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Huaraz, Peru- The village of Huaraz, at 3,091 meters, is a launching pad for the hundreds of trekkers and mountain climbers heading out into the Cordillera Blanca or Cordillera Huayhuash, two spectacular mountain ranges in central Peru. From Huaraz alone you can see 23 snow-crested peaks over 5,000 meters, including the highest mountain in Peru, Huascaran at 6,768 meters (roughly 22,200ft). After warming up in Chachapoyas by climbing through the mud and rain up to the massive mountain-top Pre-Incan walled city of Kuelap (see Photos), I decided it was time to head to Huaraz and spend a few days trekking at some higher altitudes. Two nights traveling in rather luxurious buses and I arrived in Hauraz at 5am, bleary-eyed and hungry. I was immediately beset by several ¨capturadoras¨ offering “un buen precio” on various treks and hostels. Knowing better than to ever follow a tout, I nevertheless let one lead me to a spot for breakfast.

The breakfast was nice, and Percy was persuasive and persistent. Before I knew it I was following him to a small home with cheap rooms and listening to his pitch selling treks in the Cordillera Blanca. Over a cup of mate coca (coca leaf tea- good for altitude adjustment), I told him that I had to check other agencies for prices. I went to one other place in town and was quoted a price of over $300 for a 4 day trek from LLanganuco to Santa Cruz. As I left the place, Percy magically appeared and offered the same trek for $120, leaving the next day. Figuring I was getting a good deal, I handed over the cash. I spent the afternoon hiking up to a viewpoint above Huaraz, surrounded by striking rugged mountain peaks. Then I returned to the home/hostel for my first taste of Cuy (Guinea Pig) roasted over hot coals by a very pleasant señora in traditional garb with silver-capped teeth. Despite the rat-like feet sticking out of the hind quarter I was served, the cuy was quite tasty, somewhere between chicken and pork. The family pets agreed, the dog sitting at attention salivating quietly, the cat mewing loudly and pawing at my plate. I was thinking- it’s a fine line between family pet and dinner on the table.

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Chachapoyas, Peru- I am always amazed at the difference a border can make. These political lines we draw in the sand marking our territory apart from theirs can seem so arbitrary. The border at La Balsa from Ecuador to Peru is just a simple bridge over a river. There is no indication that things will be different once you cross to the other side. But within minutes of crossing, Peru started to reveal itself. The open-sided trucks (rancheras) of Ecuador turned into small Toyota wagons, in which you were expected to cram up to eight grown men (3 across the front- knees up to allow the stick to shift. 3-4 in the rear seat. One more plus produce or animals in the hatch). The grey concrete-block homes turned into mud-brick huts. (picture of mud home to left) The hills grew rockier and more spare. Drivers dodged black sheets full of coffee beans laying out on the roads to dry. We made our way to the steep village of San Ignacio, where I switched from a car and crammed into a combi van with about 20 other people, then descended for hours along a river valley to Jaèn. The milk cows of Ecuador turned into longhorn cattle, with groups of them wandering along and blocking the roads. Acres and acres of rice paddies appeared, old men thrashing armfulls of grain against the ground. Smoke filled the sky from the burning of harvested fields. The towns grew even more haphazard and cacophonous and dusty. Ecuador is not rich. Peru is poor. (more…)

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Chachapoyas, Peru- The memory of easy living just two weeks ago in the Galapagos Islands is rapidly fading away. I’m on a different planet now. Peru. Finally. It hasn´t been easy getting here.

Without really knowing what was going to happen with the protests against the TLC, I took a chance and flew back to Quito from the Galapagos islands. No problem. The indigenous coalitions announced a respite for Holy Week (Semana Santa) and I decided to take advantage of that to stick to my original plan of heading into Peru through the Andean highlands, thereby avoiding the notorious border crossing on the coast. I made it to the lovely city of Cuenca, and then further on south through winding brilliantly green mountains to the small village of Vilcabamba- a traveler´s haven in the valley of eternal spring. (typical storefront in Cuenca to the left)

Vilcabamba will suck you in and refuse to spit you out. Surrounded by verdant fruitful mountains with loads of paths leading into some of the most ecologically diverse forest in the Andes, it is also home to a pack of hostels, with travelers tending to gather in the cafes along the central plaza to laugh and smoke and drink and swap stories. And play Jenga.

(The hills around Vilcabamba to the right) A crew of expats from various countries make their homes here, and tend to keep the passing travelers well-occupied (particularly Mick, the mad Englishman. But you will have to ask me in person about Mick). The “water of life” that springs from the nearby hillsides is said to improve longevity, with some of the residents in the area living many years beyond the norm. I stayed twice as long as planned. Many stay for weeks or years.

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The Angelito I is a 70ft ¨tourist superior¨ Galapagos yacht that hosts 16 passengers in double-bunk rooms (with private bathrooms) and is run by a crew of 8 (Captain, Cook, waiter/barman, mechanic, 2 sailors, cabin boy/cook’s helper, cabin-girl-in-training- all residents of Puerto Ayora). We also had along an excellent bilingual naturalist guide named Efraìn. I was late for the boat. Whereas everyone else flew directly from Quito or Guayaquil to meet Efraín at the airport in Baltra, I was already on the islands and had to get from Puerto Ayora across Santa Cruz Island to meet them. The bus left at 7am. Very late the night before I let some Brits talk me into skipping the bus and taking a taxi with them ($15) at the last possible minute. Bad idea. They were late, then had to get to the super-mercado to pick up some rum for their cruise on a different (very budget) boat, then had to pick up another friend at a hostel. When I finally arrived at the airport, everyone else was already on the ship, and one sort of frantic-looking crew member was walking around the airport calling out “¿Angelito?”

But I made it onboard, along with 15 other people of all shapes, sizes, and ages from Switzerland, Italy, Canada, Norway, Holland/Greece, the UK, Oakland CA, Long Island, and of course, Minnesota. It comes down to this: by the end of day eight the mother/daughter team from Norway was by far the tannest, followed by the young women from Italy. They worked hard for this, spending many hours lying in the sun atop the forward deck. Amongst the remaining amateurs, the hilarious retired couple from Holland/Greece came next, although a lack of discretion in applying sunscreen lent a decidedly rosy hue to their “tanned” hides. The Brits, Canadians, and Americans fell in last, varying between pasty, crispy, and ¨pretty tan for a bunch of gringos”. I believe that I, being Norwegian by heritage, made a respectable showing and will claim first place amongst the native English speakers. (Those of you who were on the boat may weigh in with your opinion below). (more…)

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There is a very strong movement amongst Los Indìgenas in Ecuador against the ratification of the free trade agreements (TLC) with the US. They are fighting for their lives, afraid that if barriers to international trade and investment are lifted, big multinational/US companies will buy off all agricultural land and rights and the traditional subsistence farming and small market life of the campesinos will be destroyed. A particulary strong group, CONAIE (The Confederation of Indigenous Nationalities) has been openly challenging the presidency of Alfredo Palacio, demanding transparency and a national referendum on the TLC, and threatening a massive uprising if the agreements are ratified without their participation. Stakes is high. Over the last few weeks, CONAIE and other groups have staged strikes throughout the Sierra (mountain) provinces, shutting down all major roads, including the panamerican highway, for days at a time.

Due to the strikes, I was stuck in Baños for over a week. No one could get in, no one could get out. When I did manage to get back to Quito, the streets were full of national police in riot gear. Tensions were running high. Hunger strikers were camped out in the center of the Old City. (I was staying on a third floor terrace in an old decrepit hostel overlooking much of this, for $2.50 per night- but that is another story) It seemed like things could get hot. The strikes were preventing me from getting out of the country by bus. I decided to bite the very expensive bullet and spend a couple weeks away from the madness- in the Galapagos islands. (Pinnacle Rock from Bartolomè Island pictured left, marine iguana above)
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