From: Cusco, Peru

An Andean Condor in flight (Photo by Phil Robinson)

Working on a new project to record and release online native Quechua stories, myths, parables, jokes, proverbs, etc. I released the first one yesterday. It is a short story about a condor and his girl. You can listen to it and read along in Quechua: Kundur (The Condor). English and Spanish translations will be up soon.

People often decry the fact that Quechua is in decline, that tales and traditions are being lost, as fewer and fewer children grow up speaking Quechua. By recording and making them available online, I feel that I’m doing my small part to help preserve Quechua and its unique story.

Though, in some contradictory way, I feel that, by recording and transcribing stories, I’m also contributing to the decline of Quechua.

(For reference, the kinds of stories I’m referring to are tales, parables, children’s stories, myths, etc.)

This strange thought occurred to me while editing a beautiful story, told from memory by a young woman, who had many stories she couldn’t wait to tell me. I realized I couldn’t think of any stories or myths from my culture. That struck me as absurd. Surely, we have stories and myths? I mean, I remember hearing them when I was a kid. Where did they all go?

Of course we have stories and myths (think Aesop’s fables and Grimm’s Fairy Tales), but they’re all stuck in books. We invented writing and books, so our shared cultural stories can’t ever be ‘lost’…right?

Well, yes, technically, with books–and now digitization–most of our cherished stories from childhood won’t ever be lost. After all, that’s the problem of the Quechua people today: they didn’t invent writing, and now they’re culture is endanger of vanishing out from under us. It’s a mad dash to scribble down as much history and culture as we can before the Westernization of their identity is complete.

Yet, even as their stories are disappearing, they are still very much alive. They are living, breathing, animated creatures, that change slightly every time they’re told. They make their home in the heads of grandparents and their grandchildren. What a fascinating life these stories have, not restricted by their ‘canonical’ copies in some dusty tome, free to evolve and change.

Our stories are fixed in books, like beautiful vibrant butterflies pinned to the pages of a child’s insect collection. Their colors have faded and they’ve become crispy in our hands. Our stories have ‘right’ versions. Don’t dare deviate from them or you’ll be ‘wrong’.

Maybe that’s the price of preserving our stories. To save our stories we nail them to the pages of books, where they become stationary and stagnant.

Dead stories are better than no stories, I suppose.

And with that in mind, I do my best capturing the stories of the Quechua, pinning them to paper and hoping that in the process I’m not wringing too much life out of them.

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From: Cusco, Peru

Back in Cusco after a 12 day trip to the jungle town of Puerto Maldonado. Six of those twelve days were spent cycling up over the Andes to their very edge and then down their steep backside all the way to the jungle.

Fun Statistics:

• Distance cycled: 490km / 305mi
• Mountain passes crossed: 2
• Highest point: 4,751 m / 15,587 ft
  (higher than any point in the lower 48 USA)
• Lowest point: 0m / 0 ft
• Oddest camping spot: a graveyard or a rural school classroom (tie)
• Total crashes: 1
• Total spent: $40

This was my first cycling trip with a partner. Despite my initial apprehension, the trip went smashingly well. I wasn’t concerned about my friend’s physical fitness, she’s in great physical shape and has the steely willpower of a warrior. Rather, I was uneasy that the sanctity of solo travel, as I’ve been practicing for months now, would be marred by the presence of another.

In the end, my fears were unfounded, in no small part because my partner possesses that essential travel mojo that makes for the best traveling buddies.

You know these people, they’re relaxed, open-minded, and aren’t afraid to compromise on the little stuff. They’re also strong, independent, and can take care of themselves. Most importantly perhaps, they keep their heads about them when shit goes down. And, boy, did shit go down this trip.

Meet Bronwyn!

It is the morning of third day. Ahead of us is the final and highest pass in our journey out of the Andes. Only 4,000 vertical feet stand between us and the promised glorious downhill plunge into the jungle. Beginning outside the small town of Ocangate, we amble along pleasantly through the valley, breakfast still settling in our stomachs. The mood is high.

After a short time, the human influence on the land begins to fade away. The fences penning the llama herds end, and the little scratches in the ground that mark cultivated land peter out. The road changes as well; the gentle incline has turned upward sharply. We are headed out of the valley.

The rough and rugged landscape of the Andes far above the timber line.

Once the road turns up, Bron and I’s chatter abruptly stops. We pause once more to adjust our MP3 players, both choosing suitable auditory motivation. My choice is electronic music with a heavy, steady, and relentless beat. We each settle into our own private place and push off towards the apex.

The curve where the steep incline more or less began

A mountain is something you must climb alone. You might be accompanied by others, but they don’t climb the mountain for you. Only you can bring yourself to keep those pedals turning and your grip firm on the bars. The correct state of mind takes you farther than physical prowess ever will. Pounding bass in your ear to urge you forward doesn’t hurt either.

We continue in silence and at our own pace for several hours, stopping every few kilometers to sync up. Each bend in the road reveals more incline. It’s around midday now and the weather is taking a turn. Dark ominous clouds roil overhead. We turn one corner to see the road ahead disappear into a thick white wall of fog. The temperature plummets.

It’s cold at wet at the top of the world.

We press forward into the fog. A light frigid rain begins to spatter our coats. Before long the rain transforms into a wet heavy sleet that smacks into your face and melts, flooding down your neck as an unpleasant stream of frosty water. Unconsciously, we drift closer to each other, matching our paces. Who wants to be alone in the dark chilly wetness in the middle-of-nowhere at the top of everything?

We’re not immune to the altitude. This high, oxygen is hard to come by. The instant you stop for breath, the icy bite you’ve been keeping at bay with determined pedaling returns with a vengeance. You’re cold so you pedal faster, which works for a short time, but you can’t sustain it at this altitude. Tired, you stop to rest. A cunning trap.

At one point we pass three young children on the side of the road. We are miles from anywhere, in horrible weather, and these children are walking down the road as if coming home from school. The children (and their bloody mean dog) stop and sit on the curb some 20 feet away and watch us attempting, rather undextrously, to peel a little mandarin orange. After we greedily snarf it down (lunch-time had long since past and we’re running low on energy) I’m about to start on our second one when I feel a twinge of guilt. Not seeing any orange trees in the immediate proximity, I figure a sweet orange would be a nice treat. After all, we will get out of this freezing situation and find more oranges. I can’t say the same for them.

I scuttle over and hand one of them the orange, attempting to make small talk in Spanish and Quechua. They say nothing. I stare at them for a moment. An eerie emptiness stares back. Then their dog goes utter apeshit.

Scrambling back onto my bike, we push off into the headwind, heads down, pedaling furiously to outrun the dog berserking at our heels. I toss a glance over my head as we round a bend, the kids are still sitting there, orange in hand, expressionless.

Several curves later we stumble across the sign indicating we’ve reached the summit. Cold. Stark. Unassuming. We made it.

Triumph!

And so passed the first challenge of the trip, or so we thought. Coming up soon, more cold, piercing winds, scorching heat, and lots of blood (and a little screaming).

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My slow, plodding bicycle journey so far. Green is on bike, red by bus.

It’s been almost two months since I parked by bike in Cusco, got an apartment and started studying Quechua. Never did I consider my biking journey through South America over, just temporarily on hiatus. The culture, language, sights, and people of Cusco were just too enthralling to pass up. Not to mention I needed to get some serious work done.

Despite the fact that I’m happy in Cusco, that I’m happy with my friends, and that I’m happy studying Quechua, the itch has been gnawing at the back of my mind. My bike has been giving those depressing looks every morning like a dog who hasn’t been walked in months. The road has been calling my name, that wide black road that snakes up the mountain side out of Cusco before dropping into the Sacred Valley following the raging Urubamba River passing hundreds of years of Inca history in the process.

It’s time to take a vacation from Cusco. Next week is Semana Santa (Easter Week). Some friends and I are going to visit the jungle near the small town of Puerto Maldonado some 500km from Cusco. Two of us are going to bike there.

Tomorrow the two of us leave for our 5 to 6 day journey. My sketchy map claims we face two large passes 4100m (13,400 ft) and 4900m (16,000ft) in height before the long gentle descent into the jungle at near sea level (180m/600ft). The route is marked on the map above in purple.

The road leading from the Andes around Cusco to the jungle has historically been a terrible and difficult, with the Lonely Planet describing it as “vile” and “requir[ing] hardiness” (and that’s traveling by bus!). Since that publication, however, the road is said to have been fully smoothed and paved. They even gave it a fancy name: Interoceanic Highway. Usually I take judgements about road conditions from locals with a grain of salt, but this fellow has crossed the expanse in motorcycle 9 times. Though he thinks were crazy to tackle those two passes on bike. He’s probably not wrong.

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From: Cuzco, Peru

Plaza de Armas and Cathedral in Cuzco, Peru (by Pedro Szekely CC-SA-NC)

It’s frightening how quickly I fall back into routine once I stop moving. I’m not opposed to routines out of principal, on the contrary, routines are comforting in their familiarity. They provide discipline and structure which allows us to establish ~~good~~ habits.

As an example, I find that when I’m constantly on the move, I let certain good habits lapse: studying my languages, reading of news, communicating with my family. However, I also pick up good habits that I find hard to maintain when stationary: eating healthy, exercising, every day.

That said, whenever I find myself in a routine, I grow wary and suspicious. The warm snug familiarity of routine inevitable leads to thoughtless complacency, which leads to boredom and missed opportunity. Life needs stimulus to stave off the mundane.

For now, though, the routine is welcome.

Last week I embarked on my quest to study the Native (South) American language of Quechua (kech-wa), the linga franca of the ancient Inca Empire. My daily routine consists of consulting work, studying Quechua, and taking Quechua lessons. Between those three, I theoretically should have little time to socialize, yet, I’ve met many friendly and interesting people, mostly fellow gringos, but several locals as well.

I’m still searching for a Peruvian near my own age with which to practice Quechua. There are plenty of people here in Cuzco who speak Quechua, though most are older men and women whom I speak with in taxis or in the markets. My difficulties in finding a younger conversation partner has inspired me to write an article about Quechua and the difficulties it faces today. The unfortunate fact is that Quechua is a dying language. I will discuss the reasons for this and attempts to save it in this article, which I will post soon.

In the meantime here is a long and boring video of my ride through downtown Cuzco to the hostel I lived at for one week before moving to my apartment. You can see the gorgeous Plaza de Armas, as well as the cute narrow little streets.

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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.

The view from my Cuzco apartment

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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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From: San Ignacio, Peru

What a day! Left early from Progreso after thanking the nice family profusely and forcing them to take a few dollars compensation. They let me fill up my three water bottles from their hose. There is no real plumbing in these areas, so for water they harness a natural spring and attach a hose to it.

As a final gesture of kindness they gave me some sweet sugar covered empañadas to snack on during the day. I didn’t tell them that bread carbs weren’t really my thing. Smile. Nod. Gracias a ustedes, muy amable!

From Progreso it was about 10km to Zumba, but it was the next valley over, which meant a 3ish hour climb on more bad roads. I still can’t believe this entire southeast portion of Ecuador is without paved roads.

The climb was relatively easy. I listened to some podcasts I had downloaded in Vilcabamba. Got mostly caught up on international and economic news. Egypt is finally having their elections! Atrocious things are happening in Syria, still.

Coasted into Zumba just before noon as rain started pouring. I camped out in an Internet cafe for 30 minutes waiting for the rain to pass. It didn’t. Went to a restaurant and ate a meal. Still raining. Around one PM I knew I needed to get going if I wanted to make it to the border. Set out for the last 35km of my Ecuadorian journey in a nasty downpour.

Five km from Zumba I got a flat. The road was covered in broken glass hidden under wet mud. Patching a tube in the rain is… an experience. I was filthy when finished, mud everywhere, soaking wet. Oh well, adventure right?

Changing a flat in rain and mud. Why doesn’t it look so bad in this photo?

Five km later the same tire was flat again. The patch I had just applied wasn’t working, apparently I need to practice my patching-in-the-rain skills. Screw it. Ripped out the tube and put in a fresh spare. I’ll fix this one (if I can?) later when I’m somewhere dry and warm.

Some indeterminate amount of time later the rain stopped and I was treated to a colorful after-rain sky.

After the rain

At some point a taxi passed me with a blonde-haired gringo hanging out the window waving. It was an old Swedish friend from Cuenca/Vilcabamba on his way to Peru as well.

More time passed. It is hard to believe I did less than 30 miles today, it took almost all day.

Before officially crossing into Peru there is a tiny control point signifying the end of Ecuador. They took my passport, did some stuff with it, asked me some questions, and let me fill up my water bottles. Adios!

The tiny control point with two guards and my bike. Ecuador is back down that road.

The last several km from the control to the actual border was some of the worst terrain of this trip so far. Horribly steep grades (both up and down) littered with potholes and rocks.

The border between Peru and Ecuador is a small river over which is built a small bridge with the only pavement for hundreds of km on either side. The descent down to the bridge is jarring and contains all the aforementioned features.

Hands hurting (more blisters) and legs tired, I rested on the Ecuadorian side to enjoy a last Pilsner (an Ecuadorian beer). It was warm, but what can you do?

This was the most laidback border crossing I’ve ever seen. No police. No officials. After my beer I just rolled my bike over the bridge into Peru. From that point I could have kept going, for there was no one to stop me, but I figured it was prudent to search out someone to give me an entrance stamp.

30 feet of sweet pavement between Peru and Ecuador

The Peruvian migration officer is found in a little red building 50ft from the bridge in an unlabeled room. He was sleeping on a cot behind his desk. I gave him a friendly nudge. He awoke right away and happily began the paperwork. Many questions were asked about my plans and my journey, and the exchange was going well until he went to stamp my passport.

Frantically flipping through the pages of my passport he began demanding where my sello was. Sello? No idea what this is. He became even more blustered when I asked for an explanation. He held up a rubber stamp from his deck and practically screamed SELLO!!. Oh. Where was my Ecuadorian exit stamp? Somewhere in there, those two guards at the control (remember that?) had done something with my passport, they must have stamped it.

It wasn’t there. I didn’t have an Ecuadorian exit stamp. The Peruvian migration official was convinced I was attempting to escape Ecuador illegally. In my most sincere and polite Spanish, I promised I wasn’t and I would go straight back to Ecuador and find that stamp. Cross my heart.

Turns out those two guards hadn’t given me a stamp, and they weren’t supposed to. I have no idea what they did with my passport. Anyways, right on the Ecuadorian side of the bridge was a migrations office where a policeman was supposed to dole out these oh-so-important stamps. The office was empty. The stamp was sitting right there on the desk… why.. I could just pick it up and…Oh, did I ever consider it.

Resisting the urge to stamp myself into Ecuador, I asked a kid outside where I might find the Policia. She pointed me towards the river, where I found 6 shirtless guys playing an extremely intense and serious game of volleyball. Practically shoving myself in the middle of the game, I politely inquired which of these fine sweaty chaps had the authority to let me out of Ecuador. A tall, bronze muscular one waved and made the universal hand sign motion for “5 more minutes.”

For 45 minutes I watched the game. Interesting to watch, yes, but I was rather annoyed and ready to get leave Ecuador. Every couple serves the policeman would say sorry and motion for 5 more minutes.

The game was fierce. Ecuadorians are serious about their volleyball. About a dozen onlookers from the village had come to spectate. Finally it was over. The policeman’s team had won. He was in a cheery mood as we walked to the office. Dripping sweat all over the desk he handed me the stamp and said I should do it myself so he doesn’t get sweat on my passport. Why, thanks señor.

I stamped myself out of Ecuador and recrossed the bridge.

Now convinced I’m on the up and up, the same Peruvian officer readily stamps my passport with a 180 day tourist visa.

Hello Peru!

Thus concludes my time in Ecuador. I really enjoyed my 8 months here. I highly recommend it to anyone visiting South America. Feel free to ask me anything about it in comments or email.

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