Ed's Gone South

Latest from the Driver's Seat

Current Location: Pucon, Chile (500 miles south of Santiago)
Miles from Home: 20,653
Days on the Road: 315

With the entire southern cone of Chile and Argentina under a bone chilling torrent for the next few months, I'll soon be changing directions and heading to Buenos Aires for a month or so. I'll have to take on the far south in January, once the weather has cleared.

In the meantime, here's a collection of tidbits from the last few months. I noticed I've only posted photos as of late, so here's a little more on my personal perspective from the driver's seat. Enjoy!

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Bolivia: One Gringo's Take

La Paz, Bolivia -- Unless American news outlets are as pathetic in their coverage of international issues as they normally are, you may have heard that all hell has broken loose in Bolivia. Although Bolivia has been one of the more stable democratic governments in South America for the last decade (so much so that there were well over 200 Peace Corps volunteers on site in Bolivia when I was there in July), it's apparent stability has completely unraveled as of late.

With over 60 protesters dead at the hands of national police in recent weeks, Bolivia is very likely back on the list of US State Department "do not go" countries. I think my Mom is very siked I got out just before the shit hit the fan.

To understand the situation in Bolivia, one has to look at the historical context and as a result, the national psyche. While I will not pretend to be an historian nor an expert on Bolivian society, three months there gave me a glint of understanding of what these people are about.

Since the arrival of the Spanish in the 16th century, Bolivia has been a nation that has watched its most valuable resources depleted to the benefit of outsiders. From the silver mines of Potosi to the tin mines of Oruro and Uyuni, Bolivias precious metals have historically been sacked and raided by outside interests. Where the government has been able to wage a levy on the exports, the percentages are so meager that little benefit is noted by the average person.

During the 19th century, Bolivia's land area was reduced by one half. While the governments in La Paz and Sucre fought amongst themselves for power each of its neighboring countries stole huge chunks of land and resources from the Bolivians. The "run on the Bolivian land bank" came to a head at the end of the 1800's in the War of the Pacific where Bolivia lost its only access to the sea to Chile. Since that time, Chile has been Public Enemy number one.

Part of Bolivia's knack for getting screwed over by everyone has to do with the complete chaos that has been it's federal government since "independence" in 1840-something. My guidebook says that Bolivia holds the Guiness record for the most coups and changes in heads of state in 100 years...something like 147. It's also rated as either the first or second most corrupt nation in the world. These are not records most Bolivians are terribly proud of, I believe.

It's corruption is so pervasive that even enormous highway building projects get halted mid-stream because half of the money that was set aside turns up missing. Of one can look at examples like Aiquile, a central Bolivian village that was razed by an earthquake in the mid-nineties. Millions in international aide flooded into the country within the year, and most of it was siphoned off as it trickled down through a series of sticky government fingers (including the president's) before reaching Aiquile. It's another reason 97% of Bolivia remains unpaved. It's not there's no money; it's just vanishes before reaching its intended destination.

Despite its notable position in the world's books of records and ratings, however, the Bolivian people are not blind and stupid. They know the score and they know they've been screwed by their own leaders for centuries. Most of the worst hands that have been dealt to the Bolivian people have come from their own government.

That is why the recent unrest is not surprising at all. Faced with the exploitation and cheap exportation of one of their last remaining natural resources, natural gas, the Bolivian people have taken to the streets. Now, I should also note that the Bolivian people are the most trigger-happy as far as public demonstrations go that I have ever seen. But with such a long history of being royally screwed, I guess they have a lot to protest.

The protests would perhaps not have been so fervent if the factoid had not been released that the natural gas is going to be sold to the U.S at a cheaper rate than the average farmer pays to buy the gas himself. To add insult to injury, there is one proposal to export the gas through a Chilean port that once belonged to Bolivia. Worse still is that all of this is being proposed by a president who is a millionare businessman elected with barely 22% of the national vote and who speaks with a "gringo" accent because he was raised in California.

So, ask yourself: If you were a Bolivian faced with the cheap exportation of the only remaining natural resource that could provide any benefit to your otherwise compeletly screwed nation through the port of your sworn enemy by a rich president who speaks with a worse gringo accent than I do, wouldn't you take to the streets to throw a few rocks at soldiers? Shit, I would.

ED'S NOTE: Since writing this, the President stepped down, the strikes stopped, and things returned to their twisted bizarre normal state of affairs in Bolivia. We'll see...

Shoeshine Kids

Everywhere, Latin America -- "We are the shoeshiners. We work so we can go to school, so we can eat, and so we can live. We don't want to beg, so we must work. Thank you for buying our book of jokes and stories. Have a nice day."

This is paraphrased from page one of an eight page photocopied booklet the shoeshine boys in Sucre, Bolivia were selling when I first got there in June. The handscrawled pamphlet of illegible hand-written jokes and deranged drawings was being hawked by a few especially entrepenurial kids for $.15. Noting the creativity in the project, I bought one.

For most tourists, including myself, the shoeshine kids from Mexico to Peru are a menace. They roam the plazas in swarms, running to be the first to proposition the recently seated gringo for a five minute shine hoping for a tip of 10 to 15 cents. The more you say no, the more they say yes. They whine and cry and say they are hungry before running off with their one peso for an ice cream. They wear the dirtiest clothes they can to inspire sympathy and guilt, and tell horrid tales of their lives on the street, working to buy books for school, living in orphanages, and getting beat by their parents, if they have them. They approach you at all hours in all places. Sitting on the bike at a redlight. Standing in the market buying a fruit salad. At a table inside a restuarant. While I'm stuck on the side of the road trying to fix something wrong with the bike. You name the most inopportune of moments, and they are there to ask if you want your shoes shined.

But, despite the games and the cons, it's hard not to feel sorry for them. At the end of the day, they are still just kids trying to make a dime.

In La Paz, the shoeshine boys all wear ski-masks. It's a little eerie for sure. One said it was because it's cold. Another: so they don't get showpolish on their face. Yet another admitted it was because they were all high school students and didn't want other kids to recognize them as shoeshiners. It's not the best line of work to be in, I suppose.

Despite the pity they all endear so well, after a while I grew cold to their antics. After twenty minutes of being hastled by a band of them in Sucre one day, I thought about making t-shirts to sell to other gringos that simply say across the front in bold type: NO LUSTRE, GRACIAS! (NO SHINE, THANK YOU!) At first I growled and snarled at them. Later, I just wouldn't look at them as I shook my head slowly. But despite my varied strategies of resistence, their patience was greater than mine in most cases. They would sit at my feet, whining "ya, pues!" (yeah, c´mon) for half an hour if they had to, until in many cases I got up and walked off the plaza. You also have to realize that my tall black leather boots are a shoeshiner's wetdream. All that dirty leather just BEGGING to be cleaned and shined. And, of course, for big boots you can charge double!

As I think about those kids and others I've met along the way, I do feel the empathy for them they try so hard to evoke. Many of them DO live in orphages, they DO live off their earnings, they DON'T have better clothes to wear, and the gringos ARE the most lucrative section of the market to hawk. I know some tourists who have given the kids US$5 for one shine. When they normally make less than $1 a day, that's like hitting the jackpot. To one kid, I offered to buy him a book that I would teach him to read with if he shined my shoes. He wanted the book, but only so he could sell it, or so he told me.

The amazing thing about some of these kids is their sense of humor and love of life. Even though some have the hardest lives imaginable (save working in a mine at eight years old like some do in Potosi) they maintain a smile and a sense of humor. They run about the plazas making a game out of hawking to the gringos, trying to sell with their charm since no one really wants their shoes shined once a day.

In Cusco, I met one kid who was different. His sadness seemed deeper, and his manner less refined. He took no as an answer, which is a rare thing in this part of the world. As I talked to him, I learned he was another orphan living in communal housing with other kids his age. They had to pay for their accomodation, and thus hit the streets every night after school for four hours to hustle the tourists for shines and tips. The cops chased them off the plaza every hour or so, as public solicitation is actually a crime in Cusco (the owners of the high end stores and restuarants lobbied to shut down all street selling and solicitation within four blocks of the plaza). One day he even asked me to buy him some new clothes.

Long story short, after straight five days of saying no to the kid everyday, I decide one morning that if I saw him, I would sit down and let him give me a shine. Sure enough, I saw him the first time I crossed the plaza that day. He gestures to me to give me a shine quite pathetically assuming I will say no. When I sit down on the bench to my side and gave him a nod, he nearly jumps out of his skin and runs over.

Within a minute he has the boots unlaced and is meticulously cleaning every knook and cranny. A crowd of other boys gather to watch, as there are not many boots being cleaned on the plaza in Cusco and once a "willing" gringo is spotted they are all hoping to be next. Noting the commotion, a cop comes by to break the scene up and kick my little shiner off the plaza. I rebuke him in my best Spanish and ask him to let the kid finish his work as I've already paid for it. He gives me a polite bow at the waist and backs away like a butler. God, I love Cusco.

When the kid is finished, he asks for one Sol, about $.35. One friend elbows him in the gut and says, "Ten Soles!" giving him that "you idiot" look. I take two soles out of my pocket and give them to him.

Later, I find that the best strategy to avoid having all the kids hastle you for a shine is to have freshly shined boots. Well, that lasted for a day at least... But, then again, a few pesos now and again isn't too much too ask, now is it?

Behind Blue Eyes

Arica, Chile -- On my first evening in Chile, I sat at a street side cafe slowly sipping at a Cappuchino in the fading glow of twilight in the pedestrian strip of downtown Arica. The wafts of sea air blowing in off the sea slowly soaked into my parched soul after months on the dry and cold altiplano of Bolivia and Peru.

Although my Cap was less than satisfying (one of those black coffee with whipped cream on top varieties), I was perfectly content just watching the night drift past me. Good looking couples sauntered by slowly, window shopping arm and arm, and freckle-nosed children lapped furiously at melting ice cream cones that were going faster down their forearms that into their mouths.

At one point, a good looking young blond boy of 5 or 6 approached my table with his hand out and asked for a "monedita" or a few coins. I found myself mildly confused and dumbfounded. As is my custom, I shook my head and patted his as I said, "Lo siento, pero no hay" (I'm sorry, but I don't have any.) Someone told me long ago that even the children's organizations discourage giving to street kids as most of them are working for neglectful, alcoholic parents, or will just become accustomed to begging and will never learn to read, write, or become an "asset to society," whatever that means.

But there was something about saying no to this blond kid that pained me more than usual, and with that, I had to face my own inherent racism. White kids don't beg. They have parents with jobs and live in houses in the suburbs. At least in most parts of Central and South America -- and certainly in all of the U.S. It's the dark kids that have it rough. They are the ones living in the projects or on the street. They are the ones so different from me that I find it easier to say no to them. Show me a kid that could be my nephew and I'm stuck, confused.

I found it interesting how in that one moment, I was faced with many of my own preconceptions of race and privilege. Through most of this 10 month odyssey, I have been so obviously "the other." The rich, white guy riding into town on a high horse -- the Lone Ranger, a sterotypical symbol of American freedom and affluence. On vacation for a year. Spending more in a month than most folks I meet make in a year to feed an entire family. But because I am so obviously different (or perhaps they are so different from me) I find the constant need to politely say "No" to everyone, begging kids and knickknack sellers alike, to be easier. (It's interesting to note that in Cusco the restuarants and travel agencies have learned this, and have employed westerners to represent them on the street. You are less likely to say no out of hand to some white english speaker than your run of the mill local.)

And when I meet a white kid begging on the street just like all the little dark ones I've met to date, I wonder what went wrong. With the rest, their poverty is a given, but with this one child who could be my blood, his privilege and right to a warm bed is instinctively presumed.

No, in the end despite my white guilt and confused sense of allegiance I didn't give him anything. But he did go on to other tables where dark Chileans gave him a few cents, and my process of growth and learning on this year long journey into the heart of my own darkness went one level deeper.

Pastel Panoramas

Atacama Desert, Chile -- There are few places so extreme as the Atacama Desert of northern Chile. It is literally one of the driest tracts of land on earth. Indeed, it has NEVER rained in some places, while it literally abuts an ocean on one side and a snow-capped mountain range on the other.

Even though I see no sea, nor even a blade of grass in any direction, I can feel the moist ocean air as I wind along Chile's sinuous Pacific Coast Highway 5. Cresting the passes between the deep coastal canyons, the morning air is crisp and bites into my thin jacket.

Dropping down into the valleys, I feel an even cooler rush of air coming in off the sea. As the morning sun heats up the barren desert interior, the air rises sucking more cool air in off the frigid coastal waters. On the valley bottom, the gusts are strong enough to blow me into the left lane; luckily, this lonely stretch of road has little in the way of traffic.

Dropping into the desert as I head south from Arequipa, Peru, the landscape takes on other worldly shapes and colors. Dark crimson sands fall in fine lines down the silver and light blue hillslopes as different layers of sediment are slowly eroded. There are no hard edges here, just sensuous curves and subtle changes in color and hue. If Monet could create a desert landscape, this would be it.

Further south, the land relents to the constant stare of the harsh tropical sun. The hills subside and the colors wash away into a monochrome of sahara tan. The road cuts a swath of black into the horizon, and everything is still. I stop to drink some water at one point and feel like I could be on the set of some surreal Johnny Depp film, the evil noonday sun slowly driving him into a fit of peyote induced hysterics.

I drive on hoping to arrive at the coastal oasis of Iquique to purchase new rear shoes for my might steed before sunset. As I approach the coast, I feel the subtle kiss of the moist ocean breezes once again. Cresting an enormous dune, the sea comes into view and I look down towards the out of place bustle of busy Iquique far below. Nestled within a half cresent of 400m red dunes, Iquique is where it is because it has to be. There are few other areas of flat land abutting the water on this long, jagged coastline of northern Chile.

After I have El Cab reshoed, I head down to the water's edge at sunset. The high, red dunes are set ablaze in the late afternoon sun, and the crusty gray sand flattens slowly under my curling toes.

Day of Diversity

Paso de Jama, somewhere between Chile and Argentina -- Few days on my ten month journey have allowed me to be privy to such a variety of land and vegetation as today. Passing over the high Andes pass of Jama between Chile and Argentina, the 4,000-plus meter up and down change in elevation takes through more distinct climatic and vegetative zones than I can truly note. It was like going from southern New Mexico to southen Utah, to Nevada and down into Florida all in one day.

Starting about before 9 AM in San Pedro de Atacama, I am in the middle of the eastern Atacama Desert. The road quickly rises in barely 100 miles from 2,300 meter to over 4,400. Jagged erosional landforms and desert vegetation give way to high altiplano mountains and tundra-like shrubs. The auburn grasses covering the rounded hillsides glow in the rising morning sun.

At noon, I hit the Argentina border. The pavement ends and the "fun" begins. Two hundred miles of sand and potholes separate me from the next town of any note. In the meantime, I blow out another shock, and nearly eat it more times than I can count in the deep ruts and loose gravel.

For most of the afternoon, the landscape maintains that barren 4,000 meter altiplano charm. A few llama and alpaca try their best to beat me playing chicken in the middle of the road, only to run right in front of me before taking off.

After refueling at the altiplano oasis of Susquey (and nearly getting screwed out of $15 changing money with one of the first Argentines I met -- GREAT first impression...) , I begin the decent into Argentina's northern interior. First, I pass yet another salt flat and stop for a spin on the endless white expanse.

As the decent continues, the altiplano breaks into steep sinuous canyons. Dropping in, the road winds down through steep red rock walls and intricately eroded layers of sediment. Huge cacti reminiscent of Arizona's saguaro variety stare down from high on the canyon's edge.

Arriving at the valley floor, the harsh desert landscape bottom gives way to a lush green subtropical atmosphere. Tall trees covered in hanging vines and spiney bromeliads arch over the highway, and vast fields of green crops stretch off to the other side of the valley.

It starts raining at nightfall as I pull into Jujuy, one of the larger towns in northern Argentina. The night is warm and moist, but not wet like the tropics. The lush greenery on all sides belies the fact that I'm still in a desert landscape.

Huevos al Horno

Villarica, Chile -- Heading south into the Chilean Lake District, the weather gets proportionately worse as the scenery improves. As I write this, there is 12" of water in the street outside the internet cafe. Blowing in off the Pacific, southern Chile is blessed every spring with gale winds, torerntial downpours, and freezing temperatures. I knew this. I'm just too stupid not to go head long into it.

After sleeping out in the open in my down sleeping bag and bivvy sac for the night, I get up JUST as the clouds roll in for the day's down pour. A drop hits my cheek two second after I open my eyes. For once, I have a little luck.

Heading out by nine, my aim is to arrive as what was purported to be a fabulous hostel four hours south in Pucón. There's a great dirt road track between here and there that hugs the mountains, so with a fellow German biker I met in Santiago, we're off.

By lunch, I am certifiably frozen. The cold blowing rain is seeping into my leather pants, and ever since my windscreen broke in Bolivia, I take all the force of the coldest of winds right in the chest.

We stop for a soup and coffee at a little cafe along the way. The chicken leg served with my soup is harder than oak. "Pollo de Campo" the woman says -- Country Chicken. "We like it better than that soft store bought stuff." Yeah...

As we step out to continue on, I see the all to familar pool of oil under the tail of my bike. After 2,000 miles, the newly rebuilt shock has blown again. That's three times for those of you keeping count.

My friend and I split up as he continues on the dirt track, and I spin off on black top to the highway. We'll meet up in Pucon for dinner and go to the hostel.

By the time I arrive in Villarica, 15 miles west of Pucon, I'm worse than frozen, I'm hypothermic. My lips are blue, my body shivering, and I've lost the ability to speak properly. I stop in a bakerty for some coffee and warm bread.

My shivering hands spill coffee all over the floor mixing with the pool of water that has run off my jacket and pants. After ten minutes, I'm still shivering, and I ask to go into the back to stand near the oven.

After some hesitation, the baker allows me through the door into the back, and I plaster myself to the door of the oven. It's heat slowly seeps in through my layers, and bit by bit, the shivering slows. After ten minutes, I'm still not back to room tempurature. The baker asks me how I am, and I say I'm getting warmer, but i can seem to warm up "down here," as I motion to my croch. All the water that hit smy chest as I ride, flows down the jacket and literally pools on my balls. I tell him I have "huevos helados" - frozen balls.

Noting the dire state of the situation, the baker gives me another option. He leads me to another door and opens it. A gust of blistering hot air comes out as he motions me in. It's the oven they use to make the dough rise, and it's just slightly hotter than your average sauna.

I get in and he closes the door with a sinister laugh. I walk around among the racks of raw dough for a few minutes in sheer bliss. Even my huevos are warming up some.

After five minutes, he opens the door and asks how the Huevos al Horno (Roasted Balls) are doing. I just smile blissfully and say, "Very well, thanks. Very well."

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Photos --Peru by the Pound

Current Location: Cordoba, Argentina (and you thought I was still stuck in Cusco!)
Miles from Home: 18,623
Days on the Road: 303 (10 months tomorrow)

First, I'll share the quite funny and quite surprising news. Forbes.com magazine wrote me for an interview a few weeks back and said they had selected edsgonesouth.com as one of the top travel blogs out there. Click here to see their article. Then click on "Travel Blogs" and let the thing run. Mine is number 3!! I've gotten random messages from as far away as Perth, Austrailia commenting on the site! Go figure...

Second, I sadly report that El Cab has a bit of a limp again. The *brand new* shock that I waited in La Paz three weeks for has already called in sick after only 3,000 miles, so I'm camping out in Cordoba to see what miracles the local techs can do for me. Guess going nearly airborne over a pothole on the dirt/sand/gravel track into Argentina from San Pedro de Atacama, Chile was not a good idea.

Once I've got the damn thing fixed I'm taking the express down south. My aim is to loop down and back within a month, but it's looking tight already. And as this just might be the most beautiful part of the entire journey, I´ll probably want to take more time. We'll see...

Hope you enjoy a few pics from my three weeks in Peru. It was certainly not enough for such a rich and wonderful place, but after four months between Bolivia and Peru, I was ready to get out of the Altiplano and start heading SOUTH again! This is EdsGoneSOUTH, afterall...

Cusco and Machu Picchu

My guidebook says that Cusco is the HUB of gringo travel in South America. Judging by the immaculate plaza, the hundreds of tourism agencies, the gaggles of resuaranteers literally dragging people into their overpriced establishments, and the THOUSANDS of gringos festooned in zip-off-leg pants, quick dry shirts with pit vents and brand new hiking boots, I think that moniker just might fit.

One instantly comes to appreciate the spotless condition of the main plaza. If only Santa Fe could get it's act together like the municipality of Cusco. All the cops smile and ask if you need help, and even the clock on the side of Cathedral works.

When the Spanish arrived in the 1500's to rob the new world of all it's gold and silver, Cusco was the capital of the Incan Empire. Over 100,000 people lived in the bustling city, and they reigned over an area reaching as far north and south as modern-day Colombia and Chile. The environs of the city are to this day laden with incredible ruins that demonstrate the sophistication of the Incans understanding of engineering, astronomy, and agriculture.

Throughout the city and in the ruins surrounding town are examples of the Incans' intricate building techniques. The Incans used irregularly shaped stones, some as large as small houses weighing over 20 tons, to construct the foundations and walls of many of their structures. The incredible feat is that while all the stones are of different shapes and sizes, they all fit together perfectly like an enormous jigsaw puzzle. It's literally impossible to fit even a knife blade between the stones. They used no mortar at all, and there were no beasts of burden in the Americas at that time to assist with moving the huge slabs.

When they arrived, the Spanish dismantled most of the buildings and walls and constructed their cathedrals on their foundations. They broke down the perfectly hewn stones into smaller, more manageable pieces to build other structures. Most of the Incan walls that were left intact by the Spanish still stand, whereas entire sections of the city constructed after the Spanish conquest have been razed by earthquakes time and again and rebuilt. Can you say "Message from the Gods?"

THE Photo. Everyone who visits Machu Picchu needs at least one copy of "THE" photo -- the one donning the cover of every Peru tourism brochure the world over. I got mine just a few minutes after sunrise...along with three hundred other people.

Within the ruins at Machu Pîcchu are what archaeologists believe to be ancient temples and rooms for special ceremonies.

Along with holy spaces, Machu Picchu also has examples of typical Incan dwellings left almost entirely intact, save the thatch roof.

The Incans even figured out indoor plumbing in some cases, using aquaducts and smaller stone channels to distribute water throughout the city.

If you use your imagination and squint your eyes to blur your vision, you can almost imagine the gaggles of tourists sauntering about as bands of Incans going about their day.

The entire complex at Machu Picchu was been reconstructed to a large extent. This photo shows an "unrestored" piece in the lower right.

Along with "THE" photo of Machu Picchu as a whole, there's also "THE" place to have your portrait taken in front of the ruins.

On the way back to Cusco from MP, I stopped in Las Salinas, a small village where since the Incan times local people have collected salt by evaporating the salty spring water in small pools along the hillside.

Not being one to shy away from hardwork (!) I offered to help collect some salt for a little while. I must say that my feet had never felt so silky smooth before as after I got out of the salty quagmire.

Whitewater on the Rio Apurimac

The Rio Apurimac is one of the most beautiful and potentially dangerous rivers in South America. With an average elevation loss of 10 m/km it's more like you're falling down the river than floating down it. In a three day trip we saw countless Class IV rapids, over ten Class V, and a few Class VI. Of that, there were FIVE portages -- that's when you carry, push and pull the boat around the rapids because they are so dangerous or literally impassable.

Even on such an intimidating river, the late afternoon light has a pleasantly calming effect.

After the Irish girls we went with kept us up singing folks songs from the ol´Sod in four part harmony around the fire til 1 AM making fools of us with their stash of rum and cheap wine, my Swiss friend Martin and I had a bit of a rough morning.

Although the rest of the group had to walk most the biggest of the rapids, the onwer/guide took a liking to me and asked me to help him boat a few of them. This Class V chute nearly ripped my arm out of the socket as we blasted through.

At one portage that our guide, Willy, asked me to run with him, I was surprised to learn half way through the rapid that I was alone in the boat. Willy fell out at the top of the rapid and I had to navigate solo for the rest. I eddied out (yes, that's a real word!) at the bottom and looked for Willy. He swam over to the boat and we crossed in hurry...the gear boat had flipped and all of our food was quickly washing down stream.

As I said, Willy took a liking to me. So much so that he invited me to come along for another three day trip as a "guide" of sorts. That basically meant "kitchen bitch," but I wasn't complaining -- free river trips are free river trips. With the next crew, a troop of five Belgian guys, we stopped to go surfing at one of the better holes on the river.

Going Deep in Colca Canyon

Purportedly the deepest canyon in the world, Colca Canyon in southern Peru is much like the Grand Canyon, but twice the depth and with half the views. The most interesting aspect of Colca is the chance to see condors, of which there are VERY FEW left in the wild in North America. Although other travelers reported seeing six or seven, and some just a few meters overhead, I saw two, and at half a mile. Luck o´the Irish, I guess...

Although I went solo for the hike, I used the info at a few travel agencies to plan it out. I had planned to do the three day package trip along the bottom and back up, but it turned out that the three day version was just a slow version of the two day...just an excuse to keep you longer and charge you more, I guess. The whole thing was less than eight hours of hiking total.

There are about five or six small communities down in the part of canyon I was trekking in, and ALL of them are supplied via mule. Entire schools and churches have been built in the narrow canyon with supplies brought in on mule trains, that is if they can't be made/found on site.

The only church at the bottom of Colca.

On the Road...

Here's a sampling of some of other random shots from the road.

El Cabroncito Gets High. Although I've been quite a bit higher on foot, this is highest the bike and I have been together -- 4,910 m, or 16,200 ft. That's over a 1/4 mile higher than Long's Peak in Colorado. It's the pass between Arequipa and Colca Canyon.

Easy mapping. Seems the Peruvians couldn't figure out the contours of the land from photos and surveys to make their maps, so they carved out the contours ahead of time with bulldozers. And we thought WE had a lot of incursions on the land to deal with in New Mexico!!

Although the one I ate was a bit cuter than these mummified versions, Cuy, or Guinea Pig, is a deliacy in many parts of the high Andes. A little sweeter than squirrel but less greasy than possum, Cuy is a culinary experience not to be missed while in Peru.

You know you are in the Andes with you see "Llama Crossing" signs.

The day we took out from the second trip on the Apurimac, we were surprised when the shuttle never showed up. Turns out the entire country was shut down in a general strike. When the shuttle finally did show, it was covered in oil and pocks from stones than had been hurled at it by protesters annoyed that every sector BUT the tourism industry was taking part in the strike. This tree across the road was part of the residuals I found en route to Arequipa from Cusco the following day.

It's kind of scary...the more I travel, the more I start looking like Jeff Widen! Sorry, Jefe, no offense... ;)

And for a final chuckle, I thought this Swedish lumberjack, Sven, I met in Juliaca, Peru bore a striking resemblance to me, don't you think?

More from northern Chile and Argentina in the next installment...