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By Al, on July 22nd, 2010
Sited below a mountain known as “the eater of men”, the mind achingly high town of Potosí is a destination not to be missed by any traveler in Bolivia.
Still, the decision on whether to go or not wasn’t easy at all. The conditions within the mines can be euphemistically described as “poor” – the average life expectancy of a miner is in the mid thirties – with silicosis and mercury poisoning claiming the most lives.
The history of the mines riddling the Cerro Rico mountain is difficult to come to terms with. Conservative estimates place the number of deaths at around 8 million people – a large number to get your oxygen starved brain around.
Al is asked to express facially what he thinks of Potosina beer
Sun flooding though the bell tower near our hostel
Earthy colors and cobbled streets
At 4090 meters above the surf, Potosí is the second highest city in Bolivia behind the aptly named El Alto near La Paz. Thankfully both of us were still flushed with excess red blood cells from our time around La Paz and we were recharged after a few days in the placidly beautiful capital of Sucre.
Our tour to the mines was with an ex-miner by the name of “Willy” who delivered a stream of fascinating narrative in excellent English. The first stop was to the Miner’s Market to purchase some gifts for the miners as an offering of respect both for their profession, as well as for the time they take to show tourists around their underground world.
The gifts took the form of raw alcohol, coca leaves, tobacco and of course a stick or two of dynamite. There is something liberating about buying high explosives from a stall in the street from vendors who also sell – and light – individual cigarettes for their patrons. The lack of any consideration towards health and safety was the defining beauty of Bolivia for the two of us – you simply can’t help but know that you aren’t in Kansas any more Toto…
What to buy a Bolivian miner – Coca leaves, raw alcohol and cigarettes
Buying dynamite on the street on Potosi. We loved the fact that they sold and lit cigarettes for their customers too !
Gingerly holding up our purchased sticks of dynamite
For us the most fascinating thing about the mines was the juxtaposition of religious beliefs above and below ground. On the surface the miners are all faithful Catholics thanks to the Spanish Conquistadors. These beliefs make a startling reversal below ground however… The underworld is the domain of the devil and every miner will make offerings of alcohol and coca leaves to the resident Tio, a devil statue made of mud.
The Tio, which means “uncle” in Spanish, is viewed a mostly benevolent guardian of the miners as their drill and blast away in their underground world. The story also goes that the Conquistadors, troubled by uprisings among the superstitious native slaves, invented the devil icon telling them that this was now their god (or Dio in Spanish) in order to frighten them. The local Quechuan dialect, having no letter “D”, referred to the icon as their Tio. Either way its pretty damn freaky coming face to face with one underground.
The Tio surrounded by offerings of coca leaves, tobacco and alcohol.
Our guide Willy offering the Tio gifts for a safe visit to the mine
What the Tio looked like without the flash on
The Tio we visited was actually broken thanks to an American student who thought it would be hilarious to sit on its lap for a photo. The miners would have to rebuild and reconsecrate their Tio before they would enter the mines to work again. When you take into context the already hard living these miners scrape from their tunnels far below us, it is almost impossible to comprehend the stupid insensitivity some tourists show.
Even by South American standards the roof is pretty low
We’re not sure what this stuff is, but we’re certain its not good.
Willy shows us how to extract the ore
The walls of the recess in which it sat were still stained with the blood of a white Llama, who’s throat is slashed in an offering to the ancient Andean deity of Pachamama. The floor is littered with old coca leaves, much prized by the miners for its help with the rigours of working at altitude.
Sadly we didn’t manage to get as deep into the mines as we’d have liked – one of our group was night blind which seemed to be slightly at odds with their desire to descend into a dark pit – so we headed to the surface for the part all the boys were waiting for.
Our guide whipped out the stick of dynamite we’d kept aside for the purpose. We must admit a little nervousness as he first smacked the dynamite with a rock before eventually jumping up and down on it to allow him get the fuse into the top. Walking across the uneven ground ahead of us, he nonchalantly lit the fuse before dashing around corner of a mine dump.
Willy prepares some dynamite to explode outside the mine
Having some difficulty getting the fuse in so he stomps on one end to help. No health and safety here !
Ka-BAMM!! Dee reflexively presses the button on the camera to catch the explosion
We waited in anticipation for a few seconds, inwardly cringing as the seconds ticked past, sure it was going to go off… now! Or maybe… NOW ?! Hmm.. is it still even alight – maybe something is wrong ? BANG!
The explosion and resulting echo nearly resulted in change of pants for us all when it did go off. The one positive side effect was that the sound scared Dee into reflexively pressing the shutter release on the camera, so we caught the explosion as it happened.
View from the cathedral top with Cerro Rico on the distance
Sun setting over the altiplano
Al fasions a wine glass out of a plastic bottle while Duckee offers advice
From Potosí we headed to the famous Salar, the salt flats of Bolivia. More on that next…
By Al, on March 25th, 2010
Al looked up at the snow capped peak and declared “Well its not going to climb itself, now is it ?!”.
Huayna Potosi stands at a daunting 6088 meters a.s.l. (or 19973 ft) and we were just going to have to take a crack at it.
The idea came during a particularly festive evening on lake Titicaca with an Irish couple – as if any occasion with the Irish involved could be anything else – the first seeds planted somewhere between beers three and four.
Our new Celtic friend described it as the hardest thing he’d ever done but in fairness he also admitted to being heavily hungover at the time.
Huayna Potosí towering over the valley
Quick photo opportunity on the drive to the lower refugio
Huayna Potosí stands guardian over a roadside cemetery
We’d been building up our red blood cells at altitude for nearly a week to acclimatise, but during our first night on the slopes sleeping rough and ready in a refugio at 4700m we already started to feel the altitude. Sleep in any other position but on your back is impossible and even then we’d wake in panic gasping for breath shortly after drifting off.
Dee already started to feel the first hints of the dreaded Saroche, the altitude sickness. It starts with a dull headache, followed by nausea and various other delightful symptoms that are best forgotten.
Our crowded beds in the lower refugio
Huayna Potosí looms over the high refugio at over 5300m. Literally breathtaking.
Contemplating the glacier that the climb starts on
Up early the next morning we packed our bulky kit up for the ascent to the high refugio which at 5300m a.s.l. it stands only a paltry 60 meters lower than Everest base camp. We trudged up the side of the mountain, arriving at the refugio a little puffed out.
The fun was about to start – our group had only a handful of people who’d actually used crampons and ice axes before – so we kitted up and set out for the glacier for a day of ice training. Putting the crampons on and learning to walk up and down 45 degree ice faces was fun, but climbing up the vertical ice face with the axes was simply awesome.
Dee all suited and booted – ready to attack the glacier
Dee nails the vertical ice face ascent
Shards of ice shower loose as Al’s crampon slips
Dee characteristically scampered up the face with the sort of ease that frankly embarrasses everyone else. Al resorted to the time honoured male tradition of just using as much brute force as humanly possible, literally bludgeoning his way to the top. Thankfully the glacier provided bountiful supplies of ice to apply to some very bruised knuckles!
We all turned in at about 4pm to try catch some shuteye ahead of our 1am summit attempt. With hindsight it was unlikely that Dee’s problems with altitude would improve 500m higher, and as the evening wore one she looked worse and worse.
A quick break on the glacier face
Al and Dillon caught staring pensively at the summit
Dee enjoys a warm Mate de Coca on a cold but beautiful day
As ferociously competitive as Dee she simply had to have a crack at the ascent, even though she looked like death warmed up. The two of us, roped into a line with our guide Silvio, got out onto the glacier face as quickly as possible as it looked like we’d need all the time we could get to make the summit before the morning sun began to melt the ice.
Both of us were devastated. A week of hanging around in La Paz to acclimatise and her climb was over. Al wanted to abort with Dee but there was no quarter given. Dee bluntly refused the offer and insisted that Al should ‘get a bloody move on’ to rope in with the group in front.
Al and Connor pause on the climb as the sun breaks over the horizon. Only an hour to go !
Our guide Silverio congratulates us at the summit.
This is what “shattered” looks like. Duckee still looks pretty fresh though.
It was with a heavy heart that Al continued the ascent, the dream of our glorious victory over the mountain together in tatters. It was the knowledge of the sacrifice Dee was making that provided the fuel to keep on climbing when all the physical energy was long spent.
Nearing the summit the pace had reduced to ten steps upward with a thirty second hyperventilation break. Repeat and repeat again until all that could be seen were the feet in front. The worst parts still lay ahead, an ascent up a 55 degree ice face, the repetitive swing and kick of ice axe and crampon leaching the energy and resolve far quicker than one would like.
Waiting for our turn to climb the last few meters to the summit
Al and Connor at 6088 bloody meters. Tired but victorious.
Duckee offers some sage advice – stick to sea level guys.
Finally, a climb and scramble over rocks (a task ill suited to crampon wearing climbers) and we were there. La cumbre, the summit. Looking out the morning light glittered from far off La Paz and the blue expanse of Lake Titicaca was a smudge on the north western skyline.
It felt like the top of the world, the mountains around us seemed like dwarves as the vista stretched on for miles on end. Looking down and seeing the path laid out for the first time was something of an eye opener. ‘We climbed up that ?!’ was the first coherent thought through Al’s addled brain. The sinking realisation that the next four hours would be spent going back down slowly followed…
Feels like the top of the world
Al barely summons a smile at the summit. Shattered with a capital S.
An hour into the decent and we’re still higher than the other mountains around us.
Not much memory of the trudge down the mountain remains. A careless ice axe slipping followed by a slide down the ice face to a painful arrest as the rope bit in, and a jump across a neon blue crevasse stick out. As does the overwhelming emotion of seeing Dee waiting at the bottom.
Silverio on point with the ropes on the way down
Group photo on our return to the high refugio
Dee shows her bloody finger. Charged with excess red blood cells in comes out looking like ketchup.
Al quickly wiped the tears away from his eyes, just in time to save himself being seen and suffering the indignity of having his eyelashes frozen shut. Dee has to lend a helping hand as the last twenty meters across the rocks to the refugio become that one bridge too far.
After nearly three weeks spent at altitudes over 4000m, it was finally time to head to the lower lands in Sucre to give our oxygen starved bodies a well earned break.
By Al, on March 22nd, 2010
El Camino de la Muerte is 69km long, drops 1.2 km from a staggering height of 4650m above sea level, kills around 300 people a year… and we were going to be riding it on downhill bikes.
The downhill ride is one of the most popular tours around La Paz as was evidenced by the bewildering choice of operators as we walked around town. Gung Ho attitudes aside, there are still serious safety concerns even though most of the traffic has moved to a newer, safer road recently.
Our tax advisor in the UK told us of an incident involving a friend of his who’d been killed on this road just before we left on our trip. It soon became apparent that everyone had a different story on who was to blame for this tragedy.
Most stories indicated that he’d stopped to take photos and had gone over the 600m high edge while racing to catch up with the group ahead. Others said he’d lost consciousness due to the altitude or that there had been a mechanical failure.
Shortly after this a highly experienced guide met his end when he stopped to tell the grizzly story to his group. With his bike parked perilously close to the edge of where the tourist had gone over, he started to pedal off. Unfortunately his pedals spun once before gripping the chain, just enough for his horrified group to watch as he slid over the edge backwards to his death.
Yes, safety was going to be a concern.
Hmm… Thats a long way down.
Suited up and sassy !
Dee getting ready at the start of the death road
Our criteria for selecting a bike company boiled down to a number of critical issues – such as the design and relative coolness of the T-shirt – but it was the old fashioned human factor that won the day in the end.
We were in a Gringo cafe called Luna about to sample some of the Bolivian wine – with some trepidation after the Peruvian wine debacle – when a guide from the Luna bike company sat down at our table and started to explain why going with him would be a great idea.
We could see that the English couple at the table next door were about to fall off their chairs from the eavesdropping so we invited them to join in the sales pitch. We liked the guide, and when push came to shove the next day we sauntered into their shop and paid our dues for the trip.
Waking super early the next morning we trekked across town – stepping over and around the denizens of La Paz eating soup with things like sheep’s jaws floating toothily in it – meeting up with the rest of our group for breakfast at the Luna cafe.
Dee was delighted to see that the English couple we’d joined in the sales pitch had also signed up as she was becoming concerned by the thought of adrenalin pumped boys hammering their way down the road. We piled into the mini-van for our two hour drive to the start of our trail, the driver immediately pumping up the adrenaline with tunes from a mix CD that would have been marked “Extreeeeme MIX !!” or something similar.
The start of the downhill run was a parking lot near a lake at a wheezy 4650m above sea level. After donning our ninja-turtle-like body armour, we gave our bikes a whirl around the parking area before lining up for our safety briefing.
Dee was characteristically attentive to the safety instructions ensuring that no detail was lost. Al managed to absorb the “don’t fall over the edge part” which seemed like sensible enough advice.
All good so far at the first stop point
Ready to roll
All smiles at the end
And then we were off ! Flying down the wide tarred road with the snow capped Andes crowding over our bikes as we whipped around the serpentine turns was unbelievably amazing. (Note to self – don’t lick lips when tearing downhill in the cold mountain air.)
All too soon we turned off the nicely tarred road onto the El Camino de la Muerte – the road of death. The first thing you notice is the drop, falling away over half a kilometer – Al starts to wish he’d been paying more attention to the briefing instead of admiring his luck at getting the Superman sticker on his bike.
Cars being “blessed” by various priests, witches etc while liberal amounts of beer are sprayed over them.
Bowler hatted ladies joining the gloriously unmelodious dance
The road itself was barely wide enough for two cars to pass each other and every corner was blind. Although the purpose of the ride was to rev up the adrenaline levels and bask in the absence of the health and safety restrictictions, the white flashes of the crosses dotting the edge bore a mute testimony to the lives lost along this stretch of road (Dee stopped counting after the first 20 or so)…
Local legend states that part of the reason for the large number of accidents is in part due to the largely Catholic population of bus drivers and their practice of blessing themselves with one hand whilst passing these memorial crosses – thus rendering one hand obsolete in the driving process on the worst corners…
After a thrilling decent we ended up in the little town of Coroico where it appeared that the locals where about three days into a ¡fiesta! without and time off from the beer.
The mishmash of local customs and the Catholic church were evident in the “blessing” of the local taxis. A priest would walk around with the holy water, followed by a local witch with some foul smelling smoke and finished off with a formula 1 winner like spray of beer all over the vehicle (this disturbed Al the most…)
Al was however heartened to note that on closer observation at least some of the alcohol was passing the lips of the locals as we watched one of the tail end trumpeters in the various marching bands stagger down the cobbled street ahead of him alone, oblivious to the fact that his fellow band members had taken a right turn…
After and enjoyable rest at lower altitude, it was time to return to the rarefied atmosphere in La Paz for our next adventure: conquering the summit of the 6088m Huayna Potosi !
By dee, on March 14th, 2010
It started in a cesspit and ended with an act of unsolicited kindness – our experience of Lake Titicaca was to sum up our impressions of Bolivia and its wonderful people.
Calling Puno on the Peruvian side of the lake a cesspit is perhaps a little strong, but seriously who in their right mind builds a sewage ditch running the length of the lake shore ?!
Of course, this didn’t deter us from having sun downers on the shore but we were both in agreement that the town planners should probably have been taken outside and shot.
More bus time for the two weary travellers
Sitting in front of the highly disappointing lake front in Puno
Neon green sewerage ditch in front of Lake Titicaca. Somehow you think the town planners missed a trick or two here.
In no mood to hang around, we boarded the first bus the next morning heading across the border to Copacabana, Bolivia. The border crossing was nothing more than a disinterested formality, and walking across the border we now found ourselves inside a country we had heard vilified as dangerous and unstable.
What a load of absolute rubbish that turned out to be…
Actually we’re leaving, but its to good a photo opportunity to ignore
Welcome to Bolivia
You just can’t make this stuff up
Copacabana was pretty much everything that Puno failed to be – pedal boats littered the beachfront but still managed to be charming rather than blatantly tacky. Having dumped our massive bags off at a cute hostel, we raced down to the beach to watch the first of a several mind blowing, breathtaking sunsets.
It doesn’t take much at all to take your breath away in Copacabana. In fact just sitting still in the rarefied atmosphere at 3900m, you can occasionally feel your breathing becoming laboured. Walking up a hill… well let’s just say that’s a bit harder still. It doesn’t help when the seventy-something year old local powers past you carrying a huge load on their back either !
That first night we encountered the local delicacy - trucha (trout) – in the rustic beach side eateries. The local dogs expressed much interest in the scraps from the table and we soon had a small pack of wagging tails around our feet.
View from the hill overlooking Copacabana
Sunset over lake Titicaca is simply indescribable.
Rays of light lancing through the clouds behind the reed boat
Just about everyone who visits the lake will end up going on a trip to one of the islands – either the island of the sun or the moon. For us this was the Isla del Sol, or the island of the sun.
We managed to find a friendly lady at a local travel agency who gladly sold us a ticket on one of her boats heading out the next day. The boat ride was a rather sedentary putter out towards the large island, taking nearly two hours to go not very far at all.
During our hike along the spine of the island we were introduced for the first time to the Bolivian custom of the “hidden cost”. Every village we passed through had a representative waiting to extort some fee from the passing Gringos.
Although the fees were a pittance expressed in any other currency everyone was getting rather fed up with it. Things came to a head when our group was stopped about 100 meters from the last checkpoint for a final payment. Tempers flared and a shouting match developed between the “guard” and the Spanish speaking members of the group as we stood by watching the exchange feeling more than a little embarrassed. Of course everybody ended up paying in the end.
On top of the Isla del Sol
Yup, it was pretty cold at nearly 4000m when the sun set
Sun setting over the Isla del Sol
We decided to stay the night on the island as our argument had dragged on and we’d have to run to catch the boat by now anyway. Our Lonely Planet led us towards what promised to be the best hostel, only to find that the hostel owner was playing the trumpet at a local wedding fiesta and would be returning at some indefinite time in the morning.
We later learned that just about the entire population of the island was at the wedding and we were lucky to squeak into a hostel just before the family running it left to join the party.
An entertaining Irish couple from our group invited us for a few drinks later in the evening, and this is where the wheels started to fall off. Lets be clear here, we weren’t badly behaved or anything, we simply didn’t pay enough attention to our Lonely Planet guide.
More specifically we didn’t take the warning that there was no ATM in town seriously enough, and proceeded to drink the expensive restaurant beers with no thought to our dwindling supply of Bolivianos.
In our defence the Lonely Planet clearly stated that we could get a cash advance on our credit card from a local hotel every day except Monday (the next day).
View of the morning light from our hostel
Early morning sun lights up the mountains of the Cordilla Real overlooking Lake Titicaca
Dee and the Bolivian flag on the slow, slow boat back
Waking up the next morning and examining our precarious financial position we found that we only had enough money to cover our hostel bill for the night, and maybe buy a dry roll or two for lunch. Thoughts of creeks and paddles came to mind.
The cash advance option was still firmly on the table however and Al was typically bullish in his belief that we could get our hands on some cash the next day. A day of dry roll rations was unlikely to kill us after all.
Blue sky and white walls
Dried llama foetuses used in local ceremonies
Al trys on some warm headwear
The bitter reality was explained to us by the same friendly travel agent lady who had sold us our tickets when we enquired about a bus to La Paz the next morning. We could indeed draw some money from our credit cards, but the place offering this service was closed for the next three days. Oops.
The crestfallen looks on our faces must have struck a chord with her. Before we knew it she had pressed 400 Bolivianos cash into our hands, explaining that we could pay her sister in La Paz the money when we arrived there.
We stared at each other in dumbstruck disbelief – we were saved ! Not only could we afford to pay our hostel bill, we could get a decent meal and still pay for a bus to La Paz.
Our journey in Peru had jaded us somewhat – Al especially - and yet here was a woman we really didn’t know at all and she was just handing over rolls of cash to us that she clearly didn’t have to spare. Simply unbelievable.
Al assumes “The Position” for carrying the bags
Al enters seventh heaven as he tries his first Salteña. Our saviour is looking on from the doorway on the left.
A little surreal watching your bus drive onto a ferry as we head for La Paz
By Al, on December 12th, 2009
It was about 5am when the drugs kicked in. “The problem is…”, he said pausing theatrically for breath, “…is you two are just too lovely!” The formalities out of the way, he danced off to hail a passing taxi on the Plaza de Armas clapping all the while to a tune only he could hear. This guy had clearly spent a long night with South America’s most famous export.
He could best be described as a young Austin Powers, complete with Cockney accent, wearing a huge woolly helmet. It was an interesting and surreal introduction to Cusco.
Our plan was to spend three days acclimatising and exploring Cusco before our Inka Trail trek began. We managed to start our preparations off on the worst possible foot by having a bottle of wine while watching an obscure German movie in a pub about a man who wants to bring opera to the Peruvian jungle.
We fully intended to head back to the hostel for an early night when we happened upon “The World’s Highest Irish Owned Pub” and it seemed wrong at some fundamental level to just walk on past…
Any manual dealing with altitude sickness will carry dire warnings about drinking any alcohol when at altitude, something we were well aware of and yet still roundly ignored to our cost. Never, never again.
The world’s most expensive Guinness at the world’s highest Irish owned pub
Dee poses with locals and lambs
Al and his guinea pig or “Cuy” as they call it in Peru
The Inca Trail
Three days later we had pulled off a miraculous recovery when we hopped into a van in the early hours of the morning for the drive out towards “Kilometer 82″, the start of the Inka Trail.
It quickly became apparent that Al should have read the small print when he booked the Inka Trail online. For example, our guide Hugo seemed to be exclusively assigned to us while the twelve other people in the group were sharing a single guide between them.
We were seperated from the others at first which wasn’t exactly helping us integrate with the rest of the group. The situation was not entirely helped by Hugo referring to us loudly as “My King and Queen” at every opportunity.
A quiet word in Hugo’s ear at our first break resolved the issue – we agreed that we should join the big group and share the guides around. We thought everything was sorted out and started to chat to the others until Hugo popped his head inside our lunch tent to call Al outside.
Our porter was standing beside our backpack looking pretty disturbed – things did not look good. The porter explained through our guide that something bad was inside our bag and he couldn’t carry it. We all turned and stared balefully at the offending piece of luggage.
Al rather fearfully opened up the bag to try discover what “bad thing” was causing the issue… The porter took an involuntary step backwards as the wash bag was pulled out into the open emitting a low moaning sound. Guffaws exploded from both guide and porter as Al pulled out Dee’s electric toothbrush and switched it off.
Explaining the cause of the hilarity outside to the rest of the group turned into a fantastic icebreaker and we were now a single unified group.
Al and our guide Hugo at the start of the trail
The start of the Inca Trail – Kilometer 82
Old Quechuan lady drinking her brew of alcoholic Chicha
The scenery unfolding before us was simply majestic. Rolling hills and mountains flowing into green valleys with orchids dotting the trail made the first day of easy trekking a delight. We were well aware that the next day we would be facing our sternest test on the trek – “Dead Woman’s Pass”. At a shade over 4200m above sea level it would be a new altitude record for both of us, and was touted as a pretty hard day of trekking.
With this in mind we turned in for the night – there really isn’t much to do after 8pm when the sun goes down and the light disappears…
Incan terraced ruins
Snow capped peak towering above our campsite on the first night
Beer o’clock on day one
Dead Woman’s Pass
Setting out early on day two we tried to prepare ourselves mentally for the whole day of uphill climbing. Dead Woman’s Pass is named for it’s shape and as the mountains hove into view we could see our destination – her neck forming the pass between the imposing chin and breast.
Our guides had advised that we would be breaking the ascent into three segments of roughly two hours each, and that the second segment was the hardest. The guides are notorious liars as we’ve discovered in South America – the final segment was a killer. The cobbled Inca trail turned into knee breaking steps for the last two hours of ascent, although this didn’t seem to bother Dee who was in fine mountain goat form.
Al on the other hand was starting to take strain as altitude and a bullish dash up the trail five hours earlier started to take their toll… Dee gallantly waited for the slow coach to catch up and only sped on ahead when we were within a stone’s throw of the top.
The view from the top was worth every aching step up the final stretch – as was the sense of accomplishment.
Dee sitting smugly at the top of Dead Woman’s Pass
Al two steps from the top of Dead Woman’s Pass
Team Houston punching the rather thin air at 4215m on Dead Woman’s Pass
The little walk…
Dee, apparently not satisfied with crushing the pass decided that we’d be taking a little stroll to the top of the next pass while everyone else in the group lay in their tents recuperating.
Our walk gave us the opportunity to have the trail all to ourselves, and almost immediately we started to see the animals that melted away into the bush when all the trekkers were using the trail. Climbing up towards the next pass we spotted some Andean Deer and coming back down we came face to face with a very large and surprised fox. We stared at each other for a few seconds before he magically ghosted away into the mist.
Dee stops for a quick photo break on some ancient Inca stairs
We took a walk on day two while everyone lay far below in the campsite, crushed by the day’s trek.
With our new Irish friends way above the clouds
Nearly there
The third day lived up to it’s reputation as the most beautiful on the trek with ruins, valleys and andean mist forests. We were aware that the camp site at the end of the day held the two holy grails of the trek: hot showers and cold beer for weary walkers.
The highlight of the day was coming out of the forest to see huge Incan terraces overlooking the majestic Ollantaytambo valley. They also provided the laugh of the day as one of our new Irish friends had to crab down the steep stairs as his mates fell over laughing at the bottom.
Goofing around in the ancient and very sacred Inca ruins
Dee towering over the Incan terraces
Pretty steep steps apparently require special precautions while descending
Machu Picchu
At 04h15 we were all assembled and in line to enter the final stretch of trail to the “Sun Gate”, the pass overlooking Machu Picchu. Some people assumed that the trail etiquette could be thrown out of the window as they tried to shoulder through the groups who had queued patiently since the early hours of the morning.
Several blocking tactics were successfully deployed and we managed to be among the first to arrive at the Sun Gate, only to be greeted by a solid wall of grey mist… Machu Picchu was out there, we all knew it, we just couldn’t see it.
The mists did finally part for a few seconds to give us a tantalising glimpse of our destination for the day. Thankfully the sun burned through the mists fairly quickly and we arrived at the Incan Watchtower an hour later under a flawlessly blue sky – we had made it !
The mists at the Sun Gate clear enough to catch a tiny glimpse of Machu Picchu (it’s the lightish bit on the left hand side)
Yay – we made it !
The mists clear and we are greeted by Machu Picchu in all its considerable glory
Our tour of the ruins was a little more info than we strictly needed. Our guide would regularly punctuate his flow of information with “Chichos, preguntas hmmm ?” (Guys, questions ?), and we quickly learned that questions simply lead to even longer explanations so that shut us all up quite quickly.
The only disappointment was not climbing Huayna Picchu, the little mountain overlooking the ruins, but we were honestly just bone tired and dehydrated after not filling up our water supply in the rush of the morning. You can’t win them all.
Dee and Machu Picchu
Al and Suzy not exactly loving the tour guide so far. Preguntas Chicos ? I think not sir !
Al offers up Duckee to a somewhat malevolent llama
Group shot at the Sun Gate
Probably our best shot of Machu Picchu
Posing in front of the ruins for our new friends from Atlanta
Aguas Callientes
Another misunderstanding in our purchase of the trek online was that the five day tour we had purchased was simply the normal four day trek with a night in the nearby town of Aguas Callientes tagged onto the end. There is not a lot to do in Aguas Callientes…
We quickly discovered that the local wildlife could and would draw blood at regular intervals. We started out calling the midgies that seemed to be everywhere “little buggers”, but the blood sucking spawn of the devil soon received a far less flattering moniker that we cannot write here for fear of causing offence.
Our guide kindly organised an upgrade for our train journey back to Cusco – we would be travelling in a glass topped train to enjoy the view ! Which wasn’t very useful in the dark ! Oh well…
Our next stop is to head towards Puno on Lake Titicaca, more on that later.
Dee models the latest Peruvian fashion – the wooly helmet.
We called these “little buggers” although the blood sucking spawn of the devil got a far less complementary name later
What the hell is going on here ?! Duckee is ours but the rest defies rational explanation.
Duckee just can’t help trying on something in his size
Sad looking Quechuan woman is happy to pose with Duckee in Cusco
Dee posing with Bob
By Al, on November 29th, 2009
Colca Canyon
Our trip to the world’s second deepest canyon began at the rather unreasonable hour of 2am. Our tourist van raced through the night, negotiating the hairpin mountain bends with more optimisim than was strictly required. The words “blind corner” simply don’t feature in the Peruvian dictionary.
The reason for all the rush was so we could arrive on time to see condors flying from a viewsite in the canyon. For some reason known only the condors, they only fly once a day, for an hour starting at 07h50 on the dot.
When we arrived, shaken and slightly stirred, we found a massive condor perched cheekily on a boulder just below the viewsite. Cameras were trained on the condor as we all waited breathlessly for it to take flight. Lets just say that as a chick, this was probably the last condor out of the nest.
After fifteen minutes spent observing the flightless wonder through our camera viewfinders, we became aware of a few awestruck gasps and pointed fingers from the people around us. The condors had started to fly.
Shall I soar?… Nah! Might just sit here for a while longer.
All of a sudden the sky is filled with condors
Dude… Deep man
Our hike in the canyon was going to be a little lark down some path to see some condors and stuff (this is what we thought anyway). In reality, the path down into the canyon is over a kilometer straight down. Our decent was gruelling as the downhills really take their toll on the legs and joints.
Our hostel for the night was a delightfully out of the way affair, mostly due to the precipitously long hike to get there. Some hot springs at the river revived our tortured muscles, while later our host serenaded us on his guitar as we sipped our well earned beers overlooking the river.
Dee stops complaining about “the useless stick” around this point – they’re knee savers.
Our hostel owner serenades us with some latin guitar
View as we leave our hostel in the morning beneath another cornflower blue sky.
Our guide (Luis) assured us the next morning that the hike was “a little up, mostly flat then down again” to an oasis. He lied. It quickly became apparent that Luis did not own and has never seen a watch in all his days. “Fifteen more minutes to the top” turned into an hour of agonising switchbacks before we eventually stood over the next section of valley.
Much, much later as we made our final decent to the bottom of the canyon to the oasis we were thrown a curve ball of a 200 meter stretch of uphill that came pretty close to killing us. Dee threw herself to the ground near a spring close to tears and nearly unable to continue, for the first time in her young and innocent life considering the possibilty of throwing in the towel and taking a mule to the top of the canyon the next day (she did actually have a chest infection which never helps.)
Al is asked to express facially his feelings on the next three hours of trekking.
Our group from left: Luis, Al, Dee, Peter, Marijke and Bas.
Donkeys making the hideous ascent
Our oasis was just as it professed to be – a swimming pool and bed to soak and rest our weary bones. On the down side the Peruvians still continue to misjudge the astounding volume of beer that Gringos can put away when they’re thirsty – I mean seriously, who runs out of beer ?!
Stopping for a quick “photo break” , aka a “catch your breath break”!
Duckee practices his Quechua with his new friend
Entitled “self portrait” for obvious reasons
Dee was wracked with indecision at the oasis the night before our climb out of the canyon. She had picked up a chest infection and was seriously struggling to keep up a good head of steam on the uphill sections. Our guide Luis suggested that maybe Dee should consider hiring a mule to ride out of the canyon the next morning.
Dee agonised over the decision all night. On one hand she was bone tired, not well and worried that she would hold the rest of the group back on the way up. On the other hand, Dee never gives up. Ever.
In the end the stiff back of Dee’s will won out and we all set out to make our ascent at 5am the next morning minus the mule. This is where out new Dutch friends Bas and Marijke really came into their own. Bas discovered “The Pace” (patent pending) – not too fast, not too slow, never pushing too hard and not stopping for breaks. We watched in amazement as groups cruised past us on the trail only to be found later totally blown. Dee was absolutely fine and we made the ascent in a pretty darn decent time.
The mental strength gained from the ascent would help us greatly in future hikes, and as it was less than a week before the Inka Trail we would be needing all the help we could get.
Yay! I can breathe again!
Getting a healthy serving of home brewed chicha. Yum ! Not..
Duckee poses with a tired doggy
You can see the whole photo album by clicking on the link below.
By Al, on November 7th, 2009
Arequipa “La Ciudad Blanca” – The White City
One of the most amazing things about Peru is the diverse landscape. Hardly twenty minutes out of Nasca, the Pan American Highway rejoins the Pacific coastline and even the inevitable Jackie Chan re-runs couldn’t keep the eye from being drawn to the scenes out of the bus window. Rollers from the Pacific crashed against a beach overlooked by an unending array of red dunes lit up by the setting sun.
Arequipa’s skyline is dominated by it’s two resident volcanoes, the brooding Chachani and El Misti, as is most of the locals conversation. Arequipa is fancifully called the “White City” because of the white volcanic rock used in the local buildings, although it wasn’t as obvious to the naked eye as one would imagine, but still beautiful in its own right.
View from the bus window, sand rippling onto the road.
Views of Chachani and Misti – the two volcanoes brooding over Arequipa
Sunset lights up Misti
Our time was becoming rather tight as we had only five days until we had to be in Cusco to prepare for the Inka Trail. With this in mind, we scuttled between tourist agencies to set up our activities for our five free days.
Our first trip involved a downhill mountain bike ride down 4900m of volcanic slope from the top of Volcano Chachani. The view from the top when we got out of the van following two harrowing hours of ascent was nothing short of spectacular.
We both thought we were handling the altitude just fine, but a short uphill section of the ride quickly put us back in our place ! In true style Dee managed to wipe out spectacularly, not once but four times on the soft sands of the murderously vertical downhill “shortcuts” we were offered.
Near the peak of Chachani volcano for our downhill mountain bike ride. The air at 4900m is pretty thin.
Suited up at 4900m for our decent
The toilet at the top of the mountain.
Uphills. Who said ANYTHING about uphills on a downhill ride !!
Our support vehicle worryingly heading off down the road in front of us.
Dee basking in the sunshine after the decent
In celebration of our safe decent from the clutches of the volcano, it seemed only right that we crack open a bottle of wine. We visited the local corner cafe and found a rather limited selection of red wine, but decided to brave the local Peruvian produce.
The scene for our upcoming trial could not be faulted – the roof terrace provided and amazing view of the city and the volcanoes. The cat basked in the setting sun and the breeze teased Dee’s hair playfully as she took her first sip. The scene was shattered as the vinegared swill hit the back of Dee’s throat. The cat hissed and bolted for the stairs as the cloud of red mist was spat out. Worst. Wine. Ever.
This night was special. This night, for the first time ever, Dee agreed that the wine was undrinkable. Never fear, the night was rescued by our good friends the Argentians on our second trip to the cafe.
Dee tries Peruvian wine for the last time. Ever.
Al makes a frankly quite disturbing face in front of the guinea pigs, a Peruvian delicacy.
Santa Catalina convent Arequipa
A visit to the Santa Catalina Convent rounded off our time in the city as we had to crack on to Colca Canyon – the second deepest canyon in the world.
Somewhere an alarm bell should have been ringing, but we blithely continued on in the belief that we’d be going for “a little walk in a nice little canyon.”
Stay tuned to see how that worked out for us.
By Al, on November 4th, 2009
The enigmatic geoglyphs at Nasca
Click here to see the full photo album.
The Nasca lines are huge figures – geoglyphs – drawn out in the desert sands. We were told a succession of increasingly implausable stories about their origin, but they remain an enigma.
It has to be said from the outset that Nasca is an absolute dump. We arrived late, shattered from the bus ride to be met by a gratingly noisy and crowded town who’s sole purpose is to serve the unending procession of Gringos wanting to do a “Sobre Vuelo” or overflight of the lines.
“The Spaceman” geoglyph. Looks like a five year old did this.
“The Monkey” geoglyph
“The Condor” geoglyph. Far more elegant.
We had pre-booked our flight as time was becoming a precious commodity for the first time on our travels. We suddenly found ourselves with little under a week to get to Cusco to acclimatise for the Inka Trail. As it turned out, we paid an unnecessary premium by booking in advance as just about every tourist agency in town was still open and selling flights at 10pm when we arrived. Lesson learned. We hope…
Duckee conducts a more thorough pre-flight check than the pilot did.
Dee conforts a clearly pertified Duckee during the flight
Nasca is a dump as evidenced from our hotel rooftop. Couldn’t leave fast enough.
The flight itself was best forgotten by all involved. Dee is a slightly nervous flier, and Al unusually found himself airsick about half way through the flight. (Note – no photos of Al in this blog entry). Both of us were very happy to get both feet on terra firma !
So we will admit that the figures are indeed amazing, mysterious and vexing, but we were both delighted to see the back of Nasca as we hopped on a bus to the volcanic town of Arequipa a mere 10 hours bus ride away.
Just for the record
Dee wishes it clearly stated that Al may be being unreasonably harsh about Nasca (although the place was a dump and the figures looked like the works of an austistic child)
By Al, on October 31st, 2009
The poor man’s Galapagos
After a quick bounce through Lima to pick up our massively overloaded bags from our friendly hostel owner friend Quique, we grabbed a quick eight hour bus to Paracas to visit the Islas Ballestas.
We had intended to stay in Pisco (capital of the region of Pisco, famous for making, you guessed it Pisco). The entire region was devastated by an earthquake measuring 8.0 on the Richter scale in 2007, entire towns collapsing during the three minute quake. The tiny village we had lunch at on the second day was destroyed by the resulting tsunami.
Our plans to stay in nearby Pisco were soon in tatters as no taxis were available on a Sunday afternoon. In fact, nothing in South America is possible on a Sunday. We met up with an American family as we trailed a local tout to what turned out to be a fantastic hotel overlooking the bay. Ever wary of the stereotype, it didn’t take our new American friends long to wiggle their way into Al’s good books, in fact they had us at “beer”.
Paracas villiage bus stop
Sunset over the bay
Sunshine puts a big smile on Dee’s face
The trip out to the islands started pretty early, the sun just peaking over the placid bay as we jumped aboard the speedboat. It is easy to see why the islands are so popular – the region is blessed with sun for most of the year and the fauna rich islands lie only half an hour’s ride away on a speedboat.
Almost as soon as we approach the islands the sky is turned black by the birds swarming in huge flocks from all directions. Even the most die hard fan of Hitchcock’s “The Birds” would still freak out a little at the shear volume of bird life on offer. Gannets, Boobies (yes, they’re actually called that), Pelicans and Gulls wheel and scream in a cacophony of life against the azure backdrop of the Pacific.
The morning sunlight pouring through a sea cave
Pelicans. Lots of pelicans.
A bazillion birds on the rocky islands
Later we drove out to the Paracas National Reserve, a hauntingly beautiful fusion of desert and ocean. Paracas means “sand storm” in Quechua, and we certainly experienced the full impact as it raced across the barren desert.
Footloose and carefree on the beach at the Paracas Reserve
Pacific rollers hit the black beach
Dee about to take off in the wind
More than a little sad to be leaving this tranquil spot, we head next to Nasca to see the famous “Nasca Lines”.
Here is a link to the rest of the photos.
By Al, on October 23rd, 2009
The colorful jungle town of Iquitos,Peru
Click here for the Amazon Iquitos Photo Album
Shifting gears from Lima to Iquitos certainly jarred us out of the sense of chilled complacency we’d managed to cultivate in Lima.
The town is a riot of color and noise, literally crawling with the three wheeled motor taxis that form the backbone of transport on the island. They’re noisy, smelly, and absolutely bloody marvelous !
Our first sighting of this immense river was soon cut short as the first of many torrential rainstorms swept in off the river, but a conveniently located bar supplied a spectacular view of the storm over some cold Iquiteña cervezas.
Flying over the Andes on the flight from Lima to Iquitos
One of the floating homes as we leave Iquitos. During the wet season they literally float up on the high water.
Sun setting over the mighty Amazon river
The butterfly farm “Casa de Mariposas”
Dee’s relationship with the gentlemen of the jungle was true to form during a visit to the butterfly farm on the morning of her birthday.
After an hour she’d managed to aquire two new suitors – a red faced Bald Uakari monkey called Chavo and a frisky Howler Monkey by the name of Igor !
Beautiful butterfly at the Casa de Mariposas
Dee’s little red faced monkey friend. He definately had a thing for her.
Again, Dee’s a hit with the monkey males. Getting a groom here from a frisky Howler monkey.
Into The Jungle
We travelled in to the Peruvian Amazon via ferry later that day, a rather unique experience and memorable birthday for Dee. The journey lasted 32 hours on a ferry, sleeping in hammocks in rather close proximity to our Peruvian neighbours on the partly open upper deck. So close in fact that if we moved our elbows out from our sides we could touch both neighbours. We were the only “Gringos” amongst the friendly Peruvians with their pigs, chickens and boxes of sting rays (the only tourists for the whole trip actually).
The scenery for the first few hours of cruising on the Amazon was amazing and surreal. Shortly after a mind boggling sunset, the wind picked up out of nowhere followed shortly by twelve hours of torrential rain. Nobody thinks to mention the fact that it is quite possible to freeze in the Amazon basin, but we can both attest to the fact this is entirely true !
We landed late the following night and hauled our supplies up to the local village where we spent the night in a hostel – ironically this was the only uncomfortable night of the trip on a thinly stuffed straw mattress.
We were up early the next morning for breakfast in one of the villager’s gardens and then watched in the relative shade with growing trepidation as a canoe was loaded to the hilt (and some way beyond) with our supplies for the next ten days. We were eventually summoned to the bulging vessel and instructed to get in… and sit where?!? Al, graceful as a swan clambered in, followed by a nervous Dee and no fewer than four others!
Unbeknown to us, we were to be joined by two local guides on our travels – bringing the tally to six including ourselves. Somehow the canoe moved off without sinking, and actually appeared to be surprisingly stable when the engine was on. It was however only a matter of minutes before the first of many engine failures..
After five hours of butt numbingly long travel up a small creek, we eventually arrived at our first villiage settlement within the Pacaya Simiria reserve. It quickly became evident that our rights to camp within the reserve were not as ironclad as our guide(s) had ensured us was the case.
In true South American style, a blistering arguement ensued with the two of us sitting in the canoe trying to follow the proceedings. After 15 minutes of posturing and gesticulation, smiles broke out all round and we handed over two packets of spaghetti as a bribe and we were off !
Our tiny creek soon gave way to a massive lake, certainly not what we were expecting to find in the middle of the jungle. Our night excursions involved trips skimming across the shimmering lake, a tapestry of brilliant stars overhead and wet slippery fish hitting us in the face as they jumped into the canoe !
The ferry is still not at capacity, but hammock berths are filling up.
Al showing off his jungle hammock and mozzie net
Dee swimming in the Piranha infested waters.. and yes they definately are there cos we saw em.
The snake conundrum
Our complacency towards the dangers of the jungle was shattered on the second night on returning from a trip on the lake to discover a baby Fer De Lance snake slithering it’s way through the camp.
For the first time on the trip both of us were in complete agreement with the local’s bloodthirsty desire to kill anything that moved so that we might photograph it.
Far more importantly, Dee’s evening toilet trips into the jungle came to an abrupt end. This theme continued when we moved camp, Dee insisting on having an en-suite loo machettied from the virgin jungle right next to her hammock. So great was the sudden concern for physical safety that an hour was spent patching every tiny hole in the mosquito net when our guide Kid nonchalantly remarked that the Tarantulas liked to crawl through any holes to escape the almost nightly rain.
Al restored some injured pride from previously disasterous fishing attempts by pulling bucket loads of Piranhas from the river. These fish are incredibly stupid, you dangle a hook with something bloody dangling from it in the water, and with a few seconds you’re the proud owner of a very angry snapping Piranha. In a twist of irony, the best fishing spots turned out to be the same places we had been swimming in only minutes before !
The thankfully dead baby Fer-De-Lance snake. Possibly the first death on our trip we fully agreed with.
Our crazy guide Kid with a Tarantula running all over him.
Piranha and Caiman tail, straight off the braai
The Eco Tourism Memo
Apparently our guides failed to get the eco tourism memo and seemed determined to kill just about everything they saw despite our protestations.
Amongst the tally were two beautiful sleeping kingfishers who were knocked out of a tree with an oar (apprently this is hilarous too), a 2.5m Caimen killed for meat, 4 electric eels and we’re pretty sure that the baby howler monkey they “caught” while we were sleeping never made it in the end.
If you happen to find yourself in a Peruvian jungle and anyone asks you “Do you want to taste…”, the answer should be an emphatic no. Two huge palm trees met their end when we stupidly agreed to try Palm Heart in a salad. Destroying a 20m high tree to get a handful of salad from the top is more than a little galling.
In the end however, we both agreed that no matter how personally abhorent we found some of the customs of hack,slash and kill in the jungle it simply wasn’t our place to judge. There are too many local customs around the world that others disagree with and a certain patronising arrogance is implied if you try to change them.
The heartbreaking episode of the baby howler monkey. The poor mite never made it, of that we’re sure.
The table and bench made in less than two hours at the cost of only one 40m palm tree..
Abner shoulders the dubiously obtained Caiman, just before its cut up and cooked
The triumphant return
The return trip included a stop over in the tiny villiage of Flor De Punga where we were the star attraction at the Spring Festival at the local school. Apparently not many Gringos visit as every time we turned around we were confronted with a crowd of school kids squeeling in delicious terror.
Thankfully the ferry downstream to Iquitos was much quicker – only 24 hours on a ferry this time. Although the experience was incredible, we were both sorely in need of a long, long shower to remove the accumulated dirt from our travel weary bodies.
Next on the itinerary is a return to Lima, then on to Paracas for the Islas Ballestas, the Nasca Lines and the volcanic city of Arequipa.
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