.”  He says they are still open.  Would I like to go up?  I say “of course.  What is the cost?”  He tells me five dollars.  I’m thinking, at least I’ll have something to talk about re: Quito besides working the blog, and sleeping.  So they take me to the high point in town.  The gondola ride up the Guagua Pichincha volcano.   I pay my $8 (quoted price is for locals only), and ascend up the mountain in a four-man gondola.  I can still hear the cabbie and the ticket office folks snickering now.  They forget to tell you, the volcano gets fogged in at night.  Best viewing time is early in the morning.  For half an hour ascending over 3000 feet, and again on the return voyage, I see nothing but fog and the ascent cable and the occasional blurry shapes of passing gondolas descending.  Empty.  Oh well, teaches one to ask enough questions, or else …

Today (Wednesday), I am have an early 45 minute flight to Quayaquil.  A port town.  Euador’s largest city at 4 million.  Flat.  Hot.  Not particularly scenic.  Nothing to recommend it.  Except for fellow passenger Luz Ullauri, who is coming to town from Quito to visit her parents.  She has a son in New York, and a daughter who is a lawyer, and is terribly proud of both kids.  Turns out she is the Ecudadorian version of “A California Girl.”  Breezy.  Confident. Self assured.  Comfy in her own skin.  And assertive.  In a land where people don’t want to stick their heads up above ground zero, she wags her finger at the LAN people on my behalf for lousy service and allowing others to bypass me in line when I was simply following their protocol.  Then, she alerts me to the constant gate changes that are the norm in South America.  And, she is perfect company for what turned out to be too short of a flight.  One of those times you wish it was four hours, and not one.  Quayaquil is a town I have been warned about as “potentially dangerous.”  I elect for the first time to bypass it completely.  No sooner land at the airport, than I ask to be taken to the bus station.  I decide to head to some small towns, on the Ecuadorian coast, near the equator to finally get some beach time.  Not only that, but these towns have a reputation from International Living (which I subscribe to) for being great places to retire.  Way too early for me to consider that, but good intel is always good intel.  Never too early to start.  And besides, in 40+ days in South America, I’d never have known it was summer save but for a few days in Santiago and maybe a day or two elsewhere.  I am ready to tan.  I choose Canoa because it is the furthest north (60 miles south of the equator) and will allow me to systematically work my way back to Quayaquil (that flight sequencing mandate with LAN Airlines again) for the trip a week from now to Iguazu Falls.  It is a six hour bus ride.  Cost: $7.  Not the equivalent of $7.  Seven dollars exactly.  Reason is, for the last ten years, Ecuador has been on the US dollar.  Strange to see greenbacks, dollar coins, our quarters, and small change handed out routinely in a foreign land !

To say the trip was interesting, would be a vast understatement.  On the surface of it, there seemed little to excite the pen.  But I remember a teaching moment from a favorite coach of mine, Frosty Westering of Pacific Lutheran University in Tacoma (WA, USA).  Frosty’s most memorable phrase was “make the big time, wherever you are.”  I decided to really dig this trip, and try to make something of the grind.  Paying extra attention was well worthwhile.  Ecuador simply offers a different reality.  First of all, vendors of every stripe and variety hop aboard the bus at what seems pre-designated stops along the route.  They offer sodas, bread, candy, nuts, coconut water, frozen water,  taffy, and many other things I didn’t note.  Then they hop off at the next stop and catch another bus headed in the opposite direction.  Next, is the commotion.  This is not a quiet ride, as on US buses.  There is loud Latino music.  There is a constant buzz from the passengers.  And the endless little villages we pass through, offer up their own distractions.  One example: I need to use the bathroom.  I walk into what is a public area.  Use the facilities.  The water faucets are dysfunctional and there is … uh … toilet overflow residue everywhere on the concrete floor.  Walk out.  Guy accosts me for money.  “Why?” I ask.  “Es publico.” He slyly avoids my questions.  Asks for the fee again.  I almost yell at him.  “Por Que?  Esta sucia (dirty).  No tiene agua (you don’t have water).  No jabon (soap).  No tiene toallas (towels).  Por Que debo pagarse?  (Why must I pay you?).  He runs in, grabs a bucket of water, pulls out a towel from a hidden niche (dirty one at first, until I scowled at him, at which point he went to the clean laundry sack and got a fresh towel).  I shook my head.  Laughed, paid him the requested fifty cents, and barely made it back to the bus on time before I was abandoned on the way out.

During the six hour journey, saw multiple shacks.  I mean, chicken shacks.  People lived in them.  Some had sidewalls made up of Japanese style tatami mats, and no solid walls.  No windows present.  Many were raised up on stilts.  No idea why, unless there was a flood plain extent.  There were the usual combos of red brick, mixed mud brick, and tin roof homes as well.  Some stucco and red tile roofs, but not many.  Coconut groves sprouted everywhere.  Hammocks, usually with men in them sleeping the day away while the women worked, were in every other yard.  The place abounded with plastic chairs.  And the jungle hillsides beyond the slovenly housing were beautiful.  Once again, same as if I had I been a brake repair shop owner in La Paz or an American lawyer in most of this continent, had I been a plastic chair salesman in this neck of the woods, I could retire early.  Lastly, it was fascinating because I was the only white man or woman on the bus for six hours and got many studious stares.  Not a word of English was heard for the entire journey, except for my halting attempts to communicate with the locals.  Only Anna Pilar, a mother of three making the journey back from Quayaquil after a rent agreement contract signing, broke up the constant stream of Spanish.  And same as usual, we did this for four hours one halting word and short phrase at a time.  Such earnest, wonderful people …

Finally arrived in Canoa.  I am dropped off in the middle of nowhere.  At night, it looks like a cow town.  But I could hear the nearby waves.  And I knew from the balmy air, I wouldn’t freeze at night as I have in the altitude (altura) of La Paz, Cuzco, and Quito.  The first clue was, a single sheet covering the top portion of my bed.  No blankets.  I need a fan in fact, for the first time.  Cabbie took me to a place called The Baloo [ http://www.baloo-canoa.com/ ].  It was recommended back in Quito. Turns out it is well known in town, and especially among backpackers and travel gypsys.  The huts and bar/reception area are straight out of “South Pacific” movie set.  Proprietor Phil, is a 40 year ex-pat from Derby, England.  A seven-month setpiece at the beach/jungle bar is William, a part-time professor and book critic who gives me the low down on local conditions before he retires at 9 PM.  Shortly after, Phil retires.  The security guard (all he does is watch tv, so that is a slight misnomer) arrives, and I have the place to myself.  It is 75 degress farenheit.  The beach is 50 feet away, across the road.  I can wear slaps, bare feet, or Huarachi type sandals in the sand leading to my cabin.  I quickly change into shorts and T-shirt and no socks.  Have my own thatched roof cabana for blogging overlooking the ocean next to the bar.  The sound of the surf is so soothing, I can hardly write.  Yes, this just may be the change of pace and break from my action adventure vacation, that I was looking for …

Next: Scouting The Ecuador Coast  

Machu Picchu -- "Lost City of The Incas"

You stand on Wayna Picchu, the shark fin shaped summit so famous from countless postcards that serves as a backdrop for Machu Picchu.  It is raining constantly. The clouds have socked everything in.  This is the wet season in the highland jungles of Peru.  Will we ever get a glimpse?  Fleecy drifts obscure everything. The climb has been very difficult, but a sizable crowd awaits a sneak peak at The Prize, as it coyly waits in obscurity well below us.  The Royal City of Machu Picchu.  “The Lost City of The Incas.”  We wait.  I count sit time of nearly an hour following my arrival.  And wait some more.  Maybe we won’t be so lucky today, and this devil of an ascent will have been for naught?  Suddenly there is a commotion.  Somebody in Russian, I think, shouts and points off to the windward side.  There is a break in the clouds.  About 75 cameras make ready, trigger fingers itching on the shutter.  When the moment arrives, it is stunning.  You almost hear Wagnerian opera to bookmark the moment.  One of those “Oh My God!” crystalline memories.  There it is, in all its reflective glory.  Spread out like an elaborate feast for the eyes -- steep, elevated, verdant, mysterious, slightly aloof, defiantly proud, and a world apart.  We get a peak for perhaps five seconds …

Many locals and several explorers “discovered” Machu Picchu as early as 1874.  But it was not officially rediscovered for a discerning audience until American professor Hiram Bingham came to South America to research the military campaigns of Simon Bolivar.  While traveling through The Sacred Valley, he met a local farmer who told him about some “ancient ruin” at the top of “the old mountain” – Machu Picchu.  When Bingham arrived with the help of a ten year-old boy, he found only two Indian families farming the terraces on its steep slopes.  Bingham examined and catalogued the site for scientific record keeping, and returned the following year with an expedition.  It included specialists in osteology (bones), natural sciences, excavation, and surveying.  Yale University and The National Geographic Society co-sponsored the work.  Later, the Peruvian government assumed responsibility for the site’s conservation.  In 1983, this ancient wonder was declared a “Cultural and Natural Patrimony of Humankind” for its preservation of Imperial Incan Culture and architectural genius.

The Incas started construction on the site approximately 1430.  It was chosen as a royal retreat for its isolation, its water sources, and its special stone.  The natural geography here consists almost totally of white granite, a very workable building material that lends itself to Inca talent with masonry.  This particular granite has a high magnetic content, which lends itself to Machu Picchu’s reputation as a “world energy vortex.”   We know the Inca had copper and bronze tools by the 15^th century.  There is ample evidence of chisel marks on remaining stone at the site, particularly the quarry near the top of the settlement.  What remains a mystery is how they cut the stone (and so precisely), and how they moved the most massive of the numerous blocks over such steep and rocky terrain.  The patience demonstrated here, and particularly in the erection of endless terraces descending hundreds of feet (nearly to the Urubamba River) without apparent reason simply boggles the mind.  We also know the Inca used a combination of precision cuts, mortar, and mud adhesion to hold the stones together.  In places, there is evidence of a type of local concrete – especially in high traffic and sensitive areas.  Within 100 years, upon rumors of the approach of the Spanish Conquistadores, the site was voluntarily abandoned.  The Spanish looked for, but never found Machu Picchu.  The jungle reclaimed it once more.

Our tour proceeds slowly.  This is most welcome, for there is perhaps too much to see and appreciate in the 100 acres making up the site.  Chances are this will be the only visit here for most of us.  It begins with a 25 minute bus ride up switchbacked dirt roads to the modern entrance gate.  Here you meet your guide.  Next is the Inca entry gate and a restored thatch roofed storage complex.  The gate consists of a hexagonal stone arch, rather like a man with drawn in shoulders and spread legs.  For stability.  Next are the eastern agricultural terraces.  They are engineered the same as at Ollantaytambo, but are more numerous.  Llamas graze on the various levels with impunity today.  These terraces take up perhaps one-quarter of the total site.  Adjacent in its vertical run is the spring fed watercourse; very elaborate, with channels of alternating carved and dressed stone.  A parallel drainage system quite a bit ahead of its time is to be found everywhere.  It still works very well today, without muddy residue.   Further on, is the Temple of the Condor – made up of natural rock and Inca Stone masonry augmentation to create the shape of the largest South American bird.  This bird was revered by the Inca, and represents the means of conveyance of the soul to heaven.   Nearby, is the mysterious Royal Mausoleum.  The recessed area of the tomb which is tucked inside an asymmetrical stone visor (visitors not allowed) faintly resembles the reputed burial tomb of Jesus of Nazareth.  A number of residential complexes (only 185 homes are at the site, to support a guesstimated population of about 500) are visited next.  Most of them have adequate space for a family, especially compared to the small habitable spaces on Easter Island, with solid stone walls and thatched roofs supported by pole trusses bound with vine and llama rope for their rigidity.  There is no evidence of fireplaces.  Many of the homes have windows with views of nearby scenic spots – such as the temples at the site, the river, or Wayna Picchu.  They also have hexagonal or rectangular niches.  We learn shortly, that these are for the mummified remains of deceased nobility from Machu Picchu.

Further uphill (it seems as if you are always walking uphill at Machu Picchu) is the Temple of the Sun.  Unremarkable really, except for the incorporation of natural stone, with crafted stone added by the Incas to complete the design.  As buildings go for the complex, it is relatively small.  More residences – including that of the Inca King – are laid out in neatly aligned rows adjacent to the terraces as one climbs further uphill.  At the top (no easy feat given the altitude and the steepness of the numerous staircases)  is the natural quarry, from which most of the building materials for the entire site were excavated.  Natural fissures in the granite suggest the shape and size of the stone to be released from its raw form.  A right hand turn, leads to the primary temple area.  It appears in the rough shape of a pyramid.  Here we find larger temples, all impressively engineered, and supporting large thatched roofs once more.  Included are the Temple of the Three Windows (which overlooks Wayna Picchu above, and the main square, directly below) and most importantly, Intiwatana.  This is the astronomical observatory for Machu Picchu.  Its most important element is the uncovered Sundial Stone (my name for it), which would help divine the correct time for planting and other seasonal activities by the precise and well marked directional angles it cast from shadows of the sun.

From here, you descend to the Main Square.  It reminds me of the massive grass jai alai courts at the Mayan complex at Chitzanitsa on the Yucutan Peninsula in Mexico.  Beyond is the site Ceremonial Rock (carved to emulate nearby mountains) with its two shelter houses reconstructed to look as they would have in Inca times.  And just beyond, is the modern day gatehouse to Wayna Picchu.  This famous shark fin shaped peak, prevalent in any postcard of Machu Picchu as the background relief, is about 1200 foot higher than the settlement.  Only 400 of the average 4000 daily visitors to Machu Picchu are allowed to climb it.  Each morning therefore, from the overnight stay and bus starting point at Aguas Calientes, there is a minor scramble of sorts to make sure you are close enough to the front of the line to get one of these coveted spots.  First bus leaves at 5:30 AM.  It is suggested you be there by 5 AM.  This turns out to be a misleading joke.  The first in line start arriving in reality about 3 AM.  I headed out at 4 AM, and am among the first 150.  Those arriving at the suggested time, never get their voucher to climb Wayna Picchu (meaning “young mountain”).  The climb itself is very difficult.  Over 1400 stone steps take you to the top in an average time of just over an hour.  The steps are small.  They are often rounded.  They are uneven.  They are smooth and slick.  They are VERY, VERY steep.  They often downslope.  At times, I use as a hand support, steps that are only two niches above me.  Occasional cables offer minimal support.  Often they can be wiggled loose from their pegged moorings.  Psychological support at best.   In wet conditions, or if one is winded and not paying attention, or careless -- the steps are deadly.  Over 23 people have died ascending Wayna Picchu in recent years.  This statistic alone, makes the mountain a minor Mt. Everest.  Many more have been maimed but lived to tell their tale.  Finally however, after a oxygen deprived struggle and much careful maneuvering, you arrive at the summit.  The entire reason for this climb is the territorial view of Machu Picchu spread out below you.  In brief moments of clarity, it is breathtaking (in more ways than one).  If only it would last !

Upon my return to Machu Picchu, I head directly for The Guardhouse.  It is the highest point in The Lost City.  A solitary building topping the eastern terraces, it served to control traffic coming in on obscure trails from the Sun Gate, and a trail leading to the Inca Bridge and Urubamba river further to the south.  The river surrounds Machu Picchu on three sides.  It is from this vantage, that the most recognizable photos of Machu Picchu are taken.  The view incorporates a downslope angled panorama of the entire settlement, with Wayna Picchu serving as wallpaper in the background.  When it is visible, that is.  Beyond, in what is described as “only three minutes” (Inca version of the Irish Mile) is the Inca Bridge.  Turns out to be a fairly long walk.  This structure is comprised of two well constructed stone towers and their approach ramps, with three flimsy and sagging logs strung between them to form the “bridge.”  The entire body-width trail, with its 2000 foot dropoff away from the mountain side, can be defended against an army by one warrior if necessary.  We are not allowed to cross it any more in the present. What makes the site truly interesting, is that it doesn’t really lead anywhere.  Either that or the Inca were masters of disguise in addition to being masters of stone.  Some organized steps ascend on the opposite side, but then disappear into a blank face estimated at over 4000 foot tall.  It is nearly equivalent to the mile long vertical face of Half Dome in Yosemite National Park (California, USA).  I find myself speculating if perhaps this was The Spot … the stepping off place that the Inca took their condemned for one final walk.  “The Longest Walk.”  Or, the spot from which the elderly voluntarily and quietly took a solo journey in harsher times, so as to no longer be a burden to their community (like the custom of Plains Indians in the American west).

The day’s outing concludes with a return bus trip over the dirt switchbacks to the river.  It is now massively swollen with runoff from constant rain throughout the day.  Quite the sight.  Standing waves of ten feet are not uncommon, and occasional surges from the massive amounts of water fighting downhill through a too narrow passage result in 15 foot geysers … as if an onrushing tide has hit an airpocket and explodes like a breaching whale.  Finally, soaked but not particularly cold (this is summer, and this is the jungle), a number of us work our way up to the hot springs that give Aguas Calientes its name.  A perfect respite, to compare observations on the day’s wonders, and to accommodate exhausted legs from the wondrous verticality of Machu Picchu and Wayna Picchu.  I conclude that, as much as I enjoyed Easter Island the week prior, I love this place more.  It has signs of intention.  Fewer questions abound at the end of the visit.  It has proof of lives successfully conducted.  No ecological disaster here.  No enigmatic pursuits leading to self-destruction.  It has a plan.  There is a conduct to the settlement, if you will.  Less mystery.  Stunning architecture.  More natural wonder.  And ultimately, Machu Picchu is evidence of why the Incas had at one time, the greatest civilization in the Western Hemisphere.

Next: Quito, Peru 

The Road Forked -- And I Chose The Sacred Valley of The Incas

On the last post, I had just returned from Easter Island.  There were simply not enough days to fulfill my plans to go to see the famous Nazca Lines.  These Lines and Figures -- on the arid coastal plain of Peru (visible only from the air, and mysterious once again as to their historic and cultural intent) PLUS the Sacred Valley Of The Incas posed too much of a challenge.  Initially, I had not intended to visit Cuzco – the Capital of the Inca Empire – thinking I could access Machu Picchu directly from Lima.  Not a chance.  Nazca will have to wait.  Whereas La Paz has become my favorite base, Cuzco is the gem of South America and now my favorite city here.  Since I am days behind (blogsite hijacked and password trifled with) I will be brief.

Cuzco has been designated a Unesco World Heritage Site.  Not points of interest … the entire city.  When you see it, you immediately know why.  The Inca architecture and culture have been preserved here as much as possible.  The Colonial Baroque style which has followed is colorful and varied.  The streets are impeccably clean.  The cobblestone pavement is well maintained and unerringly free of potholes.  Cuzco is alive with beautiful lighting, animated crowds, plazas, tiendas, and churches.  Eight major cathedrals alone, dominate the central area surrounding the Plaza De Armas.  Most of all, the people here are friendly and helpful.  They are proud of their city’s special place in the pantheon of notable world destination spots and do all they can to enhance and preserve the image of it as “a welcoming place.”

Everywhere, you see Inca Stone.  The multiple angled, impossibly tight-fitting cuts, the massive blocks serving as a base and interfitted with smaller but no less impressive pieces.  In almost every building, these have been preserved, at least on the bottom floor.  Above that, you get either adobe brick, or modern stucco.  Wood construction is rare.  Additionally making an impact are wrought iron railings, painted or shellaced wood balustrades, endless red tile roofs, and impressive drainage ditches in virtually every street going back to Inca design and construction.  Cuzco is located a little below La Paz altitude wise.  One pub, Paddy’s (in the corner of the Plaza De Armas), advertises itself as “the highest Irish owned pub in the world” at exactly 11,156 feet above sea level.

Cuzco is a great walking city.  It is much smaller than Lima or La Paz, and most of what is worth seeing is centrally located near The Plaza de Armas.  One special area, Cusicancha, is made up of a block of preserved Inca building shells, archeological exhibits, and artifacts.  The visit is free (though, like everything else here, there is always a hand extended at the end for “whatever you think it is worth, Senor” – I think they know instinctively a traveler’s generosity is worth more than they could charge on the open market with prices that are actually advertised).  It is a walker’s paradise.  Overall, I spend two nights and a day here, examining everything with no particular order, no objectives, and time being of no concern.

Next, off to Pisac.  This is the beginning of the Sacred Valley of The Incas.  Perhaps 45 minutes north of Cuzco.  An area the Inca Royalty used as their stronghold, their agricultural breadbasket, and Royal Highway. The view descending into the valley from the heights of Cuzco is simply stunning.  You immediately feel the presence of an extra-sensory force here that makes you understand without words why the Incas considered this valley sacred.  It is dominated by the Rio Vilcanota and above its placid waters, the endless green terraces that proved the Inca so industrious.  We stop briefly at a silver jewelry manufacturing plant in town.  The visit is irritating.  Was it to show us the artisan process, or give us one more buying opportunity?  Do they think we are nothing but shopaholics?  Everywhere, it seems, we are run through gauntlets of tiendas, much like being herded through duty free shops at the airport on the way to your real destination.

Above Pisac, however, is an imposing archeological ruin without a separate name.  This fortified complex was a secure base for the priest class – one of the first targets for the Spanish when they arrived in the 1500s.  The most impressive engineered terraces seen to date, spread out below in semicircles below the hilltop ruin.  I have also not seen that many shades of green in any other place other than Ireland.  The graceful terraces were dug down to bedrock.  Then, rock was piled as a base.  Above that, gravel.  A third layer (of sand) was added.  The fourth level is comprised of topsoil, often imported from the river bottom.  All through grueling, endlessly time consuming physical labor.  In Inca society, you were either (a) Royalty – the few (b) of the Priest Class – the exalted (c) a farmer or responsible for food production – the necessary, and (d) the construction workers – the many.  No work, no eat.  As simple as that.  You woke up at dawn and bedded down at sunset.  Construction was omnipresent and never ending.  Children worked also.  On cliffs commanding the heights above the ruins at Pisac, were small caves or niches carved into the hillside. Inca mummies were stashed here.  Over 3000 of them at one time were interred for all eternity … at least until the Spanish came.  They robbed the tombs for the gold, silver, plates, and objects of value.  Less than 300 remained before most were eventually moved.

Then on to Ollantaytambo.  Yet another Inca hillside wonder.  An Inca Fortress.  It is named “Inti Watana Pasna Pagana.”   The terraces here are steeper, narrower, and more impressive still.  From a distance on the opposite side of the valley, they vaguely appear in the form of a llama.  Below, near the town and river, there are pre-Inca and Inca ruins.  The pre-Inca ruins are confirmed through their exclusive use of mud and pebble/small rounded stone walls.  Elaborate waterworks, branch off from the river.  Water was sacred to the Inca, and found its way into their temples in many forms most times.  At the top, temples of the sun (always, astrology being a huge part of Inca culture) and moon dominate the skyline.  Yet again, huge blocks of stone are set together so tightly, one cannot fit a scalpel blade between them.  To the backside of the temples, slightly hidden ramps coming up from the river illustrate where the huge pieces which make up the sacred ground (quarried from slopes on the opposite side of the river) were dragged steeply uphill and set into place.  It is reminiscent of the assumed methods for pyramid construction in Egypt.  It makes one wonder … could they have somehow shared the same technology and building methods?  Were the Inca somehow in contact with Egyptian ancestors?  One thing is clear – the Incas were far better stone masons.  Nobody supersedes the Incas as craftsmen of stone.  Not even today.

On the opposite side of the Sacred Valley are more lush terraces.  Even steeper than on the temple side.  In addition, there is a clearly engineered likeness or face which the Inca call “Tunupa.”  It is large enough, to fit on Mt. Rushmore.  Not as clearly drawn, but obviously man made.  Tunupa was the Inca God of production, or agricultural plenty.  I can not help but think, Tunupa bears a striking resemblance to the evil simian antagonist who sought to treat Charlton Heston as a mindless zoo exhibit in “Planet Of The Apes.”  The resemblance at least, is … well, see the photo (right column of this blog).

My tour group finishes the afternoon with a tour of … yes, more tiendas and street barkers … in the commercial sector of Ollantaytambo.  Most of the group is to return to Cuzco.  Armed with a daypack only, I am part of a small contingent taking the late train onward to Aguas Calientes – also known as the village of Machu Picchu these days.  This, of course, is the ultimate destination of any traveler in The Sacred Valley of The Incas, and the Crown Jewel of Inca Civilization.  I spend the time waiting for the train with new friends Theresa and Mario (from Ariquipe, Chile).  We exchange basic phrases in English and Spanish, laugh often, and drink mate tea and chew coca leaf for two hours before the Backpacker Express arrives for our trip finale to one of the greatest known sites of antiquity in the world.

Next: Machu Picchu !

Easter Island -- The Mystery Tour

To a minor degree, I have been dreading this blog.  Reason is, you can't ever say enough about Easter Island.  There is so much to tell.  There is so much that remains hidden or misunderstood.  And the story won't appeal to everybody.  But this is a World Cultural Heritage gem.  Here, in the most isolated populated area on the planet -- in a spot the Polynesians call "The Navel Of The World" -- you reach the zenith of Religious Megalithism.  Not just taking into account "La Isla de Pescua".  But for all of Polynesia, all of Micronesia, and for that matter, the rest of the world.  Easter Island is absolutely unique.  The place is a mystery.  Perhaps the most obvious starting point begs this question:   "Why does such a simple culture, expend so much energy and resources and proportion of their time, for such an inexplicable purpose, even after it is clear it will lead to their own destruction?

What you get is a bit of Paradise, ringed on its perimeter by volcanic tufa columns carved into giants and arrayed in an arc as far as the eye can see  -- at least at one time.  The original Rapa Nui culture imported from the Marquesas and then homegrown to its own peculiarity, proliferated especially from the 12th to 17th centuries.  At first, the Moai statues were small.  This fit the early technology and island resources.  But the artistic efforts grew progressively larger.  Around 777 total statues are now accounted for.  Of those, 288 were erected (more than enough to cover all coastal areas on Ahu platforms).  These Ahu originally served as funeral staging areas, save for  those areas dominated by cliffs.  Another 396 are still embedded in various stages of completion in the quarries -- mainly Rano Raraku Crater.  Another 92 came to "the end of the road" when they cracked or dissembled and were abandoned on numerous Moai slide paths leading from the crater to the coast.  These statues were always primarily intended for ancestor worship.  Plain and simple.  That part is clear.  What follows is background, for that which remains unexplained ...

As the Rapa Nui culture grew and population intensified, the statues became more stylized and increasingly larger.  One could speculate, that as the ecological problems of the island (that were ironically directly tied to Moai production) increased due to resource depletion, it became the mindset of the tribes there that bigger and bigger sacrifices to the ancestral Gods were necessary for a good life.  And thus a self-completing circle of ecological self-destruction descended upon the island.

Tribes that had been inter-related, took to warring against each other constantly during the 16th and 17th century as competition for food especially took on deadly consequences.  Moai were toppled in the competitive fray.  Respect for traditional Rapa Nui ways, dominated by hierarchical chiefs, fell by the wayside.  Meritocracy (as epitomized by The Bird Man Cult) took its place.  This cult, centered on the high crater bluff of Orongo, basically required that each year, each family participate in a competition to see who could first capture and return an egg of the gray-backed stern in islands offshore.  The chief of the winning family was given great powers but they lasted only for a year.  This test was far beyond present-day triathalon type competitions.  It involved climbing down the crater cliffs, swimming to the birds' nests at the Matu Iti and Matu Nui Islets offshore, snatching an egg, swimming back, re-climbing the cliffs, and presenting the unbroken egg.  Many died in the attempt, either having fallen during either leg of the cliff climbing, or having been eaten by sharks during the swim !

The process of cultural decline was completed, with the arrival of Catholic Missionaries.  Language, food, and moral norms qickly changed. When celebrated navigator Captain James Cook arrived in 1744, very few Moai were left standing.  Quarrying and carving of additional Moai had come to a complete halt.  The island population topped out at approximately 10-12,000, then dropped to 4000 by the mid 1850's.

Ultimately, the culture reached a point-of-no-return from 1862 to 1864 when Peruvian slave ships raided the islands and took 1500 Rapa Nui, most of them able-bodied males, and all but wiping out the institutional memory of the island when the keepers of the Ronga Ronga (written record) were included to a man.  By 1868, the island population was down to 800.  Fiftenn survivors of the slave raids were ultimately repatriated, but brought mainland smallpox with them, so that by 1877 the island population had declined to 111 -- almost the same it had started at 1400 years previously.  The culture and its rich oral and written traditions and most of the secrets of the Rapa Nui (and theirMoai idols),  had virtually disappeared (today it has recovered to around 3800, but that includes immigration and the purity of the Rapa Nui gene pool is long-since gone).

Our tour begins in the only settlement, Hanga Roa, whih is about 1.5 miles squared.  I share the van with an Aussie couple (world's most inveterate travelers) and our guide.  He is named Steven, a Peruvian transplant to the island ten years previously who is acquiring a master's degree in "Tourist based cultural relativism" -- or something very close to that.  We head to the south coast bypassing the Rano Kau Crater I had visited on the previous day, and begin viewing the Moai and Ahu ring circling the island.  Our first stop, at fallen Moai near Cabo Tarakiu, shows that Steven has no sense of time.  We are surrounded by Moai, and he talks about plants and flint carving and fishing.  For an hour.  It also becomes evident our questions will not really get answered.  We must ask twice.  It appears he has memorized many questions from previous tours, and simply plays them back to us.  Whether we have asked, or not.  If we ask a question twice, he either gives a very short, one-sentence answer, or loops back into his previous answer.  Or both.   The three of us quickly learn, we must keep Steven moving.  Lest we become horticulturalists ...

Our next stop is at Ahu Hanga Tee.  Again, we see Ahu platforms, with overturned Moai.  Nothing new.  A repeat performance.  We wonder why we have stopped here.  At our next stop however, at Ahu Akahanga, we see much better preserved Moai.  They have fallen on their face, protecting their features from the elements.  Most of the reddish Pokhoa top-knots lie close to the head/trunk statues and are very well preserved.  We also see petroglyphs (the Rapa Nui written language was more Oriental than Indo-European, with pictures expressing many words and concepts rather than sounds that could be strung together into words).  There are also caves, a native crematoria, and "boat" houses.  These are not actual boats, but shaped long and narrowly and similar to boats.  Just long enought to sleep in, and be protected from strong winds and rain.  As basic a shelter as you can get, save for a lean-to.

Another brief and unmemorable stop is made shortly at Hanga Tetenga.  I believe this is a place where the so-called Moai Road (drag path) showed us an excellent example of some abandoned statues.  Imagine the despair, of having spent months collectively carving a giant idol out of a volcanic quarry, having organized a large labor party to transport it perhaps miles across rolling hillsides (best estimates are 100 to 200 meters daily, on average), of having to feed both the carving and transport parties ... only to have it fall and break apart at some vulnerable spot.  Usually, this was the neck.  The statue became worthless at this point, unless it could be modified into a much shorter statue.  But our minds are already far away.  What we really want to see, is The Crater.

Rano Raraku Crater is quite simply, breathtaking.  Its steep slopes rise perhaps 500 meters from its base at about 100 meters above sea level.  It is loosely circular, with a diameter of 1.5 kilometers.  Water in the interior is 50 meters in depth, and the source of important fresh water for the island.  Quarries are found on both the exterior and interior slopes, though the most easily accessed and photographed areas are on the exterior.  Wild horses, have the run of the crater.  Even from the approach road along the coast (most often dirt, but occasionally paved) the crater stands out.  One can pick out giant Moai en masse, which against the backdrop of the crater, appear as if mere thimbles.  Entrance fee to Rapa Nui National Park (which gets you into all other park areas throughout the island for five days) is a rather pricey $60 per person.

The approach trail winds you through and past various mid-sized Moai, in various stages of inclination and deterioration.  The slope upon which they are embedded, is made of waste or tailings from previous carvings, now long covered in dirt and grass.  As you proceed higher large cavern type openings become clearer, from where Moai have been patiently carved from the volcanic earth.  The process is "In The Round."  Start at the top, slope down the sides, hollowing out underneath, until all that is left is a thin spine with holes and bicyle spindles of sorts that can be broken or released once an appropriate transport bed is arranged to carry the weight of the statue downhill and then to its ultimate destination.  It is obvious this has been done top-down, in successive layers, leaving massive holes in the slopes at times.  Everywhere, evidence of works in progress remain partially revealed in the quarry.  I call one of them "Big Daddy" due to its size and clarity (see photo).  Another, is simply "The Monster."  While the average Moai is 4 meters high and weighs 12.5 tons, this Beast is 21 meters high and an estimated  300 tons  if it were to ever be fully released from its cradle.  While virtually all of the Moai have that impassive, "resigned to the passage of time" look, they differ quite a bit in size and shape.  Photo ops abound.  One of my favorites, has a leaning or slightly side-cocked head.  Not your standard straight up and down and sealed-lip Moai.  This is a place, we are most reluctant to leave.

After a brief lunch at the crater base, the tour resumes.  Next highlight is the biggest Ahu on the island, Ahu Tongariki.  It has 15 massive statues arrayed on its base, and is visible for literally miles around in clear weather.  One of the best views, is downhill from the quarry, through the Ahu and into the sea (see photo).  This site was destroyed as the result of a Chilean earthquake measuring 9.5 in 1960, leading to a massive tsunami with 10 meter waves which swept the heavy statues up to 100 meters away from their base.  The Japanese helped fund their restoration, including the repair/replacement of most of the heads (which had become disattached) during the period 1995-1996.  This site, is the most impressive of all the Ahu.  Adjacent, is a small fishing cove,  where a number of practicioners of rediscovering original Rapa Nui dress, customs, fishing, scavenging and idol worship live in hillside caves.  I asked one dressed only in loincloth and roasting a recently speared fish for permission to take his photo, but he declined.

Something must be said at this point, about the means of transporting the Moai from the slopes of their quarry beds on Rano Raraku, to their eventual resting place on Ahu about the island perimeter.  This is something we got next to zero help from Steven, in getting even theories mentioned.  What little I have been able to ascertain from pamphlets, museum trivia, and legend is that the Rapa Nui used a combination of sledges, posts, ropes and wooden rollers to move these giant statues.  The extreme misuse of trees to create rollers, is said to be one of the reasons for the ecological degradation of the island (further compounded by the domociling of up to 60,000 sheep in the 1930's).  Other means, especially for short Moai, involved moving them vertically.  This involved guy ropes to steady and keep a vertical posture, while the corners were rocked and twisted and spun, in the same way one maneuvers a refrigerator or washer or dryer into position.  Again, average progess across the island was 100 to 200 meters daily.  Once at or near the Ahu, the statues were raised using fulcrums, tug ropes, and ramp building with small incremental changes in elevation realized by piling stones in gaps under the statue after getting slight lifting from increased leverage (by the means just noted).  The process is very similar to that used by the Egyptians in raising their obelisk monuments thousands of years previously.

Finally, our tour wound down.  Our last stops were at Anga Papare Tare on the northeast coast, Tepu (one of them was exclusively petroglyphs and caves, but I was pretty dazed and sunburned by this time, and not into note taking), and finally Ahu Te Pito Kura.  The latter spot has a mysterious perfectly round ball, whose magnetic properties throws compasses off kilter.  It is a local "power spot," much revered by the Rapa Nui.  Adjacent, is the largest Moai actually erected on an Ahu.  It was 10 meters high, weighed 82 tons, and had a Pokhoa which itself weighed 12.5 tons.  It was the largest standing, which also was probably the last standing,this Moai having been noted in a number of European journals as still erect.  This was documented at a time when most Moai had been toppled and the Bird Man Cult had established itself and the ways of the Rapa Nui had already begun to fade away.  We finish ten minutes later at Anakena Beach, at the junction of the central plateau road (all paved) and our south/southeast coast road.  It is one of only two beaches on the island, with a sandy bottom.  It is the ONLY one, with developed facilities, including delicious local food options, tables, and a restoom.  The water is wonderful.  Seven Moai, in fuller dress than seen elsewhere on the island, dominate the beachhead from a lofty Ahu.  Like all their fellow idols, they seem to be harboring a secret.  It is one I have concluded will never be given up favorably.  The mystery continues.

Next: Not Sure ! -- The Road Forks, And I Took The Road ... 

Easter Island -- First Impressions

The first thing I notice about Easter Island when flying in the 2500 miles from Peru this morning, is how thick the marine air is.  The average temperature year round is a comfortable 68 degrees farenheit, but a balmy 77% humidity.  As we pass through the clouds on our descent the delination is so marked that it virtually splits my window pane into clear and fleecy sections, like a scuba diving thermocline between fresh and salt water where a river inlet meets the sea.  The next thing is how horses have free rein of the airport itself -- all but the runways.  The next thing is the "manana" squared approach to life.  Absolutely nobody is in a hurry.  You receive a lei greeting upon landing.  The presentation can be dragged out with great fanfare, and baggage will have to wait !  This is Polynesia, even though Spanish is spoken and it nominally belongs to Chile.  You see this in traffic.  Nobody tries to pass, most are content with 25 to 30 mph, and you don't hear engines straining to shift gears.  The architecture is laid-back Hanalei in Kauai, circa 1960.  Even the dogs lack ambition.  They can hardly be bothered to lift their leg ...

I have had only 45 minutes sleep all night long, but am so jazzed to see this long-awaited world power grid vortex spot that after securing my hostel, I immediately take off on another exploratory gander.  No destination in mind.  It is overcast, I change to shorts and slaps, and just drift.  At first it is city streets only, in the sole settlement on Easter Island -- the village of Hanga Roa.  But then on the outskirts of town, after a relatively short walk, I spot my first Ahu.  These are major engineered volcanic rock platforms, which serve as the base for the majestic Moai -- the mysterious carved volcanic statues which have made Easter Island famous, and serve as her establishing iconography.  The first one I look at is called Ahu Tahai, with Ahu Va Huri close nearby.  The latter is distinguished by a huge reddish top knot (pukao) almost but not quite resembling the bowler hats so reminiscent of middle age and elderly women in Bolivia.  Again, horses have the run of the grounds.  Nobody bothers to restrain them (they do however, have brands indicating owership).

The origin of the people of Rapa Nui (Easter Island) goes back to Marae Renga, an island in the Marquesas chain, according to tribal legend.  A tribal war between two brothers around 400 AD saw the defeated contingent needing to find a new homeland.  Seven warriors took out to sea, found Easter Island, returned to Marae Renga, and brought those under the defeated brother (Hotu Matu'a) back to Easter Island.  These seven are prominently represented in an equal number of Moai looking outward from near the middle of the island.  Almost all the nearly 1000 Moai on Easter Island (from 1 to 21 meters tall, and showing primarily the head and torso of male figures) are placed in a ring around the island coastline.  While all but one ( the exception being a Moai named Riki Riki) look inward, the seven (Ahu Akivi) look out to sea.  I will learn the significance of this disparity Tuesday, when I take my one-on-one tour with an island guide. 

The kings of the island, were selected by birthright.  The sons of Hotu Matu'a -- like the 12 tribes of Israel -- became the different clans that eventually populated the island.  This Royal Family became responsible for carrying out sacred rituals which kept the tribes in contact with their ancestors, and were guardians of island sacred writings (Ronga Ronga) and accumulated knowledge related to the healing arts, astronomy, and agriculture.  Thus, they kept their authority in the island's socio-economic order.

Approximately 1000 AD, the island went through an explosive population growth phase, and the first Moai were produced.  Around 1680, wars between clans on the 15 x 7 mile island resulted in the end of Moai production (about 390 were abandoned in their quarries on the volcanic hillsides of the island), and the toppling of others already erected.  On Easter Day in 1722, Dutch Admiral Jacob Roggeween became the first European to sight the island, and the date stuck later on in providing this mysterious isle its name.  It was later annexed by Chile in 1888.  In latter years, Easter Island has become a poster child for warning signs of ecological disaster, as the tribes that at one time flourished here, misused their resources (their forests and agriculture) to the point they did not even have enough material to construct boats to leave the island.  The survivors of continuing internacine warfare, lived in caves, and were forced eventually to engage in cannabilism.  At one point the island population nearly disappeared.  Today, the population is approximately 3800.

Next: The Secrets of Easter Island

Lima -- A reminder about "Beware a Peruvian Friend"

Can not help the inevitable letdown after mountain biking the "Road of Death" outside La Paz.  But make the most of my short evening journey to Lima.  The aircraft is spacy, uncrowded, the view passing over Lake Titicaca is stunning, and the skies are for the most part clear.  I land, and pass right through customs and  baggage in record time.  Could this be a portent of good things to come?  A swarm of smiling greed merchants offer every service imaginable.  "Taxi?"  I am queried repeatedly.  "Si, cuanto cuesta?"  They tell me 40 dollars.  "Bullshit," I rejoin in my best Spanish bark.  I have already been told to pay no more than $18.  I walk another 50 feet, get approached again, and now make offers instead of taking them.  I get a ride clear across town for $18.

Lima looks just like Los Angeles from the air.  Lots of avenues, lots of red tile, flat, spread out, and endless.  It is afterall, a city of nearly nine million.  When on the ground, the similarities continue.  The architecure is much the same -- only cleaner and more modern in Lima, especially in the Miraflores section I am staying in (an area that has many of the embassies and has a reputation for being safe).  Most of it is Colonial in style and very attractive.  Very stylish and colorful.  The air is sweet and thick, unlike La Paz.  The coast road, going past a vastly underdeveloped waterfront and beach (just like in Punta Arenas), reminds me specifically of Pacific Coast Highway down in Southern California, but without the hamburger stands and real estate signs.  Generally, I spend the rest of Thursday evening just winding down, enjoying the air density, and catching up on writing and admin duties -- which are quite plentiful on a trip of this magnitude.



A quick example:  Bank accounts, credit cards, getting cash -- never easy here, accounting, marking and tracking daily expenses (they run away really, really fast) making arrangements for the next hostel stay at the next highlight stop, asking where to go for the best meals and must-see sights, stops at the hostel or hotel travel desk to make future arrangements,  getting visas, laundry, e-mails, the blog and pix … it is not all "go out to eat and then play."



Friday starts off well.  A quick trip to the nearby Paraguay Consulate, and I learn I can get my visa in an hour upon my return Wednesday from Easter Island.  Many of the normal requirements, will be waived.  This appears to be a karmic balancing act, for all my difficulties in Santiago with the Brazilian visa pursuit.  Then on to lunch, at an Italian (they always have the best road food, if you are not getting local dishes) restaurant in Miraflores called "La Trattoria."  Clean, nice, pleasant waiters who speak English, a nice menu, reasonable prices, and curious thick leather straps with snaplinks attached to virtually every chair.  I ask about their purpose.  The waiter smiles, opens up one of the links, and attaches it to my backpack.  A theft defense against "snatch and run artists."  He need not say a word.  I go on to have one of the best personal pizzas ever eaten, along with a generous Copa de Malbec (one of my favorite red wines).



From there, to the Museo Pedro Osma.  Recommended by two men at the restaurant.  Largely iconography, by Peruvian painters copying the renaissance style in Europe, at a time when the only art that existed was religious art.  Museum is lovely, but small.  It has a very nice silver display and gold coin collection, as well.   You can breeze through in 45 minutes.  The cost is attactive, at approximately three dollars, and the taxi ride over only four dollars.  Since it was a quick whirl, I get a ride to Lima El Centro and the "Museo de Arte Lima," a longer taxi ride.  This time it is about five dollars.  And the museum offers modern art, textiles, and classic art.  Entry fee is again, about three dollars.  Can breeze through once more in less than an hour, largely due to the fact that the appreciation is all visual, given the lack of English explanations on the signage adjacent to each painting.  Once again, while using the bathroom (bano), a pile of papers I have laid out on the counter is stolen.  Luckily, they are museum promo pieces and notes, and not items of importance.  Still,   I have enjoyed the experience.



Wander from there to the adjacent Embarcacion Park.  Wonderful place.  Very green, very safe, clean, lots of families, and lots of water.  Couples paddle away on boats in a small lagoon, and kids everywhere are feeding the geese and other birds with easily purchased comida pesce (fish food).   I buy a Coca Cola (whose availability here is ominipresent) and of course, gelato.  While wandering, local food vendors don't seem to understand that dinner while eating dessert just doesn't make sense.  They get somewhat pushy, in offering me llama, rabbit,  pollo (chicken), carne (beef), pesce (fish), and "las pelotas de toro" which of course at home we call "Rocky Mountain Oysters" (bull's balls).  The market at the park is so enjoyable, I decide to just tour, sit, and chill.  An entire pitcher of sangria followed by a chaser (Pisco Sour) together costs $8.  Meanwhile, I get to enjoy the company of neverending vendors, musicians (who at the end of their gig head straight for me to sell their CD's or request a donation, since I am the only Gringo in the entire audience), and occasional wanderers wanting to ... again ... "practice their English."  Finish my stay there as twilight descends, with a delicious plate of pig meat (cerdo or chancho) and dried corn (maize).



The evening delivers another of those "road lessons" I wish I'd caught or just absorbed better at least, earlier on.  It is not like I haven't taken a taxi before.
And despite all the warnings, and the necessity of clarifying price especially ahead of time.   I get a taxi back from the park to my hostel with "Freddy."  He learns of my evening plans, and future travel plans.  Says he will wait for me while I change, get rid of my backpack, etc.  Takes me back to El Centro to a nightclub.  Fun entertainment, inexpensive beer, good music, etc.  Lots of other options nearby.  But Freddy stays -- again.  Without invitation.  He drinks a few beers.  I drink a few.  I head home uncharacteristically early, at 11:30 PM, largely because I haven't completely shaken the diarrhea acquired in La Paz yet.  Freddy is only too happy to drive me there -- I have previously tipped him well.  Perhaps too well.  Now he thinks we are a team.  To make a long story short, when I get back to my hostel, he wants 100 solas (about $33, by Peruvian standards), and an outrageous amount for whatever it is he thinks he has done.  I have already paid for both of my taxi rides with him, to this point, both going to Miraflores and returning to El Centro.  "What for?" I ask.  "I gave up my evening for you," he explains haltingly, one word at a time, in alternating Spanish and English.  "Three rides.  I wait.  I wait again.  I keep you company.  I drink beer with you.  You need to pay for my time."  I laugh.  He doesn't understand.  I indicate to him, that I did NOT ask him to stay, or wait, that he offered.  And he made no representation ahead of time there would be an extra charge for this service.  Imagine that, I advised him ... charging me to sit with me and drink beer I am unwittingly paying for?!?!  We argue.  Slowly.  One word at a time.  The terms "antes" (before) and "despues" (after) come up frequently.  I tell him -- again, slowly and haltingly -- that had he given me a choice ahead of time, whether to have his company and get charged for it, and pay for his beer as well, I would have saved the money and neglected to keep him along.  The whole situation is a direct reminder of Carmen's warning back in Copacabana: "Beware a Peruvian Friend" (Only part of her warning trifecta I haven't run into is a Bolivian Policeman, and hopefully I am past that intriguing opportunity).  We settle at half the amount.  I figure the lesson is worth the limited cost in dollars, and saves me further argument, and keeps me from getting stranded further along in town in a place I am not familiar with should he choose to see things differently and take off in a rush.



Today (Saturday) I basically stay in all day.  Admin things to do, writing to catch up on, disappointment certainly with local motivations and methods, catching up on sleep, bags to pack, and travel arrangements to make.  My advice is to select a B&B or hostel where they clearly indicate they have bi-lingual staff and travel advisors.  It is worth paying more for.  Otherwise, getting useful and timely travel advice to points of interest will be difficult, if non-existent.



This evening, wanting to get more out of Lima than had been experienced to date, I asked the staff at yet another hostel (which I will return to on Wednesday, after Easter Island) where an excellent place for dinner might be?  They refer me to "La Rosa Nautica," on the Playas or Beach.  It is in a beautiful pier location, extended far out into the pounding surf along the waterfront below Miraflores.  The architecture is flawless Colonial, but all white -- without the standard color variations and iron balistrades that usually make up the Colonial style.  The pier is bathed in moonlight.  Most of the hucksters on the way in are a better breed -- older, classy, nicely dressed, conversational, determined but friendly, and yielding to the term "solo mirando" (just looking).  I decide to dine well.  Ask the waiter for recommendations, specifically pointing out an interest in Peruvian food.  He indicates I should have the ceviche as a starter.  Now, this is not your garden variety beach ceviche you can get for $2 down in Mexico.  This dish is top drawer.  It is shaved, not sliced or cubed, so the lime marinade can seep into every pore.  And it is not white fish only, but also octupus, scallops, clams, red onion (cebollas), tasty dried maize, and other delicacies I do not recognize.  It is perfect!    Along with that, two glasses of Malbec, and Chateaubriand as a Second (main course).  The latter is your prime cut of beef, thick and juicy and slightly briny, to really bring out the flavor.  Now, the last time I had this beef, I had run a quarterback sneak 86 yards for a touchdown and returned a kickoff 90 yards for a touchdown moments later to win a close football game in high school.  My Dad thought I deserved something special.  Tonight, years later, I felt the same way and remember the platform for emblazing the  memory.  With ceviche, Chateaubriand, Malbec, bread, coffee, plus lemon and passionfruit helado, it still came to barely over thirty US dollars. 



Next: La Isla de Pascua -- Easter Island !