The time I defied death at a BLISTERING 10 miles an hour.

My track record on bicycles is not stellar. Ever since my first attempt at flying, immediately following a certain front-brake locking incident, resulting in a slightly shortened right clavicle, I've had a bit of a phobia of the things. Which is why, as I sped downhill along the Yungas road to Coroico and the rest of the peloton of Aussies, Kiwis, English, Germans, and other tourists zipped by me, I was perfectly content to keep my hands on the brakes.

I'm hardly above making testosterone-fueled asinine decisions. That wisdom is still a few years off. But I know when I'm a fish out of water. And I think that's a good thing, particularly when a lack of guardrails on a single lane dirt road with 300 m vertical dropoffs are involved.

The Yungas road is considered to be the most dangerous road in the world. Constructed with a lot of TNT and some Paraguayan POW's in the 1930's, it's finally seen enough cars slip off its formidable edge to have convinced the Bolivian government to build an alternate, safer route. However, mountain biking the Yungas road to Coroico has become one of the most popular tourist attractions around the La Paz area. It's significantly safer on a bicycle than it used to be when it was the major route for all vehicles...but the abundant crosses and memorials that dot the edge of the cliff, the recent ones mostly results of mis-steps from cyclists, would humble the most valiant of riders.

I crawled along, hugging the opposite side from the abyss. Peeking over the edge, one can only ponder life and death...and remember Spanish pearls of wisdom:

El cemetario está lleno de valientes, y los pacificos echan cuentos.

The cemetary is full of heroes, and pacifists live on to tell the stories.

As the years go on, as the Democratic Republic of My Forehead persists in annexing the Wilderness of My Hair, I imagine my stories will slide in the direction of less credible, and this fish should get bigger along with the rest of them. Did I say 10 mph? I think it was more like 20...

Would you like potatoes or rice with your island?

The Uros people inhabit 40-some odd islands on Lake Titicaca, the world's highest navigable lake. They also eat their islands.

Primarily for defensive purposes, the Uros people constructed islands out of totora reeds to avoid the invading Incas. At 2 meters thick, they are the world's largest water beds. The layers must be constantly replaced, and rot continuously off the bottom. Walking around on them, one's feet sink 6 inches at a time into the spongy surface. The islands are anchored to the bottom with ropes, but can easily be unattached and moved around. In addition to the "earth" below their feet, the totora reed is used to build their houses, boats, and watchtowers.

The totora reed happens to be an abundant supply of iodine and other nutrients, and so it can also be eaten. The Uros wrap the reed around wounds to absorb pain, duplicating some of the medical functions that the coca leaf resolves on the mainland.

Like any group of people, the Uros have feuding tendencies now and again, and so divisions between islands are somewhat visible to the casual observer. On the largest island, (and only the largest island), the roofs are all metal, a gift for converting from the 7th Day Adventist Church... ahem.

While explaining all of this, our guide produced a saw from one of the nearby houses. He explained to us that when the Hatfield/McCoy stuff really begins to hit the fan, people pick up their houses and float them to another island...or resort to more drastic measures. As he began to cut a small section of the island, he told us it was wise to get along with the community, as you could possibly wake up in the middle of the night with the wind whipping you around on YOUR OWN floating island in the middle of Lake Titicaca, the serrated edges leaving you only to ponder whose hammer you forgot to return punctually.

Colca Canyon

The Colca Canyon, just 4 hours outside of Arequipa, Peru. Surely you've heard of it. It does happen to be THE DEEPEST CANYON IN THE WORLD. As in more than twice as deep as the Grand Canyon. Yeah, I had never heard of it either.

In fact, I've begun to arrive at some other grim realizations about my ignorance. I'm not appreciating this trip nearly as much as I should. It's a bit like walking through the Vatican or Louvre. Yup, there's a masterpiece, there's a masterpiece, some guy spent his whole life to sculpt that, that's the largest canyon in the world, can I please get a beer over here? It's just impossible to keep up the stamina of awe and give everything the attention it deserves.

Oh yeah, and then I remember what working is like...and suddenly I appreciate the world's largest canyon again.

That's odd. Because when I'm working, I'll be thinking about walking to the bottom of this canyon to keep myself sane. And as I walk to the bottom of the world's largest canyon, I have to think about working to keep myself sane.

And suddenly I feel either incredibly wise, or incredibly stupid.

One other thing, photos. There are so many photos I wish I could take here. So many good portraits of Peruvian desert weathered faces, rosy cheeked children, Incan descendent features...but I can't bring myself to whip out my camera half the times I'd like to, to bother them or to expose myself as the tourist everyone already knows I am. So instead, I stop, breathe, watch, slip mental images into my sieve of a memory, and hope some of them don't slip out the other side.

I'll never get to be here again.

"Anlli llanchu, cochi wato" and other useless Quechua phrases learned on the Inca Trail

Anlli llanchu, cochi wato. That's how you say, "What's up, player/ladies' man/mujeriego" in Quechuan, the endemic language of Peru and principal tongue of the Incas. Why do I know this? Well, in my quest to become a polyglot, I figured French, Italian, Portuguese and Romanian were far too logical follow-up idioms to Spanish...and decided to pester the Inca Trail guide and porters for useless Quechuan phrases. Our cook happened to be bragging about the 3 ex girlfriends he had recently separated with (a result of the young ladies having met one another), and our female guide was teasing him for being a cochi wato. So good, I have a basic greeting and an insult/compliment down. That should only leave about a billion Quechuan words to go.

Met up with old HS friend Tess, suffering a bad case of Boston-induced cabin fever to hike the 4-day/3-night Inca Trail to Machu Picchu. Spent a couple of days in Cuzco chewing on llama meat, getting used to the elevation and temperature change, and deliberating ordering the local delicacy, guinea pig. Never managed to get around to it, mostly because I have a moral and budgetary objection to spending $30 to eat a giant rat. That's right. I've started having morals. Call Guinness.

Wandered around the streets of Cuzco, staring at the 15th century stonework that still baffles anyone who has bothered to ponder what the Incas were all about. I'll tell you what they were all about: rocks. I'm not sure if it was Manco Inca or Ayatullah Inca or Pachacutec or any of the other billion names I came across, but someone at some point had to have said "Friends, Incans, Countrymen, WE are going to be all about ROCKS." I imagine one guy in the background holding a hammer, nails and wood, waving his arms frantically in the air saying "I've got an idea!" I bet he was sacrificed. Probably with a rock.

After spinning around a half dozen museums of mummified bodies, intentional skull deformations and surgeries, arrowheads and the lot, I hope I've retained any information about these people. Upon finishing 4 days of slogging through the Andean wilderness with jowls packed with coca leaves, Machu Picchu was, as expected, phenomenal...and I only had to spend like 15 minutes chasing a llama around to get the picture you see above. The one I took of the llama, not the one the llama took of me.

I have some doubts about the "history" presented to us on the tour. Seems like a lot of theories which are rigidly presented as fact about customs, none of which seem firmly set in *cough* stone. At any rate, witnessing the spectacle of Machu Picchu does provoke a lot of ideas that contrast nicely with post Peace Corps service, namely why the hell I had to pull teeth with rural people in 2007 to build simple water systems, and yet these people were able to build enormous cities 500 years ago, complete with water systems, and still no one is really sure how they even broke the rocks.

I was also significantly impressed with the mail system that brought fresh fish from the sea daily to the king, and could supposedly get a message from Cuzco to Quito, Ecuador in 5 days using runners in 2 km intervals. The same trip took me 36 consecutive hours on a bus and a 1 hour flight.

The Spaniards were never able to discover Machu Picchu, leaving many questions as to its relevance and final days. The bridge you see along the edge of the cliff is postulated to be the escape route from the holy city of Machu Picchu. It disappears into the wilderness on the edge of a cliff giving some mystery to where the final Incas to leave Machu Picchu may have gone.

The Andean wilderness is still being uncovered, revealing Incan ruins. If anyone wants to finance a quest over the next few mountain ranges to find the next set of ruins, I happen to be looking for a job.

Border Towns

I peel back my sweat-sealed eyelids as the bus screeches to a halt. The sun hasn't quite revealed itself, and since my bus seat doesn't recline, I haven't slept much for the past 12 hour ride. As I step off the bus, the vultures pounce. "My fren! My fren! Dis way...." My fists clentch, eyebrows furrow, and as I sling my bag over my shoulder, I venemously trill R's off my tongue as I ask a local where to get my weathered passport stamped. I trust no one here. Border towns are not places for making friends.

Lane and I hop on the back of two motorcycle "taxis", and we zip through the streets of Tumbes, Peru. Clutching onto the sides of the drivers and hoping our weighted bags don't tip our bikes, I chug on a bottle of OJ and watch the madness.

We split a market street at 40, oranges rolling off of fruit stands and bounding before our tires. Sleazy men offer to change counterfeit money, a drunk man sits on the corner and leans into his elbow. Children beg money for glue to sniff or for their parents' drug addictions and taxi drivers overcharge gringos like me. No one is friendly here, and I touch my wallet every 4 seconds. I am no longer pseudo-Panamanian. I am a tourist, and the vultures know it.

We step into the bus station, and buy our tickets for the next leg, a 24 hour ride bound for Lima. Bring on the Land of the Incas.

San Agustín

Only 1 bus breakdown and 8 hours on a bumpy road later, and we arrived in San Agustín from Popayán. Civilization pre-dating and conquered by the northernmost reaches of the Incan Empire. Our tour guide (who went by the name Jerry Lewis and spoke at least 7 languages including Mandarin and Japanese) told us that the populations of San Agustín spent 3/4 of their lives preparing for death, most visibly in the form of carved out rocks that resemble demons that pay homage to the recently deceased. These figures stand between 2m and 7m tall, have long fang teeth and often are posed with weapons in their hands.
Among their rituals were sacrifice of children and also heroes or sporting champions. That's right, the WINNER would be sacrificed as an gift to the gods, and supposedly this was considered an honor. I could see myself throwing a lot of wrestling matches. Sorry coach, gonna sit this one out. I mean, really. "Congratulations! You win! Now if you'll please make your way over to the large bloody rock at the altar, Johnny will show you what you've won!"

to be continued...

Galapagos, because sometimes I think I could use a little evolving.

As our plane taxied out to the runway of the airport in Quito, Ecuador for the Galapagos Islands, I glanced at the front page of my complimentary Ecuadorian newspaper to see a notice about a recent Iberia Airline flight that had overshot it's landing. The plane had rolled off the end of the runway, dropped a wing and an engine, fortunately killed no one, and presently had a cleanup crew painting over the Iberia logo off the side. Then, as I realized that the remains of the airplane sat at the end of OUR runway now, and as we sped up to take off and everyone hoped we would clear the wreckage, I thought to myself "I love you, Latin America."








Our landing in Galapagos was considerably better, and Lane and I set about doing what everyone does when they go to Galapagos: Eating endangered species! Oh shush. That's why they're endangered, they're delicious!



Okay, seriously now. I have to say, from above the water surface, the Galapagos aren't easy on the eyes, and they certainly aren't cheap. Picture volcanic rock slabs covered in weeds. Sure, there are giant land tortoises, but the real thing is under the water. Sea turtles, sea lions, land and marine iguanas, flamingos, and...PENGUINS! ON THE EQUATOR!!! I swam with penguins on the equator. Check that off the "things I have to do before I die" list.


We spent the better part of 5 days with snorkels stuffed in our mouths, watching the underwater symphony of one of the world's weirdest places. I chased sea turtles around, and despite the help of flippers, they escaped with a remarkable lack of effort. After almost a week underwater, I felt an ear infection coming on, probably some sort of bacteria used to competitively remove weak-eared gringos from the gene pool.




Not having scuba-diving certification, I felt a bit like I was skiing at Vail and couldn't get off the green circle trails...but fortunately snorkeling provided plenty to look at, and when we went to Isla Bartolomé our guide taught us how to say "There's a F$%&ING SHARK BEHIND YOU" in underwater sign language...which was comforting. Fortunately we only saw white tipped sharks, which are vegetarians, although I got to thinking that's probably something they just tell gullible gringos.

The trip took a turn for the worst when Lane began to sprout a tail, but he hides it well. At any rate, we survived Galapagos, saw lots of boobies (sorry, I had to), and my geneology lives on, for now. Our civilization is doomed.

Medellín and the Hostal of the Lotus Eaters

After the 6 day trek to Ciudad Perdida and return to Santa Marta, Lane and I moved on to Medellín. Medellín is the industrial and fashion center of Colombia. After years of financial ingress thanks to Pablo Escobar, the Medellín Cartel, and a certain renowned party-in-a-powder, there´s a Metro and bustling metropolis within the Antioqueño province. Actually, that´s not particularly fair. In amicable random conversations with people, they often sarcastically offer us a warm welcome to "the most dangerous country in the world." As times are stabilizing politically, most people are thrilled to see pioneer tourists wandering back into their country and have come up to us on several occasions to tell us so. "Will you please tell the world when you leave here that we don´t have marijuana plants growing on our roofs, that we´re not terrorists, that our country is beautiful?" So there you go, world. There are no words to describe how beautiful Colombia is, its people are the most helpful and friendly I´ve met, and it has set the bar immensely high for the rest of South America.

A little high priced and pretentious for our tastes, Lane and I were able to forgive Medellín based on the fact that neither of us had been anywhere with so many beautiful women in one place our lives. We stayed in a hostal loaded with rastafarians from all over the US and Europe with a large affinity for some of the plagues that Colombians have been trying to get rid of. This proved to be annoying after a short amount of time, watching people stare at walls and talk about balancing the universe on their fingertips for 12 hours a day, everyday, and never seeing any more of Medellín. Impressively (or perhaps pitifully), there´ve been a few people hanging out at said hostal for months on end, which makes me wonder how the hell they manage it. After about 3 days I experienced the same Island of the Lotus Eaters itch I felt in Amsterdam 2.5 years ago, and we headed on south, while we could still get out.

Cartagena, Santa Marta, Hike to Ciudad Perdida

COLOMBIA, land of unmistakable dangers and forbidden fruits.

Rolled around Cartagena, one of the most beautiful cities in South America for a few days, exploring the fortifications and stone walls sieged by Sir Francis Drake and other pirates looking to exploit the Spanish gold exchange. Major port town used for slave trading and stronghold for the Spanish Empire in the New World. Underwater walls are built to create a bottleneck that would strip the hull of ships to prevent any pirates without knowledge of the routes into the harbor from entering. Large canon still line the walls of the old town, an indication of the important treasures once hidden within.

Cafes pour into the streets, and cobblestone curving roads cut through pastel colored colonial architecture. There are, of course, the requisite gargantuan cathedrals and statues of Simon Bolivar to be found everywhere. City has a definite Rome-meets-Caribbean feel, and it´s easy to see where it gets its notoriety.

After a couple days in Cartagena, we moved up the coast to Santa Marta, a much older town, albeit not as easy on the eyes. Littered beaches and smelling streets gives the impression of what Colombia looks like when it lets its tourist guard down. The bus to Santa Marta had holes in the floor revealing the twisting drive shaft, and leaked copious water from the roof onto the passengers. Commandeering the bus, the Colombian passengers demanded to be returned to the station and put on a respectable bus. One lady, apologetic at the state of the bus, began exclaiming "We have GRINGOS on this bus! This is shameful, we´re a tourist region! I´m so sorry, Gringos...I mean can you BELIEVE THIS?..." Ironically, Lane and I were perhaps the only two unfazed. "The bus isn´t on fire yet, Señora, let´s just keep going!"

In Santa Marta, we arranged a 6 day hike to the Ciudad Perdida (Lost City) in Parque Tayrona. A semi-rough 3 day trek out and a 2,000 stone step climb up the side of the jungle to ruins of local indigenous not discovered until 1975 and still mostly covered by jungle overgrowth, giving a mysterious feel to the civilization. Local indigenous groups are not allowing the further excavation of the area as it is still apparently a graveyard for ancestors and contains gold artifacts.

Our guide, in addition to pointing out the coca plantations from atop of the mountain ranges we were crossing, let us know that along with our $220 fee for the trip was included a discreet $35 payment to La Guerrilla and other insurgent groups that occupy the area and love the teachings of Mao as a payment for NOT CAPTURING US. I´m still trying to figure out how I feel about this tax. How nice of the Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarias de Colombia to honor such a contract!....you know, between their cocaine production and whatnot. Why, you may ask, did our guide know about this payment? Because he used to work for them!

Had a scare late in the trip when our cook/porter was swept by a current over a waterfall and holding on by a fingernail to a rock at the edge of another waterfall. He nearly refused to let go of the food bag, something that may have killed him. Group had to perform a rescue and first aid to treat shock and some bruises. Somehow, 2 hours later he was perfectly restored, and treating the accident like another day at work. He would later be bit by a scorpion. We tipped him well.

Sailing from Panama to Cartagena

Departed Panama, Thursday Oct 18th via Portobelo by 40 ft sail ship bound for Cartagena, Colombia. Stopped for 2 days and 3 nights in "the swimming pool", a pristine 15 ft deep reef between a bunch of the San Blas Islands in the North East coast of Panama. This region of 360+ atolls scattered along the Panamanian coastline, referred to as Kuna Yala, politically semi-autonomous and populated by the Kuna indians, and the unequivocable most beautiful part of Panama. Having visited all other provinces of Panama, I´m inclined to think I saved the best for last. Unfortunately, we didn´t get to interact much with the Kunas. They pulled up beside our boat in their dugout canoes trying to sell us artisanry (mostly molas), and charge us for anchoring. The second shortest people in the world (next to the Pygmies) with the highest percentage of albinism, they´re perhaps the most interesting group of people in Panama, and famous throughout Panama for being shrewd businesspeople. The remainder of the stowaways were backpackers from the US, UK, and Sweden, and Lane and I had to bite our tongues to stop talking endlessly and esoterically about Panama.

During the two days of swimming and snorkeling, the Captain speared several species of fish including a barracuda and a grouper, the consumption of which brought to us a sense of novelty and delicacy, and to the Captain not much more excitement than sustainance. While snorkeling, Lane and I swam through a dark 70 foot underwater cave with enough clearance for one person at a time and the shadows of large fish zipping back and forth in front of our faces.

The next morning, we switched ships to New Morning, a ship captained by a 76 year old bearded, Jewish man from Manhattan named Shell with his 18 year old cat, Dylan. Shell was glad to have us aboard, as raising sails and night-long vigils behind the helm tend to wear on septuagenarians, although Shell managed well. Not to be outdone in saltiness by the previous captain, Shell colorfully barked at us, and Lane and I responded with copious "Arrr"´s as we battened down the hatches, hoisted the halyards, climbed the main mast, and made endless jokes about plundering booty. Shell had been in the Korean War and at the original Woodstock, and told interesting stories as he ridiculed Lane and I for, despite both having engineering degrees, knowing nothing about engines. Silly Shell. We don´t have to know about engines, we just have to drive the trains. Using Shell´s underwater breathing aparatus, we took turns scuba diving under his boat to scrape the barnacles off the hull, each pinching off the hose while the other was underwater, resulting in brief gasping for air, frantic exhalation of bubbles, and the threatening pumping of fists.

We pulled 2 hour shifts through the nights and days, taking pictures of dolphins off the bow and developing a raunchy funk after 6 days at sea with no apparent respect for the use of soap or deodorant. Miraculously, neither Shell nor his cat died on the trip, which seemed veritably possible. I doubt Colombian Immigration would have responded well to the New Morning splitting through the center of their dock at 6 knots. After 6 days at sea, we arrived safely in Cartagena and zig-zagged through the colonial streets, trying to find our hostel, a bar of soap, and our land legs.