Elusive Truth

In tramping you are not earning a living, but earning a happiness.
– Stephen Graham

Dailies from January, 2012

One Month in Peru

04 January 2012 | Comments

From: Huaraz, Peru

It is 2012. Over a month has passed since my last entry, though don’t mistake the silence for inactivity. Quite a bit happened the past month.

When I arrived at the border, my hands were a blistery mess secreting a vile pus, thanks to the rough dirt roads and my lack of an adequate front suspension. As much as I wanted to continue on by bike, the sharp gut-wrenching pain radiating from my palms precluded any attempt to secure a strong grip on the handlebars. Instead, I attached myself, my bike, and 4 bags to a group of three swell Germans who arrived by bus. The next two weeks were spent in their convivial company traveling around Northern Peru.

Too lazy to go into detail about the following period, though I’ll do the math for you: in those 4 weeks of December I cycled a mere 3 days. For all my diligent stalkers out there here was my route.

La Balsa (border) to Chachapoyas (collectivo)
Chachapoyas to Leymebamba (bike, 1 day, 80km)
Leymebamba to Cajamarca (bus)
Cajamarca to Trujillo (bike, 2 days, 285km)
Trujillo to Lima (bus)
Lima to Trujillo (bus)

While I still scribbled a bit in my journal every couple days, every time I attempted to muster up the motivation to write more I found a convenient distraction. Often, the process of putting to paper coherent and connected sentences from the turbulent nebula of my thoughts resembles an undesired chore.

Winding slowly down the mountains outside Cajamarca. The road snakes off into the distance towards the desert.

The two day, 285km bike ride from Cajamarca in the Andes to Trujillo on the coast was gorgeous. Starting at 8,900 ft (2,700m) you climb over 2,400ft (750m) before starting the long windy descent towards the coast. The scenery gradually changes from mountain scrub to desolate desert.

Fixing a flat in the hot barren desert.

In Trujillo I stayed at the Casa de Ciclistas, a place famous among everyone whose cycled in South America. Lucho, a retired racing cyclist, has been opening his house to traveling cyclists for over 25 years. He provides a bed, shower, and great company for as along as you want, for free. I took advantage of his hospitality for a week and spent the New Years with Lucho and his family.

The House of Cyclists

The morning after arriving in Trujillo I hopped on a bus for the 10 hour journey to Lima to visit a good ‘ol friend from Ecuador who was heading back to the USA with her tail between her legs. Guess she couldn’t handle the awesomeness that was Peru.

Christmas in Lima. Bus back to Trujillo. Stayed at the Casa de Ciclistas. New Years in Trujillo. Hello 2012.

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Going Domestic in Cuzco

26 January 2012 | Comments

The thrill of the unknown, that is, perhaps, for me, the essence of travel.

To follow an open road that beckons with a sweet sultry strangeness into the immense horizon, then to find yourself on the other end of that road in a novel town, wheeling over the choppy cobblestone that you should appreciate as well-preserved colonial ambiance, yet can’t help but loathe as your teeth and sanity chatter out of your skull, ambling down street after street in this unknown place looking for an unknown destination where you can strip off those clothes encrusted in white layers of dried sweat, one layer for each day since your last icy cold shower like anthropomorphized tree rings, all the while dodging llama toting natives, creaky hand carts piled to the heavens with fresh colorful vegetables that put the surgically sorted shrink-wrapped cartons of genetically engineered greens and reds from your homeland to shame, and, don’t forget, the put-put-ing mototaxis that swarm around you in a choking cloud of black exhaust like metal bees from some Industrial Revolution era experiment gone horribly wrong; to lose yourself in this otherness, in this now-ness, with no intentions other than to keep moving, this is the essence of travel.

However, there is a certain comfort in the known.

For example, one can’t deny the mundane pleasure that comes from seeing familiar faces, such as the little old lady’s craggy face that is split by a large broken-toothed smile, as you approach in the neighborhood market to buy your three dollars of weekly produce. You’re no longer just another well off gringo, emissary from the land of iPads and flip-flops, but you have a name and a small loyalty, for a time at least.

Moreover, the comfort derived from a reliably hot (if not reliably flowing) shower and a familiar bed cannot be overstated.

It does not matter how slowly you go as long as you do not stop.
—Confucius

I’m slowing down for a stretch in Cuzco, Peru. This involves breaking my minimalist tradition and obtaining a few things: an apartment, roommates, and a real towel. But I’m not calling Cuzco home, rather I’m temporarily taking advantage of the location to indulge another hobby of mine: language learning. This week I started studying Quechua, the native language of the Incas and second official language of Peru.

Off the bike saddle and into the classroom. I can’t help but wonder how long it will be before the road, that irresistible temptress, seduces me back.