Global Nomad Travel

San Francisco Church, Lima

Sun, 27 Jun 2010 00:00:00 -0700

06/27/10

Six months in…

Boxie-boo did her morning happy sway, mimicking the dance of the sugarplum ferry after 16 pictures of beer. Bingo bang bang was in full motion. Her smile gleamed like a well-oiled pair of buttocks. We were stoked!

As a result of catching up on sleep, I woke up in a good mood, feeling a presumptious happiness, like a dog when a doorbell rings and thinks the visitors arrived for him. Nothing could have further from the truth, unless I said I toured a whale´s vagina…that would be farther from the truth.

I ate a banana for breakfast. This is important.

Gravity had made me a really down to Earth kind of guy, until a taxi driver pick-up put me back on the insane diet - I lost my mind, replaced by a photo of a duck robot. He laid a massive egg in my bootae that cracked with battery acid and entered my veins with a rage, while tickling with feathers. Giggidy. It turned out to be a confrontational morning, where even the flags at nearby hotels said nothing to each other, only waved.

The Pukhara Hostel called a taxi at an agreed price of 15 Sol to take us the San Francisco Church. We got in the cab and around the corner, the driver demanded 25 Sol. Looking back on another confrontational moment with a taxi, I realized I was being insensitive. I told the driver to stop being a stupid liar without considering how incredibly difficult that must have been for him. The result was us getting out of the taxi, then being stalked by the driver who had a peculiar look on his face, as if he was driving naked from the waist down.

We got in another taxi, 12 Sol later. I then realized had I told the driver to think before he spoke, I would have never heard a word from him again. I had enough rage for him that had I sat on a whoopie cushion, a chair would have exploded and everybody would have been fed scrambled duck eggs. I suppose, after six months traveling, taxi bullshit was no more fun than a party with hemmroids. Thinking of this moment, the yelling driver and post-drop-off stalking, even my inability to use emoticons properly got to me :).

My mood changed immediately when the second taxi stopped. It was as if the whole world was a mirage - the taxi driver dropped us off and asked for no more money. It was a twilight zone moment, right before we entered a church with 35,000 bodies.

For the rest of the story, please whistle the tune to X Files.

“Watch your head,” our guide said as we entered the catacomb (tomb). “We do not want 35,000 and one bodies.”

There was no funeral music, no tears, a sight beyond emotion. The walls were solitary mounds of brick, the ceiling low as we stood on unseen tombs. It was cold, a perpertual sight inbetween twilight, between life and death. The ceiling drooped in flickering lights, moving shadows, on a motionless landscape. With my head ducked down and an eerie chillness against my skin, it was impossible not to believe in ghosts.

With the smell of decay, we walked where the dead slumbered. It was a room of empty dreams, where unspoken souls whispered. The pathway was lined with bones, even deep wells filled with human skulls. My breaths felt stolen, my neck hairs raised and steps watched. I felt my bones crawling within my skin. Senses strong. The world outside was forgotten.

“This is so creepy,” Boxie-boo said, walking through a low passage way, dim-lit and cold, appearing to be the route of death himself. Human remains surrounded her on both sides, as she glanced down making eye contact with eyeless skulls.

“This place has to be haunted,” I said, surrounded by the dead. “This is really *beeped* up.”

No photos were allowed, but I managed to find one online that someone must have snuck from inside. The above link illustrates the art of death at San Francisco Church, using thigh bones and skulls to make a flower out of human bodies.

Surprise ending: You are not reading this. We are all in a mental hospital reading messages in Alaphabet Soup.

That´s all for now.

Thank you for visiting Page59.com.

The Huaca Pucllana Ruins, Lima

Sat, 26 Jun 2010 00:00:00 -0700

06/26/10

Taking off my shirt and dropping my pants (I see that I already have your full attention), I reached into my belly button and pulled a clump of lint the size of a small grape. I then thought of my readers and named the clump stalker McGee. Waiting for the shower to warm, I shivered enough that had I still be wearing pants, I would have been tempted to pee myself.

Our room was cold beyond the blankets, as in our experience, Peruvian hostels were not heated. This fact combined with no water pressure resulted in half my body burning, while goosebumps immediately formed where the lack of water missed. Half shivering and half burning, it was another hit of goat menopause.

In the shower, I had the provocative dance of a squirrel who confused his shadows for nuts: jerky and twitching, voice chirping and hands aimlessly flailing with soap, body spinning and trying not to cry, with my muscles tight and face scrunched, giving me an innate ability to be permanently constipated. The light gave me a shadow. The water gave me no nuts. The squirrel in me prepared for starvation.

I know what you are thinking - what a whining bitch - and you´re right.

It was in that very moment when the coldness near changed me into a woman, I realized I was beginning to miss those familiar comforts of home:

-a guaranteed good night´s sleep
-a warm shower with pressure
-knowing food would not give me diarrhea
-taking a dump without worrying abut stepping in poop or having to thow the toilet paper in a garbage can due to poor plumbing
-being treated as an equal and not a foreigner to be conned
-seen as a human being and not a white man with unlimited money who can buy everything
-paying the same price as locals without having to barter for 30 minutes
-etc.

Sorry, I needed to vent or the “laowai” in me, Chinese for foreigner, risked randomly biting people in public or refusing to wear clothes. Recently, I had begun to lose patience for many things: menus shoved in my face, salespeople grabbing my wrist, being stalked by honking taxi drivers or beggars gripping my pants. I needed a break. I said I would tell you what it is like to travel around the world, and sometimes, more than anything else, being constantly treated like a foreigner drove me near madness.

Venting over.

I cannot complain too much, or else you guys will forget how terrific I smell. It was a frustrating morning, admittedly over something I had dealt with many times before. All in all, I was glad we found a hostel to stay at in Lima. The night before we left Cusco, we received an email from the owner of the Albergue Miraflowers House telling us that our reservation was cancelled, less than a day´s notice. After hours of searching online, I managed to find one hostel with a private room for the day we landed, the Pukhara Hostel, in the neighbourhood I wanted of Miraflores.

After giving us some much needed rest, we headed out to the Huaca Pucllana, jumping in a taxi for 8 Sol.

Miraflores was a grimmy town, messy with faded painted and a sky of a perpetual fog that highlighted the bulky and grey architecture. Overcast and gritty, the buildings were stained with rusted air-conditioners and dusty satelitte dishes. Small homes were covered in metal bars with windows smoked stained. Haunting. Our driver made the sign of a cross while we passed a church, while I slouched, to keep my head from banging into the ceiling at intersection potholes.

Looking up at walls sprawling with grafitti, we passed packed vans with rusted wheel wells. Our driver turned, moving along a residential side street with some flowers and cacti plants, then pulled into a parking lot that appeared to be brown sand melted over black rocks. Bumping to a stop, I leaned forward to pull the sol from my wallet and banged my head.

For 10 sol each including an English guide, we entered the Huaca Pucllana ruins.

Inside a small gallery were ancient tools including stone to mould ceramics and a hair comb that appeared to be made of small nails wrapped in cloth. There were pots designed with shark symbols, figures created from bone and sewing needles made from cacti plants. We had entered the time of the Lima people, dating back 200-700 AD, well before the Incas. It was a strange sight, one with a massive crumble of an ancient pyramid, surrounded by modern buildings, both shrowded in the city´s winter grey.

The pyramid appeared to be a giant pile of books, faded into hardened dust, set up ladder-like towards the top, uneven and appearing fragile, able to disappear with a gust of wind. The Huaca Pucllana took 200 years to build and was once home to a perfected pyramid for religious purposes, administrative buildings and markets for trading. Our guide explained it was built using the “Bookshelf technique” to protect against seismic activity, allowing movement between the stacking enclopedia-sized shelves.

Archaelogists at the site had found the remains of food, fruit and vegetables in the temple for offerings to the gods, including human skulls for sacrifice. Since women represented fertility and children represented purity, the Limas sacrificed them for their godesses.

“There were women like governors and high priests,” our guide said. “This is why it was a martriachal society.”

“Sacrifice was not seen as punishment, but an honor.”

On top of the pyramid, our guide stood on dirt turned hard as stone. He pointed to holes where tree trunks were planted, alongside walls painted yellow, in an area to pay respect to their ancestors and praise their goddesses. Within the small holes, priests and followers placed offerings in area cracked in the shape of lightning bolts. The women priests would lead the people, paying their respects to the sea and moon. Looking down along the unbalanced bookshelf of brown, the bottom looked like receeding, ocean-front cliffs in low tide, stepping into a desert of sand. Up top, the female leaders would smash pottery with rocks as an offering, often after a customary meal of guinea pig - something Peruvians still eat today.

“You might find it weird to eat guinea pig,” our guide said, “but we find it weird other cultures keep them as pets.” I suppose in some countries, a Canadian pet store is a slaughter house, from stray dogs being hunted in China for their brains, to guinea pigs deep fried.

On this day, I also realized how few things excited us anymore. Seeing and learning about new things had become a daily activity. My boredom changed the moment I met one of the world´s ugliest dogs.

The site had Peruvian Hairless Dogs as pets, walking around with red blankets against their backs. With a few random red hairs and diseased-looking black skin, patchy and with scab-like red marks, Boxie-boo was afriad to go near them. I petted one once it stopped growling. It felt like worn leather with spikey hairs, similiar to an elephant.

“They say if you pet them they can cure things like arthritis,” he said. Boxie-boo was still unconvinced and was hiding behind me.

At night, we gave ourselves a rare treat since Africa - the enjoyment of cooking for ourselves. Back home, it is simply a routine and something to be done. Even grocery shopping had become enjoyable. When traveling, being able to make whatever you want - in our case, Boxie-boo´s steak recipe, corn and a giant salad - was one way for us to snap out of our travel negativity and continue. We were thankful the Pukhara Hostel, the first in since Johannesburg, had a kitchen we could use.

That´s all for now.

Thank you for visiting Page59.com.

Why Peru was the Last Stop?

Fri, 25 Jun 2010 00:00:00 -0700

06/25/10

On a flight back from Cusco to Lima, I decided to describe why I choose Peru to be our last stop on our around the world trip. In every single way, it was the perfect ending point for us.

Mesmerizing and mystifying, delicate and rash, spiritual and historical, Peru is one of the world’s most intriguing countries. At first thought, Peru conjured up an image of nightfall in the mountains, where the ancient ruins of Machu Picchu seemed to hold the light of the moon, leaving the rest of the world in its massive shadows. A ruin so old and rooted in the soil, it appeared as part of the mountain’s natural landscape. In this mysterious light, the country remained, for us, to be the best destination in South America – the land of the sun-worshipping Incas - sparking our imaginations constantly.

Energized with life and culture, and blessed with its charming blend of history and growing modernity, Peru was full of surprises. Besides the archaeological hotspots, Peru is home to a 2414 km of coastline, over half a million square kilometers of the Amazon rainforest and claims the world’s deepest canyon and highest passable lake. The country’s three regions – the desert coastline, tropical rainforest and the awe-inspiring Andes – combine Peru to be one of the most ecologically diverse countries in the world. We hope to return and see more.

The mountains were the heart of the country, pumping dozens of rivers through tropical rainforests, ending along the slender spine of the desert coastline. From up high, the impoverished indigenous people found refuge from the cities, some with whom we met on the Inca Trail, while the coast’s more affluent residents live in urbanized areas. The country was a cultural blend of mestizos, descendants of Spanish conquistadors, indigenous people, and African and Asian migrants, making Peru rich in music, dance, festivals and cuisine.

The Incas were daring engineers. They built mountain-top citadels and carved hillsides into vast farmlands, which were fed by water canals and drainage systems. The Incas followed the absolute power of their emperors for centuries and worshipped the moon, earth, mountains, rivers and most importantly, the revered Inti, Sun God, who nourished the earth and controlled the harvest.

For all its natural beauty and rich heritage, Peru has suffered a tragic past by the rifles of Spanish conquistadors in the 1500s. For centuries, the Inca people endured lengthy periods of political turmoil and bloodshed. Peruvian independence was achieved in 1821, bringing an end to Spain’s exploitation of Inca treasures, from gold and mineral deposits, to the slave labour of the indigenous people. Thankfully, much of the Incas structural marvels, culture and tradition survived, allowing us to witness the Incas innate ability to build in harmony with the environment.

Today, Peru is an electoral democracy with a 120-member, unicameral Congress elected every five years. The economy is dominated by fishing, mining, agriculture and tourism. The class structure was clear-cut with the indigenous people at the bottom and the mestizos at the top, with little middle class in between. While development continued to transform the capital of Lima, in many rustic sections of the country, indigenous people have managed to change their lifestyle very little over the past 400 years. The result was a country that offered a buzzing metropolitan - and the ability to travel back in time.

Peru was bursting with opportunities for unforgettable travel experiences and exploration. Our imaginations were left at home in a country legendary for lost temples tangled in shrubbery and vines, hiding their ancient treasures and dusty imperial tombs. Snowcapped mountains, volcanoes and the jaw-dropping terrain of the Amazon jungle made way for raging rivers, the prowl of pumas and the medicinal treatment of healing wizards. And while the diversity, at times, even overwhelmed the most affluent traveler, the tranquility of Peru remained – a country where locals always seemed to find time for a drink, a chance to take in the setting of a country that has laid claim to over 20,000 years of empires.

Fact File

-Peru shares borders with Ecuador and Colombia to the north, Brazil and Bolivia to the east, and Chile to the south. It is the third largest country in Latin America, encompassing 1,300,000 square kilometers.

-Peru has a population of 27,900,000. It has the largest indigenous population in South America. Approximately half of the population is indigenous and poor.

-The capital of Lima is home to 8 million people. One million people live in Arequipa, the second largest city. Other major cities include Trujillo, Piura, Iquitos, Cusco, Cajamarca, Puno and Ayacucho.

-Since independence in 1821, Peru has experienced alternating periods of civilian and military rule.

-The Amazon accounts for more than half of Peru’s territory and one half of the world’s jungles.

-There is a widespread belief among the young that worthwhile education can only be obtained overseas. As a result, more than 400,000 Peruvians leave the country each year, most between the ages of 15 and 29.

-There are approximately 3,000 festivals celebrated every year in Peru. Although most derive from the Christian calendar introduced by the Spanish, indigenous Andean beliefs are also celebrated.

-Peru has two distinct seasons – the wet and dry season. The wet season runs from December to April. The dry runs from May to October and is ideal for visiting most of Peru.

-Peru holds world records in highest diversity for birds (1,816 species), butterflies (3,532 species) and orchids (3,500 species). The country also has a huge number of mammals (462 species) and amphibians (379 species). There are at least 6,288 endemic species of plants and animals.

-The national dance is the mariner, which mimics the mating ritual of birds. A female dancer marks the beat with a white handkerchief held above her head, and shakes the folds of her skirt, while a suitor struts around her.

That´s all for now.

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Inti Raymi: The Festival of the Sun

Thu, 24 Jun 2010 00:00:00 -0700

06/24/10

Loudspeakers belted speeches in Spanish, as we walked towards the main square of Cusco, known in Inca times as Huacaypata - “The Warriors´ Square.” I later realized why. It was time for the packed crowds of Inti Raymi, the Inca celebration of the sun and the winter solstice.

The parade circled the square blocked off by police. Buildings were draped in massive Inca photos, the images of ancient priests. In an attempt to crazy-horse gallope before the beginning of the Inti Raymi Parade, I was only able to penguin waddle, still sore from the hike with the facial expression of a woman in labour. Thinking of this, I then wondered why men have nipples and some women have nostril hair.

We found Yamila, Fabienne and Victor in a section overlooking the square and joined them. The sound of marching began. Men chanting. Dressed in long, colourful gowns, soldiers passed by wielding shields and speers. Elderly Peruvian women as tall as my belly button, nestled under my arms like I was a giant and they were baby elephants. Their elbows began digging into my side and gazed at them with puppy dog eyes, wishing I had octopus hands to push them gently away. I stiffened my position, while women on both sides attempted to burp me with their eblows.

“I am being hit from all angles,” Boxie-boo yelped. She gave me a strange, enthusiastic look, the facial expression of old men after learning of the invention of Viagra. She then tightened her lips, pouted, looking ready to do her usual rabbit thump of anger.

Tourists were as sparse in this section as armpit hair on newborn babies. With most locals being small, my head was well-above the crowd, even more so than in places like China and Cambodia. Women with boards of jewellery tapped my shoulder, while locals chewed coca leaves, pushing into me. The sound of plastic twisting. People cheering. Dancers and soldiers passed through the square, some carrying golden chairs and what appeared to be an ancient mummy with its hand attached to its face, stray hairs dangling, old skin attached to visible bones. In every single way, I appeared distracted, but was sure to bury my wallet, before returning my hand into my pocket between photos - a habit born from traveling.

The wind belly-laughed with the sound of banging drums. Then silence, only the loudspeaker´s muffled words as the head priest held his arms up towards the sun. His soldiers dropped to their knees, colourful and in perfect unison. Their costumes resembled the card soldiers from Alice in Wonderland. A child was lifted onto a father´s shoulders, forcing Boxie-boo to elongate her neck and coil her sight in abnormal positions.

Post-photograph, I felt a hand brush my upper thigh. Then saw a man in his early 20s.

Adrenaline pumped through me, screaming into my bones, my smile smothered away, turning my face into the look of a disabled frog attempted to stalk flies. Ribbit, homie. I shook my head slowly, my forehead lined with wrinkles and my body leaned forward. I pointed at the man beside me as if my finger was a gun, my body visibly flexed in attack position, warning him I was willing and able to massage his brain with my forefinger up his nose. He lifted his hands in the surrender position and walked away. I imagined him tripping, falling face first into a pile of dog shit with his crotch slammed into a rock.

Legion after legion of soldiers - from red and yellow, to green and golden in dress - stayed in a respectful silence, bowing. The procession ended shortly after, the crowd dispercing. We caught a cab to the next Inca celebration site, finding packed crowds in the thousands.

Walking on route to Sacsayhuaman, salespeople were in full pursuit for the rare sight of foreigners. The roadway was lined with outhouses, women in decorative ponchos carrying baby sheep, dangling with bracelettes and shawls. Salespeople were selling everything from traditional clothing and small instruments, to bubble-makers and candy.

Most tourists paid anywhere from $100 to $150 U.S. for a tour of Inti Raymi. Our tour cost a few bucks for a taxi ride between sites, finding a viewing point on a hillside between the expensive seats, overlooking the entire parade.

We arrived at Sacsayhuaman early. It was built before the Inca Empire around 1100 AD, later expanded by the Incas. It was the official ceremony point for Inti Raymi, where flag runners lined the hillside, standing inbetween the massive rock walls of the Killke ruin. The opposing hillside was packed with locals, as most Peruvian people could not afford the $70 U.S. ticket price and the view was fine from above. Gathering in what appeared to over 100,000 onlookers, we awaited the emperor. He arrived, carried on a golden chair on the shoulders of his guards. When he raised his arms, the sun reflected off his gold medalions, causing the crowd to erupt with cheers.

The event had four different rituals, involving dancing and praising movements to worship the sun, all narrated by speeches in the native language of Quechuan. It ended when a black llama, most likely sedated, was symbolically sacrified. The sacrifice was simulated, no llama died, through the raising of organs that seemed hidden on the central rock structure, where the ancient priest screamed, elevated towards the crowds.

In all honesty, we were both very glad we did not pay the expensive cost of a tour and seats. The rituals at Sacsayhuaman were very similar to the square, easily visible and more entertaining to be viewed on the hillside from a local´s perspective. This should be the cardinal rule of any traveler - whenever safe and accessible, leave the shelter of your foreigner mindset and enter a society, as best you can, as a citizen of their culture, seeing their world from the inside out, instead of merely spectating from the outside in.

That´s all for now.

Thank you for visiting Page59.com.

After the Inca Trail

Wed, 23 Jun 2010 00:00:00 -0700

06/23/10

At 4:30 a.m., we entered the silent streets of Cusco, finally having returned from the Inca Trail. Sort of. We were hours late, a result of the train stalling twice and catching two buses. Again, Cusco Explorers did not live up to its contract. Instead of dropping each person off at their hostel/hotel, our driver booted a group of foreigners off the bus on a random street, in a town that we did not know our way around. After a 30-minute walk, lost, cold, legs stiff, with headaches from lack of sleep, we managed to find our hostel at 5 a.m. - and woke up later at noon.

Throughout the day, we accomplished nothing. I looked like someone´s great-aunt after three strokes had toddled me, my face unable to lift up into its normal position, appearing to be suffocating from my own clothing. I was foaming at the mouth with the thought of Cusco Explorers, my eyes bloodshot and red as if I had injected heroine directly into my eye. I enjoyed the afternoon no more than I would enjoy a diagnosis of penis shrinkage. Then I felt nothing. A sleep state. I found myself tempted to light my hair on fire and walk into the Cusco Explorer office. Look what you did to me?

Honesty reigns supreme for the Ribatron-don. When I do not get what is promised to me, especially in a written contract, a distaste enters my mouth that resembles monkey droppings. At night (above), while we walked around Cusco, my rage howled like a baby after being told he can never suck a nipple again.

Then the culture of Cusco invaded my ear drums, healing my soul.

Walking with the pace of a turtle with an oversized shell, the streets of Cusco were packed for pre-Inti Raymi celebrations. We inhaled the smell of popcorn and frying meat, passing through locals wearing colourful ponchos. Street performers spray-painted gold stood statue-still, only moving for drops of change. It was a Halloween-like scene with goblins and witches, the streets crafty with salespeople, guitarists and women tapping shoulders with wooden boxes selling chocolate bars to the gathering crowds.

Another parade had formed, its drum beat penetrating my skin and into my heart, fueling me with needed life. Firecrackers popped and echoed, turning the cobblestone into orange lightning. Trumpets all tuned differently blasted. Young mother´s backpacked their babies within their ponchos. The rainbow flag of Cusco swayed. Bronze instruments pointed upwards at the sky. It was a sight of moving music and colour, where we searched and bartered our way, in time, for an Inca massage - a must after the Inca Trail, costing 25 Soles per person for an hour and a half, about $9 Canadian.

We entered a room that smelt of hockey equipment, surrounded by draping red curtains and a red massage table. Solo flute music fluttered in the room. Paranoid about my camera and wallet, I placed them through the face hole to ensure I could always have them in view. My paranoia rang true, as later in the night, we met up with Fabienne who told us her camera had been pick pocketed. Fabienne, if you are reading this, email me and I will mail you a DVD of photos as promised.

The massage was just what we needed, starting from our head, releaving me of my exhaustion-caused headache.

“How you doing, babe?” I asked, through the swaying curtains. The festivals drums slightly penetrated the wall, the flutes smooth over top of a backdrop of rhythm.

“Ohh wahh ohhh wahh,” Boxie-boo responded, too relaxed to communicate properly, unless she confused me the ancestors of Fred Flintstone. It was yabba dabba do-errific.

While on the table, all my sore areas were concentrated on - neck, upper back, mid-back, arms and feet. When she began massaging my caves, pain shot up my legs and into my back. Painful at first from hiking. Then lessoned. I relaxed, possibly too much. After massaging my thighs, she pulled my arm over my back, massaging my tricep, before gripping my wrist and shaking, my hand flapping back and forth over my bootae. It was as if she was signalling I farted.

Boxie-boo continuously moaned, mixing caveman jibberish with the post-poop giggles of a baby. The party outside continuously creeped in with the backdrop of drums, a rhythm crawling in my skin as gentle hands kneeded into my muscle. I began to feel loose and flexible, as if one wrong step would result in my own foot slipping into my bumhole. Then they were finished, the world around us beaming, slowing time.

We treated ourselves to a dinner, a three-course meal for 20 Soles each, capping of the night watching the parades pass by, women swaying in circles and dancing, followed by drummers and blasting trumpets.

That´s all for now.

Thank you for visiting Page59.com.

Inca Trail: Day Four

Tue, 22 Jun 2010 00:00:00 -0700

06/22/10

They say it is the person with the shifty eyes you should watch out for. As a result of waking up at 3:30 a.m. after four nights without sleep, I resembled Mr. Potato Head high on speed, constantly changing my snap-on eyes, and therefore, I was afraid of my own reflection.

Looking in the mirror after another bathroom balancing act, the face was somehow familar, but I could not quite remember my name. I looked like a waffle after someone tried flattened it with an iron: my face awkardly shaped by being pressed up against a tent on one side, and rocks on the other. I was so confused, each time someone asked me a question, I felt like taking off my shoes or randomly pointing at their noses.

Packing up my bag confused me even more, leaving me to feel like a lama being asked a math question. Pure exhaustion. I felt a small balloon wrap around my entire skull, which later made the sound of a whoopie cushion, until I realized the boiled water was giving me the farts. My entire face felt ball-skin loose, but with more wrinkles, as I attempted to pack up quickly for the porters who had to hike out in darkness to catch a 5 a.m. train.

In every way, from having shifty, Mr. Potato Head eyes to a waffle -ironed face, the only thing I could not figure out was why there was not a Ribatron-don action figure. As you can clearly read, my mind was elsewhere, making this post written from pure jibberish, as if I was drawing hand signals instead of words in my notebook.

After breakfast, we began our hike at 4:40 a.m. with a massive maze of stars overhead. Our flashlights dotted up and down the trail. My nipples were doing just fine. We walked a short distance waiting for the Winaywayna Control Point to open, listening to the sound of the river running and Boxie-boo shivering in my arms. By 5:40 a.m., the sun began to rise. It was a sight that seemed set from a great power, the gods playground, where the mountains seemed to still grow, set from sky planted seeds, sprinkling across the skyline’s green skeletal glow, blending almost too perfectly with light blue skies and a sea blue that darkened with distance.

Making our way to Intipunku, The Sun Gate, I lead the way out front until Valeriano caught up, jogging passed me. Feeling about as energetic as sloth after a labotomy, I made another stupid decision and decided this was my opportunity to try to keep up him. Even pass him.

Picture a hound dog puppy slipping on over-sized ears. Cute right?

That is how I ran, along a cliff edge, chasing Valeriano passed hikers, climbing steeps staircases with my arms up as if they ladders. I could hear the Urubamba river foaming, the trail being pounded by my feet, the dust and pebbles falling over a wide chasm of steep cliffs, thousands of meters down. I sounded as though I was coming up for air with each breath, my legs flailing out, body sideways, even running alongside the left wall to pass fellow hikers. My skin crawled with the tension of competition, the leaves speeding behind us on the trail.

My shoes continued spitting brown powder. Leaves flashed from the corner of my eyes. Branches snapping. I managed not to poop myself.

By the time we reached Intipunku, I was within a couple meters of Valeriano, who attempted to give me a high five. I missed, then went to slap my thigh instead for balance, and missed, flailing my arm aimlessly between my legs as if mimicking my own balancing equipment. My pulse was throbbing in my neck. I felt nothing but my backpack straps and my own sweat. He pointed to Machu Picchu. His smile was stripper friendly.

“Yes,” I said, my voice slurring out of breath. I could barely see and I was one dead cat away from a country song.

When Boxie-boo arrived, I felt her presence more than saw her. It was the first time, and only time, I went on without her on the hike briefly. She seemed to be walking through a mist, the low-level clouds filling the Sun Gate with unseen moisture, like walking through a watery shadow. Her voice was light with innocence, as she touched the hair curling my neck. I wanted to freeze time. Something felt right in the universe. We were a short hike away from our destination, Machu Picchu, a feeling of great accomplishment I will never forget.

Valeriano led the way out front, taking us to a better viewpoint, where we watched the sun slowly illuminate the lost city of the Incas.

After a four-day, three-night Inca Trail hike, we had finally made it to Machu Picchu.

The curtains closed. A tremor on impact. Machu Picchu had exorcised my demons.

Looking at this ancient city, it resembled the beginning of the world, where light and shadow moved down the mountains to the tempo of music. Locals in white gowns sang to the rising sun, nearby grazing lamas. The trees gleamed like polished silver, leaving me lost in this setting, until my infatuation with the ancient world broke my trance. In this moment, when I thought of nearing the end of our trip, of returning home to a normal life, I was sad. With each step into Machu Picchu, I felt crowds of people walking over my grave.

When we arrived to the lost city, it had been 99 years since Machu Picchu was “officially” discovered. I say “officially” because history seems to only recognize discovery when something is seen by a westerner. In actuality, the American Hiram Bingham was shown Machu Picchu by a local Peruvian named Melchor Arteaga. An area where Bingham saw families were living, is now where the hotel now resides. Instead of giving the discovery title to those that deserve it, the 4,000 treasures found at Machu Picchu are still in the United States at Yale University, yet to be returned, according to Valeriano.

“The truth is - the the first discoverers were the local families,” he said. “The treasures belong to Peru.”

But why did the Spaniards never find the ruin?

When the Spanish began conquering Peru, the Inca leaders ordered their people to destroy sections of their trails to confuse the Spaniards. “Thankfully,” Valeriano said. “The Spaniards would have destroyed it.”

Machu Picchu was built in the middle of mountains for many reasons, Valeriano said. It allowed the religious monument to be hidden, it was nearby many ecological zones to provide everything it needed to be a self-sufficient community, year-round the vegetation was green and growing -and it has a natural spring for water. Machu Picchu was built from granite rock from its own mountain (Machu Picchu Mountain), the roof made from valley trees and the grass from the nearby highlands. Ancient Incas were able to grow everything from peanuts to beans, to jungle potatoes and tomatoes.

After four days of hiking, our pace slowed down as Valeriano showed us to the Temple of the Sun (above). The structure´s original sections were smooth, completed with perfectly fitted stones, while reconstructed walls looked rough, more like stacked rocks. The building, a tower in shape, had two windows - one set for the winter solstice sunrise, the other for the summer solstice. The tomb inside was found empty by archaeologists. Historians now believe the Incas removed their mummies after the arrival of the Spaniards. Inside, animals were once sacrified, same as the Inti Raymi festival we were set to visit in Cusco.

Nearby, we passed the Temple of the Water. In total, Machu Picchu had 16 fountain, but one fountain (above) in particular, was only used for religious pruposes.

Out front of the Temple of the Condor, it was easy to spot the Incas artwork, outlining two giant wings through natural rocks, with stone work on the ground to represent the head. In Inca belief, the condor carried the mummies to the spiritual world. Lamas were sacrificed over the face, Valeriano said, while locals offered coca leafs. The condor, as Valeriano put it, was the “Messenger between the Earth and spiritual world.” Entering inside the tomb was eerie, the feel and smell of cooling stone. I was quiet, ancient, a walk through time. Respectful while non-believing, I left an offering of coca leaves to follow in tradition.

Hiking the stairs to the botanical gardens, I felt 15 months pregnant, but with more belly button lint. By the time we arrived at the top, I was keen to relax, though admittedly uninterested in the garden. We saw passion fruit, jungle potatoes, the infamous coca plant and many orchids, before passing by the Temple of Three Windows, named as such by Bingham, because there were three windows. What a genius. Nearby, was a stone structure shaped by three steps on either side, flattened across the top. It was interesting, not for its shape, but for its meaning. The top section represented light and angels; the middle represented the people; the bottom represented the under world. The shape continued below the surface, an opposite Valeriano said, represented the dark side of everything.

We had climbed to the top, a sight where the ancient altar stood, now bending in one corner. We could see the early artwork, where Incas mimicked the neighbouring mountain range with stone. From up top, we looked down into the Sacred Plaza, an open area, which held a natural echo, portrayed by the clapping of Valeriano´s hands. Down below, festivals and parties were held, when less than a 100 years earlier, it was covered in jungle bush.

Boxie-boo found herself fascinated with the Intiwatana stone (above), arguably Machu Picchu´s most famous piece, accessed by a 78-step staircase. On one side, we spotted three steps carved out of the granite, centered by a polished monolith, consisting of flat surfaces. The structure served two purposes - measuring time (solstice and equinox) and serving as altar where animals were sacrified. Each of its corner direct to the four points of a compass.

The Intiwatana stone was able to determine the beginning and end of the harvest cycle, including the most important date - the winter solstice (June 21), the original date of Inti Raymi, until it was changed to June 24th. On that day, the sun is at its farthest from the Earth. The Incas were afraid the sun would abandon them. Their festival was held to lure the sun back, to guarantee another year´s harvest.

“People believe the rock has a powerful energy,” Valeriano said. Victor walked over, held his hand over the rock, then began pop-and-lock dancing, then appeared to be electricuted.

“It does,” he said, as we all laughed.

Unfortunately, part of the stone was broken while filming a beer commercial. Valeriano would not tell us which one.

With time to kill and train that did not leave until 9:45 p.m., Boxie-boo and I headed to the town Aguas Calientes and capped of the day walking through markets, relaxing and giving our legs a much needed break.

That´s all for now.

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Inca Trail: Day Three

Mon, 21 Jun 2010 00:00:00 -0700

06/21/10

For the purpose of this story, please avoid picturing me wearing your mother´s wedding dress. Thank you.

“My entire body is sore,” Boxie-boo said at 5:45 a.m., shivering as we took off our thermal underwear and sweaters, knowing mid-hike exercise would result in over heating. We scampered to the bathroom, where I was careful not to slip on the floor covered in slippery mud, urine and poop. Toilet seats did not exist on the Inca Trail. With no back toilet cover, I rolled up my socks to avoid disgusting stains, with my right arm back against the wall and my left hand holding up my pants, shivering while pooping. This was a new experience.

I had spent all night sleeping sideways in the tent with my face soggy in one corner, my feet covered in cold condensation in the other, as a result of being a giant in Peru. At least there were no roosters and no Boogie Man, though I am confident my shadow resembled Brad Pitt.

The result of being faster than the porters a day earlier, meant we did not recognize the meeting point as the lunch spot. This resulted in us missing our last opportunity to buy bottled water for Day Three. Instead, boiled water had upset my stomach to the point where I worried I could poop my pants, mid-stretch, reaching between two of the Inca Trail´s giant steps. I thought of this, squatting while small pieces of poop floated in one centimetre high brown water, then decided to take two Immodium tablets.

I was glad we remembered to pack toilet paper.

Step one on the hike was not stinking, so we powdered down our drawers with baby powder and I fought my instinct to stuff flowers down my pants. The first section of the hike involved climbing from 3600 metres above sea level to 3950, short compared to what we went through on Day Two. Walking near Ming and looking at snow-peaked mountains, he joked that we should stay behind the lead guide so we get lunch. My calves were rock hard, breathing still loose and the stairs were their usual, Inca Trail steep. We saw an ancient Inca site in the distance, which motivated us onwards. We were walking around the Veronica Glacier, and I hate to admit it, but I might have accidentally looked up its skirt. My apologies.

Valeriano caught up, with a face of distress and worry.

He told us he was helping another guide with a big problem. A sick hiker´s oxygen level was very low at 67. Mine was tested yesterday at 97. This sick hiker´s resting heart rate was at 130, which meant, porters - the superhumans they are - were preparing to carry him up the 350 metres, at which point he was to be picked up by helicopter.

At 3760 metres, we reached the Runkuracay (above), a circular rock Inca site covered in yellow and green moss. It was discovered in 1915, Valeriano explained, four years after the first foreigner was shown Machu Picchu. He said it was developed around 1200 A.D. From above, it appeared to be two stone letter Cs facing eachother, with a letter O in the middle. It overlooked the Pacamayo Valley, with a view all the way back to the Dead Woman´s Pass. It is believed to be a lookout point, or message station, where information runners stopped, passing their messages from Cusco to other runners, who carried them onwards to Machu Picchu.

In 1532 when the Spaniards came, the society had lasted approximatedly 300 years, at which point it had expanded to Ecuador, Colombia, Bolivia, Northern Argentina and even Chile. The Incas had the capability of mass communication, using trails from the capital of Cusco, through various runner stations that could send messages anywhere in the Inca Empire within a week.

“The trails were 41,000 of kilometres,” Valeriano explained. The messages passed from Cusco to Machu Picchu through runner stops, for example, took only seven hours - a distance of approximately 115 kilometres through the mountains. Holy flamming cow shit! The modern day record of the Inca Trail, which starts over 40 kilometres closer to Machu Picchu than Cusco, was set by a porter at three hours and 45 minutes, beating all professional athletes in the competition, Valeriano added. That statement, unless he was pulling our legs, was insane, I thought, finding the trail challenging to complete in four days.

We arrived at the first peak, 3950 metres, followed by a random dog. We arived at the top at 9 a.m., the others at 9:30 a.m. We were content not to get too far ahead, until Valeriano agreed to walk with Boxie-boo and I, whom he nicknamed the “Speedies.”

Within a few metres, he challenged me to race, at which he sprinted, not jogged, down the steep staircase, giggling with his usual inpubescent, contagious laugh. He reminded me a young boy on a sugar high, running away from his Dad with a stolen Playboy Magazine. I conceded defeat, but vowed to challenge him again on a flat or mildly uphill section, or possibly to a Trivial Pursuit game on Canadian history.

The three of us walked through a panoramic view of the Acombama Valley, near the snow clad Pumasillo peak. The ancient stairs were surrounded by tall grasses, where specks of colour from orchids and lichens lighted the mountainsides in pedals. The air was fresh, our lungs more adjusted to the altitude, which allowed us a pace between a speedwalk and jogging.

Reaching a lookout down towards the Inca site of Sayaqmarca (above), Valeriano told us to hold up for the others. For the first time in a couple hours, our following dog did not rest with us and continued on. He did look back, once briefly, before following hikers in the distance. It was the first time in my life I felt cheated on by a dog. I now know why my dog Roxie - rest in peace - would sniff me, then walk away, when she smelt the scent of Boxie-boo´s dog. Oh how could you?!

Sayaqmarca reminded me of a smaller version of some castles located in the United Kingdom. It seemed melted in the mountainside, complete with towers and walls smooth against the flow of the earth, without a swimming pool. While resting, my feet felt of pines and needles, an itchiness of pain that came and went through the Inca Trail.

Sayaqmarca was built in the upper mountains for three reasons, Valeriano explained, for protection, to defend the Inca Empire and out of respect for the rivers. Sayaqmarca had three fountains - one for religious purposes and two for domestic use. It was centered around a holy rock, which included an alter that religious travelers on route to Machu Picchu would leave offerings to the mountains, from precious stones to coca leaves.

“You can take out your memory card from your camera and leave it behind,” Valeriano joked.

“I will donate Victor´s underpants,” I added, then glanced at his crotch region by mistake. Thankfully, Victor laughed at my joke, without placing his hands over his trouser snake and blushing.

Boxie-boo and I found the alter covered in coca leaves, no underpants and small crumpled pieces of paper that I imagined were notes, not litter. Archaeologists were measuring the site´s walls, near an area where we found the dried up passageway of running water.

After Sayaqmarca, we entered the Amazon Jungle. The pathway was dark, covered in overhanging trees, where massive ferns grew alongside dangling vines. Moss grew inbetween the rock steps, while from the umbrella tree tops, flowers fell in the moisture-rich air, the area around us covered in thick branches. The area was surprisingly silent. Chilly. The pathway was still bubbling in rocks as if the skin of boiling valcano. It was an easy section of mild uphills and downhills, even occasional flattened areas that made our bodies feel weightless after Day Two´s 1200 metres up and 600 metres down.

The Amazon, at times, felt as though we were walking in a dried creekbed. I was still leading the pack, post-lunch, and starting to run out of steam. Rocks slippery. The smell of cut grass and Tiger Balm on my sore knees. My bag straps began squealing like loose bed springs, the sound of pigs post-tail pull. The moisture continously thickened. I could have been breathing underwater.

Concrete legs. Body heavy.

The view was spectacular, motivating me to continue to see more gorgeous landscapes. The pathway eventually reached massive slabs of fallen rock, pinned against the mountainside and trail creating darkened caves. Rock steps and ancestors challenging. The Inca trail was a constant battle between mind over body. Luckily for me, I had watched enough cartoons to allow my mind to drift elsewhere. We perservered, with time to relax for 25 minutes at the Phoyodata Pass - the last pass of the trail, near the citadel of Phuyupatamarca, “Village above the clouds” (below).

The area beyond the ruins of Phuyupatamarca, the second most beautiful site after Machu Picchu, were covered in low-level clouds, an area of agricultural terraces and fountains, some still working, circulating fresh water where villagers gathered in front with buckets. The ruin over-looked flat-topped peaks, looking naturally curved, as if the mountain itself created a gathering point for the Incas by raising stones from its skin.

The problem with Phuyupatamarca was what followed - a 1,000 metre decent to our last campsite at Winayhuayna. We began heading downwards, as a porter passed us, jogging by while carrying an unconscious woman on his shoulders.

Yamila from Australia, rolled her ankled badly on the way down. To help her along, the guides saw her limping and went on without her. I could not believe they did this. Her brother Victor took over her backpack, while I walked within one foot in front, in case she slipped she could grab onto to me for support. It was a slow pace, our entire group coming together to help her along, except for the two Argentinian girls who went on ahead. Halfway down, everything hurt - my back throbbing, calves permanently flexed, thighs turned into steel and knees tingly, gently numb and vibrating. Then I felt nothing, my entire body without feeling. My legs had become self-possessed.

By the time we reached Winayhuayna, all Boxie-boo could talk about was having a shower, the first one available on the Inca Trail. After dinner, we ceremoniously collected our tips for our amazing porters, then went to bed early, knowing on Day Four we would be up at 3:30 a.m.

You may now picture me in your mother´s wedding dress.

That´s all for now.

Thank you for visiting Page59.com.

Inca Trail: Day Two

Sun, 20 Jun 2010 00:00:00 -0700

06/20/10

In Canada, I am an average-sized dude, though my nostrils are different sizes, a beauty trend passed on from my mother - one side resembles the Africa continent, while the other could be the wrinkle line near a baby´s armpit. In Peru, I was a Yao Ming giant, which means I had knocked my head on multiple ceilings, including one leaving a bathroom, forcing me to walk out bent forward massaging my head, looking like I injured myself from drinking out of the toilet.

For the entire night, I struggled with my body being too long to fit in the tent without laying on my side on rocks, while my shoulders were too wide to fit inside my sleeping bag. The result left me wearing my sleeper like a strapless dress, my knees up in the birth giving position. By the time I fell asleep at around 2 a.m., I was awoken at 3:15 a.m. by roosters armageddon screaming. If I ever become a farmer, one my first day on the job I woul call a meeting with the roosterstell them to wake up around 9:30 a.m. If they do not respond correctly, I would crack their spirits by eating scrambled eggs in front of them. Thankfully, a couple hours later at 6 a.m., a porter knocked on our tent´s wall and handed us two glasses of coca tea to prepare for the altitude. It was the first time we had received room service while camping. Awesome.

Walking outside the tent, we dodged chickens while I attempted to stick my foot so far up a rooster´s bootae I would have known what the animal was thinking. We brushed our teeth in a nearby bush, spitting on top of a pile of cow poop. In the distance, the rising sun had turned the brownish mountains golden. My feet were cold in shoes and socks, while our porters prepared breakfast wearing sandals.

Day Two was the hardest section of the Inca Trail. Lack of sleep over two days made me no more prepared than if a doctor told me I was pregnant. Young lady, I too am surprised by the size of your ovaries.

“To the hill of destiny,” Boxie-boo proclaimed, watching the sun cast light down the shadowy mountain at 7:35 a.m. as we began our hike. My nose was already slightly burning from the thin air, but my armpits felt silky smooth. Leading the pack, I felt like Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs with my fellow hikers behind me, but without wearing a push-up bra and nobody tiny screaming “High Ho”, though, it would have been nice. Our feet crunching on rocks, we began our first incline from 2,950, eventually leading to 4,215 metres.

By the time we reached the Wayllabamba check point, we removed our clothes fast like triathletes. Our passports stamped, we looked at the hardest incline to date, as our next meeting point was 350 metres higher. Valeriano had told us to meet him at a rest stop that had our group´s flag, two stops ahead.

“Porter,” a group yelled marked by Canadian flags as we passed. For some reason, Boxie-boo and I were hauling ass. I thought of being called a porter a compliment, the same way it was nice to have a donkey sniff my bumhole a day earlier. We were in the zone, ignoring our troubled eyes and faltering breaths, our smiles coming and going, mouths wide to the point that even our gums were drying.

“Is this pace okay?” I asked, my voice sounding as though as I was just punched directly in the lungs.

“I´m actually doing okay. The next flat part I will grab more leaves,” Boxie-boo replied, having become an addict to coca leaves. We will never know if they actually helped, or if chewing on them was simply a placebo effect. Coca leaves, according to our guide who was no where to seen all day, contain 14 alkaloids, one of which is cocaine (Don´t worry, Mom, not enough to make the drug, as it would take thousands of leaves).

We were a good team on this day. I held my hand back to help Boxie-boo up steps that were higher than a foot, sometimes two. We continuously motivated each other. When my heart rabbit thumped in the back of my head, I remembered to take in slow, deep, fuill breaths while twiddling my pen in my hand to allow my mind to focus elsewhere, beyond the burning in my calves. In the rare downhill sections, we reminded each other to be careful of our ankles, passing tourists every couple minutes.

…One and a half hours later…

The trail turned to straight rock, staircase after staircase between one and two-foot high. Step after step. Thighs sumo wrestler vibrating. Exhausting. We skipped the first rest stop and the trail began to live up to its reputation. My muscles switched from tight to jello. “I have bad headache,” Boxie-boo said. It could have been altitude sickness, or possible dehydration, so we rested quickly a couple trail turns ahead, at which point we were joined by Ming.

At 10:25 a.m. we arrived at the second rest stop with no flag in sight. No porters. We waited for half an hour, eventually joined by Fabienne. The three of us figured there was no way we would be faster than porters, even though they carry larger bags and we had a head start. Ming asked other guides if he knew about Cusco Explorers and was told our lunch stop was much later. “Let´s just get it over with,” Boxie-boo said, and we moved on.

Reaching higher altitude, the air became thinner again. We were above 3,600 metres, with over 600 more to go to Warmihuanusca Pass, the “Dead Woman´s Pass.” AT this point, I felt a pre-serve tennis ball bouncing on the back of my skull, then smashed into my brain. We continued on staircases scattered between sharp rocks, caveman-like tools. The mountains began talking to me. A puzzle of small dark plants sat amongst light, yellowish brown scrubbery, writing me a message across our mountain. How do you like me now, white boy? Another mountain, across the passageway, added to the conversation. Your penis has shrunk from overexertion. How did it know?

The thin air resulted in Boxie-boo needing more stops, while she kept telling me to go on without her. Nope. The low oxygen levels had given me the frozen, loose gum facial expression of a dog mid-run. The rabbit no longer thumped on my brain, but instead, seemed to be have invited over a female companion. I felt half-dead, the feeling of my lungs collapsing and forced open with each breath. When Boxie-boo asked to stop, my response was “No problem.”

Ever since passing the slower hikers, we were keeping pace with a 72-year-old Canadian, one of the fastest foreigners in the Andes Mountains. Taking a break, he stopped beside us.

“They say you burn more calories by having sex than hiking the Inca Trail,” he said. “What am I doing here?” The four of us burst our laughing. Around the next corner, a resting guide told us we were approximately 3,900 metres above sea level, then pointed to the pathway between two mountains.

“All the way up there?” Boxie-boo yelped, the literal truth passed off as absurd. “*Beep* my life.”

Continuing across shark rocks and staircase steps of smooth stone, we kept moving, limited our stops to only 10 second breaks. We realized when we stopped longer, it felt impossible to keep moving. Boxie-boo began walking with her hands on her knees, face downwards and swaying, looking as though she was dragging an invisible beluga whale; one with a blow hole that only released curse words.

“One second, I need to grab something from your backpack,” I said to her. The moment she took it off, I strapped the bag to the front of my chest as if preparing for lamoze class. “Let´s keep going, you are doing great, babe.”

“I can…” her voice drifted away, losing breath. “…Carry the bag.” I kept walking.

Nearing the top with only 30 steps left, I felt a sudden surge of energy, an adrenaline rush of pure stupidity. I told Boxie-boo I had to run it, to just get it over with. By the time I reached the top, I was gasping for air more than Monica Lewinsky during her internship. I sat down on a rock, heaving and delirious. We had finally reached 4,215 metres, the highest point on the Inca Trail, and the four of us took a celebratory photo, before heading 600 metres downwards to camp. Fabienne decided to wait for the others, while Ming joined Boxie-boo and I downhill. We walked, jogged, and occasionally, gripped the rock wall beside us like caged animals reaching for freedom.

“You are too fast,” Valeriano said, finally catching us with a few metres of camp, a statement my soccer teammates hear from their wives after some alone time.

“What time did you arrive at the second stop?” he asked, stopping us on our route down the Pacasmayo River Valley, giving us a break from steep staircases, pounding my knees with vibrations that left mine without feeling.

“Around 10:30 a.m. and waited until 11 a.m.,” Ming said. It turned out, the porters did not get there until 11:30 a.m. By the time we arrived at camp Pacaymayu at 2:20 p.m., there were no foreigners in sight and few porters. Our last porter showed up at 3:40 p.m., at which point we were finally given lunch, while the other hikers on tour began showing up from 5:20 p.m. onwards.

All night, the topic of conversation was how it was somehow possible we beat the porters. Yes, we had a head start and little baggage in comparison, but still, it was an expected pace. To celebrate, I rubbed my burning thighs and calves with Tiger Balm, then contemplated how many ibuprofen tablets it would take to leave my entire body without feeling. I took three regular strength.

That´s all for now.

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Inca Trail: Day One

Sat, 19 Jun 2010 00:00:00 -0700

06/19/10

“Here we go again - back to pooping in holes,” Boxie-boo said, walking under the darkened, cobblestone streets of Cusco before the sun had risen. As a result of our room at Apu Wasi Hostel all night going from sauna hot to ski hill cold, I now know what it is like for a mountain goat to go through menopause. It was a ba´aaa´d night of sleep, further interrupted by someone who could have been tap dancing on the floor above us. I wanted to re-direct my hot flashes into lightning bolts and blast the tap dancer´s feet on fire.

There was no bingo-bang-bang in my heart, only the feeling of my brain attempting to jump ship through my nostrils. Screw this guy! I am leaving! I must have been an Egyptian Pharoah in a past life - Ronamin Ribatronius, the King of Insomnia and Mountain Goat Menopause.

“If I get negative on the hike, don´t get mad, but remind me to stay positive,” Boxie-boo said as our bus climbed a hill so steep, the driver could not leave first gear or remove his socks. “Just say, ´stay positive,´” she added, her voice high-pitched with her arms swaying like Popeye post-spinach. We were on route to Kilometre 82 - the starting point for our four-day, three-night hike along the Inca Trail to Machu Picchu.

The drive went up and down a swervy mountain highway, then down through valley towns. Some streets were lined with cactus, others with homes built within a few feet of train tracks. The area had vast, snow-peaked mountain ranges and low valley farms. Our driver dodged whipped cow crossings, boulders of fallen rocks, edging us passed other buses so tight along cliff edges his mirror had to be turned inwards. We passed through the villages of Chinchero, Urubamba and then stopped at Ollantaytambo, creating a break through our three-and-a-half hour drive.

Inside Ollantaytambo, ancient viaducts ran through the town in small streams a foot wide. Locals surrounded passerbyers, offering everything from hiking poles, toques to coca leafs that our guide said aid in the battle with altitude. We reached the Terraces of Pumatallis (above), an ancient Inca site that had cut the mountain in latches. These terraces, a common architectual practice of the Incas, allowed them to farm on otherwise unusable terrain at various altitudes. At Ollantaytambo, the walls of cut stones were higher, which archaelogists have also found at other Inca sites like Chinchero, Pisaq and Yucay. It was so beautiful, I decided to find a bush to pee in.

Leaving the small town, the bus drove down a tight, one-way path on top of train tracks set between the tires, spitting up rocks. I felt as though we were driving inside a gravel pit, as we continued to lower our altitude, leaving Cusco´s 3,400 before arriving one kilometre before Kilometre 82, walking alongside the Urubamba River, the route used by the first westerner to be shown Machu Picchu.

“We are all family now,” our guide Valeriano said. I thought about this briefly and realized our Mom must have gotten real busy. We were a mixed group: Two Canadians, one Chinese-American man, one British guy, one Bulgarian woman, brother and sister Aussies, a Brazilian man, a Swiss girl and two girls from Argentina.

When we reached Kilometre 82 called Piskacucho, the first of four control points, we had to show our passports while our guide showed our Inca Trail passes. Only 500 people a day all allowed on the trail, including guides and porters. Being the dry season, it was the more popular time to hike as it decreased the chances and danger of rain. I was glad I reserved our trail pass many months ahead, almost a full year, a must to be 100 per cent certain on being able to hike the trail.

Crossing the Cuisichaca (Happy Bridge), our hike finally began, stomping across creaking wood while the cables steadied the crossing. With my first step on the gravel path, I felt the dust rising, the wind forcing me to hold onto my hat, while a donkey bumped its nose into my bumhole, the aggressive animal tailgating a species with no tail, just awkwardly placed balancing equipment. I was already a slow tourist in the world of superhuman porters, who passed us with bags upwards of 25 kilograms making me feel no more masculine than a girl in a wet t-shirt contest. Hey boys!

We battled our first uphill climb, sucking up the thin air like hotdog eating contestants, drying our lips, yet somehow, still allowing Boxie-boo and I to fart, sometimes in unison. It was romantic. Our path was surrounded by massive cactus, house-sized boulders and mountains that towered in all directions, casting giant shadows. We felt our presence, more than saw the trail, a feeling of how minimal our existence is an area that has stood relatively motionless for thousands of years.

“I feel so bad for them,” Boxie-boo said, as a porter passed with a bag so big it went from behind his bootae to a foot over his head. He was wearing sandals, his toes black and nails sharpened. His fingers, gripping a strap across his upper chest, had turned a pale white. Valeriano led the way out front, his 260th time hiking the trail. I wondered, did he still enjoy the hike?

“I enjoy the second day, watching the people who look like they are dieing,” he said, passing a donkey dragging a stick. “Keep going, keep going, I tell them,” he smiled. Boxie-boo did not. Instead, she gave me a disgusted look as if I had pooped myself. “I enjoy this too much.”

We continued, listening to the sound of horse shoes, metal stomping dirt, the clip-clopping ringing and mimicking my rising heart rate, while porters jogged by continuing their inhuman capabilities. Valeriano pointed at Angel Trumpet Flowers, white and dangling downwards with the tube of a trumpet, which he said can make us hallucinate. He teased us, asking who would want to try a special tea made from the flower.

“You drink this tea and the mountains go flat,” he said, as we all laughed. “Then tomorrow, day two will be easier.” He asked us to stop, then pointed at a glacier mountain, known by the Incas as the Wheeping Mountain, 5850 metres. He then pointed ahead at the 4,215 metre pass we were set to do the following day. Nobody reacted. We looked at it the way people look at monkeys at the zoo - it was beautiful at first, but monkeys tend to throw poop. The mountain, instead, had the capability to throw boulders and create mudslides that could disappear civilizations.

Valeriano put what appeared to be a white seed in three of the girl´s hands, then smashed one of them, turning the Fabienne´s (Swiss girl) palm red. It was a bug. We all laughed, while Boxie-boo quickly threw her bug in a bus. Valeriano cackled, as he always did, the way a 12-year-old boy reaching puberty sounds if he was attempting to mimicking a crow´s mating call. Ah! Ah! Ah! The pitch always the same, coming from the back of his mouth, sounding throaty and dry. In everyway, his laughter was contagious.

After crossing a forest of eucalyptus, we reached the Salapunku archaeogical site (above), situated across the left bank of the river. Valeriano explained the difference between reconstruction and restoration - reconstruction involves new stones, while restoration means the same stones are used. At Salapunku, they used the same stones, a sight that has stood in the Sacred Valley for centuries, with no Tim Horton´s in sight.

Recently, archaeologists at the National Institute of Culture (INC) said it may be the resting place for a pre-Inca tomb, while other researchers believe it was a “Tambo,” or resting place for travelers. The remains found, according to the INC, may belong to a woman from the Quillke culture, which flourished before the Inca Empire.

“When the people built the railway, they destroyed one of the Inca trails,” Valeriano said, chewing on coca leaves, which dangled from his backpack´s shoulder straps in a small plastic bag. He said there were originally six trails to Machu Picchu. On day two, we would be walking on actual Inca-laid stones, a pathway cut by the ancient civilization for pilgrimages to visit Machu Picchu and pay their respects to the Sun God. The ancient means of communication, Valeriano said, was through runners from Cusco who would pass their messages throughout the empire to different posts, where other runners continued, between the cities. This means, the Incas were capable to run across passes we walked up with the pace of snails towing a sandal.

The nearby river, the Cusichaca River (as it is a tributary of the Urubama River), was believed to be the representation of the Milky Way galaxy on Earth for the Incas. To me, it represented the easier route, or “lazy people passage” as Valeriano called it, where people took the train to Machu Picchu.

After lunch, the hike began to live up to its reputation and got tough, but throughout the hike, Day One was relatively easy. “You don´t need Jenny Craig, just do the trek,” joked Victor from Australia, hiking with his sister Yamila. We were walking along a steep cliff, where below, cows mooed and chewed, mocking us with their ability to laz around, and I suppose, use their hooters as milk squirt guns. I thought back to my goat menopause, now feeling cold as the altitude rose, heading from the Kilometre 82 at 2600 metres, to 3,000 at Huayllabamba, a village we were set to camp at. With no other goats insight, I had nobody to head butt, so I released the wedgie from my bootae and stretched. I prepared to continue, began chewing on some coca leaves and focused on slowing down my breathing. From on top a mountainside, we could see Patallacta (also known as Llactapata).

Llactapata, known as the “Village in the Highland”, was located at the foot of a mountain (above). At this site, people were given free food and lodging, a stopover on their religious voyage, Valeriano said. From above looking down, we could see the cultivation terraces, which probably served to seed people and fill the “Ambos” (store houses) along the Inca Road. Its urban sector helds approximately 50 families, Valeriano added, a small society, as the Inca Empire had an estimated 30 million people. Beside the site, local families were farming the same vegetations their ancestors had cultivated for centuries.

By the time we reached Huayllabamba, it was around 5 p.m., 12 hours since we had awoken. This small indigenous village, located on the foothills of small mountains, was surrounded by neigbouring farmland, chickens and wondering dogs. Nearby, were ancient Inca steps, our next challenge after a night set for us to sleep on a mattresses less than one centimetre thick, inside a tent I was too tall for. All complaints aside, our porters proved not only to be exceptional hikers, they were hardworking - our tents and dinner were ready before we even arrived.

That´s all for now.

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Cusco Festival and Pre-Inca Trail

Fri, 18 Jun 2010 00:00:00 -0700

06/18/10

The drums wailed and trumpets blasted, creating a wall of noise around us we leaned against in silence. With her back against a wall, the sun´s glow burnished Boxie-boo´s skin. She watched out wearing a smile on her face of permanent stone. In each direction, young children kicked off the Cusco Festival, sending goosebumps across my skin and waves of music through my veins. The entire city was alive with colour, personality and a feeling of community unmatched anywhere else on our around the world trip.

“This town is amazing,” Boxie-boo said, her voice slurred and out of breath from high altitude. The sun seemed to close in around her. Energy in every direction. A movement of electricity. The parade of children continued: Dancing, smiling, playing instruments, their oufits colourful from large feathers to high hats glittering with stones. She smiled at me and gripped my hand, a moment worthy of a photograph and also a high five from my readers.

Before we left Canada, I had planned for Peru to be our last stop for three reasons - end with one last hike through the Inca Trail and arrive for both the Cusco Festival and Inti Raymi, the Inca celebration for the Sun God. Though our day was spent mostly shopping for our hiking supplies, we were fully entertained, though I was envious, of the men who were followed my packs of sheep, dressed like ancient priests and belting out high-pitch notes with instruments made of bones. All I could do was whistle quietly, making me feel no more adequate than my testicals would feel if I had no penis.

As Boxie-boo continuously pointed out, I needed new shoes. My shoes had the body of a battered and abused crocodile, the facial expression of a teased duck, front lip extended and pouting upwards, with heals touching what was left of my flattened rubber grip, sole broken right through. Boxie-boo convinced me to buy new shoes, which were cheap in Cusco, so we also bought two pairs of new socks for each of us. My sweet mercifcul crap! New socks for us, after months of travel, made our feet feel finer than baby hairs. I wanted to burp my big toes, but decided instead to mimic Boxie-boo´s happy dance.

Our shopping list also included: Gatorade powder, granola bars, winter jackets (two North Face bartered down to $39 U.S. total), toques, gloves, a little bit of candy, and due to Boxie-boo´s decision to throw out her small backpack (I warned her not to), we had to buy another one. Since I like shopping about as much as I enjoy lighting my underwear on fire, I was glad the festival turned a boring day into a fun and exciting afternoon. Though, this did not last long.

Andex Adventure, the travel agency with whom we reserved our Inca Trail trip with through Cusco Explorers, did not live up to its written contract. Our free hotel pick-up never happened at the airport and we never received one free night accommodation in Cusco. My email of complaint received a new, edited version of our previous receipt, stating the promises were “typing errors.” We were also under the impression that sleeping bags and a porter was included. Instead, we had to pay $130 U.S. extra, a handing over of cash to a Cusco Explorer employee that made me wish I had pooped on my own hand.

This is backpacking, I suppose. Sometimes we can fight con-artist companies who take advantage of tourists, other times we cannot. In this case, I wrote multiple emails of complaint, phoned and stomped my feet like an elephant on steriods. Nothing worked. Even my telepathic attempt to communicate with the Tom Cruise did not help. It was too late for a refund and we were set to wake up early for our last adventure - a four-day, three-night hike through the Andes Mountains to Machu Picchu.

At night, while the drums echoed across the ceiling, I looked up at the white paint and thought of our last adventure left. I heard myself in Boxie-boo´s voice. I leaned on my side to view her from another angle.

“I´m nervous about the hike,” she said, her fingers nervous and twiddling together.

“Me too, babe,” I responded, then kissed her forehead. “We´ll will do it together.”

That´s all for now.

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Arrival in Cusco

Thu, 17 Jun 2010 00:00:00 -0700

06/17/10

The plane dipped an aggressive left, cutting through mountains low to the ground towards Cusco. After landing, our plane did a 360-degree u-turn, before being pulled by what looked similiar to a tractor towards the airport. I was already excited, before even leaving the plane.

When we walked across the concrete runway, I found myself mesmerized by the setting: Cusco was exactly what I expected, a country South American town, dusty with brown mountains to brown homes, feeling summoned from Peru´s past - horse-drawn carriages and homemade, massive backpacks of coloured blankets, the smell of cold-brushed wind, the pale light that covered the whole city in a soft glow, marking a pathway to walk amongst history. I found myself lost in mental images, my mind photographing each sight, until my infatuation with Cusco broke by the trance of footsteps echoing indoors.

Inside the airport, I found myself with the energy to continue carrying both our large backpacks, though tempted to test the airport´s courtesy oxygen cannisters, though, I was unwilling to deal with the salespitch that would have followed. The baggage conveyer hummed, while outside, men dressed in brown military suits and helmets paced in circles, armed with what appeared to be AK-47s. My excitement grew in rolling waves of thunder, the lightning crashes in my bones, this feel of nakedness, of being so out of place, which I have come to love.

I thought about heading home, of soon returning to a normal life, a feeling that left me with mild fear, as if the comforts of the familiar tired me, pulled me away from my current life, exhausted while living in a dream.

Without warning, a lightness hit my temples. A warm lassitude spread through my body in deep, even breaths, the world closing in with light air. I was panting like a dog from taking only a few steps out of the airport. My balance felt off, as if the ground below me gently shook. My limbs became feather light and weak. My brain an air bubble. Toes without feeling.

I was glad I planned this in advance, to arrive in Cusco two days before we began hiking, in the hopes this would be enough time for us to adjust to the change in altitude. We were 3,400 metres above sea level, near the Urubama Valley of the Andes Mountains, the historic capital of the Inca Empire.

Boxie-boo was handling the altitude adjustment better and began talking with taxi drivers. She returned minutes later, out of breath from the short walk, taking breaks between sentences to swallow air. A driver told her he would not take us to the Apu Wasi Hostel, as the place was supposedly home to a violent riot. At best, he would take us within a few blocks, then we would walk the rest of the way at an expensive price of 50 Soles.

I knew he was full of shit. Taxi drivers lie constantly in the hopes to trick travelers into going to a hotel where they get a commission. Before entering Cusco, I checked the status online in Lima - the place was safe, only going through a mild worker strike. Eventually, we found another taxi who agreed to take us for 30 Soles, discovering the dangers of our hostel - people were outside playing soccer with nets made marked by large rocks, while street vendors sold fresh fruit to locals. Oh the danger! A taxi tried to pull this same trick on us in India, and we were glad we did not fall for it then or in Peru.

The altitude adjustment hit us harder trying to walk up the stairs, the two of us walking very slow, breathing in hard enough to dry our throats. We began slowing our breaths and later relaxed in our room, only leaving for a short sprint around the beautiful town of Cusco to grab lunch, before returning to rest. The best medicine for altitude adjustment is to take it slow and be patient, so we obliged, feeling constantly light-headed, near stoned, as if they city exhaled hole a soothing drug in its moisture.

That´s all for now.

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Brazil to Peru

Wed, 16 Jun 2010 00:00:00 -0700

06/16/10

It was 3:15 a.m. and our hotel phone rang. Our taxi was 15 minutes early. Knowing about all the late night (or early morning) con-artists who take advantage of tourists, I asked Boxie-boo to check to see if the metre was running while I loaded the bags. Since I only had an opportunity for a couple hours of shut-eye, this made me unable sleep.

Outside it was as dark as it gets. Boxie-boo nodded. The metre was not running. I loaded the bags. We sat in the backseat, ready to head to the airport…then he said it. What an asshole.

“The ride costs 60 Reias.”

“Metre,” I sais pointing, leaned forward looking at him with a stern glare straight in his eyes. Boxie-boo, who does not like confrontation, remained silent.

“It is 60 or catch another taxi,” he said. I leaned in closer, tempted to head butt the son of a bitch.

I got out immediately. My heart galloped at race horse speed, my left hand flexed into a rock hard fist. Holding my carry-on bag, I felt my right hand fingers dig into my palms through my backpack straps. I had beem traveling too far, for too long, to deal with this bullshit. The taxi driver got out. I boxer-sized him up for a fight, shook my head, then took one large gulp of air before the plung.

I needed to Zen or drop my pants and pee on him. I decided to Zen.

Taking in a slow, long breath, I released the raging bull living in my bumhole, let go of the grip of my hands, looked up at the blackness above me, before glancing back at the driver with an ability to yoddle or Xena Warrior Princess scream. I shook my head at him. Continued my Zen. I thought about what hotel staff advised a taxi to the airport costs during the day with more traffic. Forty-five Reias. There were no cars in sight or flying pigs. No traffic. We had a plane to catch and the con-artist driver had the upper hand. I did not know how long it would take for another to arrive.

I swallowed what little pride I had left, taking in the empty calories. I offered him 50 Reias. He agreed. During the entire drive, I secretly plotted the driver´s demise like a comic book villan. In my plan, he was to spend the rest of his life forced to work as a drag queen, then die slowly of syphillis and buried in a pet cemetery.

After two flights and 11 hours later, we arrived in Lima, Peru - our first stop with no Visa fee since Botswana. Customs was casual and quick - and for the first time in a while, there was no question about my identity as they did not even look at the clean-shaven, short-haired guy I once was in my passport photograph.

We arranged a taxi through the airport cabbie desk and headed towards the Albergue Miraflowers House.

On the road, we passed vans spray-painted multi-coloured, moving by walls nearby the airport covered from images around the world, and our past: Taj Mahal, Sydney Opera House, Great Wall of China, etc. Interlocking hands connected the images in an area where men in green gowns sweeped the streets out front. In all directions were massive, faded billboards, many brick buildings, while our driver thumb danced on the steering wheel to 60´s music.

Driving across an ocean-side highway, we saw the Pacific Ocean for the first time in months, a different sight from Vancouver, where the waves crashed a dirty dark brown out front of rows of dirt, piles of softball-sized rocks. Boulders. Our driver continuously used his fake police siren horn to skip through traffic, passing escape route signs for tsunamis.

Sweet Caroline, ba ba ba….

Nearing the neighbourhood of our guest house, the area was lined with parks of green grass, the roadway lined with beautiful trees. It looked very similiar to neighbourhoods back home with giant skyrises set in front of well-maintained grass with views of the ocean.

“This area is beautiful,” Boxie-boo said. “They even keep the grass and flowers up to par.”

By the time we arrived at the Albergue Miraflowers House, I had been up for two days and exhausted. It was just what I needed. The guesthouse was comfortable, warm and our room included a private bath, T.V. and a DVD player with free DVDs available. Free internet access was quick, and part way through watching a movie, a staff member dropped us off two free vodka tonics, which tasted terrific. We capped off the night relaxing, remembering to begin our altitude sickness pills in preparation for our next stop - the mountains of Cusco.

That´s all for now.

Thank you for visiting Page59.com.

World Cup Fever, Brazil

Tue, 15 Jun 2010 00:00:00 -0700

06/15/10

Warning: The following post might contain evidence that you are just so attractive.

Massive waves crashed across Copacabana´s shoreline with the sound of rising thunder, mixing in with the echoes of horns blasting through the air. Drummers pounded out samba rhythms by tables draped in yellow and green, overlooking a beach filled with soccer players in restaurants covered in Brazilian flags. The tamberine´s rattled. Air horns raised above our heads. All the while, a constant stream of cars drove by honking with passengers out the window screaming and waving flags.

You would think they had already won the World Cup, yet they were over two hours away from their first game against North Korea. We were on route to the Fifa Fan Fest - a massive outdoor T.V. located on Copacabana beach for games.

We were walking amongst of crowd where locals wore toques shaped like soccer balls, sure to watch our pockets as the crowd thickened. All around us was green and yellow, from green high heals and yellow bikinis, to bandanas, clown hair, whistles and plastic horns. Yellow. Green. The entire city united. The array of focused colour was only broken by brown police officers armed with massive sticks and helmets.

“Are you serious?” I said, before laughing. Above our heads, three small planes began flying in unison, before drawing a giant circle to represent the center of their country´s flag. Helicopters circled the crowd growing with passion like spreading fire. Men held massive steel drums on either sides of their hips, armed with cups across their chess worn like ammunition. Imitation World Cup Tropheys were held in high, often kissed, surrounded by crowds dancing.

Again. The first game did not start for two hours. The line-up to get into Fifa Fan Fest was as wide as half a soccer pitch, where more air horns were held in the air, shaken at their hips to be reloaded, adding fire to the growing flames of yellow and green. Boxie-boo and I did our best to blend in by wearing our Kaka jerseys, while she also painted her nails national colours and cheered with an enthusiasm normally reserved for a new episode of The Hills. We had passed massive sand castles of Rio, walking under the close watch of circling helicopters. We were now shoulder to shoulder, before being pushed on all angles as the mass of people moved as one entity.

“This is too much for me,” said Steve, before walking around.

The number 1 was added to the zero drawn in the sky, mimicking Kaka´s jersey. The sun beamed. The smell of bum crack sweat. Horns and drums. My entire body bumped while I tried to write. Yellow.

Green.

You are attractive (I warned you!).

The line moved up once more, then stopped. Minutes later the crowd disperced. The Fifa Fan Fest was at capacity. It was time to pull the strings of public relations, Ribatron-don style.

The crowd moved like ants surrounding a discarded apple. Boxie-boo and I walked up to security officials. Pointing at the camera around my neck and my notebook open, I said “Journo!” at which point I was told to talk to another security official. Passing through the crowds sounded like a war zone with helicopters sending bassy rhythms through the sky, sirens wailing, where people ran in all directions. The second guard told me to head left, pointing, before holding people back who tried to jump the front fence.

“Journalisto,” I said at the side media entrance, a word I hope would sound Spanish enough to jump over the language barrier. An official scanned my camera and notebook, the complete confidence of my stance. “Canada,” I said, pointing to my chest. She waved us through, at which point we were given green wrists band that allowed us into media-only areas. I will now cue the disapproving headshake of my mother and my father´s laughter.

Sitting on padded mats of green and yellow, of course, I grabbed us a couple free beers and Powerades, small sandwiches, at which point we were given large blown-up red hands, used to clap when Brazil scored. Handing Boxie-boo a beer and Powerade, I gave her the grin of the grinch who stole Christmas.

“You surprised?” I gave her the look of the dog who had just been invited for a walk.

“I never doubted your bullshitting capabilities for one minute,” she responded. My dog face changed to the confusion of an unknown wagging tail. Ra roo roo?

Now that was unfair. I was a journalist, I was planning to write about the game (and did) and every media agency I mentioned might potentially run this story or another version of it. The only lie, a mild one really, was explaining to the lady that I was simply told on the phone to come down and did not know why my name was not on the list. “My editors will be pissed if I don´t come back with crisp copy,” I remember saying. Alright, maybe she had a point, albeit a small one as the story is now published on Page59.com.

Within minutes of the first half, a massive wall was pushed over and a huge crowd powered in, moving security officials aside, the sun beaming over a mountain across the fans. It took minutes for the wall to be closed, at which point police had entered, trying to spot jersey wearing suspects in a sea of yellow and green. Their job, at this point, was impossible.

I looked away briefly. A moment to take notes. Suddenly, the crowd was standing around me, screaming and cheering. Dust clouds of sand were kicked into the air, beers aimlessly spilt, while horns blasted from the mouths of adults and children alike. Brazil had scored. Boxie-boo whispered to me that she farted.

By the second goal, our entire stand thundered. The plastic blow-up hands banged against my back and chest. Groups of women were cha cha dancing, while young lovers gave celebratory kisses. Boxie-boo returned from the outhouse.

“It doesn´t look like the Koreans are gonna see this at home,” she said, referring to North Korean´s media cencorship - a government that has openly proclaimed game highlights will only be shown if the country wins.

The only time their horns were lowered was when North Korea scored. By the time we left the stadium, the streets were mardi gras packed, a city filled with celebration, where advertisement screens blew steam at the crowds. Boxie-boo began our commute home by constantly smacking my bootae with her giant hand clappers. All I could think of was 2014 - of the adrenaline-fuelled soccer frenzy that will fill these streets for the next World Cup. It was a nuclear bomb of football passion, of a shared dream to watch Brazil - the most winning nation in World Cup history - to raise the cup once more.

That´s all for now.

Thank you for visiting Page59.com.

The Sugar Loaf, Rio de Janeiro

Mon, 14 Jun 2010 00:00:00 -0700

06/14/10

I do not want to freak anybody out, but I know you are reading this right now.

Alright, the above joke might be funnier if, like all jokes, after the punch line, you imagine a guy wearing a Speedo being hit in the nuts by a football. I thought about this, while Boxie-boo utilized her famous move to get me dancing in the morning by holding up the bathroom. While she sang in the shower, I ballerina-swayed on my tippy toes, the post football to the groin position, to avoid peeing myself.

Oh the romance, our young love, where I was always happy we kissed not only for the connection it brought us, but the understanding that Boxie-boo was too close to see what’s wrong with me. I realized this, hours later, while we rode the first of two Sugar Loaf cable cars, taking us up to a 360-degree, ocean-front view across Rio de Janeiro.

During the first ride from Praia Vermelha (Red Beach) to Morro da Urca (Urca Hill), our cable car was surprisingly smooth, with a view shooting backwards towards the city. The view was nice, but my mind was elsewhere. I found myself only able to think about one thing.

“How hilarious would a nude male photo be from this viewpoint?” I asked.

“There is something wrong with you,” she responded, before laughing.

My gig was up. I knew I should not have confused my eyelash spasm for a logical thought. She looked around to make sure nobody else heard me as I spoke rather loudly. I made the mistake of presuming we were the only English speakers, the same mistake I made days earlier proclaiming “I have diarrhea” in the El Misti Hostel. Either way, we were well rested, the sun was shining in full force and we were stoked, though unhappy with the cost - 44 Reias per person.

When we reached the first peak at an altitude of 220 metres, Boxie-boo seemed in a rush to jump up the next cable car. Maybe she worried I might actually put my thought into action. I’ll be honest - there are few things in this world funnier than male nudity: just picture a streaker running across a football pitch while being chased by security officials. Hilarious? Yes.

Reaching the peak of Sugar Loaf, an altitude of 528 metres, we could see across many Rio beaches - Flamengo, Botafogo, Leme, the infamous Copacabana, Ipanema, to name a few. The view expanded all the way across downtown Rio, Guanbara Bay, the Corcovado Mountain with the Christ the Redeemer statue and as far out to sea as our vision would take us.

From this vantage point, Rio appeared more like an island than part of one of the world’s largest countries. It was an awe-inspiring view, forcing me to step back and turn slowly, attempting to widen my gaze while leaning in to catch each detail; a sight where the sun seemed to rise and fall simultaneously.

Rio was no longer a city, but a massive bonfire flame of green, fiery with blue smoke and a light cloud mist that took my eyes hostage: the ghost white buildings bursting like pockets of oxygen, the distant sea darkening a navy blue; the skeletal green skyline, smooth and jagged like the dance of coloured smoke. It was a waltz of mountainous shadows over a city, sucked up into the sky where we stood, our eyes sapphire sharp from this play of light.

I could have stood there all day content to wait for the moon to turn the mountains to stone, the sea a black sand and the buildings into an ivory of glow.

A tourist trap, indeed, but a view that will not easily be forgotten.

Boxie-boo had other plans, having discovered a small marmoset primate in a tree (above).

Women all react the same way when having a cute small animal in view: they begin by running uncontrolled, ignoring everything a man says, raising their voices as high pitched as possible, without noticing all the stupidities of men. Had she been wearing a purse, it would have been sumo smashed into my chest. For some reason, it becomes an emergency situation, as if their lives depended on the animal being able to hear them say “aww.” A man could be drooling, unemployed, openly wearing a pooped diaper, but if held a puppy, he would receive more attention than Brad Pitt’s belly button lint. True story.

That’s all for now.

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Botanical Garden of Rio de Janeiro

Sun, 13 Jun 2010 00:00:00 -0700

06/13/10

Rio’s public transit bus broke continuously with the sound of a pig mid-orgasm. Its body swayed back and forth, adding the sound of twisting latex, as if we were in a massive Durex condom battling a rival Trojan, maddening louder as the road turned to cobblestone. I was beginning to feel feverish. The sounds were getting to me. They managed to leave the bus and enter deep in my ears: two pigs squealing in full body condoms, wrestling on my brain, while my breaths tied their tails in knots. Oink, oink, baby.

The 571 bus was colourful with yellow polls, blue chairs and a red turnstile next to a sideways sitting cashier. The turnstile was so stiff it forced people to do awkward kamasutra moves to push their hips through, a sight that made the brake pigs squeal. I suddenly felt an urge to roll in mud while snorting.

Not sure where to get off, pun not intended, I walked up to the cashier and showed him a piece of paper with our destination written on it, Jardim Botanico, and mimicked for him to pull the stop string for us. He nodded. “Obrigado,” (Thank you), I said, nodding back, while the pigs in my head kept oinking.

Outside, small squares were turned into markets. The sidewalks, lined with graffiti across walls, were covered in floral designs of black and white tile. Some women walked by in tall high heals, wearing shorts cut high enough that caused their inside pockets hang lower. Tennis-sized courts were used by barefoot soccer players pounding their feet on concrete. Nearby tree trunks appeared to be a bunch of tangled vines interconnected out front of apartment buildings draped by Brazilian flags.

My fever worsened. The sounds increased. The pigs must have been working on triplets.

“Your head is clammy,” Boxie-boo said, then helped me to remove my sweater. Steve, a middle-aged American from Phoenix joined us, also feeling off from the bus. When we arrived at the gardens, we ate some lunch and within minutes I felt better.

Coincidentally, we visited the gardens on their 202nd birthday. Dom Joao (King John), later known as Dom Joao VI, founded the Botanical Garden on June 13, 1808 when he was Prince Regent. This former King of the United Kingdom of Portugal and Brazil, used the area for a gunpowder factory to defend his crown, all the while collecting flora from Brazil and throughout the world.

The park was a gorgeous tour of history and plants, centered around the Fountain of the Muses, which represented poetry, science and art. The gardens featured a palm collection, Japanese garden, numerous cactus species, giant amazonian plants, as well as many ponds and historical statues. For the Ribatron-don, the excitement resided in my nostrils.

After smelling a clove leaf (Christmas ham ingredient), I spent a couple minutes holding a cinnamon leaf below my nostrils. I honestly did not know that cinnamon came from a tree, I thought it came from leprechauns.

“You look like a crack addict,” Boxie-boo said.

“The sense of smell is underrated,” I responded. We were in a free golf cart tour passing Mexican tequila plants, before entering a house of orchids. The air was fresh, either the smell of grass or of flowers. A stunning park. It resided at the foot of Corcovado Mountain, bringing with it a cooling mountain breeze.

For Boxie-boo, the highlight was the greenhouse filled with carnivore plants, especially the Sarraceniaceae (below).

The plant did not look like much, resembling a small brown duffel bag the size of a child’s hand. It was leafed, shaped like an amphora, which contains a volatile substance that exhales an odour capable of attracting prey. When insects land or climb on the border of its open tube, then slides down to the interior, it becomes able to escape by virtue of the inverted hairs and the smooth walls.

The most famous attraction forced Boxie-boo to have no choice but to jump in the air for a photograph. Known as the “Avenue of Palms”, the entrance was lined with over 130 soaring palm trees, perfectly set apart, spanning what seemed near 800 yards. It was originally reserved for the royal family only, all the trees grown from the seeds of a single tree known as the Palma Mater. If foklore was true, all the seeds of this majestic tree were burned to insure nobody else could grow one. The nature followed suit, later destroying the mother tree with lightning.

For the Ribatron-don, nothing beat the massive, Amazonian waterlillies, some as large as monster truck tires. They looked large and strong enough to surf with, capping off an absolutely stunning collection of rare and beautiful plants, silencing even the most horny pigs trapped inside my brain.

That’s all for now.

Thank you for visiting Page59.com.

Walking Around Gloria, Rio

Sat, 12 Jun 2010 00:00:00 -0700

06/12/10

I wore sunglasses to hide the fact that my eyeballs were naked and I had not slept in days. The shades had turned the shoreline into a shadow of blackness: a tree-covered landscape became a blanket of dark green and silver pinned by grand rocks lighted a golden brown, the mountains of constant summer. Smooth crests of rocks vanished under a shoreline of tree limbs as we walked, hand in hand, lowering the sky around Boxie-boo’s smile.

For the cost of 10 Reias more, we were in good spirits having switched from the El Misti Hostel to the Golden Park Hotel in Gloria, excited for our first night of quiet sleep. The two establishments were about as comparable for comfort as a hemorrhoid is to a professional massage. We switched from a dungeon of compressed bass, mildew, urine and broken appliances, to a hot private bathroom, cable T.V., fresh air and a soft, quiet bed, where the only sound was the low, smooth breeze of the air-conditioner.

I listened to my footsteps as we switched to the sand; the absence of sensation made me feel as though I was sleep walking. Behind us, sand seemed to fall, blurring the trail of our steps. I left my sunglasses on for a moment: large, boisterous waves fell beaming away from the flawless blanket of black. Beyond the palm trees, modern buildings of reflected glass moved the water up its concrete frame, below the mountains, creating a curtain of waves.

“This has to be one of the most beautiful cities we have been to on this trip,” I said, removing my sunglasses to take photographs. I let my mind catch up with my body; silent, Boxie-boo looked across the horizon with me. Framed against the sun and shoreline, the beach was empty around her. The mountain ran like a fever heated across the sand. Rio was a city that entertained us by simply walking through it.

The city had the ability to seduce us away from our exhaustion. Being grumpy in such a beautiful setting was no more useful than yelling at a fire hydrant for smelling of dog pee, so we persevered, admiring the neighbourhood of Gloria where locals played keep up with soccer balls under trees dangling with vines.

Admittedly, though, by the time we returned to our room, we needed rest. Hearing the quiet, Boxie-boo looked utterly, carelessly happy. My body absorbed the soft mattress, leaving me to feel absent from my own body. Local beads of condensation grazed a cold beer, while we watched the World Cup on T.V. Too lazy to move, we ordered a pizza, moving so slowly our movements seemed from memory.

A night of relaxation was just what we needed.

That’s all for now.

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Copacabana, Rio de Janeiro

Fri, 11 Jun 2010 00:00:00 -0700

06/11/10

Sometimes when you backpack, you have to spend some time taking care of some odds and ends. For us, we always felt it was a good idea to circle an entire neighbourhood, to get an idea of where the bargains were, find public transit, grocery stores, etc., while remembering to always smell terrific, which I learned how to do from my readers. Do not bother checking, your deodorant is working. Trust me.

We started our morning off in search of discount laundry service and cheap food, which was tough to accomplish in the heart of Rio´s tourist central. After dropping off our dirty drawers, wondering as usual if staff will be amused by my homemade underwear, we walked towards the ocean passing multiple restaurants for blocks that were all too expensive…60 Reias, 45 Reias…

As a result of an early morning flight and two nights sleeping at the El Misti Hostel, we were no more motivated than a Wal-mart greeter. Lack of sleep gave me that hangover mindset, where I felt I could die and was afraid I might not. I know that violence is never the answer, but this morning the only question I wanted to ask hostel staff was - what is never the answer? Then pa pow! Straight to the snitzel. Staff were the worst offenders late at night and in the early morning, constantly yelling and banging plates in the kitchen, sounding like they were killing their meat indoors.

I suppose nearing six months abroad, the opposite of what I thought would be true: Roughing it had become harder, not easier. Instead of handling dorm rooms and communal bathrooms as we did at the start of the trip, it had become almost a necessity to have a private room, while hoping we could afford a private bathroom. Lack of sleep used to not bother us so much, but after months of traveling, we craved proper shut-eye. The problem was - Rio de Janeiro was very expensive, which meant our time here would be well over budget if we wanted any comforts.

I was grumpy, and had I been diagnosed with OCD, I would have counted an even 137 problems. Oh no, you are not gonna try to cheer me up, are you? I thought, as Boxie-boo kissed my cheek.

Alright, time for some honesty, we were having a blast in Rio, loved the beauty of the city and the friendly locals, I just always started the mornings off feeling the energy of a half-shaven goat, looking at everybody else as if they were wearing my fur. You bastards! I had a new goal - I would not rest until I found a cure for insomnia.

On the sidewalk beside the sand, we walked across small squares of white and black tile, mixed together like long and swooping ying-yang symbols across the sidewalk. It rained off and on in short bursts, creating gorgeous clearances of blue through white clouds across the brown sand, illuminated across the ocean. The beach of Copacabana and Leme ran for four kilometres, living up to their reputation for a magnificent mix of land and sea, where the long scalloped beach was covered in workout bars, soccer nets, but few locals. Where was everybody?

Discovering a restaurant that served steak, chicken, pork, sausage, rice, salad and beans for 14 Real (About $8 Canadian), we found a local watering hole packed with soccer supporters. The ceilings and neighbouring trees were wrapped in Brazilian flags. For the first time on this trip, we saw not only football, but football in HD.

“I want to kiss all the store clerks for this T.V.,” Boxie-boo giggled, her eyes wide and in shock; her faced amazed by the detail of the game. We could see the grass, faces in the crowd.

“It is unreal!” I said. “I could count their leg hairs.” For us, it truely felt as though it was our first time watching HD sports.

The Brazilians were in full support of South Africa to beat Mexico, screaming in circumcision-agony when Mexico tied up the game during the second half. This surprised me, as I thought they would be more likely to support a country close by, instead of one a continent away. I suppose like many Canadians, we all enjoy supporting the under dog.

Walking home at night, I was sure to walk a half-step behind Boxie-boo and wear my camera bag back on my front. The neighbourhood of Copacabana seemed safe, with many lights and busy with street vendors. However, as a foreigner in a city with a reputation for mugging, I felt it was best to keep my guard up, always doing my best to blend in, walking straight and unafraid, without hiding behind every tree and mailbox.

I also learned that dogs are tough. Passing two sitting straight forward in rain jackets facing a closed apartment door, I interrogated them for two minutes and neither of them would tell me who a good boy was. We kept moving, hoping to find cheap soccer jerseys on the way back to the El Misti Hostel.

We quickly got the impression that street vendors were not allowed in the area around Copacabana, as sometimes after they picked up their cellphones, the salesmen and women would look both ways, then pack up their products and run. Eventually we bartered down, slightly, two Brazilian soccer jerseys for 15 Reias each, then walked back to the El Misti Hostel prepared to inhale the scent of urine and listen to constant yelling until the morning.

That´s all for now.

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Tour of Rio, Brazil

Thu, 10 Jun 2010 00:00:00 -0700

06/10/10

I woke up and learned that yelling at a wall can be beneficial. It kept me from randomly walking up to a perfect stranger, saying good morning, then punching him in the face. Walking around the El Misti Hostel, I disliked everyone - except my readers, of course, because you are just so attractive - for their constant yelling that kept me up all night, before waking me up early. If people feel the need to sing in the shower, I understand, though, please be masculine and sing boy band music, not scream heavy metal.

I was definitely not sordo.

My head felt pumped with methane gas from the urine stench of our room that was cannon-smashed into my brain. Our window could not be closed, residing over the downstairs bar. I was as angry as a victim of ID theft, though my name did not have to shortened to Rib, but I did want to be called Ron-Lover (what´s up, Swonson?).

Downstairs breakfast included stale bread and cold coffee that required at least 17 hits of sugar, a hypnotist and the Incredible Hulk for distraction to taste good. To inspire myself back to life, I would have required 17 cups of coffee and a defibrillator. Instead, I decided to focused my energy on battling a mild dose of the runs. I also learned that yelling “I have diarrhea” is only cool when playing Scrabble, as seconds after saying it, I realized a fellow Canadian heard me as I headed to the bathroom. With raised eyebrows and a tight lip nod, he gave that “yup” look that goes with the thought, I feel sorry for that idiot.

Downstairs we met a traveler named Steve who shared some great news - he had found hotels online that cost about the same as a private room at the El Misti Hostel. It was as if he held a magic wand over our world, and ba boom, everything suddenly seemed softer and more beautiful, as if even the lamp posts and fire hydrants were wearing bikinis. He lent us his labtop and we reserved four nights at the Golden Park Hotel in Gloria. We hoped for the best.

In the El Misti´s defense - beyond the fact that it was over-priced, stunk and most things were broken inside - it would be a good place to go if you are single. In our case, having traveled for over five months, our energy levels were low and we needed more sleep. The El Misti was about as useful for sleep as farting is for impressing the ladies. Trust me, I have tried.

In the afternoon, we went on a tour of Rio de Janeiro in a tourist van with multiple stops throughout the city. Heading up the swervy, cobble stone road up Corcovado Mountain, our bodies continuously swayed back at fourth. The road was surrounded with beautiful rock walls covered in vines and growing ferns.

“Since the Portugese landed here on New Years, they called the city Rio de Janeiro - ´The City of New Years´,” our guide said. The driver continously swerved left and right like we were driving up a candy cane. When we stopped, our guide told us not to steal plants as the whole mountain was a park and theft would mean arrest. I was glad I decided not to dress like a garden gnome.

After ascending 214 steps, according to our guide, we reached a gorgeous view overlooking the city. I quickly realized why the Christ the Redeemer statue was such a tourist wrangler.

From up high, we could feel the wind tossing down the mountain through the winding roads. We watched as new leaves danced in the warmth of the sun as they drifted down the mountain towards a city of white, wedged between green mountains and the blue sea. In every direction, towering mountains seemed to shoot from out of the ocean. It was one of humankind´s best attempts to harmonize architecture with nature, a view that was capable to calm the agitations of the soul, a magnificent scene with not one withered tree in sight. It was a pastured lane of greenary, a darkened, massive green vine filled with white grapes, fed from a blue horizon.

Behind us stood Christ the Redeemer - a stuate 39.6 metres tall, including its 9.5 metre pedestal, and 30 metres wide. At 2,300 feet, it sits at the very peak of Corcovado Mountain in the Tijuca Forest National Park. It was one of the grandest symbols of Christianity in the world, an icon of Brazil, made of reinforced concrete and soapstone. Even the none religious, like myself, can appreciate its beauty, as if God was watching over the entire city.

After visiting many sights, including the Carnival strip and the Sao Sebastiao Cathedral that looked like a giant beehive, I was stoked to learn that Pele and I have the same sized feet, which should be no surprise to my soccer teammates (yeah right!). Our guide called him the “athlete of the century” and I was tempted to agree. To be the best ever at the world´s most popular sport, to me, deserves that title. I learned this at the Maracona Stadium, which was under renovation for the 2014 World Cup, where Brazil´s most famous footballers had their feet set in concrete like the hands of Hollywood.

All in all, Rio was a beautiful city. It was an artistic mix of the old and new, which blended in together smooth as rain in water; a place covered in flags and locals in yellow jersey - an energy fuelled by the country´s dream for success at the World Cup in South Africa.

That´s all for now.

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Argentina to Brazil

Wed, 09 Jun 2010 00:00:00 -0700

06/09/10

Walking onto the streets of Florencio Varela, homeless men and women huddled around a fire outside Teresa´s home. It was 3 a.m. Our taxi driver, the godfather of Juan´s daughter, was out front waiting, a friendly man who gave us a deal on the ride to the airport since we were family. Most of the poor and desperate people were not sleeping. It was a scene of mix sadness - Teresa´s eyes swelling up as she waved goodbye and the shameful look of held in tears from the homeless.

As always, I wanted to know each and everyone of their stories. Nobody looks at the homeless and thinks nothing. They were all once cute babies, children with dreams, now adults simply surviving. To judge them is to judge yourself, as our inability to care for those most in need only outlines a coldness in humanity, regardless of the reasons one is homeless. For the first time in history, humankind has the ability to give every person food, shelter and clothing, yet thousands upon thousands of people die of poverty each year, from the extreme of starvation, to diseases born from drug abuse and poor water conditions. This fact has always saddened me.

I found myself feeling sorry for not only the homeless, but also Teresa.

She was a 73-year-old woman living behind high gates for security, alone, in a neighbourhood that I never saw her walk around by herself to keep safe. When we would visit her son only two blocks down, he would drive us the short distance back when dark out of fear. Nobody should have to live this way, to be afraid of their own front yard. Yet she was happy, content and thrilled each time she saw a smile on her granddaughter´s face. She never complained, said little about the poor, only complaining that welfare collectors with many children - as a result of the 200 Pesos per month - made more money off government subsidies than she did working.

Inside the car, our driver constantly blew red lights without even braking. I breathed in before each intersection, while reminding Boxie-boo to put on her seatbelt. He seemed to know which cross streets to slow down for, even coming to a near stop at some green lights. With many lights out, the sights outside blended my memories into one night city: Suva, Townsville, Tokyo, Aranyaprathet, Siem Reap, Chengdu, Pokhara, Udaipur, Cairo, Moshi, Jo´burg, Palapye, Victoria Falls.

Florencio Varela.

Had we really been to all those places and many more? Was it all just a dream? At this point in our travels, we had visited, excluding L.A. and Zambia, 14 countries, having headed up the coast of Australia, across China to India, down Africa, now heading up the Americas. Traveling and writing. My lifestyle. Months of thought etched on my face, reflecting back from the window in a soft, dream state glow from drifting lights. I felt suspended, my eyes opened, closed, being drawn into the vortex of sleep. I no longer felt Boxie-boo´s face on my neck from a night of sleeping. I felt her absence like an amputated limb, reached over and grabbed her hand.

“It does not bother me anymore being up so early,” I said in a voice that bore the hush of a confessional. The cab drive was familiar as always, seeming summoned from our past. Blurred lights and rolling tires. “This has simply become our life for almost half a year.”

Minutes passed.

“Me neither,” Boxie-boo replied with a delay, breaking a moment of strained silence. As if trapped in a time wart, my nerves quivered with her words, then disappeared, leaving me without feeling as the city passed by softly like the rattling of a leaf. Traveling had become a lifestyle, beyond an experience, where our movements later through customs seemed more remembered than spontaneous, almost an act of self-impersonation. Here we go again.

When we arrived in Brazil after a three-hour flight, we were told by a customs official that we had too many Visas.

We reserved three nights at the El Misti hostel near the beach of Copacabana as that resulted in free airport pick up. The taxi driver seemed shocked to learn that we both had bags. “Dois sacos?” He asked, looking shocked as if we had packed a case of My Little Pony dolls instead of underwear. With no room for bags in the trunk and myself running on only two hours sleep, I sat up front with my giant backpack on my lap, looking and feeling like an obese masochist keen to be abused by his own luggage. I wanted to smash my bag into the driver´s face.

During these difficult times, I took solace in the wise words of a teacher in elementary school, “You aren´t quite right, son.” Staying at Teresa´s, the challenges of traveling seemed so far away. On this day, I had to mangina tuck away my manhood to avoid self injury from my massive bag, turn my hoodie forward to avoid having the metal bars scratch my face, all the while attempt to snap a few photos of the drive (one above). I fought my urge to scream, the same urge I get at a bank when I am constantly tempted to yell “Everybody on the floor” for my own amusement.

From out the window, I could see the Corcovado Mountain supporting the giant statue of Christ the Redeemer to my right, later the rounded incline of Sugar Loaf Mountain, standing to over shadow the entrance to the city´s bay. The hillsides were swamped with impoverished buildings, most covered in blue buckets, which I imagined were for heating water naturally by the sun. The packed traffic was cooled by trade winds that I enjoyed, though our driver eventually got mad at me for opening my window. I looked at him with a sadist glare, wondering which part of his body would inflict the most pain. Not his head, for it was softly padded with cartoons that argued with basic math problems. Two times two is?

Just when I thought the worst was over, we arrived at the El Misti Hostel in Copacabana. What a shit hole. It was one of the worst hostels we had stayed on our around the world trip. Hostel staff took over 30 minutes to check our reservation before being shown our room, they lost proof that we paid a deposit and were easily distracted by every friend who came by to say hello.

Thanks to the El Misti Hostel, I now know what it is like to sleep with my head in an elephant´s vagina, if this vagina had built in subwoofers, leaked poisonous gases and had portugese people strapped in its asshole constantly screaming. It was an impossible place to sleep. Our room had a broken fan, broken T.V., broken air conditioner. The walls were water stained, covered in mildew, looking ready to cave in, with massive patches of dirt clouds mixing into the damp smell of an outhouse. Beyond our room´s scent of bleach and urine, resided communal bathrooms that had broken toilets and only one shower that was heated. At night, I slammed my head between two pillows, inhaling the scent of piss, while music blarred in our broken window from the outside bar attached to the hostel.

Meanwhile, it cost 110 Reias per night, a price only dropped to 100 for reserving three stays in one of the world´s shittiest hostels.

That´s all for now.

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Florencio Varela to La Boca

Tue, 08 Jun 2010 00:00:00 -0700

06/08/10

We started our day in a packed line-up to enter the post office, jam full with a crowd all filling out the same form, which I was later told was for welfare. Once inside, we weren´t the only ones confused as locals kept coming up to us and asking us for help in Spanish. I continuously said, “Sordo” (deaf), while holding my hands over my ears, though I was also tempted to do the Chicken Dance.

Once at the front of the line, our lack of Spanish gave away our local disguises. Noticing many people take a sudden interest in our presence, I thought about what Juan told us and decided to speedwalk once outside to avoid being followed by someone in the know.

Yes, it was probably safe, but when a local told us the neighbourhood was poor and dangerous, especially for foreigners, we felt it was best to keep our nationality secret and keep moving once revealed. For this reason, I decided not to wear my Canadian flag underwear on the outside of my pants, never said “eh” or played street hockey on concrete soccer courts.

The following section has nothing to do with riding the bus…

Walking on to the bus to head towards La Boca again, as we enjoyed it so much, the bus smelled of dust clouds. The entrance had worn carpet torn at the seams, nearby giant tire wells with one elevated seat on top. The tinted section of the windshield was worn with small holes, creating tubes of light, looking like stars, as the driver´s chair made the sound of bending plastic.

His seat frame was wrapped in black tubes, resembling a vacuum hose, while he bounced up and down as we attempted to let him know where our stop was. It was like talking to Jack after he jumped out of the box, but without feeling the need to giggle and clap like a three year old. We gave him written down directions of a cross street, and he nodded, pointing at nearby seats before picking his nose and scratching his butt. He was either willing to assist us, or helping his nostril hairs communicate with his bumstache. Ah, I do smell your new shampoo.

The driver listened to talk radio that was only interrupted by flute solos, looking back through his seven various mirrors, attached above his head in brown patches from too much glue. He bounced down the road using an aftermarket red steering wheel, which also had a mirror. Its only purpose, I imagined, would be to examine his nose hairs while driving, something all men think about doing, especially my male readers. Even you.

I still could not get over the silence on buses in Argentina. I could hear the frame make the sound of twisting leather, the maroon drapes clapping over shades of grey, caked-on dirt, while the driver´s cabinet door bounced open and closed. Broken.

We were sitting on chairs attached to the ground by rusted bolts, the metal of the legs rubbing off like flaking paint, with our bootaes planted on torn chairs that revealed yellow foam, knife-wound jagged. Many locals slept with their heads pendulum swaying back and forth with their chins on their chests. Young mothers came on and off, many looking no older than 16, carrying small babies. Body piercings were a common sight, with pieces of metal pertruding from the back of their necks, chins and the area between their noses and mouths. I was glad nobody dropped their pants.

Looking out the spattered-paint dirty windows, most side streets were unpaved with homes residing next to random piles of dirt and rock. Their windows and doors were barred, most without colour, appearing made from glued together rubble. The lock on the ticket box continually chattered. Forty-five minutes riding. Still no one talked. The only colour outside was that of advertisements and graffiti. Crossing creeks, we saw the shoreline etched with garbage. There were many cars on blocks, seemingly relics from another time, rusted a dark brown. I could hear the chinging sound of the lock banging against the ticket machine, only interrupted by locals pouring in change. Our voices mute. Everyone mute.

Sordo.

We noticed the cross streets we needed to stop at. The bus driver never stopped. I should have known his bumstache could speak to his nostril hairs.

Off the bus, Boxie-boo´s held a cold fist in my hand, the first day actually cold in what they called winter in Buenos Aires. Walking in search of the colourful neighbourhoods of La Boca, at first we only passed homeless people digging through garbage. Above us, the street lights were small boxes hung in the middle of the road dangling off wires. Below was almost constant dog shit, which meant we were often walking sideways, careful to watch passerbyers as even locals wore their backpacks on their front to avoid theft.

“We gotta do the poo poo dance,” Boxie-boo said, while rocking some cha cha moves, her hips swaying, between the street logs.

After many depressing views both on and off the bus from Florencio Varela, La Boca lit up with even more colour. I squeezed Boxie-boo´s hand as we walked by homes bright in pinks, yellows and blues, where local men sat on public benches drinking coffee and reading the paper. It seemed unusually beautiful to me on this day. At first, I was not sure why.

Afraid she could not understand, I looked into her eyes and saw my answers there. In one fluid movement, her hand began to sway in mine, before she began skipping. Smiling. I suppose La Boca became our favourite part of Buenos Aires, though many sections were no doubt tourist traps. Beyond the markets and tango dancers, the neighbourhoods were homely and friendly, full of happy locals. It truely was a manmade garden of metal and wood, growing out of the greyness that at sometimes, seemed to overcast every sight and sound.

That´s all for now.

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