Life

Well, it's happening.

I am being absorbed back into life in the U.S.

However... I'm still writing about my trip. Right now, I'm writing up my last entry for Lima as well as working on documenting my amazing adventures trekking in the Andes and my experience of Machu Picchu.

And...

I'm also writing about my experiences returning to the U.S. -- the reverse culture shock, observations of the people and culture in the U.S. from a travelers perspective, and on and on.

So keep checking back. More posts coming soon!

Lima, Peru: Day 2

I spent the day shopping for presents for my friends and family back home. It’s incredible the amount of cheesy, cheap items there are for tourists to consume here: Peru shot glasses, t-shirts with illustrations of farting guinea pigs on them and the words “Peru Cuy” printed beneath them, Peru plastic snow globes, and “alpaca” hats and gloves that felt suspiciously like 100% acrylic. Other kiosks were filled with sterling silver statues, cutlery, earrings, pendants and other jewelry. Still others were crammed with textiles, sweaters, weavings, and leather goods. But each kiosk, whether it was with cheesy trinkets, textiles, silver, or whatever… they all fundamentally had exactly the same thing.

It took hours and hours of exploring kiosk after kiosk to suss out the good stuff – the unique items – but I persevered and at the end of the day, walked away with just about everything I needed.

After a hard day of shopping, I felt like I deserved something special. Off to restaurant Haiti again. That double pisco sour from the night before was stuck in my head and the thought of enjoying one again amongst the interesting and mixed crowd that the place seemed to attract sounded exactly right. There was something comforting and bittersweet in sitting at the small outdoor table, experiencing the world go by. This was a microcosmic representation of the spirit and life of Lima and like the night before, I let myself be absorbed by the energy of the place, the pace, the sounds, sights, smells, textures, and tastes.

One perfect pisco sour and a plate of soothing food later, I headed back to the hostel, my home for one more night, and to bed. Tomorrow, my last full day of sightseeing on this South America tour. I was going to make it count.

Lima, Peru: Day 1

No sleep on my last night in Huacachina. The only thing for most 20 year olds to do in a small town like Huacachina is stay up late and drink liver-pounding amounts of alcohol while listening to very loud electronic music… just outside my dorm room window. I don’t think anyone in my 10 person dorm slept, actually.

My 7:30am bus to Lima rolled into the Ica station 30 minutes late, per SSAT (Standard South America Time).

Lima bus, Lima bus station, taxi, then my hostel, which ends up being not at all like the glowing Hostelworld.com reviews. I think the owner must have had his friends pad the reviews. The place ended up being really cramped and the top bunks in the dorm were about ten feet in the air. If you fell from this bunk, you would seriously hurt something. The breakfast consisted of tang, instant coffee, hot water and tea bags for tea, and a loaf of third world brand wonder bread with terrible faux butter. Not even any milk to help cut the nastiness of the instant coffee. Yugh. So as not to sound too critical, I’ll say that the shower was clean. Good thing I only booked this hostel for two nights. My last two nights, I’m staying in a hotel, dammit. I’m going to finish this trip with class, baby.

My cold hangs on. Getting sick of being sick. The hacking cough makes me sound like a TB victim. The myriad of prescriptions the doc wrote and that I’ve now finished? I think pretty useless.

So I settle into my cramped hostel dorm room, get out the city map and forge out to experience the ‘hood I’m staying in in Lima… Miraflores. This is reputed as being the artsy bohemian/touristy area of Lima. How “artsy bohemian” and “touristy” can exist in the same place at the same time is beyond me.

I head to a café highly recommended by the Lonely Planet guide (aka: the Bible) and eat an uninspired fried egg sandwich. The sandwich leaves me with a fierce sweet tooth, so I start exploring the neighborhood to see how I might satisfy it.

Manolo. Manolo, with its pies and pastries and cakes and mile high sandwiches tantalizingly displayed under glass. Piles of churros, plain or stuffed with vanilla or chocolate custard. I settle on a slice of this insane pecan pie -- four fingers high and encrusted with giant, juicy looking pecans. The piece of pie sweetly calls my name. No one can hear it but me, but you know, when a piece of pecan pie has your name on it, it’s a sin against all that’s right and good in the world to pass it by. I sat down and the piece of pie sat down in front of me and we proceeded to have a brief but very meaningful relationship. Sadly, like many relationships that are just based on looks, I grew satiated and bored soon after engaging with the pecan pie, so left it, unfinished on the counter.

But Manolo… I knew I’d be back.

At Central Park in Miraflores, I watched 16 street artists, each creating murals on one side of four separate cubes built for this project. Baggy pants, a baseball cap, and earbuds blasting music was de rigueur. It was interesting to watch each piece taking shape right before my eyes. The creative process can be somewhat of a mystery, and it was interesting, and a little intimate, to watch these mysteries unfold before my eyes.

I took my time checking it all out, then continued my explorations. There was a warehouse-sized storefront. People were digging in piles and mounds of clothes. This I had to see. I stepped into the melee, which actually was a Peruvian manufactured clothing seconds store. Several US clothing brands filled the bins. Little did I know that premium brands that cost us all a bunch of money, like Ralph Lauren Polo, Guess, Banana Republic, Aeropostale, and more were sewn by dirt cheap labor in sweat shops in Peru.

After this strange experience, I headed back to the hostel and wrote, and wrote and wrote, trying to get caught up on my travels for this blog. My trek to Machu Picchu and subsequent ill health has put me behind.

At 9pm, out again into Miraflores and to a restaurant called “Haiti," a throwback to the heyday of 1970s Lima, complete with elderly waiters in starched shirts, green vinyl chairs, and white tablecloths. Patrons not only included tourists, but also neighborhood locals, many of which looked like they'd been coming to Haiti since the restaurant opened its doors in 1962. Peruvian gentlemen (or those thinking of themselves as gentlemen) gathered at tables, laughing and shaking hands and ribbing each other like it was their own private men's club. This was their turf, no doubt. Young guys, street musicians, artists, walked by and were greeted by the gentlemen who wanted to feel young again themselves through the energy of these artists. Then the restaurant management shooing the young artists away, like they were street urchins looking for a handout when in fact, it was the old gentlemen who were looking for a handout. Elder expat intellectuals, with stained shirts and wild grey hair sat with their used, dog eared books by Camus and Vargas Llosa, idling over small cups of espresso, cold by now but displayed, like a torn ticket to show that they'd paid their entrance fee and had every right to be here for as long as it took to finish their drink.

I ordered flounder ceviche and a double pisco sour. The ceviche arrived, fresh and fragrant, accompanied by two thick slices of yam, fresh, fat butter yellow corn kernels the size of dimes, and a hot sauce that would make your eyes tear up and your forehead break into a sweat. The pisco sour was cold, frothy, strong, and tart -- and perfect in every way. I savored every bite and drank in the experience of Lima on this pleasant night.

Then back to Manolo to sample one of their famous chocolate-filled churros. Biting into it -- the crunch of fried dough and sugar granules, then the soft yield of the dough into the creamy goodness of the chocolate filling. Perfection in a fried pastry.

As I get closer to the end of this trip, things have seemed to take on a new tone. Time has slowed down as I drop into each moment and do all I can to experience all I can. An impending sense of loss, of ending and closure, has heightened my senses and made each experience richer and more full of meaning.

Huacachina, Peru

What an odd little place! Huacachina sits five kilometers outside Ica, Ica being one of the more substantial cities in Peru. Huacachina, on the other hand and despite being only 5km five kilometers outside Ica, seems like it’s in the middle of nowhere. It sits in small pocket, huddled in between masses of giant sand dunes. Huacahinca is like every image we have of a small oasis set in the idle of some Arabian desert, except this oasis is filled with young Western travelers looking for a good time.

Its reputation precedes it in numerous ways. If you ever want the unrated version containing all the details about this place, corner me at a party after I’ve had a couple of drinks and I’ll tell you all about it. In my own defense, I had about as much interest in indulging in most of these activities as I do in eating beets. And in case you don’t know this about me, I do not like beets.

Huacahina is a tiny town and thus offers only a few key pleasures.

1) Party all night, every night;

2) Hook up with some stranger or strangers;

3) Walk around the tree-lined lagoon or sit at your hostel pool while eating ice cream and enjoying the hot dry sun;

4) Take a wine or pisco tasting tour (the Ica region is the only wine region in Peru); and

5) Ride massive diesel-powered dune buggies that take you to enormous dunes you can sandboard down.

I had zero interest in numbers 1 and 2 so I took advantage of numbers 3, 4, and 5. Of the three days I was in Huacahina, I spent the first two of them resting and trying my best to get over the terrible cold and ear infection that left me without hearing in my left ear. So I chilled by the pool, read my book, walked around the lagoon, and went to bed early. To be honest, I would’ve simply left Huacachina on my second day if it weren’t for a cotton farmers’ strike, which left all roads into and out of Lima blocked. I guess that’s a pretty ingenious way to conduct a strike – simply block all roads to the most important city in the country. That really makes everybody sweat. The funny thing is, though, that the strikers take the weekends off, not just the cotton farmers as in this case, but any strikers in Peru during any strike. That part of the strikers’ strategy? Maybe not so ingenious. So in this particular case, and at worst case, the roads would be open starting Saturday for a couple of days.

Since I couldn’t leave Lima until Saturday, I stayed on a third day (a Friday) and spent it doing what there was left to be done in Huacachina. Wine tasting and sandboarding.

Sometime just after breakfast, my left ear popped. I could hear out of it again! Progress is good.

The wine tasting was one of the weirdest and most unpleasant wine tasting experiences I’ve ever had. My “tour” consisted of this…

I was picked up by a rotund and jolly guy in a busted up vehicle that looked and sounded like it was being held together with one very crucial bolt and that bolt was just about rust through and snap like a brittle little twig. The shocks were shot, the body of the car rusted, the seats springs jammed me in the back. The driver, who I was promised spoke English, had an English vocabulary that consisted of about 25 words, most of which related to drinking or alcoholic beverages of various sorts – and here I’m not talking about describing the characteristics of wine, I’m talking about how much he enjoys partying. Once I climbed into the death trap car and we started off, he introduced me to his girlfriend, a similarly rotund young woman with unwashed hair and a shy smile. Explanation here: the driver’s girlfriend was his mistress – not his partner, not his wife. How I knew this doesn’t matter. Let’s just say that it didn’t take any kind of powerful logic to deduce it.

We rattled toward Ica, the car shaking and shuddering and the driver weaving through traffic, stop signs, and lights. More explanation: this is how people drive in Peru. Lights, people, other cars, lines on the road, stop signs – it’s all just a whisper of a suggestion that everyone completely ignores. It’s a absolute and total, let’s-play-chicken, white-knuckle free-for-all.

So we’re shuddering through traffic, stopping every few minutes so that the driver can run his errands: getting the daily paper, stopping to put one liter of gas in his tank, etc. Once we finally get rolling, the landscape that unfolds in front of me is ghastly. Once off the highway, the roads are dusty, throat-choking affairs lined with four foot tall mountains of garbage on either side, like some kind of smelly, decaying, makeshift fence. Rotting diapers, empty blue plastic bleach bottles, and other sundry unmentionables painted a gruesomely colorful patina that surrounds fields where I wondered if wine grapes were grown. I would be disgusted – and frankly I was – but what struck me the most is that people lived here and this is how they deposited their garbage, hazmat and all. I felt very sad that these were conditions that people had to live in.

After a brain jarring ride through this unhappy countryside, we arrived at Tecama, one of the most well-known wineries of Peru. It was like a faded, ramshackle shell. The once bright pink paint of the tasting area and visitors’ center was washed out and lifeless looking. The grounds are filled with plants that seemed to barely hang on to life, drooping or just simply dead and brown. Dry dust devils whipped through the grounds, parching your throat.

The tour of the “facilities” was strange. I saw one thing that looked new and clean and properly functioning and those were two large stills where pisco is brewed. Two gigantic bright copper tanks with various copper tubing spiraling out of them sit pristinely in one corner of the production warehouse. In the next area, opposite these stills was a concrete wine aging tank. Its small doors were open, revealing themselves to be filthy and rusted on the inside. The harsh sound of a workman jackhammering and intermittent clouds of concrete dust filled the place. This was about as far away from a Napa or Sonoma tasting experience as I’ve ever had, hands down.

The tour culminated back in the tasting area. I was handed a tiny plastic cup that looked like it had been used and washed, used and washed at least twenty or thirty times. In my tiny plastic cup I was poured some of the most absolutely awful swill I’ve ever had the displeasure of tasting. It was truly and completely terrible.

Back in the car… the shuddering, creaking, barely holding together car. Back through the fences of garbage. Back onto the highway. Another head jarring 25 minutes to what was reputed to be an “artisanal” pisco producer. On the way, we rolled through a favela, a slum area. Mountains of garbage everywhere. Half built, abandoned brick structures, as if someone started building, then just ran out of money and stopped – which, in all likelihood, is exactly what happened. No stores. No plumbing that I could see. I don’t know how else to describe the details of this place, but I know how I felt as we traveled through it. Immensely depressed. It was like the gravity of sadness here was so strong that no light or joy could exist in it. I took picture after picture of it, thinking that each scene I was capturing was bad, and then the next scene would seem worse and more without happiness or hope. Piles of desolation everywhere.

Eventually, we made it back to a paved road and to this “artisanal” pisco producer. This particular place reminded me of those bars that you see in old Clint Eastwood Westerns. When I think of “artisanal” I do not think of this place. I tried three or four tastes of their pisco, each leaving a burning trail of fire down my gullet. The driver/guide had some tastes, too, which frighteningly made his ability to laugh uproariously and liberally much more pronounced on the drive back to Huacachina. He regaled me of stories in rough Spanglish of fun times drinking in the past and famous drinking holidays in Peru.

Umm… good fun.

As it was, because he ran his errands at the beginning of the “tour” we had no time to visit the third winery that was supposed to be part of the tour. I was kind of pissed for just one second, then realized that I was going to be spared more brain addling chauffer-ing and more gut wrenching wine.

Back at Huacachina, the guide good-humoredly reminded me to tip him. You have to be kidding, right? Enh. I tipped him anyway. Whatever. He obviously needs that five soles more than I did. I mean, he has a wife, three children, a dog, a cat and a mistress to support.

I got back from the “wine tour” at 3:30pm, rested for a half hour, and then hauled myself into one of the two monster diesel dune buggies that was going to take me and another 15 tourists into the sand dunes for some sandboarding. I jumped into the seat right next to the driver so I could get the full frontal experience of tearing through the dunes at full speed. I strapped myself in with the four-point, over-the-shoulder seatbelt. As the driver took us around the block to the entrance to the dunes, the engine noise and noxious fumes were tremendous. And then, too late, I realized that this was probably not so good for the environment around here. With no time to consider my carbon footprint, we were off!

It was like a punk-rock-xtreme-sports-Mr.-Toad’s-Wild-Ride, like a Disneyland roller coaster gone wrong, like a serious back injury waiting to happen! I know that as a responsible citizen of planet earth and a “just recently former” Green Party member, I shouldn’t like this. But I did! The dunes were enormous and the heavy, powerful diesel engine shot us up them and plummet us down them, took us on steep banks and slip-sliding turns. It was a total blast and crazy thrilling! This was not some American roller coaster ride that was inspected and given a safety stamp of approval. This was not some experience where there were warnings posted on all sides sp no one slapped a lawsuit on them. This was petrifying and fun and real! We were all screaming in terror and exhilaration as we took the corners and peaked the top of a massive dune only to see an almost sheer drop off on the other side that we’d rocket down at full speed!

We finally stopped at the pinnacle of a large dune, unbuckled, and tumbled out of the sand monsters. Wild-eyed and wind-blown, our driver handed each of us our sandboards, which he then waxed so we could go top speed down the dunes.

The first brave soul lay down on her sandbaord at the crest of the dune and the driver gave her a hard push… Waaaahhhheeeeeee!!! She sped like a bullet, yelling like a banshee all the way, and drifted to a stop at the curved bottom. It looked like a complete and total blast!

I climbed on my board and he gave me a shove. The wind whipped by my face, the sand was like glass, and it seemed like I was going way, way too fast. I screamed from the total rush of it and all of a sudden, it was over. Again! Again! Again! I humped it up the dune to have another go, which was a challenge. It was like walking up quicksand. Each step up sent a mini avalanche of sand that took me back downward. One step up, three-quarter steps down, one step up, one step down, etc. I humped it all the way back up, though, and down I went again!

After about 15 minutes, we all bundled back up into the sand monsters and were off on another punk rock wild ride – swinging in and out of dunes, going impossible high impossibly fast, kickin up dust like a 500 pound hillbilly at a hoedown. Woooohoooooo!

We stopped again at the top of another monumental dune, this one steeper and longer than that last. On our boards, we each plummeted down the thing like bats out of hell. Wicked, just wicked.

Then, onward, back into the sand monster… the sun was making its way to the horizon line and out here, seemingly in the middle of nowhere, we hit a dune crest and stopped again. The landscape was incredible. From the town of Huacachina, you see several very high dunes that surround the town. But once you surmount these and get out here, they go on and on and on, out of site. The rolling dunes show graceful curves, shades of light and shadow, smooth, speckled, and waved texture.

I sat quietly on the warm dune in the sand like fine sugar, watching the fire of the sun be swallowed by the night and dunes far away. The moon had risen over us, white and lucid. I just drank it all in, this serene beauty… just let my spirit drift in the sands, as time, like a thief, stole gently, silently, and ceaselessly forward.

Too soon, we had to bundle back up in the sand monster and head to our final run. Fast, long, and thrilling, and then back on again and the final drive back to Huacachina.

Back in town, I heard that the cotton farmers’ strike was over and all roads to Lima were open.

Tomorrow, I catch the bus to Lima for my final four days in this three-month journey in South America.

Nazca, Peru

Overnight bus from Arequipa to Nazca. I take another night time cold med to help me sleep since I’m still very sick and sorely need rest. I awake on the bus in the early morning just before we arrive in Nazca to find that I’ve lost hearing in my left ear. And I feel like death. I taxi it to the hostel and sadly, my room isn’t yet available. I sit in the grubby common area feeling like someone has stuffed rusty steel wool into my sinuses and throat and the rest of me has been used as a punching bag . Not good. In fact, not only not good, but significantly worse than yesterday. I finally decide it’s time to put Peruvian medical practitioners to the test and ask the front desk if they can refer me to an English-speaking doctor.

The front desk calls in to someone, hangs up, and then tells me that I should show up at the following address. The doctor can see me right now. Right. Onward.

I start walking through Nazca for the first time. The morning light seems garish, brash, and insidious and it’s compounded by a town that is dry desert. Not pretty desert, but the kind of desert that seems incapable of sustaining life, that’s devoid of anything beautiful or useful. As I shuffle along the dirt street, I feel like I’m trapped in some kind of sinister Salvadore Dali landscape. I finally find the clinic and achingly pull myself up the stairs.

I’m met by 20 babies and toddlers with their parents – lots of rowdiness and lots of screaming and crying. OK, I’m in a pediatrician’s office. I check in at the front desk. We sort out the inevitable language barrier confusion with makeshift sign language and get the successful point where we all understand that I’m here to see this particular doctor who speaks some English. Unfortunately, he apparently isn’t in the office yet. I sit and wait while the wee ones clamber around me, heightening the surrealist state in which I’m already helplessly swirling.

The doctor arrives. He shakes my hand and then immediately disappears with a great grandmother and her entire family into the examination room. How they all fit in there while the doctor is carrying on an examination, I have no idea.

The next hour is more of the same… wee monkeys screaming as they get shots or crying as they fall and go boom on their bums or have a toy stolen from them. Some sit quietly. One looks at me and smiles and we play a bit of peek-a-boo. The examination room containing the entire family is busy, great grandsons sneak in and out, sons and daughters leave and come re-enter. It’s like Grand Central Station in there.

The heat begins to become oppressive and all the activity begins to grate on my already fragile state. I wait for almost an hour.

Finally, the family files out, one after the other, like too many clowns out of a tiny car. The doctor beckons me in to an office that was even tinier than I thought it would be. Wait, how did all those people fit in there?

I sit at his wee desk and he asks me questions about how I feel in very broken Spanglish. After weighing me, taking my temperature, and looking in my ears, he promptly tells me I have an ear infection and writes me scrips for five separate medications. I ask him if I can go up in the plane that will take me up above the Nazca lines so I can see them in their full glory. “No,” and a grave shake of the head was the simple response. Dammit. The only reason to come to Nazca is to see the Nazca lines and the only good way to see the Nazca lines is from an airplane, dammit. Dammit.

To fill you in, I’ll let Wikipedia do the talking:

“The Nazca Lines are a series of ancient geoglyphs located in the Nazca Desert in southern Peru. They were designated a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 1994. The high, arid plateau stretches more than 80 kilometres (50 mi) between the towns of Nazca and Palpa on the Pampas de Jumana about 400 km south of Lima. Although some local geoglyphs resemble Paracas motifs, scholars believe the Nazca Lines were created by the Nazca culture between 400 and 650 AD. The hundreds of individual figures range in complexity from simple lines to stylized hummingbirds, spiders, monkeys, fish, sharks,orcas, llamas, and lizards.”

I have to say, I was pretty excited to see these. Travel plans don’t always work out, as I’m painfully aware of at this point.

Back to my story…

So I ask about the doctor about the meds and apparently, at least two of them have nothing to do with my symptoms. Ummm, ok. Off I go to the pharmacists in the sweltering heat in the business hub of this dirty dusty diesel-fumed town to get my various pills. I feel like hell.

South America is funny in that retail businesses are set up similar to what I experienced in socialist Eastern Europe when I lived there. Meaning, you don’t just ask the person at the counter for something, and then they get it, and then you pay them. It goes something like this…

I visit one counter and ask the attendant for help. He points me to another person behind a window. I go to the window and give the woman my scrips. She looks at them and tallies up the total and I pay her. She prints a receipt and stamps it before giving it to me and also hands me back my scrips. She points me to another counter and another person. This person looks at the scrips and my stamped receipt and retrieves my scrips from the shelves. She then bags them and staples them up and hands me back my scrips, my bag of pills, and my stamped receipt. She then points me to another person at another counter. I go there and he looks at my bag (to make sure it’s stapled?), looks at my scrips from the doctor, looks at my receipt with the stamp, and indicates that I’m now free to go. Not efficient but I guess it employs a lot of people.

I finally make it back to the hostel. I feel exhausted and it’s only 11:30am. I make it to my room, which is a barren unfriendly place, like a monastic cell… or prison cell. At least I’m alone and can try and rest without people filing in and out, like in a dorm. For the rest of the day, I lay in bed, watching videos on YouTube and TED talk after TED talk. I read Dracula. I stared out the single window at the top corner of the stuffy room. I did this until dark, and when I got hungry enough, I ventured out again into Nazca.

The central square, where all the action is, was bustling with tourists, families out for a stroll, and upstart teenagers clustered in groups snickering and gigging. I found a quiet little place and actually had the first veggie stir fry with rice that I’ve had since I left home. It felt the sweet, sweet nutrition being absorbed into my body. It’s amazing how good veggies are after you’ve pretty much eaten mostly white bread and sugar for nearly three months.

I shambled back to the depressing hostel again after dinner and watched more TED talks before dropping off to sleep.

I awoke the next morning still feeling like my head was filled with rusted out steel wool and my body was run over by a truck. Like many times on this trip, there was no way I was going to let intense personal discomfort or a high likelihood of certain death stop me from moving forward with at least some revised edition of my travel plans. So I can’t go up in an airplane? Then I’m going to take the bus to the mirador (tower) out in the middle of nowhere and climb that thing and see whatever it is I can see of the Nazca lines. Here’s what I got to see:

Yup, that’s it. It took me a five sole cab ride, a 15-minute wait at the bus terminal, a 30-minute ride to the mirador, and a three-minute climb up the mirador. I looked at it and took a few pictures. Five minutes later, I descended the mirador and sat for another 25 minutes waiting for the bus back to Nazca where I got my pack out of storage and immediately boarded another bus headed for Ica and then a taxi to my final next destination, Huacachina.

So far, none of the meds I got were making me feel any better.

A few hours later, I rolled into Ica and promptly caught a taxi to Huacachina, a tiny oasis town outside of the bustling metro area of Ica.

Arequipa, Peru

Well, what can I say about Arequipa except I wish I knew her better.

Sadly, I was sick as a dog when I arrived on the overnight bus, which I had slept soundly on due to healthy doses over night time cold medicine. However, it left me feeling completely groggy and wasted as my cab pulled into my hostel at 7:00am. Fortunately, they gave me a room straight off. I asked for an extra blanket and promptly went back to sleep, putting my total sleep hours for that night up to 14.

Fortunately, my entire dorm was pretty much deserted save for one Aussie guy who spent most of his time away from the hostel.

So for the next two days, instead of trekking Mt. Misti, the beautiful active volcano outside of town, or visiting Colca Canyon to see the condors in flight, I laid in bed reading Stoker’s “Dracula” for the umpteenth time and watching videos on YouTube. Several times, I had to get out to get something to eat and got to enjoy one small piece of Arequipa, the city’s central square which is an UNESCO world heritage site made up of beautiful, grand colonial architecture made from white stone native to the region. Because of this, Arequipa is known as “The White City.”

I ate a lovely little cafes and had soft serve ice cream to soothe my burning throat. I sat in the square and watched the young couples on dates get their pictures taken in front of the impressive central fountain. I watched toddlers toss seeds to the hundreds of hungry pigeons, then giggle and look to their parents for assurance. I saw old people, sitting on park benches, hand in hand, and tourists, sitting lazily in the expensive cafes and restaurants lining the square. Because I didn’t have much energy for anything, I simply watched the world go by.

When I come back to Peru, I’d love to come back to Arequipa to really experience all she has to offer.

With this, I'll leave you with some lovely images of Arequipa.

The Cathedral in the main square by twilight...

A view of the main square by day...

El Misti...

Where Things Are Now… Hard

Since things went South on my last two days in Buenos Aires, I’ve had some ups -- some really major ups -- but I’ve had so many downs that it will take me a while to recover from them once I return home. We had the theft in which some crafty Brazilian hacked into my checking and savings accounts and cleaned them out. Then the news from home that almost prompted me to take the next plane back to the Bay Area. Then the broken?/sprained? toe along with the sketchy outfit with whom I booked my trip to Machu Picchu. Then getting sick, a pretty awful birthday far away from home and loved ones, and now I’ve been diagnosed with an inner ear infection. Being quite sick and now the painful inner ear infection (I can’t hear at all out of my left ear) has prevented me from exploring Arequipa, where the sacred condor flies, and boarding a plane to fly over the famous and mysterious Nazca lines. I’ve been holed up in hostels for the last three days, laying in bed reading and watching videos on YouTube.

I’m in the home stretch of this journey, with only seven full days of travel and exploration before I board a plane bound for San Francisco. And I’m looking over my shoulder every minute trying to stay prepped and alert for the next potential disaster.

Believe me, I realize that, at home, each of these things might seem small, but being in a foreign country, alone and with little knowledge of the language, these things get amplified to a fever pitch, and when compounded one upon another, can get pretty overwhelming.

I have to admit that I’m sad that this trip seems to have taken a bad turn. There have been so many beautiful moments. But hopefully, things will turn around so I can finish this trip on a up note.

I think back to something I wrote in this blog in my first month, and that is that travel can be a pretty intense spiritual practice. Chop wood, carry water, but do it it a foreign country where you just don’t know much about anything at all. I feel that more so than ever right now as my body, mind, and spirit are being tested in ways that have blindsided me and left me feeling exhausted and wracked. The lesson… spiritual practice is hard and messy and ugly and heartbreaking, as well as beautiful, peaceful, expanding, and connecting.