Andes to the Amazon; Peru and Brazil  (March 1999)

            Before paying any money to Nan at Boulevard Travel Agency in Thousand Oaks California, I weighed the value of this trip that I may never have a future opportunity to do, against leaving Marcy alone.  I know my father’s 80th birthday will be missed but he says that he knows I will think of him and honor him.  He let me off easily.  I bought him a suit, he was happy with that even though he seldom wears one.  Marcy is a completely different story.  It seems we’ve been together, married, for such a short time, so I find a great sorrow in her absence as my travel companion.  We live and travel well together.  I really miss her.  Although this entire journal could be an ode to her, sufficient words have been written so that any reader of my journal will understand the great emptiness that the lack of her presence causes me.  

            From the very first day of March until the day I left,  I packed, repacked and packed again.  Trying in every way to lighten my load, I evaluated the need for each and every item.  My backpack weighs fifty-one pounds at the final weigh-in.  The two liters of water and fruit chews, foods that will be consumed within a day or two are very heavy, proportionate to their physical size.

My Estimate of Needed Time for
South American Destinations

The Journey Begins 

Friday, March 5, 1999   From Los Angeles to Lima, Peru      

            Following our plan to get to Los Angeles International Airport, Marcy rode into her office with her friend Brett.  I met her at 11:00 a.m. in Marcy’s car, the Lexus.   We made our first stop at Tito’s Tacos.  Marcy bought ten tacos for her office staff and I ate two burritos knowing that it’ll be a few weeks before I can come back again.  This is the one part of this adventure that will not be fun; my separation from Marcy.

            At the airport, we tried to make the parting brief.  Marcy was crying.  I’ll miss her.  The plane boarded late by forty minutes (we left at 3:10pm.)    I had a two-hour layover in Miami scheduled, so whether I spent the extra time on a late plane here or there was irrelevant.  Once in Miami I was obligated to confront the new airline rules about how much luggage can be brought aboard with me.   Now I was on a full sold out flight and it was a smaller plane.   Only one bag was permitted to accompany me as carry-on luggage.  I had two pieces (my backpack and camera bag.) I don’t want to check either of them in. 

            Somehow, I’m not sure how, I stuffed the second bag into my backpack then I forced the backpack to fit in the plastic box.  I staged my performance clearly within the view of the ticket-taking pursers who stood behind a tall plastic counter placed strategically in the waiting area so passengers could measure carry-on luggage.  If it did not fit in the box, the stewardesses insisted that the luggage be checked in.  I had several (what I thought were) good reasons for not checking in my backpack, like I had no locks for the compartments and I had cash hidden in several pockets.  Also it would have been disastrous if my journey began with misdirected or misplaced luggage!   

March 6, 1999 Saturday   Lima, Peru

A large purple and white neon clock in the dank airport terminal  is about to turn to 7a.m. in Lima, Peru.   I was the first off the airplane but others ran past me.  Customs officers were slow to  inspect the exiting passengers, I was out quickly and the line built up behind me. I was among the few that were able to bring their luggage aboard rather than to wait for the lethargic baggage handlers to begrudgingly toss, from the plane, each bag onto a crusty, old yellow metal cart.  A small gas tractor had two of the long carts in tow, after the first was piled high, they would fill the second.  Two men, uniformly dressed like other members of an orange-overall wearing gang of seven, and were the only ones to labor at this task.  The others stood about, facing each other, talking about something that, I’m certain, had nothing to do with the job at hand. The two men who held broad black bristled brooms used it only to support themselves, not for the task to which it was intended. 

            Many drivers speak English, German, or French.  They are all speaking to me at once.  I look too much like a tourist and felt like a piece of bait the way I was being cajoled to walk this way or that.  I changed my mind and paid twelve American dollars to buy a bus ticket into Lima.  Taking a taxi would cost thirty dollars, according to posted red and white signs by the taxicab stand, written in Spanish English, Portuguese, French and German.  It wasn’t the difference of money that deterred me, but the drivers’ demeanor.

            Nobody else was on the bus; I was the sole passenger.  I handed the bus driver a small slip of paper with the address of a well-recommended hotel which I copied from my Lonely Planet Guide Book. It was about forty minutes till we arrived at the hotel.

            I’m checked into a small, chic, garden hotel in the Miraflores district called El Patio Hotel.  Miraflores is a wealthy suburb of Lima that is primarily occupied by foreigners because they are the moneyed people.  The kitchen area was a warm place to wait for breakfast to be prepared.  I have no idea what the food will be nor do I know how, or where, it will be made.  The only edibles visible on the table are a stained, half-full jar of cheap instant coffee. The jar sits on a laminated blue-checkered tablecloth framed by several small wrinkled packets of sugar scattered, randomly, across the table.  This will probably not be a gourmet meal.  

            All of my friends, who’ve preceded me to Lima, were right about Lima being dull.  The most gracious thing I could say about Lima is that it was only slightly more interesting than Calgary, Canada.  Maybe I would have had a different impression if I spent a little more time looking at the city.   They have a few architectural structures of historical interest, but there were a few things I saw, of great interest during a twenty-dollar three-hour bus tour of Lima.  Outside of Plaza Mayor the most interesting site was the partially constructed pyramid, abandoned by the indigenous natives before the arrival of the Spanish, four hundred years ago.  The yellow tinged, clay brick base stood about ten feet above the ground.  We were not permitted to get close to it.  The crumbling clay base was protected from tourists by a six-foot high chain link fence.  I’m sure if someone really dug out the history it would be more interesting than the tour.  Included were a few 18th-century homes built near the one remaining 17th century home.  The history of this city extends much further back, but little mention was made outside of the city’s political and historical center, Plaza Mayor.  I seldom have heard much about the Indian predecessors who occupied this region before the Spanish invasion.

The weather is pleasant and the city, large as it is, is cleaner than others I’ve seen in my previous Latin travels.  Kinda boring but I’ve adjusted my biological clock and the three-hour time difference will become four when California goes on daylight-saving time soon.  They stopped the ridiculous seasonal changing of clocks in Peru after it caused lots of problems.  I was pleasantly surprised when I found a cybercafé and checked my email and wrote a few letters.  Hard to believe: it cost me about $1.50 US to use their computer for thirty minutes.  3.34 soles to the dollar; a worse rate of exchange is offered for travelers’ checks.  I tried to figure out how to get out of Lima tomorrow but I don’t think I can do that.  I want to go to Cuzco a day early.  I’ll check it out tomorrow.

            Personal Medicines

March 7, 1999    Sunday   Lima, Peru   

            If I could change it, would have been better spent in Cuzco.  I could have gone to the airport (twenty US dollars and thirty minutes each way by taxi) and gambling on a very “ify” chance that I could change the flight date to today, included dragging my large backpack with me.  Instead I relaxed, read, wrote, showered, then walked out in front of my little garden apartment in the Miraflores district and gazed up and down the long, quiet street on this warm sunny morning.  I hired a passing cab to take me to Plaza Mayor, the social and historical center of old Lima.  No business is open except the Catholic churches which are really busy.  I see few men among the many women and their broods of very ambulatory children, are going to or coming from religious services. 

            The wide plaza is surrounded by colonial-style buildings which are largely occupied by governmental staff.  The omnipresence of armed policia and the military is overwhelming.  The furtive eye movement from every man in uniform, as though they were expecting something to happen is giving me a foreboding chill.  I feel edgy, because I don’t want to be caught in any crossfire. 

            All banks have at least one armed guard.  Most have more.  Every busy street corner had a very visible armed policeman.  I was reminded of the need for this extra measure of security yesterday when, as part of the city tour, we drove past the large estate of the Japanese Embassy where hostages were taken four years ago. 

            I wandered out of the taxi, almost drunkenly from one edifice to the next, carrying my large plastic orange bag filled with all items of value I could not easily replace including my Canon F-1 35MM camera.  It has always been extremely, reliable.  That is one characteristic that the fancy, new cameras omit as a feature.  There is a vast array of gadgetry built into all of them.  I thought I’d bring the video camera too because it might best capture the “flavor” of activities I might glimpse. 

            There exists a malodorous, seamy side to this populous city that undulates like a snake. That life force can only be recorded with video film.  How could this be helped?  It exists everywhere that there are more than two people. There are plenty of people working (very visibly) in the sanitation department but it’s just way too little.  One small strike by the workers and chaos would occur.  Since it hasn’t, people have adjusted to, and live with “the way it is.”  Like an old rotting building, given a fresh coat of paint, everything “looks fine” but underneath that thin veneer, there await deep endemic problems that can only be forestalled for a short time . . . just long enough till it becomes the problem of next generation.  

            The Limans have, what looks like, a stable economy—well, I should say I measure the health of the local economy by the number of beggars I see and how persistent they are.  It is how I take a city’s financial well-being temperature rectally.  If the asshole is doing fine then the rest of the beast is okay too.  No science here, its just the way I see it.

            There are beggars here to be sure, but not many.  Mainly its “indiginas” (that’s what native Peruvian Indians prefer to be called currently).  Some of the women have the same shitty begging game of training their kids to do it for them while they chat amongst themselves.  I am disgusted, every time I see begging used as an alternative to work by those healthy enough to do it.  Begging, as a vocation worldwide, has few men are who are takers of alms.  Only the men with a really gruesome deformity can make enough here.  Although I very seldom ever give money to children working for their lazy mother (because I think it promotes begging within the family), I often give a little money to the people I perceive as really needy.  The system of alms giving and taking I know I won’t change so I’ll just share what I have with those that appear to be needy, rather than learning to ignore them.   It must be added that a traveler must find what comfortably suits them.  Sometimes a little generosity can get you swarmed by little children hoping to get in on your good nature.  Prepare, as I do, for predictable consequences of your action.   

            While walking along the street a man asked if I wanted to sell dollars then he offered 3.5 soles for each US dollar.  When he wouldn’t produce his currency, I became suspicious.  He wanted to “hold” my money to “feel it.”  It was a new $20.  I wasn’t about to let go of the bill til he showed me what he had.  He wouldn’t, so I left.   There are endless scams that happen each day, the easiest target is often the traveler, and I was certain this was one of them. 

            I walked along a street which passed over a river.  Its water was traveling north, not south as it happens in the northern hemisphere.  Well, I am in the southern hemisphere now and that is what is supposed to happen.  A gang of three preteen age street children crawled out of a three-foot wide drainage canal on the cement-paved side of the river.  I could sense their deep desire of survival in the rough, unfriendly world in which they were born. Without parents to love, protect or guide them.  The boys came out of the hole in a feat of acrobatics. Each, in turn, had to grab hold of a piece of bent rebar protruding from solid walls above the opening to pull themselves out, one at a time. Then they scurried up the cement bank onto the street above them.  My mind wandered about, thinking about how sad it is when children are “lost” like these.  Where is help for them?  Sadly, I believe that there will be none in a very poor and overpopulated city such as this.  The children must protect themselves.

            Unusual things were for sale in the plaza, during my walk; bright green lizards, fuzzy puppies, dazed, walking irregularly from one side of a cardboard box to the other, ground fruit pulp frozen to a wooden stick.  Lots of cheap pizza was available.  One slice with a small, thin, small square of ham on it would cost about 33 cents.  I’ve walked by many restaurants but not one has the kind of good hygiene I hope for. 

            If I’m going to stay healthy, I must maintain vigilance of certain standards at all costs.  Consequently, I have not eaten anything since I got off the plane except snacks which I brought with me from the local Trader Joe’s market.  Roasted sunflower seeds and the Gumi bears were intended for kids I’d meet and a dried fruit and nut mix that I bought at Trader Joe’s Market near home.  I’ve existed on these foods only but I want to try eating cuy in Cuzco.  Cuy is an Inca delicacy consisting of a large, specially grilled hamster. 

            The next few days should be really busy.  I just rechecked my airline departure times and I’ll be moving quickly after today.  I bought two new tee-shirts both were not “extra large” just “large” but they were new and clean so I’ll wear them.  It is still cheaper than sending them out to a laundry,   As I strolled along on one quiet boulevard, a fellow with a piece of rectangular paper with the word “taxi” scrawled on it in black ink, hollered out of his window “taxi?”  I asked him (in my limited Spanish) how much to go to Miraflores, the district I’m staying in.  He said six soles—I paid ten times more in a regular cab to get here earlier today.  I gave him the business card of El Patio Hotel with a small map printed on the back of the card and off we went.  He spoke no English, but we were in his country, I must speak Spanish, regardless of how primitive my attempts are.  We discussed the weather and “la Ciudad es muy bonita.”   He understood and pretended to appreciate my weak attempt to use Spanish. 

            We agreed that, for twenty soles, he’d pick me up tomorrow at 3:30 a.m.  There is still sunlight but I went up to my room.  I showered again; a few minutes in the hot damp air leaves me with an unclean feeling and I have plenty of time.  Everything is ready for tomorrow. 

            I walked about a mile to the cybercafé where I wrote email to Marcy.  She said, before I left, that she’s leaving the phone off the hook so I guess trying to call would be a time waster.  I really miss her.  Marcy is a great traveling companion.  She is willing to suffer through weird circumstances just by her good nature.  For a little over a dollar, I sent her a letter and I could read her email she sent to me too.  I was happy to hear that Carol’s wedding shower went well.  I’m going to repack my gear again to get ready for the early morning departure.  The procedure of repacking my backpack frequently teaches me what I have and where through repetitive handling and viewing.  Also, each inspection makes me evaluate the necessity of certain items, discarding or using up those that add more weight than their value to me.  Hopefully I’ll be set for the tough part of the trip.

            March 8, 1999 Monday     Lima, Peru

            I had problems sleeping.  The small room was hot, humid, and the only relief I had was the result of a small, blue plastic, electric fan that sat, unevenly, on a small wooden desk.  Because I was told laundry service was unreliable I washed my black jeans myself then I used the hot sun to dry them while they dried I wore the dark-blue shorts I got in Bali.  The bottom had ripped open at the seam unbeknownst to me so I walked all around not noticing until night when I took them off!

            Throughout the night I woke and turned on the small flashlight to see what time it was.  Seldom had more than an hour past.  Finally it was 3:30 a.m., I was up and ready in less than a minute but the fellow I hired to drive me to the airport was waiting for me on the street twenty soles (about seven dollars) was worth him getting up to meet me at that time.

            I checked into Aero Peru.  I could see the fog settle in over the airport so it wasn’t surprising that the flight was delayed over an hour.  I had tried to get on an earlier flight but it was full.  Departure at 7:40 a.m. and arrived in Cuzco at 8:50am.  Soon a portly fellow with jet-black hair with a sprinkle of gray at the temples found me.  I liked his smile, but he dressed like a barber. 

            I talked to a couple of taxi drivers to discover if one of them would want to be my guide for the day.   Jose said he wanted fifty dollars for all day but, as I’d discover later, he was worth more.  He was very animated and colorful, and loved being a guide.  His English was very good.  I asked Jose to take me to the ruins outside the city boundaries of Cuzco.  We traveled about two miles up a narrow asphalt road leading higher into the mountains.  

            Everything was visible surrounded by the verdant grounds, colored so by recent rains.  This is the rainy season, but today we have great weather.   The first Incan structure, located just a few feet above the town was pronounced “Sassy Hooman,” but spelled Sacsayhuaman, was the most significant edifice of all.  The walls covered a square mile.  To look at the stones and how exactly they were carved, fitting securely as an integral part of the wall, made me wonder how patient and determined the Incas must have been.  This site was made even more interesting by Jose’s colorful stories of history and the way he intertwined his historical roots with all that is around us. 

            Like most Cuzcoians, he is Catholic but retains an infusion of dramatic Incan religious ceremonies and beliefs solidly rooted into his personal brand of Catholicism.  I was amazed when he explained, laboriously, and with much more detail than I required, how the dogma of both religions, do not, in his mind, conflict at all.  Several times, I interrupted him, as he was trying to cogent how the two diverse philosophies, one responsible for the downfall of the indigenous cultures of South America, could coexist in peace.  I was fascinated with this, the most ancient city, as the longest continuously-inhabited city in the Americas.

            Jose drove into the rural settlements and villages surrounding Cuzco.  Fifty miles from Cuzco he turned up a narrow street assembled of well-worn, fist-sized rocks packed together.  The half-mile long road emptied onto the crowded town plaza lined, on each side with vendors of produced.  We stopped to watch an unusual event; a town festival for women’s rights.  The women of the village put on a hilarious play which mocked the machismo manner of their men.  Mannerisms of getting drunk, not wanting to work and flirting with other women were satirized in such a clear way that the need to understand the dialog was unnecessary.  I understood it all.  The comedy carried a new message to these women.  They don’t have to live with a man like that and that it can be acceptable and even better, to live without such a man.  The play advised women that they should, first, tell their man that his behavior cannot be tolerated. If there is no change, she should talk with the town elders about her situation.  Not surprisingly, the audience was almost entirely women and a few young children.  I guess it isn’t so amazing that few men sat watching this.  I captured some of it on video. 

            We stopped at a place for lunch which Jose said has the best Inca style food. No guinea pig served here though. Instead I had a thick, wonderful, but strangely spiced, potato and meat soup. The second course was a colorful lima bean salad. Jose was angrily surprised when I said that the green beans are called “lima beans” in the U.S. “But,” he said, “the beans come from this valley; they are from Cuzco!” The corn on the cob served was neither as attractive nor tasty as I would often enjoy back in Los Angeles. Large, bland, yellow kernels with a space between each row lack any discernable flavor, corn or otherwise. I’ll try the cuy (guinea pig) some other time. Jose says that on Sunday many families make it. I drank coca tea as I do with each meal. A definite relaxer!

            After the meal, it isn’t uncommon to chew a few coca leaves for a while or offer some to friends.   Jose says the many farmers chew them all day. I have seen how it blackens teeth and destroys the gum line that holds teeth in. One or two hundred leaves are very normal to be consumed in one day!   He says they stay young and healthy for a long time---but, I imagine, with no teeth!  “Anyway,” I thought, “It’s certainly another good story.” 

            Agriculturally this place is a phenomenon.  Corn, potatoes, lima beans and other produce originated right here.  That so many different varieties first began here is the anomaly!  I saw a number of fruits and vegetables which are locally grown, that I have never seen before today.

            The sky had been gray all day except for momentary glimpses of a huge cerise palette behind the tall, billowy clouds.  Light rain was falling or maybe it was just a thick, heavy mist from the rain clouds that covered us until we climbed to a higher elevation.  We sped along the endless mountain road that cut a black ribbon around the intensely green mountains.  The car slid to a halt on the loose, gritty tan dirt shoulder of the road at the edge of a precipice.  We were close enough that from the car window I could look straight down for three hundred feet, into the verdant farming valley.  A river twisted by the small community tucked in the center of the farming village. What a stunning view!

            At the first hint of sunset Jose announced that we will be heading back to town now.  He turned his old car back to the city with the fervor of a rented horse heading back to the stable after being ridden by an unfamiliar rider.  He drove so quickly that twice I turned toward him with such a look of fear shining in my face that he would slow down.  He drove this shabby, thirty year old small Ford export, as if it was a new Maserati.  He cared for the beaten vehicle with much love and time, but little money.  Safety equipment was considered superfluous.  I had to hold the door handle tightly to prevent tumbling onto him as the car screamed around the next hairpin turn.  The one lane street cutting through the Andes was smooth and new but no railings existed anywhere to prevent a vehicle from tumbling over the edge.

            In the Hotel Conquistador, right off the town square, we sat at a small square table in a dimly lit room off the main lobby.  Jose had a bottle of Cerveza and I had a cup of hot, light-green coca tea. We made arrangements to meet tomorrow. He’d take me to the train station for Machu Picchu in the early morning.

            The three flights of creaky, wooden stairs led to the top floor and my room.  I looked out of my window to see the busy street below.  This room was situated directly over the main hotel entrance.   I left everything, except my jacket, in the room and quickly returned to the city scene.   While wandering along the town square, which was only one very short block from this hotel, I bought several small gifts and trinkets for my return.  Many “Indiginas” were trying to sell the same things as their neighbor.  Handmade goods at very reasonable prices made the search interesting.  Everything I bought, including small alpaca bags and mystical totems, totaled  less than thirty dollars. 

            I walked to the Internet café around the corner.  For less than a dollar I checked my email, read, and wrote to Marcy.  It is really wonderful that someone can instantly check their mail like that. “Damarlin” was on the internet so I instant messaged him.   He asked me (over the Internet) to prove which way the water travels when you flush the toilet.  My one-word response was “Down!” 

            I left the little storefront computer cybercafé and  walked back to the hotel.  The rain continued today but it has hindered me very little.   Before I entered the hotel, I shook the moisture off my coat.  Rather than to  complete entries in my journal I was so tired I threw myself across the bed, wriggled out of most of my clothing and quickly fell asleep. The rain was beating hard against the window nearest to my head.  Without my internal clock properly set for Peru, I  woke at 3:30 a.m., turned on the lights, and looked outside onto the wet shiny cobblestone street.  It looked cold outside, but it was warm in the room.  I showered, dressed then wrote for a couple of hours in my journal.  Still tired, I fell back on the bed for a few more minutes of sleep before walking downstairs.

            March 9, 1999   Tuesday     Machu Picchu, Peru

            Waking very early gave me a chance to catch up on the journal entries.   I have until 6:00 a.m. to meet Jose. Machu Picchu today!  What an exciting day I have planned!  I drank some very hot coca tea then checked my Sony video camera and 35MM Canon F-1 camera to confirm that enough film and necessary filters are packed for this journey.  Jose is prompt.  While I waited in the car, he confirmed my passage then motions for me to go to the train where he is standing. Jose boards the train car and then motions for me to sit in my seat in  “Preferred”   It is ten dollars more than 1st class but the car is much newer and this train will make the journey quicker, without several stops.  The agreed price was seventy US dollars for transportation to the site, including the bus ride to the top of the mountain, at the Mayan site.  The train left the Cuzco station at 6:20  this morning and seldom exceeded 50 miles an hour—for good reason.  The tracks reminded me of a journey twenty years ago on the jarring Spanish train tracks which Franco ordered installed much too quickly.  Hurky-jerky, the train shivered, side-to-side, in an intimidating way as it spun its way down the mountain.  Heavy rain splashed down all around us, pouring more water into an already swollen river and creeping into any crevasse of open windows.

            Up here, in the Andes, is where the great Amazon begins. The angry brown river has many tributaries that lead into this huge, racing, gush of water.  The waters were made unnavigable by huge boulders rooted every few feet, immovably lodged in the riverbed.  Hundreds were visible above the high waterline and hundreds more must lay hidden below the water line. Most of the concealed stones could be identified by watching how the water bends or sprays after striking the submerged boulders.  During the four-hour train ride descending from the high-mountain city, I saw the river transform from a peaceful flow near one of its highest points less than one mile outside of Cuzco into a deadly force, pulling earth and animal alike should any dare to be too near to the water’s edge.  Machu Picchu (meaning old mountain) is lower in elevation than Cuzco by two thousand feet.

            The train stopped at the destination for those who plan to visit Machu Picchu. Passengers transfer to a waiting bus by walking two kilometers through a narrow dirt path lined thickly on both sides by persistent peddlers and a smattering of opportunistic thieves.  We were warned by large colorful posters about the risk of theft as we exited the train.  I walked behind thirty other passengers from the train.  At the other end of this treacherous path were buses, queuing to take the next batch of travelers, me among them.  We were guided onto the first bus in line.  A young Japanese man whom I met on the train, said in limited English, he really loved Peru.  The Japanese are so happy here for special reasons.  The Peruvian government is currently headed by President  Fujimori a second generation Japanese.  Often he goes to heroic measures to assure the safety of Japanese tourists, so they are watched extraordinarily closely.  Being so favored, many Japanese tourists come to Peru and spend freely.
 
            I struggled to board the next bus, traipsing through the light rain.  The thick mud clung to the soles of my boots making them unwieldy and cumbersome. I lumbered forward through the dense paste, ripping one foot out and forward, then the next foot until I reached the bus.  On my first step into the warm bus I turned around to scrape off the thick layer of clay adhering to my boots.  I found no seat up front so I had to sit on the back bench.  The experience was reminiscent of my bus trip to Goa where when boarding I saw all the Indians crowd to the forward seats and all the rear seats (like here) were open.  I sat directly over the back tire (there isn’t a worse place to sit on a bus).  Every bump, jolt and jar was transmitted immediately and directly to my seat. Up the steep muddy grade, the bus ascended, swirling and sliding at every turn. Mud and rain didn’t slow the bus, which may have been sure-footed in the front, swayed uncontrollably loosely as it trudges forward, up the twisted, narrow incline.  Twenty minutes pass while we travel the three-mile route to reach the incredible monument perched on a flat field on the top of this mountain.

            The rain had soaked through my light jacket which was only protected from the rain by a flimsy orange plastic raincoat which I brought for an emergency.  I looked around immediately after exiting the bus.  Although only a minuscule portion of the site was visible as I exited the bus I was impressed with what I could see.  The guide, who was assigned to my group, spoke poor English.  I couldn’t understand him well enough to have him with me.  I asked for a private, English-speaking guide.  They said one was available, but only if I pay fifteen dollars. (The way they said it was as though no one in their right mind would pay that much.)  I amazed them when I agreed.  Alejandra, daughter of Jose Cuba, was introduced to me.  I was shocked to find her here although Jose had told me his daughter would be here to meet me.  She spoke English very well and I could immediately see a physical resemblance to her father.  She was about twenty and petite with definite Inca features like her father.  She explained her answers to my questions to which she knew the answer in lengthy detail.  She tried to infuse a great deal of mysticism into her answers.  Much is still unknown about this place since Incas had no written language, hence no written history to answer present day questions.

            This area was not revealed by Incan scouts employed by the Spanish, so it was overlooked by the Conquistadors when they came through this area.  Writings from the Spaniards would have recorded this discovery in detail.  The climb up the steep, roughly hewn stone steps was exhausting. The heavy, ground-hugging fog and the misty earthbound rain made each precarious step dangerously slippery. There was no distinct border between these two sources of wetness. Both chilled and dampened everything they touched.  Not far above me and off to the west, a patch of blue sky held six motionless paper white clouds.  The surface of the clouds oddly reflected sunlight in a strange magical way that embellished the mystique of this ancient place. The bizarrely shaped beams of light and sharply defined edges of cloud shadows played over the ruins like peyote-inspired shadow puppets. 

            I offered Alex, as she preferred to be called, the bag of Gumi Bears.  She enjoyed the candy so much I couldn’t ask for the bag back.  I saw how this foreign treat thrilled her.  I had finished exploring this site.  My thin cheap raincoat had been tattered by the sharp edges of the many blocks of stone and battered by the periodic, sweeping wind.  The only thing preventing me from throwing it in the trash was that, even in its present state, it was the only bit of clothing that didn’t actively absorb moisture.

            I left Alex to wander around on my own.  I took a few photos and some video film too.  I was instructed to be back for the bus around three in the afternoon.  An empty bus was parked near to the entrance and it was slowly filling with passengers ready to go down the mountain.  The bus used more brake rubber than gas as it slid, dangerously, down the muddy hill, stopping close to the train depot.  There has been talk of putting in an aerial tram for safety and to get more tourists there.

            I waited in the small cement depot, peering out of the windowless openings to watch for a train.  I sat on the rough unpainted wooden bench for over an hour before the next train paused there and I was able to board.  The “Express Train” was waiting impatiently as it was preparing to leave this station.  For thirty-two soles which I put into the uniformed hand of the station ticket master I was able to switch to this earlier train instead of waiting for my reserved seat in a fancier but a slower train is scheduled to arrive here in fifteen minutes.  Before I could sit down, the train lurched out of the station.  The countryside was so green and filled with neat patches of farm crops interspersed with all sorts of colorful flowers.  The brown Ollatamba River was even angrier the water reached with such force as crashed on down the mountainside.  Any thing caught by the turbid water was certainly lost.

I arrived at Cuzco station at six and the Sun hasn’t set yet, I have two hours before I was scheduled to meet Jose.  I walked around and went to the cybercafé for a half hour.  I read mail from Marcy.  I miss her but I’m even more concerned that all things will pass smoothly while I’m gone.  I waited at the station for Jose; I saw his car.  We went to a nearby tavern for the local Cerveza made from something other than barley.  I wanted to discuss what to do after tomorrow.  I have three more days here than I need so I don’t want to waste them.  Besides with the closure of Aero Peru this night it makes me change everything.  I walked to the internet place with Jose to help him get listed on the Internet.  He was surprised and delighted by it.  He was very happy.  I walked to the hotel and went to sleep immediately. 

            March 10, 1999 Tuesday   Cuzco, Peru

            The plan Jose had been different from mine.  I already had a ticket to La Paz then I’d go to Puno since border formalities are relaxed there.  So Bolivia, Peru, back to Bolivia, then go to Manaus or somewhere in Brazil.  I had arranged a ride with a tour group going to Machu Picchu so I could get a second day in I couldn’t get a room in Agua Caliente which is about twelve or twenty miles away.  It was difficult to gauge it accurately.  Some people hike the last part of the Inca trail from here.  I walked about four miles of it to Machu. Not only was it the most difficult leg but it took quite a long time.  We started before most people had gotten on the trail.  I wandered around and because the weather was even worse I took the train back to Cuzco. 

When I got there, I called Jose and made arrangements to meet.   He had the idea that he’d DRIVE me to Puno. Since I had an airline ticket already that was it for me.  I’ll just change the date to 11th from 13th.  The only change possible was for earlier flight since the airline has announced its bankruptcy.   The clerk was great.  She made the change for me quickly.  When I met Jose, he was markedly disappointed. He tried every way he could to change my plans, but I stood firm.  He met me at the station in the early afternoon and took me to a few craftspeople in town.  Nothing was a fantastic bargain so nothing was bought.

            I was hungry.  Today is my last full day in this great city of the Incas.  I have been promised a dinner “typico Inka.”  Jose stopped at a restaurant where he gets 50 soles from me for the main part of the meal; the Quoy.  I walked into the cocina to view the cooks busily at work.  The grotesque halves, evidence of a tortured death of the roasted animals makes me a little squeamish about what is on my dinner plate.  The cooks wrap three of the blackened critters in newspaper. 

            I waited outside for Jose to conclude this deal.  I saw three little six-year-old boys “examining” the door lock to see if they could get more of the Gumi bears I had given out moments before. Only on the very edges of their toes, could they peer in the car window and look in. Frightened by my sudden reappearance, they backed away when they saw me coming.  I sat in the car watching the boys watch me.  Finally, to break the tension, I invited them to come over for another piece of candy.  Willingly, the sheepish little imps slowly inched within grasping distance of my outstretched hand.  Jose came out of the restaurant holding the “take out” and beaming. 

            We drove to his home, a modest one but fairly clean.  Religious pictures and  family photos hung on the walls; a little scribbling was on the walls too.  He brought me to the table where his son Jose Jr., a fifteen-year-old student, Alejandra; an attractive twenty-year-old graduate of the university, a much younger daughter (maybe three years old), and his wife were present for this meal.  Potatoes (boiled and skinned), vegetable soup, corn on the cob, quoy, chile relleno, and condiments were on the table.  Strangely, no prayer was said.  I had erroneously anticipated one.   We conversed, for my pleasure,  in English.  Jose Cuba’s wife was seldom seen—she ran back and forth seeing to everybody else’s comfort and pleasure.  I did have difficulty eating this animal because it was so closely, in form, resembled its living brother legs, claws, all still clearly attached.  The innards removed and most parts ground into a sausage with onions, cilantro, and some mysterious grasslike herb.  The cavity of this carnal morsel now was stuffed with folded stems of flowers. The skin was thick and tough so I pulled the hide away to eat the meat.  Surprised by this, Jose remarked that “the skin is the best part.”   I removed the garnishment and, following Jose’s example, I pulled the front from rear and gave the front section to Mrs. Cuba to serve others.  Although standard eating utensils were placed for everyone’s use, the hands were the primary utensil used.  When I went to wash my hands, I saw that there was only one faucet, cold water that’s it.   

            I took numerous photos of the family to send to them later.  After thanking everyone, petting their very pregnant dog, a boxer, smiling at his toddler daughter, Jose and I departed.  He took me way out in the country side to show me a church which he said is the best in South America.  It was in a small town once occupied by Incas then Spanish were using the town to convert Incas to Catholicism.  Although not permitted, I took two photos in the grand church.  I continued to thank him for the high honor to be invited into his home.  “Por nada” he repeated frequently.

            After dropping some things off in my hotel room I walked around and stopped to write a postcard to Marcy.  I discovered that Bob Hardy, my longtime friend, was on the Internet.  We chatted, but it was just mainly funny stuff.  I tried to include a lot of “¿”  because I was using a Spanish keyboard.  Most important, of course, was Marcy.  I always want her to know that I am thinking of her.  My laundry was not returned to the hotel until I asked six times then very late at 9:30 p.m.            

I have a full backpack; each compartment is full.  I did everything I could to prepare for an early morning; washed, shaved, folded and packed I was ready.  I woke at 3:30 a.m. but went back to sleep for a couple hours more. 

March 11, 1999   Wednesday      La Paz, Bolivia

            One mile from the Cuzco plaza, angry men stood in the street next to six small stacks of burning tires.  Dense black smoke spiraled into the sky.   We idled in a short line of anxious vehicles.  The driver of the taxi-van that Jose and I were in looked nervously at Jose and waited, impatiently, for new instructions.  Jose swirled his finger in the air and the driver instantly knew what was expected of him.  He turned the car around, our tires squealing, to get away from something down the street.  Whatever it was, I didn’t see it.  Jose jumped out of the van and told the driver to wait.  He ran ahead and talked to some of the rioters beyond earshot.  Then he hurriedly waved for the driver to proceed.   Reluctantly the driver did move on with measured caution.

            I sat quietly not making eye contact with the protesters.  A small band of angry, young men were throwing rocks and sticks at vehicles trying to pass the strike area.  We passed slowly through the jeers and taunts, but when one large rock struck the roof of our red van with a loud thud the driver stood on the accelerator and we sped away. The airport was a couple of miles further.  Because of the strike, we were not allowed to bring a vehicle into the airport area.  The driver let us off and we walked the remaining kilometer.  At first Jose carried my pack but it was too heavy for him so I let him carry the much lighter orange bag and I donned the pack.  I was first in line to Aero Lloyd.  They would not open until 7:30 a.m.  I have two hours to wait which was enough time for me to quietly write in my journal after I thanked Jose for showing me much and watching out for my safety.

I got my boarding pass when I paid a fee of ten dollars for an exit pass, then I had to make a short walk to an upstairs restaurant with a view of the airfield.  I could see spires of black smoke coming from the direction of the city.  I ate a roll and butter with a cup of translucent green coca tea.  I could get very easily use to this tea and a leisurely pace that life travels here. 

            In my hurry to get dressed early this morning, it wasn’t until I sat, onboard the vessel, when I noticed my front zipper was completely open!  What friendly people—nobody says a thing!  Although the airplane will leave about 30 minutes late, I expect that this would be a short flight.  There was a moment of confusion when no one knew where we were expected to go (we had to pass through customs). I discover, with daily practice, my Spanish is improving every day.  I still have problems understanding large numbers and fast talkers.

            As advised by the Lloyd Aero agent, the first thing to do at the airport (after the necessary stuff like collecting my backpack) was to confirm my seat to Manaus.  A substantial amount of line cutting happens.  I was next in line, a short sweating man reached over to have his ticked confirmed took a long time with the only agent working, it looked like he was late for his flight.  Then a very short Peruvian woman with a child bundled on her back in a blanket slid in front of me too.  From her colorful costume I could see that she was a rural citizen and unfamiliar with normal etiquette in the cities. She seemed very nervous like this was her first time in an airplane.  But when an able-bodied young man was about to go around me, I body-blocked and garnered the clerk’s full attention long enough to confirm my seating. 

            We landed without incident and I immediately walked outside the airport after quickly passing through Customs.  Long lines of waiting taxis were waiting to greet all arriving passengers.  I found a driver who spoke English.  He drove to town and suggested the Hotel Galeria on Virgen de Rosario.  He “happened” to have a full brochure on it.  It did look fine and was only twenty dollars a night.   After I checked out the hotel and room, I paid the driver and the hotel for the first day.  If this hotel were in a nice part of L.A. It would certainly cost one hundred dollars a day.

            The bed was firm enough and the hotel had a friendly ambiance about it.  Lots of plants and glass; very airy; quite nice.   After checking in at about 11a.m. I decided to walk along the main street, Santa Cruz Avenue.  It is where many women sell their homemade goods.      Many women carry an infant in a colorful blanket which is slung over one shoulder and under the other.  The blanket was tied loosely in front.   I was amazed that I had, not once, seen a baby fall.  The women frequently stood about 5’2’’ or 3’’ tall with wide bronze-colored faces.  The shiny long black hair was almost always covered partly by a too small pork pie hat.  Often the hat would be jauntily tilted to one side as a statement of high fashion, but they’d remind me of the hats worn by Laurel and Hardy.  Loose sweaters of many colors covered the upper portion of a dress and petticoats.  But the biggest splash of color was usually the blanket. 

            The men had no standard outfit like the women.  These women, in their own way, sought the best way to make a buck or Boliviano in this case.  They carried the commerce where few men were involved.  Men were farmers, servicemen, police, and shopkeepers.  Each had their own domain.

March 12, 1999   Thursday   La Paz, Bolivia

            Although we were within 150 miles of the border to Peru, any Peruvian soles were simply refused without any negotiation.  Worthless, the fifty US dollars I had exchanged for soles were just not good here. U.S. dollars were the desired currency.  I searched through the vendors to find a few more items to bring home but I found nothing.  That’s not because these female business people were not helpful, diligent, or persistent.   To the contrary, they were all of those things.   Once I made any eye contact, or showed any interest in their goods, they would spend ten minutes offering insistent advice about whatever they were selling.  Women would ask for two Bolivianos (forty cents) if I wanted to take a picture of them.  Care must be taken if you think you can escape payment; they have a quick eye and feel that you must pay, just as if you bought a package of gum from them. 

            It was about five in the afternoon when I sought out Internet access.  What good fortune to find it in my hotel!  That is until I realized the incredible slowness with which the computer operated.  It crashed twice before I took to the streets to find a better place.  At the bottom of the hill, in the very large St. Francis Square I found my answer.  A small cybercafé was right off the main square.  I was able to quickly read my email.  I was very happy, to read Marcy’s letters.  I sent her two letters in the short forty minutes I sat there.  Staying in touch with my friends was a pleasure.  That was an inexpensive pleasure. 

            As I walked the neighborhood, I talked with several travel agencies along Santa Cruz Ave.  Prices to see Copacabana and Lake Titicaca ranged from $70 US to $180 for essentially the same simple program.  I chose the one for seventy bucks since it sounded just like all others, just the better (or cheaper) price!  They promised to pick me up at the hotel tomorrow morning between 7:30 a.m. and 8:00 a.m.  I walked up the steep street till I reached the hotel.  Walking along the cobbled stone street was made more difficult to navigate with the wafting trash and spilled wash water.  Wet cobblestones are much easier to slip on than asphalt, concrete, or cement.

            Back in my room I reorganized my pack and showered.  The work on my pack took a long time.  I was not finished until after 11pm.  I watched numerous US sitcoms including “Seinfeld” and “Cosby” both had Spanish subtitles but English words were spoken.  I turned off TV at 11:30pm but only had a little sleep because at 1am I was awakened by loud screams, police sirens and sounds of a noisy crowd.  I got the video recorder to film the conflict.  I put the camera away when it seemed that the action stopped never long until the action started again, I was ready.  The noise would have woken anybody.  It was no quiet affair.  The noise continued till I could not stay awake any longer at 3AM.  Only four and a half hours later I woke up to prepare for the bus driver to pick me up.  I wrote a little while I waited for the tour guide to meet me.  He was on time so I finished a roll with better and jam with a cup of tea.  I put some gear in storage then I packed a very few pieces I needed to take.  Off we were.  The bus was already filled except for three seats in the very rear.  I sat there reluctantly. 

            Soon the adjacent seats filled for the two hours we drove to Lake Titicaca.  It is a huge lake fed by numerous streams.  Strangely, three tributaries feed the lake.  Most water that feed the large lake comes from the ample rains.  Each of the three had different flavors of the water as a result of passing through unique sedimentary minerals.  The Incas had them running together through a stone block that had three holes cut in it to channel the magically potent liquids.

            The bus let all passengers get off when the vehicle had to be ferried across a narrow part of the lake.  We, the thirty passengers rode across the lake in a leaky power boat.  On the other side we boarded and took our same seats to resume the journey for another hour over bumpy, but paved, road.  At Copacabana the bus stopped and everyone got off.  Those going on to Puno were to return in two hours; those that are staying should go to the hotel to which they are assigned.  Teodoro met me and pointed out the nicest hotel-still far from a one-star hotel.

            The small room on the 3rd floor was less than spacious.  It had one faucet which provided cold water only and the shower which could be switched to hot water only.  A small wooden table stood along a narrow bed.  Good enough for me because it was clean.  Teodoro and I had made plans to meet at 1pm for lunch but as I walked around this very small village, looking to buy some local handicrafts I saw Teodoro in one of the shops.  The goods being sold here were (90% of them) the same as what was being sold in La Paz, just at higher prices.  I bought nothing not even postcards because I couldn’t get stamps to mail them to the USA, what’s the point? 

            I met Teodoro for lunch at the hotel.  Teodoro (he preferred the use of his full first name) brought me to the hotel restaurant.  I ate some cilantro flavored chicken soup.  The soup’s density was increased by the addition of small grains of Inca rice.  The grains curled in tiny circles.  Excellent.  Next course consisted of a small salad.  I didn’t eat is for, as attractive as it looked, that was one rule I follow.  Never eat vegetables that are not served very hot and have been boiled for a long time.  After that I ate another bowl of the delicious soup.  Two cakes of cooked long grain rice accompanied a large spoonful of a ragout of beef, onions, peppers and tomato.  Coke was served chilled in the bottle.

            Teo and I agreed to meet in a few minutes so I could get my jacket; it’s often cold on the lake.  We met.  I had put on a Transderm patch behind my ear.  It’s a small round bandage that has a tiny amount of narcotic applied topically behind my ear and it deadens or prevents sea sickness.  The hotel was situated two blocks away from the lakeside up the dirt street.  Because all of the boats go right through the middle of the lake, there was no view of the coastline so I asked Teo to hire a private boat that coasts 150 Bolivianos.  Less than $25 for the whole day.  And that’s what we did.  The boat took about 1.5 hours to make the journey across Lake Titicaca to Isla del Sol.

            Others had docked at the same spot on Isla del Sol too.  After docking Teo and I started to ascend the trail while being constantly assaulted by Bolivians in native dress asking that you take a picture of them for two Bolivianos!  I had brought several pens and sparkling bandages to share with the poor “indiginas.”  I took some photos without them noticing but 95% they caught me, even when I took a photo near to them, they thought I should pay them.  At 3:00 p.m. it was time to depart. 

            I met a mother and daughter from Vancouver B.C.  They had done extensive hiking in the Himalayas and covered much of South America.  Their exploits were very interesting.  The daughter is studying current ecological issues back in Canada.  They accepted my offer to ride back to Copa in the boat I had chartered.  Our boat would not make a bee line from port to port but follow the coastline where practical.  I figure that’s a lot more interesting than water.  Although this is a lake, the water is very salty and not potable.  After the journey back to Copa, I wished them well as they were going to Puno tomorrow.  I will see more of Copa then go back to La Paz tomorrow.

            Teo and I walked back to the hotel and ate dinner.  A grilled chicken leg and thigh, a thin bean soup with french-fried potatoes thrown to add substance to the hot liquid.  It was called “french fry soup.”  At high altitudes water will boil at a lowered temperature than at sea level.   A large pile of french fries was stacked neatly on a thick gray plate with five small white, aluminum sealed pouches of ketchup.   We talked about Teo’s hopes and plans.  He’s happy to be a guide, but he says he has no aspirations for a greater job.  We agreed to meet in the morning at 8:30 a.m. to tour this town before I return to La Paz. 

            The temperature n my room was so cold I decided not to bathe; I’d rather smell than get a cold and be sick for a few days.  I had the hotel clerk deliver a heater.  To heat this small room should not be difficult, nor was it.  I tried listening to the radio but I could only discover a good signal on a religious talk show.  I would have settled for anything even religious music but this!  So no radio listening for me tonight.

March 13, 1999    Friday       La Paz, Bolivia to Lake Titicaca

I woke at 6:30 a.m. to no water to flush the toilet.  Well since I leave soon, this is their problem.  At 7:30 a.m. the hotel is so tightly locked that I couldn’t get onto the muddy street.  It rained lightly during the night.  The restaurant in this hotel was also closed, I’ll try later but for now I went back to my room and waited a few minutes before returning for the coffee at the restaurant.  It is made differently from any methods I’ve seen before.  The coffee is first poured into my cup as a syrup followed by enough hot water to fill the cup.  The jam is an opaque slime with a reddish tint and the orange juice was not acceptable because as is commonly done the glass is filled two thirds with orange juice then the glass is topped with plain tap water.  Because La Paz, Bolivia is an hour earlier than Peru it is 8:00 a.m. here but 4am in Los Angeles.  Marcy is probably just waking up, except I notice today is Saturday so I hope she is peacefully sleeping.  Begin out of touch with news for so long like this is a strange feeling.  I will check the news on Monday if I can get access to the Internet. I miss Marcy very much.  I drew a small calendar to check off the days till I return.  I spend a little time thinking about the great adventure immediately before me: The Great Amazon.  I am titillated and scared at the same time.  The fear is not one I hadn’t expected even though I know that it can be very tame depending on my choices.

Teo appeared at 8:00 a.m. as we discussed last night.  I followed him back to the breakfast table.  He ate some loosely scrambled eggs with fried baloney.  That would not be my choice, for certain.  We walked along the short one kilo street, the main avenue of commerce.  It was very apparent that this town was for tourism, little else was here that I saw (but of course I’m a tourist).  We walked to the church where every February there is a huge celebration.  This church was filled with very ornate plates, gilded frames on the paintings, and decorations. Many of the frontispieces were covered in silver or gold.  Like many other churches with history that could reach back several generations, the Spanish priests got gold by destroying Inca temples and with the aid of the Conquistadores, pillaging it from the villagers.  The Spanish missionaries acquired stone bricks or anything of value they could get from the Incas.  The story of the Conquistadors follows, if written in broad strokes, like the North American conquest of the American Indian.  Manifest Destiny or God’s will, whatever the words, they justified evil deeds against the people indigenous to the land.   Nonetheless the Indiginas (native American Indians) are highly superstitious and seldom will do something contrary to religious teachings by the Roman Catholic Church.  I felt especially intrigued to see how the Indians adopted the religion as their own when it was forced upon them in the bloody manner which history records.  

Although most Bolivians and Peruvians combine Catholicism with the animism of the Inca religion, which teaches that there is a spirit that resides in the animals.   The snake rules the underworld; the jaguar rules this earth and the condor rules the heavens.  The first Mano Inca was commanded by the condor to thrust a golden rod into the earth which he did at Cuzco that became the Earth’s belly button.  This Earth is considered, in Inca Lore, as the Earth Mother.  The rivers are her blood and the dirt as her flesh.  But this belief explains why they respect the Terra Firma with a great reverence.  The Inca philosophies reach extended far into Bolivia too.

When the church was first built in 1626, it was much smaller.  Not until the middle of the 17th century.  A larger structure was built around the original building.  We walked through the church courtyard which was lined with alms takers on both sides.  I had given Teo fifty Bolivianos so he could give some money to those he felt deserving and make a donation to the church too.  Also he was to use the money to buy me some water because they charged me a different price than him.  To me a two-liter bottle cost 3.7 Bolivianos; to him it was 2.5.

In the central part of the church was mounted a mannequin which this church and its supporters adorned and worshiped as the Madonna.  Occasionally the ornately attired figure was swivelled on its base so that people in a smaller rear church could view the Madonna figure too.  Teo pointed out the most important features of the church.  While I wandered about it, allowed Teo had an opportunity to do his personal worship.  We walked out together while he explained more of the history here.                              

Outside the courtyard the street was filled with small vendors on the west side of the street sellers of woven baskets sold their wares.  On the east side vendors sold items like small toy houses, cars, bundles of fake US $100 bills.  Many small toys as such were magic totems.  Teo said these were used to bless a newly acquired item like a new car.  The priest would bless these things and people would buy the totems.   Cures and remedies were usually dispensed, for a small price, by the witch doctors.  

The town was protected by two steep hills and the lakefront.  Teo suggested we walk up one of the hills.  A treacherous, stony path led to the top. It challenged my abilities, partly because I had carried thirty pounds photo equipment and enough water to last all day.  Standing on the summit, I could look out to see a three hundred, sixty-degree view that made the climb worthwhile.  I could look far over the lake yet not see the other side.  I realized I was drenched in my own sweat.  I saw many women with their children, trying to sell fat candles to use for some Catholic-infused ritual performed at the peak of the mountain by an old grizzled man.   Teo said, was a witch doctor.  The walk down was equally treacherous but much quicker to do. 

We went to Teo’s favorite Copacabana restaurant to have the local fish which was served with fried ground manioc roots (tasted like a soft french fry but larger and softer). I paid thirty Bolivianos for our meal, expensive compared to other restaurants nearby.  I had local beer; it was a hot day.  I was offered a whitish drink made from masticated roots from a tuber-like plant, manioc. This is a popular local fermented beverage.  After the root is thoroughly chewed by several women then it is spit out into a communal vat.  The vat is then sealed for three months until it becomes mildly alcoholic.  The whole idea disgusts me.  I can’t break out of my American shell to be able to try the saliva-laced brew. On the other hand, I would have tried the thin, brackish gruel, had Teodoro not explained this to me first.  It is a popular beverage among the Indiginas. 

I was guided to several buses in a waiting area they go to either Puno or La Paz.  I regret not making it to Puno but, at least, I finished the trip to Lake Titicaca.  Taking the bus back was a pleasure for two reasons.  First I sat right behind the driver second, no one sat next to me.  I could really stretch out.  Unfortunately the little hotel I stayed at didn’t allow the water to run between 11pm and 7am so I went without shower, shave or tooth brushing.   Even when I asked if there was hot water I was shown a switch to press to change to hot water from cold.  I elected to skip this very potential hazard.  I got on the bus and, in four hours we were back in La Paz.  An hour was wasted (okay, not wasted) while the bus and passengers were shipped across a narrow strait of the lake crossing Peruvian territory.  Passports and identity cards were glanced at superficially, but little more. 

As soon as I got back to the hotel, I dropped everything in my room, then ran to the Internet connection center.  Once there I was so exhausted from the morning climb and the steep eight-blocks I skipped downhill over broken pavement, slippery cobblestones, and wide pools of putrid waste water.  While trying to catch my breath I could feel droplets of sweat rolling down my face.  As I removed my jacket, I was reminded that it has been more than two days since I took a shower.  I had to go immediately to the cybercafé.  It was paramount that I contact Marcy.  I ignored unpleasant glances from the few people in the room now and flipped the switch to start the slow (albeit functioning) unit.  I hooked up to my email account in three minutes.  Marcy’s doing okay but I am worried about my Dad.  His gallstones . . . I’m not certain what they are, but I know it isn’t good.  He’ll be eighty in a few days.  I’ll check in as often as possible.   I finished on the Internet and was charged eight Bolivianos for almost an hour. 

I strolled back to the hotel. An occasional streetlight didn’t hold back the darkness from rolling in at seven p.m. I was happy to shower and shave.  The rest of the evening was spent watching Spanish television but I sought out channels where English was spoken but Spanish subtitles were present.  “Martin,” a sitcom about a black fellow, sounded humorous when dubbed, especially because with the Spanish language comes the Spanish intonation and lilt. The voices are distant cousins to American tone and inflection.
I set the timer on the television for one hour, then drifted off to sleep quickly.  Although my body has made major adjustments to the altitude, I still have a little labored breathing.  I have had wonderful weather even though this is the rainy season except for the heavy mist in Machu Picchu. 

Some of the other travelers I have seen really go to great lengths to “look the part.”   I see that they have the “right” hats, the “right” brand label on their backpacks; you can collect this equipment just like skiers or golfers collect only specific brands. 

            March 14, 1999 Sunday   La Paz, Bolivia to Manaus, Brazil

In St. Francis Plaza stood a large black basalt monolith.  This stone marked the place at which this city began.  Plaza de Armas had an impressive array of buildings around it including the President’s Palace and numerous buildings of the government this area is called Miraflores. 

            We exited the cab.  I laid thirty-five Bolivianos into his waiting, extended hand, then we started to walk.  One area we passed was called The Witches’ Market.  Here thirty stalls were laden with incense, written tracts of incantations, or potions to bring good luck or bad luck avoidance. Some of the magical remedies were supposed to bring curses on someone else, good health, but most common of all were items to win or win back a loved one.  Magic incense was available to bring a man’s potency back, lots of choices for this in every witch doctor stall.  I think excessive coca leaf chewing might contribute to the problem.  I bought the good luck potpourri basket (it had a little for everything) for ten Bolivianos. This seller, who did not look like a witch, was short, but very meaty. A too small bowler hat was doffed jauntily to the rear, but ir rested precariously on her head, covering very little of the thick black braid of hair that flowed down her short, shawl-covered back.  She looked at me suspiciously, then said to my guide and interpreter, Teo, that this was especially good luck for me because it was assembled by her daughter and it was her first sale of the day. Good for me.

            There are other secrets in the clay basket which she said she would not disclose to Teo, or anyone because it is part of her witchcraft.  She explained that when the item is first removed from the basket it begins to lose its potency.  Once it has been broken or chipped while in a particular room the magic will stay there in that room, with whomever occupies it, radiating its power to them.   Each amulet should be broken carefully and with kindness, not just accidentally.  Further, I was told, the larger the room into which the icon is “opened,” the less concentrated the powers will be.  I should confront the icon in a small room rather than “outside.”   I told her that the basket would be a gift to a friend.  She smiled a big grin revealing her last four teeth, large molars, still anchored in her coca-stained mouth.  The witch said I must take care to not let the clay dish that the amulets are in, break or chip while traveling.  If I do then it can no longer be transferred to another.  I will pack it well.  The prices here are very cheap.  I should have done the trip in reverse order so I bought stuff just before going home.  I bought a few other items including a hand-woven llama wool poncho for Marcy.  If that charm works, I’ll get it all home without damage.  We stopped at a dark, cavernous restaurant just up the hill from the Plaza de Armas for a fixed-price lunch.  I had a pork chop with rice and salsa.  Teo had the chicken.  Chicken is served quartered, like in Asia, with the skin on.

The airport clerk perused my travel documents, quizzically pouring over my passport, page by page, to look at the different stamps from many countries in it.  He returned my medical form proving that I’ve been inoculated for yellow fever.  He brought the passport to someone in a back office who, after hearing a few words peered out at me giving me the “once over” then said something to the clerk who walked out of the office and returned my passport to me.  I got the boarding pass now I must pay a departure tax of $20 US.  For this fee, the Customs guard put a small green stamp on my pass and told me I’m free to go to gate two as soon as it opens in thirty minutes.  Next to me is an empty seat; one I wish Marcy was in. 

The flight from La Paz to Santa Cruz will last fifty-five minutes once we start to taxi down the airfield.  I must change planes in Santa Cruz.  I will look for an Internet connection in Santa Cruz Airport  while I wait to make the Manaus flight connection.  Everything goes as planned except there is no internet café in the tiny airport.  At this very late hour every shop in the terminal is closed.  The flight boarded for Manaus quickly, we were in an even small vessel.  Seat numbers were sporadically visible on a small black plate screwed to the rim of the seats. 

March 15, 1999 Monday     Manaus, Brazil    (The Heart of the Amazon)

The flight landed in Manaus at 1:30 a.m. where I got off the small plane quickly and walked through customs without a problem.  I discover that the taxi drivers and touts are waiting for fresh arrivals.  They know that many of the new arrivals don’t know much about the prices of goods and services.  They try to “explain” that the official exchange rate is now 1.65 real to the dollar.  These guys are trying to jerk me around using 1.65 reals to the dollar when my Internet report shows it at almost 2 Real per $.  The taxi driver brings me to my room in the Hotel Solimoes in a bad part of town.  Later I would learn that the exchange rate that was in use here and most of the Manaus wasn’t better.
 
Two hours after I landed I was asleep in a musty, downtown hotel room, waking four hours later at 7:30.  I quickly showered and dressed.  I will check around to find a reasonably priced boat tour or I’ll figure out how I have to arrange it.  A walk around the town, trying to stick to the waterfront since that’s the most likely place to find river guides. 

At 9:00 a.m. it is already hot and humid.  A fellow saw me walking along the street and asked me if I was interested in a tour of the river.  After I talked with the tour operator for a while, I left a twenty-dollar deposit.  The range of rates is incredible.  Back in the USA it was $1598 for five days on the river.  The first agent I talked with, advised me he could do a five-day trip for $850, a little more than half of the US quote. 

 I continued walking along the river front. A swarthy man of twenty-five with closely cropped hair introduced himself to me as Zamora.  He queried, in satisfactory English “Are you looking to do a river tour?”  We talked for a while on the street, then he convinced me to follow him up a steep flight of stairs to an office where I was “turned over” to Carlos, the Owner-Manager.  Everything sounded good until he explained that Zamora, a fellow to whom I had taken a liking to and spoke English better than his boss, would not be running this tour.  And that there will be two Chinese for two days then, well, it depends if a group of German tourists sign up and for how long they decide to travel. 

Zamora walked with me when I decided to eat lunch and think if this rate of $350 for five days is the best I can do.  Zamora helped me find a few items I needed.  One was a poncho, and a water-repellant bag then I wanted to find a good place to eat.  Zamora chatted with me about how his life took many twists.  He told me a portion of his life story. He was born in Angola of a Portuguese Dad and Negro mom, when he was eight they sent him to London to study and live with his uncle.  A few years passed then he went to another uncle who was very wealthy but died before Zamora got there.  He sought his Portuguese father who had emigrated to Brazil.

Zamora is now 45, although he looked to be not yet thirty.  And he had never married.  He said he could arrange “anything” the way he said it there was a dark edge to the words.  He saw me look straight at him then he said some girls would like to go and – I stopped him right there.   I told him that I’m lucky to have an understanding and loving wife who let me go on this adventure.  I can’t repay that by doing such a thing.  Nor would I ever.  I love Marcy very much and I see now that we could have done this trip together.   Except the heat and humidity.  Anyway, Zamora was just trying to please me. Since we left the office, we discussed a direct deal between Zamora and me—that’s it, except for the boat captain.  Zamora would get the food and consider my likes and dislikes.  He would take care of everything for forty dollars per day.  Including everything so a five-day journey would cost $200! 

March 16, 1999  Tuesday     Manaus, Brazil      (The Amazon River)

Rocking, impatiently, back and forth on an old boat, I am ready to head up the Rio Negro beyond where it meets the Rio Salimoes.  Yesterday Zamora and I chose a boat and Zamora established a price with the captain.  Today all things regarding price, change instead of forty dollars per day it is now sixty.  The boat captain, Zamora said, changed his mind.  I gave him thirty real in advance yesterday, then two hundred more this morning.  At 9:00 a.m. we moored just up the river from Manaus to purchase supplies.  Zamora is being tracked by his boss who thinks Zamora wants to strike out on his own.  Which is absolutely true although he is scared to try it.

At this point about five minutes up the Amazon we stop for purified water and ice.  We bought beans, rice, oil, chocolate and a few other staples in Manaus.  While there, the prior guide, Carlos, by whom Zamora was employed called out that Zamora is a thief (for having stolen a customer) and I (yes, me) was no man.  He was very angry and scared several passengers on his boat which had Germans sunning themselves on the deck and slight Japanese tourists dressed in high jungle fashion.  All the women wore large sunglasses, some tilting the glasses back on top of their head.  We waited till the water and ice were delivered then off we went up the Rio Negro. So our start was rough but with pleasant weather like today I know I will enjoy this voyage.

This thing with Carlos is a darkly humorous episode in my travels.  Carlos is trying to prevent Zamora from striking out on his own.  It clouded this trip because Zamora continues to dwell on the things Carlos might do to him—(or me!)  Actually I see the excitement of a beginning of Zamora’s tours and hope that he’ll tough it out against the odds and succeed. 

I used a scopolamine patch to steady my nerves and stomach while on the boat.  Its amazing—I’m on the Amazon!   The ride in Disneyland isn’t too far off with the color of the water but there are few animals to see except of the flying kind.  There is an odor to the river; a slightly musty, leathery aroma.  The water is the color of café au lait and I have not seen any creatures abiding within the brown river except a large family of silvery small fish that lurch forward with the boat endeavoring to stay in the cool `shadow of the boat.
 
After an hour we motored past the convergence of the Salimoes and Negro Rivers.  The vegetation on both sides is beautiful and lush but other than livestock, there is little animal life to be seen.   Along the Northern bank there are many small shacks made of anything that is water resistant, especially wood or tin. 

All of the houses were on stilts jutting more than three feet above the current water level.  Important note: this is high water season. The usual scene in front of each hut included a woman washing clothes, babies, or vegetables on a tiny, frail dock no bigger than three feet wide and two feet deep.  A boat was moored somewhere out front. Each had a cow, usually three or four; and a few scrawny mongrel dogs.  A low, boxlike shack for storage, always barefoot children.   I saw none that were adolescent.  All were less than ten years old. 

It’s one o’clock and the cook is frying rice mixed with small bits of vegetables.  I smell that there are lots of onions in the mix.  With the rice he serves two whole fish that were split and gutted, pan-fried then pieced together for the presentation. I ate alone on the deck in the warm afternoon.  I notice dark clouds are accumulating.  To this point in my trip the one or two inches of rain each day  haven’t stopped us from doing anything because it has not rain