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Lake Titicaca, oh Lake Titicaca
The much heralded festival of Inti Raymi came and went as we bypassed the crowded, tourist-ridden street festivals of Cusco to pander to our liquid needs. In fact, a bulk of our time during those three very lazy days succeeding the Inca Trail was spent either relaxing by the TV in our very comfortable rooms at the Hostal Tika Wasi, or exploring the culinary delights of the city. Our quest for food took us from international themed cafes to ten sole (four dollar), five-course eateries, and finally to paradise itself - the beautiful Fallen Angel, where the most tender, juicy steaks are accompanied by an extraordinary selection of sauces, buttered rosti and amazing cocktails. Itchy feet were already beginning to take hold as the time came to move on southwards to the lakeside town of Puno. As always, our bus journey was eye-opening in its display of depressingly littered slums amongst the perennially beautiful Andean skyline. Even so, any desire for motion was quickly put to rest by the uncomfortable seven-hour trip over bumpy roads, and at a horrid altitude that had me gasping for air at our 4800 meter peak. Puno itself is small, and at first glance, seems a lot less driven by tourism than its reputation suggests. Located by Lake Titicaca, the city sits at the oxygen-deprived altitude of 3800 meters, which, physical fitness aside, does not make for easy walking. Thankfully, the town is serviced by an abundance of motor-taxis, which afforded a surprising amount of amusement to Joel, Jim and myself. Who needs maturity when you're hooning past other members of your tour group in a tiny motorcycle- or bicycle- pulled carriage!  Boating out across the lake, we spent a night at a homestay on Taquille Island. The journey was long, owing to our snail's pace, but afforded the most spectacular views. Never have I seen so many shades of blue as when I witnessed calm blue waters meld into clear sky. Here was the end of the world; absolute freedom, and I would have lept off our vessel's top deck if not for the speck of common sense still left in my being ... and some aversion against being a pain to the tour group. We were taken to the floating Uros islands, built on about a meter of reed roots and another meter or so of threaded, dried reed stems. I found the islands wonderfully mattress-like in texture, and their inhabitants, friendly and accommodating. And it's easy to see why - tourism forms the very basis of economy for the Uros Indians, and with tradition as their main produce, it seems anything goes, from dressing in and hawking local garb, to training children to sing in a multitude of languages.  Once on Taquille Island, Joel, Jim, Ellie and I were allocated to a house run by a lovely middle-aged local woman named Amaselma. The house was basic but comfortable, with a metal outhouse for a toilet, and doors that came up to about eye-level - just perfect for walking into. A strenuous game of soccer was had by the boys against local men, after which the Gringo team was left puffing in as much cold air as their lungs could handle, and subsequently coughing their hearts out. The game had Jim so exhausted that he was forced to bed, missing dinner and a very amusing "Discoteqa", where all present were dressed in local get-up. As predicted, the traditional pink skirt on loan to me by our Peruvian-sized host mother came up short, reaching to about mid-thigh - a good look for sure!
Are you ready, boots?
It was a torturously mountainous 40-or-so kilometres of the Inca Trail, but with those four long days of sleeplessness, rage, vomiting, and unexpected need for pants now over and done with, the experience was definitely one to remember. Our odyssey began early in the morning of Tuesday, June 19th with a day tour of Urubamba Valley, which is also commonly known as the Sacred Valley. With two new local experts as guides, our group (sans Joel and John, who did a four-day trek in the Lares Valley instead) joined the hoardes of similarly-minded gringos in a pilgrimage of ruined Incan mansions, temples and burial sites. The slight over-caffeination of my morning coffees had me bouncing from ruin to ruin, leaving in my wake several failed attempts at creating my own little stone homage to the Incan gods. Our guides, Manuel and Paul, were knowledgable and opinionated, which made for one very good conversation in which Paul and I discussed the seeming universality of certain religious beliefs, despite historical and geographical contexts. The use of water in ancient Incan rituals, for example, was said to resound with the Christian belief in holy water.  We arrived exhausted at our very first campsite, km88, by nightfall, and were treated to a surprisingly good three-course dinner. Begged Jim to set up a mosquito net in our tent upon receiving a last-minute insect warning from our guides - not the best of ideas in hindsight, as it added a little too much warmth to our tent, which had been set up inside an insulating wood teepee. Sadly, the ideal tent temperature would not be achieved until the third night, and bad sleep plus too much walking certainly does not make for very happy campers. Fearing over-exertion, altitude sickness, or worse, Jim and I made a pact to go as slow as humanly possible from the very beginning of the trail on Wednesday morning. So we strolled at the very tail end of our 15-person tour group from sun-up (about 7am) to sun-down at about six that evening, stopping for food and drink, unhurried conversation with each other and randoms, and to gape at Incan ruins, and the most beautiful vistas of the Andes. Our same snail's pace was less successful on Thursday, when we lagged so far behind the group that we arrived about 90 minutes late to morning tea. Threatening the wrath of the group, Manuel pushed us forward in what was possibly the worst, most painful hour of the entire trip. Never had I been so annoyed at a tour group's need for conformity, and never have I been since. Despite the group's heavily voiced concerns of having to trek in the cold and dark after nightfall because of our delay, we arrived at our third campsite just after 4pm. Had a great two-hour-long nap before dinner, but I really don't think it warranted the physical struggle that led to us not enjoying what might have been more magnificent views on the trail. For the record, the trail itself is amazing. It's sandy and rocky at times, and a sub-tropical rainforest at others; some parts were so pristine and beautiful that they almost seemed to be an artificial imitation in some five-star resort. The trail is packed with tourists, but most are amicable, and chance meetings with similarly exhausted groups can make for some very pleasant exchanges. The numerous porters racing down the trail were also friendly, although language difficulties left not much to our greetings besides the usual hellos, "estoy muy cansada" (i'm very tired), and admiration of Jim's music player which was hung off his belt to blast motivational pop music on our way. Never have I heard so much Fergie and Kylie. And I hope that I'll never have to again. The final day of the trek was fairly easy, and we managed to keep up with the group without even trying. We reached Macchu Picchu in the late afternoon, and were esctatic to emerge on the other side of the trail, where overpriced vendors, tourists, and buses (joy!) were rampant. I've said it before on this trip, and I'll say it again: I LOVE capitalism.  What money couldn't buy, unfortunately, was health. By the time we reached our final campsite (where I endured my second obscenity-streaming cold shower), Jim had been hit bad by a combination of our long-cultivated cold and a rather nasty bout of food poisoning. His sickness got so bad that we ended up having Manuel and a porter take us on a 20 minute walk to the nearby town of Aguas Caliente after dinner so we could have a proper sleep in hotel beds. Enjoyed an early morning walk around the town on my own the next morning, picking up pharmaceutical products and pairs of clean pants on the way back. Just about made it onto a 1.30pm train and bus ride back to Cusco, where we were happily reunited with Joel, hotel beds, and the reinvigorating wonders of hot showers.
March of the pigs
An early morning trip to Condor Cross proved to be a precursor of some overcrowded mountain walks to come. We steered clear of the tourist-ridden summit and stood guard at a less claustrophobic lookout, which afforded us views all the same of a couple of lazy condors starting their day. Condors were pretty, but not quite as impressively large as I'd hoped - a fact that perhaps could have been skewed by my lack of depth perception. Hm.  We returned to Arequipa with a mixed bag of amusement, annoyance and general confusion at the statements put forth by our local tour guide. The guide in question was a Peruvian man named Daniel, who made the wildest claims on the origination of communism (the Andean people, of course!), a widespread medical belief in the fundamental duality of men (orly?!), and that the Hindu theory of karma was in fact backed by Albert Einstein, who apparently said that every action has an equal and opposite reaction. Uh, how about no, Scott! As a small aside, I suspect this trip is making me slightly more catty than I normally am. The herd-like tendancies of our 17-person tour group can grate on my nerves, and I find myself turning to sarcasm, and at times, outright bitterness, to maintain some semblance of individuality. Back to the tour - a 4am wake up was made moderately more pleasant by an early night, and morning shower. Made it onto the tour bus last - as usual - but no more than two minutes behind schedule, I suspect. The plane ride to Cusco barely clocked in at 30 minutes, and is well the shortest plane trip I've ever had. Then to the hotel, where a packed breakfast room and some impatient tour companions left us, the unlucky last, sitting in the hotel lobby with no room, no breakfast, and in terribly foul moods, for a good hour. Left for an excellent, if expensive, breakfast at the nearby Jack's Cafe. Oh, the mood-lifting wonders of trading money for comfort. Capitalism, anyone?
The bedtime tragedy
As previously mentioned, the beautiful city of Arequipa was made more beautiful yet by our resort, where my two roommates, Katie and Ellie, kindly granted me my own floor in a tri-storey triple room. Chilled by the resort pool and got my tan on all morning, before hitting the town for a very good meal (stew and potatoes rock!), and a visit to the Museo Santury. The latter is an odd, although interesting, sort of museum, where a 500-year-old Incan mummy is housed. Respectfully dubbed "Juanita, the Ice Maiden", the mummy is believed to have been a 12- or 13-year-old girl who was sacrificed to gods of the volcano. An incredibly reverant air was settled firmly around the museum, with our guide adopting an attitude of near-worship of the girl. The Incans believed that she would join their gods upon sacrifice, and I suppose immortality has almost become the case for the girl in her modern day shrine. Joel, Jim and I then proceeded to get our booze on - hard. A bottle of Tacama red (average-tasting vino tinto) preceeded dinner, where Joel finally got his first taste of the Peruvian delicacy, Cuy (roasted guinea pig). The rest of the night was spent at a pretty cool rave-type club called Deja Vu, where many tequilla shots were shared between Ricardo and us three. Thus began a steep downhill, as a very intoxicated Joel thought he had been pickpocketed, and had Jim and I racing back to the club to find his wallet and camera, with only our broken Spanish and tipsy giggles as guides. When returned with Ricardo in tow, however, we found Joel huddled in his sleeping bag in the garden, and the items thought to be lost were found neatly placed beside Joel's bed. The real icing on the night's cake, however, was my inability to get into my beautiful room as the other girls had long gone to bed and shut the auto-locking door. Much sadness ensued as I took Jim's single bed, and Jim very kindly took to the floor. An 8am return to my luscious, unused double bed was followed by a quick shower, breakfast, and a torturous bus tour of the Colca Canyons. Beautiful and impressive as they may be, I found myself absolutely unable to cope with the pain of altitude sickness. By the time we hit the 5,000m peak, I was feverish, unable to breathe, and worse yet, unable to sleep as I would wake almost immediately, gasping for air. The boys were not much better off - it surely would have made a very amusing photo if any of us had been in the mood to smile. Thankfully, our hotel in Coperaque was very welcoming, and a delicious buffet lunch and dinner featured marinated meat and my favourite Peruvian soup - a chicken noodle sort of stew called Dieta de Pollo. The hotel is situated most perfectly in the Andean range, allowing for a lovely nap in a hammock overlooking the mountains. Joy! 
Dancing in the desert
A mid-day bus ride from Lima to Pisco took us past depressingly derelict slums, sand dunes, and general dry, dusty countryside. Our destination town is small, and frighteningly... local. There is a stark contrast between our hotel, on the "nice" two-or-so blocks of town, and the danger zone that surrounds. Upon alighting at our hotel, Ricardo ogave us free rein to explore, with the stern warning that we should not, under any circumstance, wander any farther down our street. Intimidated, most of the group ended up doing an obligatory circuit of the town square (Plaza de Armas), before returning to the hotel for some very good Pisco Sours. We left at the painfully early hour of 6.30am the next morning for a tour of the Ballestas Islands. Alas, a stubborn fog delayed the departure of our speedboat, and we remained in the smelly, foggy tourist trap of a dock for a good three hours. The boat trip itself was cool, if a little nauseating. Smells of bird poop and raw seafood were rife in the air, with choppy waters adding to the physical assault. We did manage to see sea lions, starfish, penguins, and what must have been thousands of birds flying in various formations. As an added bonus, no one got pooped on, which must have been a statistical miracle. We headed onwards to the sand dunes of the Atacama Desert, where we hooned around on dune buggies and I got to sandboard for the first time ever. Racing towards and down massive sand dunes made for an incredible adrenaline rush, and I was amazed to find that no one had sustained any injuries from sandboarding, especially after watching Jim tumble down the hill again, and again, and again. The night was spent drinking and dancing by a campfire in the desert, which made for an uncomfortably cold and sandy sleep, but afforded the most perfect view of the stars. Was very amused to watch the entire tour group and porters get down to the Village People's YMCA... I guess some things are universal. Sorta.  Dune buggying our way out of the desert the next morning, we headed on to a flying tour of the Nazca Lines, which were somewhat less impressive than I had anticipated. There is some controversy about the massive drawings in the sand, with speculations ranging from pre-Incan spiritual rituals, to alien visitations. I probably don't have the best judgement of size from a distance, so flying high over the lines in a Cessna plane reduced the lines in my mind to pre-school crayon drawings. My very first cold shower of the trip followed, resulting in a never-heard-before stream of vulgarities. The night was spent on a surprisingly comfortable overnight bus, which took us to the beautiful colonial city of Arequipa, where I was ecstatic to be put up in a resort with a pool, massive suite and double bed. As the night turned out, however, my double bed was not to be...
The tour begins
Peru is a land of extremes. Dusty clifftops are contrasted with lush, subtropical greenery. In the cities, the most glorious colonial masterpieces are interspersed with dilapidated shop fronts, and rooves are either intricately designed, or not there at all. Our tour kicked off in Peru's capital, Lima, where our streetfront room at the Hotel Kamana afforded us views aplenty of run down, roofless buildings. Worse of all was the constant sound of traffic, which went above and beyond the typical big-city hum or buzz, to become more of a cacophony of pain. Peruvian drivers throughout the country seem to use their horns as a form of casual communication in expressing friendliness, impatience, the availability of a taxi, existence, general boredom... god knows what else. At one point in the first evening, the beeping got so bad that it had Joel, Jim and I bolt upright in each of our beds, fearing war or worse, and swearing like there was no tomorrow. Fun times. Our second day in the country saw us joining our tour group for a bout of sightseeing and food, where we learned a little about our British tour companions, and a whole lot more about our Arequipan (Arequipa is a city in Peru) tour leader, Ricardo. Ricardo's perfect British accent added extra sting to his frankness: "I'd really like to try magic mushrooms!", and more amusing still, "I used to sniff glue, but then I realised it's bad for you."  Our amusement at Ricardo's frankness was, of course, compounded by our initial concern at the strict anti-drug policy originally outlined by the tour company. As it turned out, drugs (drogas) were only one of a few misrepresentations put forth by our friendly tour organisers at Madventurer. The group comprises of not 12, but 17 persons, ranging in age from late teens to mid-thirties - not 17 to 25 as suggested. A somewhat natural divide between the 19-year-old gap year kids (who have already completed 5-week volunteer projects together) and the older, vacationing couples has Joel, Jim and I caught oddly in between. Add a pinch of cultural differences (like our penchant for sarcasm and ignorance of Paddington bear) for a few rather stretched group conversations. Individually (away from the pack), though, people on our tour are generally friendly, helpful... and painfully punctual. Back to our time in Lima: here's a hypothetical. You're faced with two bars, situated side-by-side in an unfamiliar city. The left-most bar is brightly lit, and its clear glass doors treat onlookers to the merry scene of couples singing karaoke and dancing. The entrance to the right-most bar is dark, with an imposing bouncer-type man standing guard by a descending stairwell. Which bar do you enter? Which bar does Jim enter? Tinted doors gave way to a dimly lit bar, where scantily-clad girls sat individually, nursing seemingly bottomless drinks. It took me about half a beer - and the boys even less - to figure that something wasn't quite right... Jim had taken us to a hooker bar! The night ended shortly after for us three, out of tired amusement, and anticipation of an early start the following day. Even so, I awoke ill - possibly from an unhappy reaction to my many samplings of Peru's national cocktail, Pisco Sour, the day before, and physical anguish made for the first of many uncomfortable, sleep-filled bus rides to come.
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