Part 3, Inca Inspiration: Cuzco, Machu Picchu and Border Crossing into Bolivia

The flight into Cuzco was very pleasant; LAN Airlines has yet to fail me! Lima has one of the best airports I've visited; we flew out on time, got our little LAN Christmas snack box, which was great, and landed safely between the mountains in Cuzco. Daniela was only slightly worse for wear (she hates flying). In terms of first impressions, Cuzco and surrounding areas (Machu Picchu) are beautiful, but it is awash with predatory tourist agencies and agents. The harassment began when we got off the plane in Cuzco, and practically didn't end until we boarded a bus out of Peru. People who live off of tourism must hate us; we rarely buy anything. From Cuzco to Machu Picchu, we've been offered every type of clothing article made out of llama/alpaca you can imagine and numerous services from Inca Trail hikes, to bike tours to massages. We literally bought nothing, payed only for the train to Machu Picchu, hostels and tickets to get in to the Ruins and self-guided through the entire experience. When you're on a budget, you're on a budget!

Cuzco (also spelled, "Cusco") was the capital of the Incan Empire, before the Spanish came an screwed everything up. It really is a breathtaking and amazing place, with a very unique mix of Spanish colonial constructions that conserve, at their base, the remains of the masterful handiwork of the Incas. This combination of constructions is one that I have yet to observe in any other part of Latin America. In most sites and cities, the Spanish destroyed all of the Inca structures and used the materials to build their cathedrals, plazas and government buildings (as is the case in Quito, Ecuador, for example). Our experiences walking down the incredibly narrow cobblestone streets of Cuzco, constantly reminded me of a line from Motorcycle Diaries, "On this side is a wall of the Incas, and, on the other, you can observe a wall of the Incapaces (incapable)." I think we visited the city right at the perfect time, because the city, as is the case with the rest of the world, seems to be growing at a unsustainable pace and is quickly filling up with a population it can't support. It was unbelievable to witness cars buzzing up and down the the steep narrow streets that were built for horse and foot traffic (especially around the corners). 

Our breath was taken away multiple times, as we crawled our sorry selves up and down hills such as this. On the first day, we stayed in a hostel that was mostly on a plane, near the city center. The day after, we had the "bright" idea to stay at a place that was way up at the top, in the neighborhood known as "San Blas." Many people look ast Cuzco as a base camp to head off on a Machu Picchu adventure, and that it is, but the city itself has so much charm, that it's worth sticking around a few days, just to be continually amazed. The main plaza, also known as the Plaza de Armas, is not a let down. From the fountain of the Plaza de Armas, with an impressive statue dedicated to one of the original Inca kings, we observed, not one, but two, staggering cathedrals. Another tourist trap is the boleto turistico (a tourist ticket) that you must buy if you want to see inside these cathedrals, along with other Inca ruin site (much smaller and less significant than Machu Picchu) in and around Cuzco. As you might imagine, we did not buy the tourist ticket. We got the goody out of Cuzco from the outside of these amazing structures and by sneaking into at least one cathedral during mass service. 

We decided to not cheap out 100% of the way, and we did visit the highly reccomended, "Qorikancha." This site was the most important temple of the Incan empire, but, when the Spanish found it, they destroyed the majority of it and built a cathedral and convent of Saint Domingo on top, preserving the retaining Inca walls. The floors and walls of the place were once covered with gold tablets and the courtyard that surrounded the temple held solid gold statues. As you can imagine, those are long gone (melted down and sold by the Spanish conquistadores). The funny thing about this site is that the remaining Inca foundation has not been affected at all by numerous earthquakes. The only structures suffering damage were those of the Incapable. To the right, can you guess which wall is which? 

I shouldn't bag on the Spanish so much, they did build some pretty amazing and beautiful structures. I'm simply irritated and annoyed at the fact that they decided to sack and destroy such perfect structures as those the Incas had created. As you're looking at the photos, recall that all of that was done by hand, with very simple tools and none of the conveniences of modern construction technology. We're talking about simple blood sweat and tears. 

The Spanish colonial constructions are also quite aesthetically pleasing. Check out some of the following constructions Cuzco has to offer:

The Plaza de Armas

Okay, so it's an "Irish Pub" in Cuzco, but it's the only place to get a Guinness within thousands of miles.

This is one of the Hostels we stayed at, converted from a colonial mansion.

After drinking in the wonders of Inca-Colonial Cuzco, we decided it was time for our pilgrimage to the last refuge of the Incas, Machu Picchu. Apparently very little is known about Machu Picchu; I have a feeling that much of what is said, known or told is made up. What does seem clear, is that it was a very well-hidden place, which might suggest that the Incas used it as an ultimate refuge, fleeing from the Spanish invaders. What is not even a bit clear is what happened to the Incas that were living at Machu Picchu, why they left and where they went. 

Even with modern conveniences, it still takes quite an effort to make it downriver from Cuzco, through the Sacred Valley and up the mountainside to the hidden city of Machu. After paying for a rather expensive 3-hour train ride, we were off to Aguas Calientes (Machu Picchu Pueblo), which is located in the valley, next to the river, near the base of Machu Picchu. The small town as it is today, was essentially established straight out of the tourism industry. Before the discovery of Machu Picchu and the opening of the ruins as a national park, it was a farm settlement, later a railway workers camp (making the rail access to the ruins) and it is now a tourist trap. Never in my life have I been harassed by salesmen and women as I have in this place. As soon as you get off the train, there are ladies offering you sunblock and insect repellent, you are forced to walk through a souvenir market (it's the only way out) and the town itself is full of tour agencies, hotels and waiters and waitresses trying to get you to eat at their restaurant (the menus are almost identical in every restaurant, as well as the prices). We stomached through our stay in Aguas Calientes, as well as the ridiculously overpriced meal we had that night; the prize, Machu Picchu, awaited us the next day. We stayed at a decent, if basic, hostel and thought that our only roommate would be a very nice girl from the Netherlands that checked in later on. The girl from Holland had the same idea as us, to get up at 4am to beat the crowds up to the ruins and see the sunset; we all went to bed at an early hour. Unfortunately, our luck ran out when some late arrivals, a really loud idiot from England and a girl that was travelling with him. I call the English guy and idiot because, as the rest of us were sleeping, he made no efforts to be quiet, spoke in a loud and incredibly irritating Brit accent (especially annoying for 11pm) and woke everyone up. 

When my alarm went of at 4, I let it play on out at high volume. I was sure to make as much noise as possible. I know payback isn't the answer, but it made me feel better. We ate a small complimentary breakfast and walked down to the bus departure site with our new found friend from the Netherlands. Daniela and I got a kick out of how this girl got all made up before heading out of the hostel in the morning; I guess you gotta look good for your Machu Picchu photo! We parted ways once we got to the top; she had a tour and we decided to self-guide. The decision to self-guide was one of the best we've made during this trip. We later heard horror stories of really awful guides who drag the tour out for hours and have no clue what they're talking about. Our experience at Machu Picchu is hard to describe, it was, quite literally, fascinating. If you don't believe me, just take a look at this amazing view from the top:

Look how happy we were, that's even after getting up at 4am and the "English moron incident!"

We wondered in and out of this incredibly intact and most complete Inca city during 6 hours and were not let down. Even after our terrible decision to carry up and walk around with our heavy backpacks (full of more clothing than was really necessary), we found it hard to complain much. My words could describe this amazing citadel, but I think I will let Dani's photos speak for me. 

Have you noticed the triangular shape of the doors and windows, perfect earthquake resistance! 

These ingenious terraces were built by the Incas for agriculture (they maintained gardens there). 

Being in Machu Picchu, calmed us down. First off, we had to physically calm down after climbing up and down the tremendous Inca steps, second, we stopped and sat on the agricultural terraces to observe, contemplate and eat our contraband (food that we sneaked in; you're not supposed to have food in the site, since they think people will toss the trash wherever). Once again in my life, I felt really small sitting there looking at this amazing and unbelievable Inca creation. 

Dani and I made the unwise decision to trek back down to Aguas Calientes, all the way from way up at the ruins. The downhill trek was hard on the knees and calves, but we made a k-9 friend on the way down. Perroso, as we donned him, quickly became a loyal and faithful amigo, after we fed him some of our leftovers. We eventually made it to the town, much worse for the wear, after it started raining 3/4 of the way down. We rested our weary boned at the train station, waiting to catch our ride back into Cuzco. The train is almost unbearably slow, it goes about 20mph, but we were entertained by a fashion show and a dancing spider clown, brought to you by Perurail! I actually hope that the rail company works on its services, now that it has some competition (Inca Rail), because, though the train was very nice and comfy, the service was hardly worth the price of the ticket. The "meal" they served us was laughable and I would take my LAN Airlines on-board service over it any day. 

Our last couple of days in Cuzco and the Sacred Valley were a real treat on a personal level. Daniela and I got to meet up with my Yachana volunteer family, Stephanie, Ryan and Amanda, the people I shared a year of my life with, volunteer teaching in the Ecuadorian Amazon. Ryan and Amanda are working together in Calca, in the Sacred Valley, on a project which has as its goal to establish a world-class bee sanctuary. Stephanie is currently living in Vilcabamba, Ecuador, but had been traveling in the Cuzco area of Peru (she traveled down with Ryan). We spent less than a day together, but it was great for us to be all together again. I really do consider these people family, for some reason we have an incredible connection, despite the fact that we are all so very different. The short time that we spent together reminded me of how different each one of us is from the other (we all have our mind on different goals and plans), but it also reassured me that we will always be in touch, will meet again and can count on one another if need be. 

The same night, after meeting with the old gang, Dani and I were at the bus terminal in Cuzco, waiting for our bus departure to Copacabana, Bolivia. I can best describe our bus ride to Copacabana as half meeting expectations. It was great until 4am, from then on, it was sketchy. We were to make a transfer in Puno, Peru, at 7am. After 3 hours of waiting in one of the dirtiest, sketchiest and coldest bus stations I've had the displeasure to visit, we were informed that it had been necessary to "transfer" us to a different bus company. The bus ride from Puno, Peru to Copacabana, Boliva was with a Bolvian bus company, Tours Titicaca, with an old smelly bus that was freezing. When I thought about it later, I realized that Tour Peru likely doesn't have the proper license to operate in Boliva, thus the sketchy and unmentioned switcheroo. The border crossing went surprisingly smooth; I suppose things tend to go fairly smooth when you hand over $135 big ones for an entry visa (reciprocity fee charged to U.S. citizens since we charge Bolivians the same). Shortly thereafter, we were back on the bus and not far from our final destination, Copacabana, on the shore of Lake Titicaca. The view from out hotel made the hassle all worth it. 

Tumbes to Lima: The Wasteland of Perú (Part 2 of the trip)

I left off last at the border crossing between Ecuador and Perú, entering the town of Tumbes and making my earliest observations. Currently, we are in Copacabana, Bolivia, on the coast of Lake Titicaca. In other words, I have got a lot of catching up to do. Since Tumbes, we traveled all the way down the coast of Perú, through mostly desert (wasteland), arrived to Lima, the capital city, stayed there for a couple of days and then caught a flight over a few of the Andes, into Cuzco.

Walking into Bolvia (Peru-Boliva Border)

You know how my earliest observations of Perú were not very optimistic sounding, especially in terms of my feelings toward the people? I should rather say, I wasn't optimistic about the feelings of the Peruvians towards me; I didn't enter Peru looking to have any issues with those peeps! Well, from Tumbes, all the way to the next border with Bolivia, we received the royal "I hate you and I'm going to be the least helpful as possible treatment" from the majority of the Peruvians that we came across. We honestly couldn't figure out what the deal was. Unfortunately, I can't quite share Che Guevara's sentiment; I most certainly did not feel Peruvian in Peru and was more than happy to walk straight across the border, likely not to return, EVER.


I don't like generalizations (I try to avoid making them as much as possible), and I certainly wouldn't say that the entire people of Peru are impolite and cold, but this was simply the experience we had. There may be any number of explanations. Perhaps Peruvians are sick of tourists, or maybe they just didn't like my face. Nonetheless, during the Peru leg of our trip, we did encounter some very nice people as well. Most of them weren't actually from Peru, but there were some scattered nice Peruvians here and there. Social interactions aside, we have seen some amazing, once in a lifetime landscapes and historical sites in the Peruvian nation. I most definitely do not regret having visited.

I wouldn't include the landscapes during the trip down the coast to Lima as part of those "once in a lifetime landscapes." Most of what we saw, from Tumbes down, was dry, dead and generally awful no-man's-land. The saddest part about it is, even though I call it no-man's-land, Peru's poorest of the poor were living in parts of this territory. Lined on the dunes, in the middle of the desert, we passed by several small pueblos of shacks that had been put together by tin, cardboard, sugar cane leaves, and any other waste that could be used for the purpose. These places had no running water, no electricity, nothing; the site provoked a profound sadness in me that I still haven't been able to shake. The sum-all of the melancholy and desperate state of this place, for me, was when I was the only one in the car to notice a rotting cow carcus on the side of the desert road. Why would someone live in such a place? Simple, an over populated world that is becoming quickly exhausted of all of its resources, simply has not for the have nots. Apart from that, you can consider the political implications and consequences that have come down from years of corrupt politics and U.S., Operation Condor, backed dictatorships in Peru (Fujimori, for one) that are governing a people that they do not care for or protect. What's worse is that Fujimori's daughter, Keiko, damn near also got elected as pres in Peru. Welcome again to the Banana Republic.

January 3, 2013, Thursday: There were some sites of relief between Tumbes and Lima, I would refer to them as Oasis, perhaps mirages. During our second day of the trip, we covered a considerable amount of ground. We went from the border with Ecuador, clear down to Trujillo. Around mid-morning, we stopped in the small beach town of Máncora. For some reason, tourists, especially Argentines, love this beach. We were there for around and hour, just enough time to get nasty looks and exaggerated sighs for being indecisive about what we wanted to eat for breakfast. The beach seemed fairly nice, but it was packed with people. Since I'm not big on the beach, or the ocean for that matter, I prefer a much more tranquil spot, aware from the tourist trap madness that Máncora appeared to be. We had lunch in the city of Chiclayo. I don't have much to say about Chiclayo, but to note that it seemed like an interesting, and fairly bustling, little city with some interesting Spanish colonial constructions. We spent the night in Trujillo. I don't know much about this city, but I read that it was founded by Pizarro. We got in at night, but Trujillo had the looks of a very interesting place. The Plaza de Armas (essential every main plaza in every city of Peru is called this) looked really pretty from what we saw from the car. Unfortunately, Trujillo also managed to royally piss me off. The city has a bad reputation for noise pollution, and there's a very good reason for it. Every single driver in Trujillo, especially the taxi drivers, find themselves overwhelmed by a relentless, constant and undying urge to honk their horn as often and as pointlessly as possible. The entire night I found myself being periodically and sporadically awakened by a taxi driver that had taken the courtesy of modifying his horn to be even more obnoxious.

January 4, 2013, Friday: We shot out of Trujillo bright and early. It was a hilarious exit of the city because Fausto, the driver, decided he would also partake in the random, for no reason, honking at everybody and everything. Coming from the perspective of a passenger inside the vehicle, and not someone trying to get some sleep in the middle of the night, this was just hysterical! We had a great time honking and yelling our way out of Trujillo. There isn't much to say about the rest of that day's trip down to Lima. We sped on through the rest of the desert and the scattered cities and pueblos amongst it. Stopping at gas stations was always a heart-dropping experience, as gas prices in Peru are even higher than in the states (almost $5 a gallon). Not far from Lima, still in the middle of the desert, "Dagummit, blow out!" We lost our right rear tire, but Fausto masterfully steered us to the side of the road without problems. The scary part was the tire blew right where there was a group of indigenous ladies waiting for a bus; they scattered quite quickly.

By late Friday afternoon, we were getting dropped off on the side of the road in Lima. This in itself was a sort of terrifying experience, as I have never been to Lima, and I was to one who calculated, based on a Google map on my tablet, where we should be let off to catch a taxi that would be the nearest distance to our hostel. Fortunately, my calculations weren't off and we didn't land in a mugging zone or get charged a hellacious cab fare. It was pretty tough saying goodbye to the guys, they were great fun and we had become good friends during our long trip. We stayed in a section of Lima called Miraflores, which could only be described as "the neighborhood of Peru's have-muchos." To be quite honest, I haven't seen a neighborhood that upscale in Latin America, since Argentina's Recoleta district. The good thing about it was it was a very safe and convenient part of Lima to be in. We quickly located a decent hostel, got some advice on where to eat and helped ourselves to some of the most delicious sandwiches I have had in a long while (Mine was shredded chicken with pineapple and a delicious combo of ketchup, mustard and mayonnaise).

January 5th, 2013, Saturday:
We explored Miraflores and the Historic Center of Lima. The highlight of Miraflores? We went to the market to check it out and I decided to treat myself to a jugo (pure juice), after which enjoying, I was promptly charged the gringo price of 7 soles, around $3 usd, chalk another one up to Peruvian hospitality. Around midday, we caught a Metrobus to the historic center (apparently Lima's recently inaugurated electric bus transit system), which worked really well. The historic center's plaza is called, you guessed it, La Plaza de Armas. It has some very impressive Spanish cathedrals, but they were closed for some reason. Nonetheless, it was breathtaking to be in that Plaza, it's one of the biggest I've seen and the buildings are beautiful. Very near the plaza is a preserved Incan wall, that the Spanish managed to not destroy and a small museum with an excavation site of some interesting Incan ruins. We then took a short walk to the cathedral and convent of San Francisco de Asisi; this guy got around (I think he has a convent and cathedral in every major city in South America). I am generally under the impression that once you've seen the inside of one huge Spanish colonial cathedral, you've seen them all, but it wasn't the case with this one. Part of the tour was a trip down to the catacombs of the cathedral. The foundation that restored the cathedral and convent to open it up to the public as a museum of sorts, got the bright idea to unearth the remains of all of the clergy buried in the catacombs and set the bones out for display. We're talking about literally thousands of bodies worth of femurs, skulls, etc. It was after introducing us to the remains that the tour guide decided to tell us that the four, not so big, pillars that are in the catacombs are what is holding up the entire structure. Thank you, now get me the hell out of this place. We wrapped up our visit to Lima, going back to Miraflores to spend the evening on the "beach." Lima actually is a coastal city, but I felt bad for the Limeños upon seeing their beach. It was probably the rockiest seaside I've seen, it has these huge river-rock like stones in the place of sand. Nevertheless, people were surfing, hanging out and seemed to be having a lot of fun. The next day, we caught a 9am flight out of Lima, bound for the mountains, Cuzco and Machu Picchu!

Leaving Home for Home and Off Again, To Find Another Home (Part 1)

It has been an eventful few weeks since I last wrote from the hammock in Quito, and there is quite a bit to tell! Let me begin by locating myself, Lima, Peru, check! How did I get here? I didn't take lesson from Hermione Granger, so aparating was out of the question. No, I came this far by much more conventional transportation, Toyota. Still a bit lost? Let me fill in the grey areas a bit.

I flew into Quito on the 12th of December, announcing my triumphant return to Latin America and blogging in one fell swoop of complaints and excuses. Well, as promised, I have come up with a new format and new ideas. These new adventures aren't part of a solo show any longer; I'm now accompanied by an excellent photographer, companion, and, not to mention, she's not such a bad girlfriend either (most of the time), Daniela, Danita, Dani. The new format will include photos shot by Dani with her new Pentax K-5. Gone are the days of my horrible writing being accompanied by even worse photos (or none at all). Our Days Boca Arriba will still subject you to some pretty miserable reading, but you will have very pretty pictures to look at to help you through it. 

Dani stayed behind, in the States (until the 18th of December), to get the whole graduation ceremony and all of that jazz out of the way; I guess becoming a Doctor is a pretty big deal :-) To the right is our photographer becoming Dra. Báez, ISU Commencement Winter ´12 (I´m pretty damn proud of her). Dani joined up with me in Quito on the 18th of December (I basically did absolutely nothing, but lay around her family's house, watch $1 pirated movies, eat, sleep and eat until then). Being back in Quito really felt like being home again. I came almost too familiar with Quito in 2011/12, and it's my home away from no home now, I suppose. 

Once Dani got into Quito, we did a a lot of hanging out, and, after getting a little bored, decided to take a short trip to Papallacta, a small mountain pueblo to the west of Quito. Papallacta is amazing for one reason, incredible natural hot spring pools that melt you and your stress into wonderful obliteration. After my time in the North, I needed some good ol' southern comfort; this was the place for it. The bus trip to Papallacta was surprisingly bearable, for the most part. Even in the long distance buses in Ecuador, it's common for people to ride standing up, as the seats tend to fill up quickly. This time around, and unbeknownst to us until later, a little old lady, obliged to stand because no one offered her their seat (something Ecuador really needs to work on) began to pass out from altitude sickness while. Dani and I saw what was happening, saw no one doing anything and, the next thing you know, we were the ones standing for the next 45 minutes. We offered her our seats. The funny thing was, as neither of us were very acclimated to the altitude either, we were breathing slowly and calculated so as not to be the next ones down. I had passed by Papallacta dozens of times in my bus trips to Tena and the Amazon, but it never occurred to me to stop in this little middle of the mountain nowhere place two hours outside of Quito, what was I thinking? The price of the hotel is a bit carito (expensive) for a backpacker, but it was well worth it. 

I could have stayed at the springs of Papallacta for days (if I had the cash), but we wanted to spend some holiday time in Quito. The holiday festivities in Quito are very much centered around family and the birth of Christ; we spent Christmas Eve with Dani's familia and went to Christmas Eve Mass (sacrilege for me, I know). The mass was very nice and included the traditional splashing of handmade baby Jesus dolls, brought by the attendees, with holy water. Onward, to the end of the year celebrations. 

It all starts with, what else, men dressed as women! December was all about spending some time with family, enjoying the holidays and, once again, getting to see the machos of Quito get in touch with their more "feminine side." If you have no clue what I am talking about and are completely appalled and confounded by the following photos, you'll have to back and read my post from Christmas and New Years 2011/2012. The following, for your visual enjoyment, are a "lovely" photo and short vid of this years viudas, (widows):

The gentlemen, as you can see, were in rare form this year. We counted down to the New Year, eating uvas (grapes; you eat 12 for the chimes of the clock in order to have a plentiful new year) as Daniela's sister and aunt ran around the neighborhood with suitcases (so that you will travel much in the new year). I decided not to partake in the running of the luggage, as I was already certain that there would be plenty of traveling in my furture. The night skyl of Quito illuminated the mountains with fireworks, but visibility quickly became very low, thanks to the burning of thousands of años viejos (the paper maché dolls that represent the old year). It was a good send off for 2012, which needed to get on out, seeing how the world decided not to come to an end after all (blast it!).

Through a very incredible and happy coincidence, it wasn't long after the New Year, on the 2nd of January to be exact, that we were headed off south from Quito, en route to the border with Peru. During December, I talked often with Dani's uncle, Marcelo (Chelo, for short), because we are good friends and he's a long time mechanic/car enthusiast, so we have plenty to talk about. It turned out that Chelo and three friends of his were planning a trip to Paracas, Peru (a city a few hours to the south of Lima), to see a leg of the Dakar rally (a desert race that started in Peru this year) (http://www.dakar.com/index_DAKus.html). What a coincidence, we need to go that way too! Thanks to Chelo, we got to ride all the way down to Lima in a private car (this is a huge luxury compared to the bus ride that we were dreading having to take, trust me).

Leg 1 (Wednesday, January 2):
Bright and early, after a night of packing and three precious hours of sleep, we threw our brand new hiking packs into a huge 4X4 Toyota (huge for a Toyota, that is) and we soon found ourselves flying through the nausea provoking curves of Ecuador's Andes.
Plastic was a must, it's the rainy season (seems like it's always the rainy season in the Andes):

We made incredible time down to the border. I was amazed that we actually made it to Peru by nightfall; Ecuador's highways are nice, well-paved and all since Presidente Correa took the helm, but their mostly two-lane (one for northbound and the other for southbound cars) and you really can't do much about the curves and switchbacks through mountain terrain. In advanced and developed countries like the States, we just blow a whole through the damn mountain with dynamite, but, alas, the environmentally conscious didn't find this to be a viable option in Ecuador.

We burned through the mountain highways, as well as the Toyota's brakes, from Quito, to Ambato, passing Guayaquil, nearing the South Pacific in the city o Machala and stopping for a considerable length of time in Canton Huaquillas, for border processing. The border crossing station was actually really nice and quite well-designed. The guards told us that some European country (or the European Union?) contributed a considerable inversion to build border crossing stations for Ecuador and Peru, equal on both sides. Even with all of the lovely and new facilities, the computer system faltered. I could only laugh because the is an all too common occurrence for any government run agency in many countries in Latin America, the damn system always fails! They even have many common phrases for it, for the Spanish-speaking readers, "se trabó el sistema, se cayó, se fue, etc." So, after a few hours at the border, we received brand new and original stamps for our passports (I may fill that passport before 2017 yet!)

Here are some photos of us jazzing up Peru´s border:

Chelo is to the far left, followed by Abel, Javier and myself, all super good guys and I now consider them friends. It was an awesome and hilarious trip riding with these gentlemen. Fausto, the guy who drove the most, isn't here, but he'll be in other photos.

They were holding our poor Toyota hostage until its paperwork was processed as well (note the shotgun-packing Peruvian guard to the left of it):

After getting processed into Peru, we head on down to the little border town of Tumbes. I can't really give a good opinion of Tumbes because we came in late at night and flew out early in the morning. I would say it was what you expect a border town to be, not much to speak of, basic, a place to spend the night and get out the the next day. My first impression of Peru, thanks to Tumbes, was, "It kinda smells here," there was a strange odor coming in from the ocean. It kind of smelled like a combo of salt water, wet dog and something dead. The following are some other first impression: the people were friendly and good-looking in Tumbes, there are a ton of moto-taxis (somebody got the bright idea to take moped/motorcycles and turn them into mini taxes), Peruvians love to honk their horn for no apparent reason, I don't see as much trash in city streets (as compared to Ecuadorian cities), things are a little on the expensive side ($2.54 Peruvian Soles to 1 usd, which welcomed me back to the disaster that is converting money and thinking in conversion rates constantly when buying anything) and people seem to be more difficult to approach and greet in comparison with Ecuadorians. Aside from that, running on 3 hours of sleep, I was way too tired to think straight or observe anything.  

From Quito: On the Intellectual Stagnation of Academia

I'm going to transition into my latest adventure by leaving my blog in a state of limbo, at least for the time being. I have several creative ideas, or at least I think they are creative, for how to present the travels and experiences that I hope are to come (a process that, as I envision it, will be collaborative and much less macabre than the previous years' writings). In the meantime, I like the idea of my unbaptized soul remaining in some nondescript limbo of the blogosphere. Don't worry, this doesn't mean that I am intent on remaining an absent and negligent writer (the last time I posted was on the 1st of July). To the contrary, I actually intend to justify my absence from writing with this introductory, limbo, blog.

At present, I find myself, once again, in the city that, by merely calling it a city, produces a paradox that will never be resolved, Quito, Ecuador. If you have been so valiant to have followed my writing since last year, you already know about my love-hate relationship with Quito. If you're a new reader, do the following, and not necessarily in this order: go back and read my rants and raves about Quito (if my opinion interests you, that is), do some research on the highest capital city in the world (I'm sure Wikipedia will suffice), if you're considering putting Quito on your bucket list, please don't let me discourage you (after all, it did make Nat-Geo's list of top 20 places to visit for 2013) and, lastly, consider if you really want to keep on reading me (just trying to save you, before you go over the cliff). The truth is, there must be something about Quito that keeps bringing me back; it certainly has nothing to do with the insanely unpredictable weather, horrendous overcrowding, mile-long traffic jams, choking pollution, and one of the scariest airport landings you can experience in your life. No, I think it has more to do with the food, the traditions, the people, the Historic Center, the relevance and historical significance, the beauty of the surrounding Andes mountains and a certain Dra. Báez and her amazing family. Whatever it is, here I am again, under about 5 blankets during the 45-50 degree nights, to keep warm, and swinging in a hammock on the balcony, with the 70 degree breeze blowing and the sun shining bright (most of the time) by day. 

All of a sudden, I find that I am free to think for me again, and that is something that hasn't happened much, well, since the last time I left Quito. In the past few days, I haven't done much by the standards that I was living in the U.S. over the last 7 months, but those standards, at least in my opinion, could really use some adjustment. This brings me to the main point of this entry, a bold statement that I am going to make based on my life during the last four months, "There exists, in academia, a restriction on instructors that incredibly limits their capacity for intellectual creativity, thinking and development." Of course I can't speak for all instructors, nor can I opine on the experiences of tenured professors (I can only assume that it is much worse for them). I can simply put forth my own personal experience as an adjunct instructor and logically assume that it is similar for others. 

 

I'm justifying my prolonged absence from writing by stating the obvious, there was just no way I could write. That's the Intellectual Stagnation of Academia that I am referring to. Yes, I mean me not being able to take a second to think creatively and be inspired enough to post a sad blog entry, but I am also talking about so much more. I would venture to say that a large majority of instructors and professors in institutions all over the United States (especially in state universities) are faced with this predicament that finds them sacrificing their intellectual potential. The following are some of my own personal for instances: I could work on that collection of short stories that I have been writing, or I could write up this week's lesson plans, I could read Freire's thoughts in Pedagogy of the Oppressed, or I could read the 75 essays that I assigned, I could consider working on getting published, or I could grade exams before other things pile up on top of them, etc., etc. I understand that this kind of work is simply part of the life of a teacher, but there must be something wrong when the people we look to as intellectuals can no longer be intellectual. My guess is that there are hundreds of instructors that are using survivalists/self-defense teaching methods and materials (that are most likely sub-par) as a means to not lose their minds.

What other choice would tenured profs and other instructors have (especially adjuncts that teach 5 courses or profs with classes that have 100+ students), other than to use the same tests they've had for the last five years, implement the use of sometimes arbitrary test formats like Scan-trons, recycle lesson plans, etc.? These are the effects of the commercialization and capitalization of university studies. Higher-ed in the United States has been made into a business; students aren't encouraged to follow careers that interest them, careers that will help them to expand their minds and grow as people, they're encouraged to study whatever degree will help them gain the most money in life. State universities all over the U.S. are pushing for larger and larger enrollment numbers so that they can benefit from the millions of dollars that roll in from private and federal funding; they aren't in the least bit concerned about the turnover rates (who cares is less than half graduate, the university still benefits from those millions of dollars that came in with the huge incoming freshman body). Who suffers in the end? That answer is obvious, the students and the instructors.

As for myself, I wanted to be the most effective instructor I could possibly be. This meant that I wrote a new and original lesson plan for every single class, created and prepared new materials daily, read and reread the text several times, created and uploaded new and original exams, assigned writings (definitely not the easiest of assignments to grade), etc. All of this meant that I had to sacrifice an incredible amount of "me-time." As a result, I haven't written anything new (aside from exams, assignments and grading comments) since July, the latest piece of literature I have read is Experience Spanish (the text for my Spanish 101 & 102 classes) and I truly forgot the beauty of sitting down with a cup of South American Joe and contemplating life.

Was it all worth it? Yes, I think so, yet it would have been nice had there been some sort of middle ground. I  was able to get through to some students, I had some really great experiences and I think some of these amazing students really learned and grew a lot (I can only hope that they will continue to pursue their studies and further their intellectual capacity). Really, as most teachers will say, it's the handful of unique experiences, the connections and inspiring students that make putting yourself through that kind of a wringer worth it. Effectively teaching three courses and having a second job on the side was an insane task, one that I should have known would have resulted in my extreme disillusionment and near loss of sanity. However, if you want to live the "American Way," what other choice do you have?

Thus, I have gone South once again, to live the "South American Way," at least for a while. O'er I am in search of a meaningful experience that will make me feel whole again. This time around, however, there is no solid plan, nothing established, and, at present, there are no leads. The only thing I do know is that something will turn up, and, at least, I won't be alone this time. For the time being, the Andean mountain range sure looks beautiful from the balcony and that hammock is calling my name.

What's Decent Anymore?

Read any poorly written literature lately? I certainly have, I'm checking out the supposed "latest craze" in novels, Fifty Shades of Grey, and I can safely say, up to this point, it's one of the most poorly written trash novels I have read. I guess you can't ask for much, they even advertise that it's garbage literature on the back cover of the book itself, Erotic Romance indeed. Well, this novel certainly is followed up closely, in the "poorly-written" category, by my last blog, "The Perspective Zone." Of course, my stylistic sins and Grey's are very dissimilar. As I began reading Fifty Shades, I found myself cringing at the falsity and lack of creativity in details like the protagonist's name, Anastasia Steele, and it made me feel a little better about myself. At least I had the tenacity to just unashamedly throw out the most generic name I could think of; Joe Blow, it's a universal character!

Really, if I'm going to be completely honest with myself and the reader, I have no other choice but to admit that my last blog was a story that started out interestingly, but fell flat on its face. The fact is that I simply got tired of writing the story and dropped it where it fell. It's like Gabriel Márquez said, a story either works or it doesn't. When a story doesn't work, the writer should recognize that it doesn't and either scrap it or revise it, not share it (oops). Well, my only excuse is that I really wanted to make a point with that story; let's see if I can achieve that here instead.


I haven't always been able to keep as politically unbiased as I should in these blogs, and I recognize that I might touch on some topics that are politically important. I can't ignore the fact that it's an election year, and I probably won't be able to avoid addressing some subjects that make up a big part of the kinds of problems that we are currently facing in this country. Furthermore, I think that the kinds of things that I am going to talk about are issues that neither party, Republican or Democrat, are really addressing. On the other hand, even though it was most likely a move for votes, I was impressed to see President Obama pass major immigration policy reform. We still need to do much more. Really, I don't think that any of us can turn on the news and listen to these politicians and say honestly to ourselves, "These people are being real, speaking from the heart, only stating the facts and addressing only the serious talking points." As a matter of fact, I'm guessing that most of you, like me, listen to these folks and say, "These are seriously crazy people." Well, maybe I can talk through some of the craziness and get a little real, we shall see. 

The argument I was trying to make with my awful story was that most of us in this country are due for some much needed perspective in our lives. Have you ever heard of the Racial Threat Hypothesis? In case you didn't know such a thing existed or you need a refresher, essentially, this hypothesis, which I recall having learned back in freshman Poli. Sci., states that the degree of racism that people express goes up in areas where there are larger numbers of minority populations. So when you are part of a majority race, but there are large number of individuals from a minority race living in your area, you might have feel, irrationally, threatened by the minority. Based on my experiences, I would like to point out that this is a ridiculous reaction. The truth is, it's the minority that, justifiably, feels threatened.

Before I went to Ecuador, I had already had experience abroad, living in Argentina and traveling to surrounding countries, but that experience, nonetheless, did not prepare me for Ecuador. The time I spent in Ecuador was quite eye-opening in terms of my own racial threat hypothesis. You see, in Argentina, the majority of the population is made up of European immigrants and their descendants (just like in the U.S.), which means that most Argentine people are white. In other words, if I didn't open my mouth in Argentina, I was most often taken for one of them. The demographic picture in Ecuador, on the other hand, is much different. The Ecuadorian population is dominated by mestizo (a combination of Spanish/European blood with native roots) and indigenous peoples, which means that I STOOD OUT.


While it would be ideal for diversity and cultural differences to be truly celebrated, these values are often just required, but not truly felt. The truth is, it was very strange, challenging and often exhausting being so entirely different from everyone around me. It was eye opening for me to step on a bus and have everyone immediately shift their attention to me, sometimes it was a very insecure feeling to know that everyone can look at you and make a series of generalized assumptions based on your looks. My skin color in Ecuador meant many things, for one, it meant that I was most certainly gringo, it meant that I was a tourist with money (which wasn't true, especially the latter) and it often made me a target (for would be thieves, small children asking for money and vendors). Some would say that it's not so bad for everyone to think that you're a rich gringo, but the truth is it can make you feel pretty awful in a country as poor as Ecuador. Firstly, it's not fun, but rather quite sad, for people who have nothing to think that you can help them financially (I hate the idea of the white savior). On the other hand, it is also kind of scary to know that you are identified as a better choice for criminals because you're not from the country and, by default, that means that you have more money or valuables than anyone else (something that is definitely not true in my case). Don't get me wrong, I've always kind of stood out (I was definitely an outcast in school), but this was the first time that I experienced people making many assumptions about me based solely on my color, it really was an amazing perspective gained. 


So, I would like to close with a sentiment that I have always had, but that was certainly reinforced by Ecuador. That sentiment is as follows, people are people; it's that simple, there are good people and bad people and that is it. What's decent anymore? People, they are decent or they are not. The thing is, we have to get to the point where all of us realize that someone's race, sexual orientation, religious views, etc. don't matter at all, you're either a good person or a bad person. Everything else about a person that makes them different, unique or makes them stand out, is an opportunity for personal enrichment on the part of someone that meets them, it's an opportunity for gained perspective. My experiences in Ecuador were nowhere near as negative as the treatment many minorities or foreigners experience in this country. The worst thing for me was that everyone assumed I was a rich white target for robbery. In the States, on the other hand, minorities are often assumed to be poor, uneducated, prone to illegal activities, and altogether lesser peoples. Don't even get me started on the way immigrants are treated; just look at what they're doing in Arizona, saying it's okay to ask people for their citizenship papers because of the way they look. They call it "probable cause to doubt the individual's citizenship," which is a nice way of saying, "This person is tan-skinned so they must be Mexican." If I, at times, felt uncomfortable in Ecuador because of my skin color, just imagine how minorities and immigrants must feel in the states, and that's the perspective I wanted to share in my terrible story.

Next Stop: the Fifth Dimension Known as the Perspective Zone

            

           Rod Serling was constantly making reference to a Fifth Dimension, “Beyond that which is known to man.” He loved to say that it was a dimension, “…of sight and of sound,” but I would like to disagree with the title of this dimension. That’s right, Serling had it wrong, it’s not the “Twlight Zone,” it’s the “Perspective Zone.” I am speaking, of course, of a unique place that only a privileged few have the opportunity to visit during their lifetimes. The Perspective Zone is a place where everything you think and know is challenged, where your reality is flipped on to its head and you have no other option but to come to some realistic and undeniable conclusions.

Shall I open with a true Serlingesque statement? I think it is the only appropriate option here, really. Take, if you will, the following scenario of a man lost in an unknown land, he is a man who, for all intents and purposes, we will call Joe Blow. The last thing Joe remembers is having fallen asleep on American Airlines flight number 342, bound for HOU. When Joe wakes up, the plane has already come to a complete stop at the gate, the “fasten seat belt” sign has been turned off and people are standing up to open the overhead compartments and remove their carry-on luggage. Joe gathers up his own personal items and proceeds to head up the aisle, onto the connecting bridge and emerges into an airport terminal that he does not recognize at all. Thus enters Joe into the Perspective Zone.

He has been to the Houston airport several times on business trips, this is not it. The first thing he notices is that everyone looks different from him; they all have dark skin, dark hair and are petit. His first thought is to sort out what has happened with the information desk, but, as he has never been to this airport, he has no clue where the information desk is. He decides to ask someone. He walks up to the first person he sees, a middle-aged looking woman of short stature, glasses and dark curly hair, and he asks her if she has any idea where the information desk is, “Señor, no le entiendo nada, ¿habla español?” Joe becomes frustrated and tries, with no avail, to speak to the woman both louder and slower. As he walks away from the shocked woman who is now standing with her mouth open and a very confused look on her face, he thinks to himself, “Here we are in the U.S. and people can’t even speak English.” The woman was thinking, in contrast, “Aquí tenemos un tipo que viene hasta Ecuador y no habla ni una palabra de español, ¿y ahora?” It is not after Joe tries to communicate with three other people, a young lady on a cell phone, an old man with a dog and an angry gentleman with a cigar, that he realizes that no one in the airport speaks English. He resolves to find the information desk on his own.

As it turns out, the desk was not all that hard to find, the airport seemed relatively small and Joe only had to follow the natural flow that all modern airports seem to possess (if you’ve been in one, you’ve been in most). He walked to the end of a long corridor, through a security check point, out into the luggage claim area and up some stairs to the pick-up area. It was there that he found a pretty and very bored looking, twenty-something, woman, seated at a desk below a big hanging question mark, twirling her hair with one hand and leaning her face on the other. The first thing that he said when he came to the desk was, “English?” With an accent that Joe really didn’t recognize, she replied, “Yes sir, how caan I heelp you?” Joe was certainly relieved to finally find someone who understood him, but he couldn’t contain the rest of his anxiety, “Where the hell am I?”

After a lot of convincing and reassuring on the part of the pretty and board woman, Joe came to terms with the fact that he was now in Ecuador, South America. Once he was directed to the American Airlines counter, he sorted out that, somehow, he was boarded on the wrong plane. “I giive you my moost siinceerest apologies, Miister Blow,” Joe was informed by a not so pretty, balding, man that he would need to stay the night at a nearby hotel, as there were no remaining return flights to Houston that night. The happy man finished up with his sincere apologies and by saying, “We do haave some good neews, fors you seer, your luggage diid make iit to Houstone!” They provided Joe with the address to the hotel and sent him on his way.

He had already had quite enough perspective, but Joe really had no idea what kind of night he was in store for. As he had no bags, he made directly for the airport exit, but was stopped by a little girl before he reached the automatic doors. The girl was the epitome of sadness, her face, hair and hands were dirty, she looked as if she were about to cry and she carried with her a bucket that was just as big as her. Joe really couldn’t figure what was in the bucket until the girl extracted a red flower from it, which was wrapped in plastic and she held it out to him saying, “¿rosa? He assumed that this meant “rose”, but he really had no need for a rose. The girl followed him all the way to the taxis saying, “rosa señor, rosa,” and, by the time he was getting into the car, she was screaming, crying and making an altogether scandal.

Things didn’t improve much with the taxi driver. The man spoke no English beyond, “Hello my friind.” He resorted to trying to say the name of the hotel as best he could and he showed him the paper it was written down on. An hour later, after what seemed to be more of a circuit than a straight trip, the taxi driver promptly charged Joe double what they told him the trip should cost in the airport. He shut the door, accidentally a bit hard, and the driver drove off shouting at him what he assumed were profanities in Spanish.

The rest of his night was rather similar, full of confusions, mistranslations, and misunderstandings. The thing that most impacted Joe, however, was the way he was looked at and the way he felt. The reality was that he found himself in a foreign country; he was taller than everyone, white and didn’t speak the language. From the airport, to the hotel and while he was out for dinner, he noticed people looked at him quite a bit, they almost studied. Not being used to gaining this kind of attention, Joe felt rather uneasy. Every place and thing was new and different, the constructions were nothing like what he was used to, the cars strange and foreign and the order/rules appeared to him unclear or nonexistent.

When he had finished his meal (a plate he turned out not to enjoy at all because he had no idea what he had actually ordered), he tried to ask around to find out what the best way to get back to the hotel was, no luck. He felt that the taxi ride from his hotel to the restaurant was pretty short and he thought that he wouldn’t have much trouble finding his way back on foot. It turns out he was wrong about his assumption. He walked around for about an hour, found himself seriously lost and began to become a bit nervous. The hour he spent getting lost was full of hard stares from the people he walked by on the streets, asking people for help that couldn’t understand him and passing dozens of street corners that all looked the same. He made a turn down one street and found himself walking toward a group of five teenagers that he perceived as menacing. He began to walk fast and try to avoid eye contact, but he was stopped.

Joe began to freak out, but one of the boys asked him, in a perfectly understandable English, “Are you lost sir?” Joe explained to the boys that he had gotten lost trying to find his way back to his hotel and asked them if they had any idea how to get there. Not only did they tell Joe where his apartment was, they actually walked with him back. Joe thanked them all and webt up to his hotel room. The next morning, Joe made his way back to the airport and, relieved to be going home, boarded his plane to Houston. 

New Old Scene

Dear reader, 

I had expressed, in previous blogs, my intention to continue writing in this space, even after returning from Ecuador. South America is never far off, my return flight to Quito is in December, but I think that an opportunity to share some perspective has most definitely presented itself with my return to the states. The transition process of returning from a country like Ecuador creates a very unique opportunity to comment on several different subjects. I can´t guarantee that the publications of this new series of blogs will be as frequent as those I wrote in Ecuador (my free time is much more limited now), nor can I make any promises as to the intrigue produced by these new blogs (I don´t know that they´ll be anywhere near as exciting or enlightening as those I wrote in Ecuador), but I will make my very best effort to only write on topics of interest. So, should you choose to follow these new blogs of mine, I hope you will not be disappointed. You may have noticed that I made some changes to the layout of the blog space, I hope this new simple format makes the entries much easier to read (with new material comes a new design). Among other things, I hope to comment on the contrasts that I notice between Latin America and the US (for example, ever thought it was interesting that the US isn't referred to as Anglo America?). Fortunately, I have been given the opportunity to teach Spanish at ISU again, and I would also like to discuss my teaching experiences there in the coming semester. Apart from these engagements, I am hoping that other writing opportunities will present themselves during my time spent back here in the US of A. Anyhow, if you stick with me, I'll stick with you. Let's see where we can go with this, if anywhere.

Thanks,

Chris