Tha Parable of Colca Canyon

Before I begin the morality lesson that gives the title to this particular installment, let me rush you through the whirlwind two days that brought us to Arequipa. We left Lima on a Saturday afternoon, and arrived in Paracas, on the south coast of Peru, about four hours away.Paracas is the jumping off point for the Islas Ballestas, also knownas The Poor Man´s Galapagos.

As we had decided to renege upon the real Galapagos in Ecuador (inorder to extend our days of travel), Zenobia, who is an ardent animal lover, was thrilled by the idea that we had a second, even if on a smaller scale, shot at seeing what we had missed. After settling into our hostel, we awoke the next morning and hopped onto a boat touring the islands.

It´s hard to describe what we saw, but I shall try. After speeding through icy winds, we arrived in what can only be described as a world of birds. Massive red, rocky, guano-covered islands teeming with dozens of species of birds. Sun pouring through the archways of large caves cut out by the sea. The driver killed the engine and we floated through some of these massive archways, entering into smaller waterways amongst the islands. Over us, the sky was filled with birds, swooping and soaring and fluttering around: large blue and red beaked pelicans, blue-footed boobies, Humboldt penguins, seagulls, cormorants. Then, we turned a corner by a large promontory, and basking in the sun were a couple of sea lions, so close I might have reached out and touched them. Even the water itself was rich with starfish and sea urchins and beautiful crabs. The culmination of this water safari was in a bay. The shore was pebbled with red sandstone, and on it lay hundreds and hundreds of sea lions who had come on shore to mate and bask. It was like nothing I had ever seen. I felt like I was trespassing in a land that I as a human didn´t deserve to be apart of, because everything we touch that belongs to them, we destroy.The boats we took left waves of diesel fumes over the water, even asthe sea lions swam around us.

We returned to shore, threw our backpacks into a cab and headed to the bus station. I had pre-arranged a tour of the Nazca lines with an agent there, so we caught another 4 hour bus and headed to Nazca. It was luxurious to have someone pick us up and drive us to our hotel, where we relaxed. We then had a wander of the city. It´s a small, friendly, desperately hot and dusty place. There was a city fiesta thenight we arrived, which was cool, because our entire street had been turned into a market. The next morning, we were picked up and taken straight to the airport, where we got into a little six-seater propeller plane to fly over the lines. It was an exhilarating, if somewhat "swoopy" ride. We tilted this way and that, and had brilliant views over the lines. We even got certificates! Later that day, wewent to the Chauchilla necropolis with a Dutch couple, Agmar and Michel, who, unbeknownst to us, were soon to become our companions in many adventures! The Chauchilla necropolis was a bit weird. It´s in the middle of a desert, and it´s just tomb after tomb of skeletons arranged in morbid fetal positions (how they were originally buried. Then the Spanish came and dug up all the graves and exposed the skeletons to shame the Nazca for their pagan ways), with huge hair extensions. It would be almost laughable if it wasn´t so grotesque.

And then we caught a bus for Arequipa. Agmar and Michel were on thesame bus, so we headed over together. While all this was going on, wehad been discussing the option of going on a hike into Colca Canyon. Zenobia seemed really enthusiastic about it. I wasn´t, because I had heard it wasn´t the easiest hike, plus I´m not a big fan of extralaborious, prolonged outdoor activity. Still, hearing Zenobia´s enthusiasm, I decided I would be a good sport and sacrifice my own preference to laze about in Arequipa for a bit of adventure. I determined (with much teeth gritting) that I was going to take one for the team on this.

We reached Arequipa and as I am the only one who speaks Spanish in the group, I was designated to book the hostel and sort out transport. Things went without a hitch and we ended up in our prettiest rooms yet, with hardwood floors and high ceilings, and a view of the Misti volcano and the Plaze de Armas from our window. Our first day in Arequipa was perfect. Sunny, cool in the shade, and a beautiful city to walk around in. We visited the Santa Catalina monastery, which is 22 hectares of gorgeous architecture and colourful walkways that belonged to a group of cloistered nuns. Every corner presented the perfect postcard photo and we went absolutely crazy clicking away in there. We also visited Juanita, the Ice Princess (a fascinating frozen mummy found on a Volcano near Arequipa who had been a sacrifice for Inca gods, and was still kept on ice). I made up a song about her.

We arranged our two day trip into Colca Canyon with some trepidation, but the agent told us that although it was a lot of walking (8 hours) around in the canyon, it wasn´t hard. Zenobia´s ankle had been playing up a bit, and she was uncertain, but I, trying to be the enthusiast, assuaged her fears (and mine) by telling her we would just wrap everything that hurt (I have a bum left knee) and we´d be good. She didn´t seem as enthusiastic later, and I thought it was perhaps because I had seemed a bit of the same, and she was trying to make me happy by giving us both an out from the trip. So I was doubly determined to make sure that this didn´t happen, as I thought she would be disappointed.

Agmar, Michel, Zenobia and I were picked up at 3:30 am for the six hour drive to the Colca Canyon. We were both sick from the altitude as we climbed in a six hour ride from 2100m to 5000m and then back down to 3300 to our drop off point. The bus was late and we began our descent at 11 am, in dead heat. At first the walk was a breeze, even if it was a narrow ledge that wrapped around a 1.1km vertical drop.Then, the path began to drop, drop after drop after drop until we spent two hours using just our quadriceps to descend. The heat made me extremely dizzy and my knee had already swollen up, even though it was wrapped. It was 4.5 hours before we reached the bottom of the canyon.This was when I bitterly told Zenobia, "I can´t believe I did this for you." She looked at me and said, "Hang on. I thought YOU wanted to do this. I did this for you! I didn´t even want to come!" We both looked at each other in shock. Trying to be the good cousins to each other, we had completely miscommunicated and landed ourselves in what we considered to be the pit of hell. (A pretty hell, nevertheless). Other people inthe group found this realization most amusing. Unfortunately, all Zenobia and I could do was shake our heads in disbelief.

Our guide (later to become our angel) Remi, made us all lunch (we were 9 people). We set off again after an hour, and since we were late, decided on taking a shortcut to our base camp, an oasis in the middle of the canyon.

The shortcut turned out to be almost as long as the long way. There was much climbing of rocks, fording and following streams, climbing up those, descending down other paths and rising up steep vertical drops. Soon, a few people had gone ahead, including the fatigued Agmar and Michel, while three of us fell behind. Remi had to stay with us, so he told the others to carry on. At this point, all of us knew we weren´t going to make it to camp before nightfall, so those who could go faster tried their best. It was a bitch. There is no other way to describe this stretch. We were into hour 6, and the temporary energy I had gained from our lunch break was gone. My legs burned. Literally, the only thing that kept me moving was my mind willing me on. Another girl with us, who was terrified of heights, trembled like jelly as we navigated paths so narrow with drops so deep that a fatal misstep felt a heartbeat away (although I am sure it was not). At one point, I was so badly burned that I ACTUALLY considered just "falling off" the ledge to end the agony. It was a very momentary thought, but it indicates how desperate I was for this to end. Zenobia was dead too, but didn´t say a word, just trooping along courageously. We had joked earlier about getting airlifted out of there, but it wasn´t even funny anymore. We just wanted out. Zenobia kept saying, "We could have been eating cheesecake in Arequipa." I wanted to cry.

The last two hours of our descent were in pitch darkness. And I mean pitch. Thankfully, we had a couple of good flashlights amongst the four of us, and we used those to get through it. Sliding down rubbly 100 foot drops, so badly fatigued we could just about put one foot in front of the other, and holding hands to make a human chain. Remi held my hand and called me his girlfiend, I held Sonya´s hand, and Zenobia trooped ahead or behind in total silence. At some point, another guide, Edward, came out to find us. He had already run halfway down, then back up with a girl whose knees gave out halfway down, then back down again to join his group. Now back again to find us. Between him and Remi, we made it back, even switching off our lights and stopping to appreciate the dazzling skeins of stars and shooting stars that had appeared in the night sky. When we reached, the rest of the gang had arrived about an hour before us, and were beaten to the bone from fear. Remi packed us off to rest, prepared our dinner for us, and advised us to get mules for the way up. Michel and Agmar also decided to go for the mules, as they were out for the count.

When we went back up with our mules the next morning, we saw what we had navigated by night, and let me tell you, it wasn´t pretty. Of our original group of 9, only 2 ended up walking all the way up: a really nice French couple. Zenobia and I had nicknamed the guy "Mountain Goat" the day before, because he just skipped ahead of the rest of us, but when we spoke to him that evening, even he was complaining. Still, he and his girlfriend were real troopers and we applauded them.

So the lesson of the story is this: never "sacrifice" and always communicate! Zenobia and I learned this the hard way, and two thermal baths and a massage have only marginally eased the pain. We keep thinking about all the cheesecakes we could have eaten those two days...

Next stop: Cusco and Machu Picchu, the end of our journey in Peru.

Around the Worls in 60 Seconds: Lima, Peru

I am now in Arequipa, recovering from a near-death experience (in which I wanted to kill myself) while hiking down and around the Colca Canyon, but more on that later. It is a parable that we all will benefit from.

So. Lima. Everytime I visit a new South American capital city, I am more and more impressed. Lima was no different. We arrived by night bus from Trujillo, and took a taxi early in the morning to my friend Ariadne's mum's house. Ruth (Ariadne's mum) is a dynamo, and one of the most amazing women I have met. She kindly let us stay with her, and I will shamelessly admit that I really enjoyed having a Peruvian mum for three days. She showed us around Lima, and we were astounded by its diversity and beauty. My cousin especially, who didn't care for it when she flew in there (she described it as a city that a bomb went off in), fell in love with the Bohemian neighbourhood of Barranco with its Bridge of Sighs and its old Republican homes.

The city is Miami meets Mumbai meets New York meets Madrid meets London meets Santiago de Cuba, and yet it is so quintessentially It, if you know what I mean. A city by the sea, sections of which run along steep green cliffs. Broad avenues lined with palm trees. A ritzy mall built into the wall of a cliff that faces the sea, promenades along the water, old colonial mansions, grand plazas, wrought iron doors and windows. Other sections that walked out of Wall Street. In the historical part of the city, I felt as though I were spinning through space, as though I were in many different places at the same time. There were areas with bruised, crumbling colonial houses where people chatted by doorways, and the narrow streets of Lima's Chinatown that suppurated with diesel spewing cars and people rushing about their individual ways.

We saw the changing of guards at the Governor's Palace and it was a beautifully executed demonstration done to the tune of Orff's 'O Fortuna'. We visited the 16th century Monasterio de San Fransisco with its ancient catacombs full of skulls and bones and its old wooden church in which thousands of prayers had been sent up to the arching vaults these years gone by. Even the monks' cloisters had their stories to tell: strange blank spaces peeled off old frescoes where faces one were. It made think of Robert Browning's poem, 'TheSoliloquy of the Spanish Cloister' in which we learn about the hypocrisy of religion from the internal monologue of a really jealous monk.

We also met a couple of really cool Indian guys at a cafe in Lima. The manager, who found out we were Indian, saw them walk by and shouted tothem to come to his cafe, where some 'Indians' were. Vasanth and Uday are from Madras and Coimbatore respectively, live in Atlanta, and were in Peru for exactly a week, to visit Machu Pichu. We arranged to meet later that evening, and went to Zenobia's favourite place, Barranco, where we found a really nice drinking spot and shared a few stories, met some interesting characters, and had a really fun evening.

But the highlight for us, really, was spending time with Ruth, hearing her stories about the city, about the rebellious history of this great country, and its ongoing rivalries with Chile, who claim ownership of the Pisco grape.

We spent much of our time feeling citified, drinking tea and Pisco Sours in pretty Parisian-style cafes in Miraflores, and eating in oldArt-Deco restaurants like Bar Cordano, a wood-panelled restaurant lined with bottles and staffed by old men in food-stained jackets. We then headed to Paracas and Nazca, which I will update you on next time.

A Case of Bad Ceviche: the North Coast of Peru

My cousin and I spent a great part of our mornings worrying about our digestive tracts these days. You see, although our best intentions were to leave Mancora the day after I wrote to you, the call of a bowl of Peruvian parihuela and a platter of ceviche was too strong to ignore. We wish we had, because about half an hour after we ate, we had to sprint to the loos at our hostel, and spent the rest of the day laid up in bed bemoaning our fates and cursing that platter of ceviche.

Still, I suppose Mancora wasn´t the worst place to get ill. Sandy beaches, warm water, cool breeze, great hostel host who fed us yummy cookies at night (she owns the hostel, is a surf instructor by day, and has a bakery service - she bakes it all herself).

We left the following day for Chiclayo, arriving after a dusty and exhausting journey in a rubbish bus. The city was noisy, a market town whose former beauty was evident in its narrow streets and worn out colonial buildings, despite every effort to desecrate them with brightly painted facades, boxy modern extensions and bright lights. Exhausted from the journey and our illness, we found the first hostel in our guidebook for a dirt cheap 30 soles a night ($5 each), and only after we settled in, smelled the dank sheets and felt the double foam mattresses that basically made our bodies buckle in half when we lay in bed.

But the next day was really worth it. Although museums and archeological sites aren´t really my cousin´s cup of tea, she also enjoyed the recently excavated Moche pyramids of Sipan and Tucume. We took a guided tour with an absolutely brilliant fellow called Orlando, and visited not only the sites, but a spectacular musem, the Tumbas Reales de Sipan, which housed the original treasures found in the tombs within the Sipan pyramids.

You haven´t seen anything until you´ve seen a solid gold and silver necklace in the shape of an octopus that hangs like a breastplate over chest and shoulders, each tentacle about two feet long. Ladies delight: this was a treasure of gold and turquoise and lapis lazuli and coral, and more gold. The museum was quite possibly the best I´ve seen thus far in South America, trumping even Bogota´s spectacular Museo del Oro (best pre-Columbine and post- gold collection in South America), for its arrangements and the audacious sizes of some of their jewellery pieces.

Sipan is a pre-Inca site, dating back from 1AD to 700AD. Excavations are continuing as it´s a huge site, and in the main pyramid they´ve dug into, they´ve found three more layers under the first 6 they had originally excavated, which might predate the site to even earlier years. Basically, the Moche civilization that occupied Sipan would build one pyramid over another, like those Russian Matryushka dolls within dolls. Each time a ruler changed, a new pyramid was built. The most important excavation on this site was that of the mummy of the Lord of Sipan. But along with him were found the tombs of the chief warrior and the high priest of Sipan. The whole story of the excavation and the grave robbers who stole here is very Indiana Jones cool. If you´re interested in reading more about it, you can find out here.

We left the following day for Trujillo, another city in the north. At this point my cousin was eager for some waves, and I for some sea breeze and solitude, so instead of staying in the city, we caught a cab to a village called Huanchaco, about half an hour away. Huanchaco is a quiet little fishing village for most of the year, but in the hot summer months, it becomes one of the most sought after beach spots in Peru, with immaculate, wide sandy beaches, great surf, and a huge "Malecon" (seaside walkway, like Marine Drive in Bombay, or the Harbourfront in Toronto). The fishermen there still use old-fashioned reed boats called Tortugas. They look like surfboards, but with the prow turned up. It´s basically two bundles of reeds tied tightly together, with a depression at one end for the fisherman to sit, as if astride on a horse, and row. In fact, the boats are called the horses of the sea.

Well, the first day and a half in Huanchaco were pretty much nothing for me. I literally did nothing. Long walks on the beach, helping Zenobia sort out her surf board and wetsuit rental, more long walks, and some consumption of really excellent veggie food that we were craving after a diet of meat, potatoes, fish and rice. We made an afternoon trip to Trujillo, and discovered it to be a very pretty city. Each street surprised us with its old colonial charm and beautifully restored buildings, now housing banks and art galleries. It´s funny, because those large stretches of the Panamericana between two cities looked like bombed out cement blocks so thick with desert dust that they looked like they were camouflaging themselves. At times, I wondered, you know how we always have this picture perfect idea of the magic that is Peru in our heads? And I write you all these stories about these things we´re doing, and it all seems so endlessly romantic and fascinating? Well about 60 percent of it is moving through incredibly dead, dry, dull, dusty landscapes and city streets choked with traffic and pollution, and desperately poor people still trying to live respectable lives no matter how empty their stomachs are or how shabby their clothes look. I just give you the pretty highlights.

That evening, as we returned from Trujillo after visiting the market for avocados and other fruit, we hurtled back to Huanchaco in a mini van collectivo bus. My knees dug into the seat of the man in front of me, Zenobia and I were squashed into the last row in a bus of 15 that should have only seated 9, and I prayed we wouldn´t have an accident or my knees would be gone. And yet, it was one of the happiest moments of my trip, because it felt so real. The ugliness and the beauty of this country blended so seamlessly together in the instant that we drove along the beautiful coast at night time, listening to dark rolling waves in a broken down bus.

The following day, while Zenobia stayed back to surf, I decided to head to Chan Chan, another major Moche archeological site that covered about 22 square kilometers between Huanchaco and Trujillo. Again, a spectacular trip filled with old temples whose freizes had magically been preserved by fortunate excavations. And not just one layer, but layer upon layer upon layer of exquisite tiling and paintwork of serpents and gods (their principal god being a figure with flowing hair representing the ocean, and called Ai-Apaec, the Creator) and warriors and soldiers. Another site was the Tschudi complex, a beautifully restored section of Chan Chan that made you feel lost in time, and is the largest pre-Columbian city in South America. Here´s more about it.

That night, we caught a super luxury bus to Lima, glad for two loos on the bus, and a semi-cama (half-bed), that allowed us a somewhat good night´s sleep.

More on the majestic city of Lima later.

Dead Animal Safari in Mancora, Peru

We made it to Peru one day earlier than planned. I´ll spare you the details, but we crossed what is touted by the guidebooks to be south america´s most dangerous border crossing like we were VIP´s.

We left Cuenca in a mad rush, having found out that we had half an hour to catch a bus that would take us directly to the northern Peruvian coastal utopia of Mancora in half a day, instead of doing the two-day marathon we had planned to get there. We missed the bus that would take us directly, but were guided to catch a local instead, get off at something called a "redondel" before the scary town of Machala, and then catch a connecting bus that would zoom us across the border.

It wasn´t until we got on the bus, settled in, and opened our guidebooks that we began to read such dire warnings as "avoid this border if you can" and "only go here if you absolutely need to" and "at all costs, NEVER go to these towns at night". So we began to panic and my cousin offered to pay for us both if I would agree to get off the bus right then and go back to Cuenca and follow our original plans. "Or we could do this and be on the beach by evening," I said to her. She glared balefully, and I swallowed some majorly nervous spit. I decided that no one was going to mess with me today, and that was that. I informed her of my decision. More baleful glares.

The "redondel" turned out to be roundabout in the middle of the PanAmerican highway. We got off the bus, were handed our packs, and stood there choking in the dust of the now departed vehicle, completely cluess about what to do, except cross the road to the other side, as the conductor told us. I now know why the chicken did it. I decided that the only people I would ask for help would be ladies and really old men, or aging plump men (this is a tip I got from Shakespeare´s Julius Ceasar: heavier people can always be trusted). A lady told me to talk to a man with a radio. He was aging and plump. I asked him to help us get on a bus to Tumbes, Peru. He told me that they had all gone. I must have looked so pathetic that he offered to put us on another bus that would take us to the border, Huaquillas.

Not Huaquillas! That was quite possibly THE worst town in all of South America! Said the guide book! Not even by day did you walk down a side street there! Set us right in the middle! He must have seen my face, and said, okay, I´ll tell the driver to drop you at immigration and wait for you.

Now, my Spanish is okay, but by okay, I mean still pretty awful. In my panic, all I heard was bus will wait, bus will wait. I had no idea what bus he was talking about. We got on a bus and the driver gave me a wink. My cousin was slightly concerned, and by that, I mean, her entire forehead was furrowed. I decided to talk to the driver, and went to the front. There, I was given the seat next to him, and explained my situation, beginning with the words I love most: "tengo
miedo" - I am afraid. He must have really liked me, because before I knew it, calls were made to the bus ahead of us, and everything was sorted out. He told me not to worry, and didn´t even charge us full fare for the ride.

Not only were we dropped to immigration, but someone met us, guided us into the line, gave us the forms we needed, and told the next bus to hang on. The conductor was looking impatient. The immigration line was ridiculously slow and long. Just then an officer passed us. I said, in
my rubbish Spanish, "sir, this bus is waiting for us." Well, I guess he must have really liked us too, because before you could say "Huaquillas", he pulled us out of the line and put us at the front of another line, and we were done in 5 minutes.

Now I am in Mancora, which is not, as the guidebooks say, a white sand beach. It is more of a dark beige. But it´s spectacular. Rolling blue-green waves, and palm trees, and a sky that is so clear and blue it looks like it was coloured in by a child with crayons. The "posh" part of the beach is set against red sandstone cliffs, and the "commoners" area (where we are) has a very Goa vibe. We have been eating lots of fish and ceviche.

Pelicans and thousands of blue-footed boobys, and dozens of vultures abound here. It has one of the highest concentrations of marine birds in South America. Today, for example, there was a school of fish in the sea, and the birds gathered like a thick black cloud, dive-bombing into the water to catch their prey. They drop in with their wings pinned back and head pointed, like missiles, making the smallest of splashes. But literally, today, hundreds of birds bombed the water. It was an aquatic attack of world war propotions.

This also means a lot of these boobys wash ashore with broken necks, or float in with injured wings to die on the sand. On my walk today, I saw at least 30 or 40 dead, dying, and injured boobys.

This explains the vultures. Anyway, I took a long walk along the beach, and these are the dead creatures I have found so far: a massive turtle (like Galapagos sized), three pelicans, 30+ boobys, two sting rays, several blowfish, other fish, a vulture and a seal. Not bad for two days.

I also took a surfing lesson. I save this for last because, well, I got so hammered by paddling and wipeouts that I couldn´t stand on the board at all. One knee was the best I could do. My instructor Pilar (she´s also the owner of the hostel we are staying at) was very patient with me. Ultimately I told her, you know, I´m cool, but I´m not cool enough to surf.

My conclusion is that surfing is only for SUPER cool people. My cousin is one of those. I can finally appreciate the hard work and dedication she´s put in to surf those waves. As we say in Spanish, she´s SUPER CHEVERE.

See you in Trujillo!

Shrunken heads, panama hats, and standing in the middle of the world: Ecuador

Would you like to learn how to make your very own shrunken head? It might get you in prison, but if you want to learn, read on...

I am now in Cuenca. I am lost for words to describe this city. Every corner is a surprise: a marvel of Spanish colonial architecture that feels like a step back in time.

Things I almost lost: My favourite, old, taped together alarm clock. Bought a new one for $2 in Quito and then found the old one the next day. That is how it goes.

I left you last when I arrived in Quito, and spent a day relaxing with my cousin who was suffering from altitude sickness. The following day we decided to compensate for our sloth and took a bus and then another to get to the Mitad del Mundo -- the middle of the world -- the
Equator. It was a bit of a let down, but we had heard about another place where you could find the "real" equator. That was at the Museo de Inti Nan, where we not only learned the process of making a shrunken head (this involves chopping off the head, scooping out the insides, including the skull until the head is just like those rubber masks you get at Halloween, steaming the head in special herbs until it shrinks, sewing mouth and eyelids shut, and then smoking it, and voila! One shrunken head for you.), but also saw some really cool (if high schoolish) experiments on the REAL equatorial line (apparently the tourist one is off by 00,00,00,07 degrees or something). I was always a keener in high school, so this was a great deal of fun for me. We were also challenged to balance an egg on the head of a nail -- something you can only do quickly on the equator. If we succeeded, we would get a certificate. My cousin and I failed in the first round,
but this Japanese guy and his girlfriend who were with us did it. So we were like, well, if the Japanese can do it, so can the Indians, and we did it. Score 2 for India!

We later walked through the colonial centre of Quito, after getting lost in a dangerous part of the city and finding our way back unscathed, right into another dangerous part of it. Well, whatever, a city is a city, is a city, thugs and all. Quito is potentially heart-stopping. Quite literally. All the streets slope up and we picked the slopiest. At an altitude of 3000+ metres, walking two feet
felt like running for ten minutes. Or maybe I am just really out of shape. This is a city of churches. Some like wedding cakes, some white-washed and dark-timbered, with old iron bells that ring out in the evenings. You throw a stone, you hit a church, that is how many there are in the colonial section. I tried to keep my camera out of sight, but it was almost impossible not to want to pull the thing out every ten seconds to take yet another photo.

That evening we also visited El Panecillo, a hilltop on which stands a massive statue of the Virgin ready to take flight on a chained dragon. We climbed inside and saw a wonderful view of the city.

We considered spending another day in Quito as we had lost out on the first day due to illness. Mauricio, the manager of our hotel tempted us further by telling us that there was a bull run next door and we could hang on the terrace and get front row seats for the action for free. As sorely tempted as we were, we decided to continue on to Latacunga, from where we were to do a day trip to Laguna Quilotoa. Since we had decided not to go with a guide and to do it on our own,
we were anxious to get to Latacunga with enough time to settle in and prepare the trip.

We set out for the Quilotoa crater the following day. I had some regrets about missing the bull run, but we had to prioritize. Seriously, I´ve read so much about how bad Ecuadorean buses are, and to all those who call them rubbish and uncomfortable, I say this: take a 12-hour bus ride from Goa to Hampi on a bus with benches, and then tell me that plush, if smelly seating, is a major step down in travel luxury. We had a great ride, driving through mist, over hills with cliffs and farmland sprawling as far as the eye could see. A little campesina girl got on the bus with her mother halfway to the village of Zumbahua. She decided to sit next to me, and stared solemnly at me. Her white knee socks and black shoes were grey with dirt. Her chubby cheeks were chapped from the wind. Her fingernails had dirt caked under them. I gave her some sweets I had bought. I soon realized she wasn´t staring at me, but past me, so I let her have my window seat. She promptly fell asleep on my arm, tightly clutching a sweet in each hand.

From Zumbahua, we hired a pickup to drive us to the crater. The guy, Franklin, was very cool, told us a lot about the area, including the tidbit that some scientists say the crater, which devastated much around it, is still dormant. We passed llamas and farm houses that looked like bombed out concrete shells on straw-coloured landscapes of rolling hills and gaping canyons. We reached Quilotoa, and after arranging for mules to bring us back up, went to the lookout point to
see the crater.

How can I describe the immensity and beauty of it? A perfectly oval bowl of ragged, jagged cliffs towering over a perfectly green emerald lake that nestled far at the bottom like a precious egg. I felt like an eagle and a miniscule, meaningless person at the same time. I am still in awe. We descended quickly down steep slopes of volcanic ash, slipping and sliding down in about 40 minutes, and were thankful for the ride back up, although I felt very sorry for my mule and kept
apologizing to him as he panted and puffed his way back up.

On our way back from the crater, Franklin told us that there was a bull run in a village near by, which is why we had seen so many campesinos requesting us for rides (we took lots of people along different stretches of road). I was really excited and so was my cousin. We had missed Quito and here was another chance!

Well, it was yet another gob-smacking moment. We drove into a small village, and there it was, a dirt area dominated by a bull pen. The stands around it were a single tier of wooden planks that you could only mount by climbing a rickety wooden ladder. You then jumped from one set of planks to another with a ten foot drop below, until you found a place to sit. Under these planks were campesinos dressed in all their finery, getting well and truly plastered. A live band played
on the stands and a gaggle of people danced around while raising toasts to each other. It was 2 in the afternoon.

The bulls came out and it was hilarious. All the women and children watching laughed. I suppose they never really foresaw danger, so I decided to laugh along instead of being terrified that someone would get gored. And boy, was it funny. There was a bunch of drunk men waving ragged ponchos and blankets at these poor bulls, and then rolling around in the dust triumphantly every time it came at them and missed. I have lots of photos and will share. I was really happy that I got to see a bull run in Ecuador, having missed Quito, and this very special, because, as Franklin told us, it was one man´s shindig to celebrate the end of the harvest in the area, and all 100 people there were his extended family.

I am now in Cuenca. Ecuador has been a flyby, and I have many regrets about this. It is truly one of the most beautiful countries I have seen, and one that I must return to with more time. Cuenca is an especially beautiful city, declared a UNESCO world heritage site in 1998. Rightfully so. Its colonial centre is truly one of the prettiest places I have been. Whitewashed walls, old Spanish colonial houses with carved wooden doors, wrought iron hanging balconies blooming with
hibiscus, and old-fashioned cobbled streets. The centre is filled with immense churches and cathedrals whose mosaic domes and whitewashed bell towers rise up against an azure sky. The beauty of this city is also that it is so lived in. It´s not a preserved relic of a time past, but a living, breathing place.

Here I met Mr. Alberto Pulla, maker of Panama hats. I am wearing mine as I write this and have sent one home to Toronto as well. (They are really cheap, okay?) If you don´t already know this, Cuenca is the actual home of the Panama hat. A lot of Ecuadorean migrant workers went to Panama to work, and took these hats with them. It was there that the name Panama hat was given. Over here, they just call it the Sombrero. Senor Pulla is a man of about 80, with a shiny bald head and a crescent of silver hair. Some sort of lung disorder prevents him from speaking, so he breathes and wheezes his words. Anyway, he collects postcards from around the world, and he was SO excited to learn that we were from India that he took us up to his rooms to show us his collection of postcards. He has none from India, so I am send him one when I go back. He was ever so happy, and gave us lots of hugs. My heart melted. This is why I have two hats. (One I purchased earlier from the hat museum where I learned all about how the hats are made).

Anyway, I just blew today´s and tomorrow´s budgets sending ten of you postcards from Ecuador (BE GRATEFUL!) and mailing one of my hats back to Canada. Tanzeel, my sweet and dear brother, do not be alarmed by the massive package that comes to your door.

Tomorrow we are off to Loja for one night, and early in the morning we leave for the hot, sunny beaches of Mancora, Peru.

Cali-ente!

Are these updates becoming too frequent? I am now in stupendously beautiful Quito, having left Cali early this morning on a flight. It was a relaxing and enjoyable four days there. I didn´t salsa unfortunately, but spent four hours, one evening listening to several of Colombia´s best Afro-Colombian bands play at a stadium in the city for the Petronio festival.

We drove in from Manizales, descending from mist-covered hills into wide, flat expanses of emerald green sugarcane fields and topaz skies. Horses waited desultorily by the side of the road. Two women emerged from a grove of trees, their skirts filled with stolen fruits. At one point, we passed a huge meeting of paisa men with their horses, either there to trade or swap notes, I´m not sure which. There were about a hundred of them standing by the side of the road. I was on the bus with Jonah and James (who you met in my last update). We were all entertained by the high-volume Ice Age 3 DVD (out in theatres now) and then by some odd Wesley Snipes film in Spanish.

In Cali, we stayed at the Hostel Tostaky, run by a funny Frenchman called Vincent, and his Colombian wife Claudia. There was a cafe-bar attached to the hostel, which made it very convenient to unwind. The hostel is in San Antonio, a beautiful, bohemian Spanish colonial barrio of Cali built on a gently sloping hill, that´s close to the centre of the city. From the park at the top of the hill where kids and adults alike came every evening to fly kites, there was a spectacular view of the city. We spent a couple of evenings there just drinking coffee, listening to the storytellers, and watching kites fly.

The Petronio festival had my fellow hostel mates coming home after sunrise, but my parents will be pleased to know that I was a good girl and went to bed by 11 each night. This was mainly because the stress off the last two months (work, packing, goodbyes, moving) finally rolled off me, and I was quite content to fill my days with wandering and my nights with good conversations, a beer, and sleep. I spent one evening at the festival. Jonah and I wandered about the food-filled stalls, gawking at the variety of seafood that presented itself on the occasion of this Pacific music festival. I wished I hadn´t eaten a sandwich before I got there. We also gawked at the long snaking lines of people waiting to get in. Since we were there, however, we decided, somewhat cynically, to give it a shot. Waited. Waited. Waited. Then suddenly we saw a couple of people sprinting to a far door of the stadium, and figuring we had nothing to lose, followed them. Before you could say ¨Petronio de Alvarez" we were in. It was a fantastic show, and we bopped around like crazy, admiring the music and all the beautiful people around us who were waving their hankies and dancing along.

My friend Amalia and her boyfriend joined us in Cali that weekend. I was very happy to see her, and we had a good catch up before deciding to go whale-watching in Buenaventura, a coastal city three hours away from Cali. We were recommended a guide by the hostel, and off we went.

The ride was one of the most spectacular I´ve been on, dare I say, in my life. Thickly overgrown mountains and narrow valleys smoking with mist, and our road winding around the necks of these mountains on a grey day. From Buenaventura, we caught a boat to Juanchaco. It was a 30 person speedboat, and some of us went up in front. That boat went so fast, it frequently launched us a good two feet off our seats, cracking and grinding over the waves, lifting us up on one crest and smacking us down on a trough. We passed island after rocky island with half-submerged caves, covered in irridescent greenery and swarming with pelicans. I was grateful for my life vest. Despite the terrifying journey, I was able to appreciate the beauty around me, and thrilled to be there. The life vest also saved me from terrible injury - despite it I have massive bruises all over my back, so I can only imagine what would have happened without it.

We went whale-watching and saw mother and baby Humpback whales. The baby crested out of the water frequently, while the mother only gave us a coy wave of her flipper.

The ride back was eventful, to say that least. I won´t go into too many details but we were basically robbed by our guide after he deserted us in Bvtura and ran off with our money. Luckily it was only the equivalent of about $10US or less per person, but still, it was a very unnerving feeling. I have vowed to give him a good shake by grabbing his greasy hair if I ever see him again.

The rest of my stay was filled with wandering with friends through the city. Because it was a holiday weekend, the city was deserted. We only saw about 50 people in the span of an hour in the city centre. but in some ways, it allowed me to feel a sense of solitude even while being in an urban built-up space, which was nice.

Fun in Manizales

I am now in Cali. Just a quick update - spent the last 4 days in the beautiful hills of the Eje Cafetero region. Manizales is a pretty university town set right on top of a hill, and surrounded by the cordilleras, with spectacular views of the Nevados del Ruiz, a craggy snow-covered mountain range with an active volcano. Due to its location in an earthquake-prone region, Manizales is built right along a ridgeline. This means that there's only one road in the entire town that runs horizontally. All the roads leading off it head south, often so steeply that there are stairs built into the sidewalks (think Montmartre).

There are 6 or 7 universities there, and the student population in the Zona Rosa area of Cable (pronounced Cabley) (the Zona Rosa areas of Colombian cities are usually the central shopping, restaurant and nightclub districts) makes the entire place buzz with vigour. I stayed around Cable. Cable is called thus, because right in the middle of it stands a spectacular tall wooden tower, one of the original cable towers, and the tallest, that was used to transport coffee down to the lowlands.

While in Manizales, I met a lot of cool people as well, primarily through contacts of my friend Amalia. There was Paula Tatiana, a student and photographer with whom I had a coffee and a great discussion about Latin American literature. There was Juan Pablo, the manager of Hacienda Venecia, a single-origin award-winning coffee farm, who very kindly showed me around town. There was Ines Elvira, a judge, who also took me out and with whom I ate some yummy platanos (bananas) with cheese, corn, and chicken.

I visited a "finca" - a coffee plantation, and spent about 4 hours there with another German traveller, Olaf. It was a spectacular place, filled with monstrously large exotic flowers and acres of trees. We later walked around the town of Chinchina, which grew around the seasonal collectors who came to work on the plantations and stayed on. Juan Pablo later told me that it's a very dangerous town, lots of hired assassins live there, and there are lots of deaths there. This would explain why we saw 4 freshly dug graves in this town's tiny little graveyard, not to mention paramilitary at every corner.

ANYWAY, I got to drink some excellent coffee while I was there, exercise my calf muscles, and take in the views of the Nevados and the Cordilleras at sunrise. The mist seemed to have been whisked and scattered around these mountaintops, floating off this way and that, free of gravity. It was very soothing to breathe in the fresh air and wander around. I went to local market there, which reminded me a lot of Crawford Market in Bombay (it's funny how you go so far away from home, and the further away you go, the more similarities you find - the world really is small). It was an indoor market of two concentric circles, selling everything from birds and fish to bananas. The butchers area was spectularly disgusting, but also fascinating. There were cow's heads piled up in wheelbarrows in various corners. I saw a butcher throw one down, and its horns landed on another head with a loud clatter. It creeped me out completely, I've never seen anything like it.

I've been drinking a lot of fresh fruit juices from the Amazon -- Lulo - tart and tangy, Maracuya (the cousin of the passion fruit, which is called the Granadilla here), tamarindo, Mora (like a blackberry), etc.

I am now in Cali. Met a couple of cool people in Manizales - Jonah (an urban farmer from Brooklyn), and James (a herbalist from BC who has been travelling for 6 years now, and is one of those people you only read about in books - 53 years old, with leathery skin and a long ponytail, and a voice like gravel). The San Petronio de Alvarez festival is on here, and it should be fun. I'll update you on it. On Tuesday, I'm off to Quito, Ecuador.

No Me Mulleta: The Mullets of Medellin

This is going to be a quick update (again) because I´m running out of money and I´m dead tired from travelling and losing things (and finding them) again. I´ll get the hang of it soon, I promise. Things lost (and found) today: my sleeping bag.

I just got to my next stop, Manizales, after spending 4 days in Medellin. Today is my first real day of travelling sola. Up until now, my friend Amalia has been with me, and been an amazing travelling partner and friend and supporter of my efforts to communicate in Spanish with just about everyone who will open their mouths.

Medellin was a weird but cool city. Bogota is still my Number 1, but Medellin had its, shall we say, charms. You´ve seen the title of my email, so I´ll tell you why. Because every third Paisa male (what they call the people of Antioquia district, of which Medellin is the capital) has a mullet. I kid you not. I have an entire photo essay about it. Young and old, they all have this pride that´s connected with it. It´s a symbol of their being people of the earth -- paisas, a statement of sorts to declare themselves as above the superficiality of the Rollos of Bogota. I actually quite grew to like those mullets, to be honest. There were moments when I`d stop dead in my tracks and think, "What a BEAUTIFUL, luxurious mullet that is!" Curly, straight, blonde, black, grey... When you see so many of them, this sort of obsession tends to happen.

There was a lot more to see in Medellin. The feria de las flores was on in full swing there when we arrived with some mishaps. Let me start at the very beginning: we couldn´t get a bus to Medellin. All sold out because it was a long weekend and everyone was headed to the feria, one of the largest festivals in the dept. of Antioquia and the country. The highlight of this festival is the desfile des silleteros: when the paisas come down from the mountains with their baskets (kind of like a coffee picking basket) filled to the brim with flowers. This parade was on Friday at 2 pm, and we wanted to be there in time.

At 10 pm on Thursday night, we stood in the bus station in Bogota, determined not to return home, and flummoxed as to how we would get to Medellin. So we did the next best thing -- took a really crappy night bus to Manizales. We had the last two actual seats, thank god, because after that, three more people got on and had to sit in folding chairs in the aisles. We were told it would be cold; it was boiling hot. We were told it would be comfortable, it was not. The teenage girl next to me decided to use my shoulder as a pillow. At some point, she decided to talk to me, in Spanish. One of the questions she asked me was whether, when I was young, I had ever fallen in love with a boy and experienced heartbreak. It was an 8 hour ride.

At around 2 am, 4 hours in, the bus broke down on the highway. It was a full moon night. I was paranoid with tales of highway robbery in Colombia. Instead, we got off the bus, and sat by the side of the road until it was fixed. Amalia had some food, so we had a midnight moonlight picnic. Fun!

We caught a connection early am from Manizales to Medellin. The drive was spectacular, but the roads were so winding I felt like I was driving down a long instestine. The woman next to me had a really cute two year old girl who could do an imitation of Michael Jackson. Not kidding. We got talking, about morbid things like plastic surgery and serial killers. Don´t ask. In Spanish. Things I have learned: pechugas falsas = fake breasts. Nalgas = butt cheeks. Matar = to kill.

Medellin was hell to find a place to stay but after half an hour of calling around we found a place. If you know Bombay, we were staying in the Falklands Road area of Medellin that is, the red light district. Of course, we didn`t know this. the hotel was clean and serviceable even though the windows were broken. Another thing here -- no toilet seats.

(Right now as I write this, I am listening to a bunch of gringoes talking about their worst travel experiences, and getting scared senseless. Note to self: please ignore, Kulsum.)

Made it to the desfile des silleteros! I´ll post photos on my blog tomorrow so you can see how grand it was. People were everywhere, cheering and egging on these exhausted paisas. The rest of the city was pretty empty, excpet for the street near our place, where there were prossies out at 2 pm, who were looking at us, maybe wondering if we were on their territory. NOT.

The next couple of days whirred by. Lots of festivities, lots of walking the city, a classic auto show, a Born Again Christian passion play in the rich, pechuga falsa district of El Poblado to warn youth against the temptation of beer and electronic music (Want protection? *insert image of condom here* Jesus is your only protection), and a really cool post-football game under the sky party in Estadio where the stadium is. Also went to Santa Fe de Antioquia the former capital of Medellin, now a sleepy pueblo stuck in the 18th century, with cobbled streets and a plaza and horses and old paisa men. A youth there offered me a bouquet of flowers. Colombians are apparently fascinated by me because I don´t look like a gringa so they can´t place me and they don´t have many indians travelling though, so they don´t know what to do with my big eyes. True.

I made my way to Manizales this afternoon, which is a mountaintop town in the Eje Cafetero -- the coffee district. Fincas (coffee farms) all around, cool weather, a blessing after the heat of Medellin and the sauna of Santa Fe. I got dropped off in the dark in the wrong place. Then I asked around (THANK GOD I can speak some Spanish) and found it. Then I realized I left my sleeping bag behind. Then I hopped on a bus to get it. Then I wrung my hands and made my eyes really big, until one of the drivers, who told me I was bonita, called around and located it for me. Then I caught a bus back. And the stupid driver tried to cheat me. But I got my money back. In Spanish. And got off about twenty minutes away from where I was supposed to be and had to find my way back. And could not. But a few kind people walked me to each corner until I found the hostel.

Now I am done writing and will go to BED.