The long awaited final post (also available on the Birdge year website but I swear I wrote it with you all in mind)

Ah, the humble Pico. I've seen this versatile tool used to solve countless problems. There is no ditch that it can not dig, no ground that it can not level, and no snake that it can not kill. It is the multi-purpose wonder tool beloved by all Peruvians. And snake-fearing volunteers. When we need to dig a foundation, it is a pico that chips away the clay-ish earth. When we find rocks marring our would-be volleyball field, it is the pico that pries, breaks, or scrapes them out-- and when snakes come slithering, it is a sharp pico that they must confront. The pico: with a pointy end for picking and a flat end for everything else, it's the perfect implement of constructive destruction.

The Pico made it into the sketchbook to honor my recently-acquired pico skills. I've been practicing a lot. This is partly because I've been working intensely on park construction in Media Luna, and partly because bashing inanimate materials with a pico is an excellent way to vent frustration. Not all has gone smoothly with the park.

Our innocent-sounding little park project came into being after a community diagnostic revealed a lack of activities for woman and children. The solution seemed like straightforward: a volleyball field for the women, and a playground for the children. The people of Chicon seemed to agree. A poll ranked the park as the most popular of proposed projects, so we decided to build it. At this point, you astute readers may be puzzling over the inconsistency between towns. Did not, you may be asking, the name of the community change between paragraphs 2 and 3 from Media Luna to Chicon? Indeed it did. After various bureaucratic problems we chose to move the park to Media Luna. The list of setbacks goes on. Highlights include:

-A machine that was supposed to move and break rocks-- but instead was broken by rocks and unable to move.

-A teeter totter that both teeters and totters, but also threatens to bend under the weight of any portly children.

-An adorable but unrelenting gang of kids that fiddle with playground equipment sitting in wet concrete.

-Rojo Bermellon, a shade of paint that turns out not to be a shade so much as a suggestion, an insinuation that the color inside the can may, with luck, lie somewhere between orange and purple.

-Azul electrico, a shade of paint that, although always a nice electric blue, seems to vary in voltages between cans, creating a sort of sky colored camouflage effect on our slide.

-A very, very large rock

Nevertheless, we progress. Every morning, I stuff myself into a combi (the minivan-like means of public transportation in Peru) and ride over to Media Luna to slowly haul, paint, smash, shovel, measure, and pray the park into existence. So far, we've built a stone retaining wall, leveled a field, and ordered, painted, and installed playground equipment. But much remains. The field needs to be covered in grass, the volleyball poles need to be set in cement, and everything needs more paint. Everything always needs more paint. The to do list is surpassed only by the wish list, which includes things like benches, flower beds, and national legislation to regulate paint shades. This final week, we'll give it our proverbial all. We'll get as much done as possible--and then we won't be able to do any more. And that sentiment right there is an odd one for me.

In high school, I was never quite one of those eye-twitching, caffeine-fueled super-stressors-- but I wasn't too far off either. I had fun, I even let loose (rarely) but my primary motivation was anxiety. I sweated the small stuff and picked the nits. I found that the more I was worried about something, the harder I worked on it; stress was my motivation. Somehow, that tendency has withered in the park. It was a gradual process, revealed in the slow mellowing of my pico swing and the unfurrowing of my brow. I can't say how it happened, not exactly, but I have my suspicions. I think that the stress-as-fuel system was overwhelmed in the chaos of problems and uncertainties. I think that one can only tap a nervous foot so many times while waiting for a machine that won't show or a slide that won't get welded or a president that won't call back.

 At some point, one has no choice but to settle into the Peruvian timetable, where people are like wizards-- they are never late because they arrive precisely when they intend to. A timetable where projects get started just about when everyone is ready, and get finished just in time for lunch. I've started to settle in, and I'm getting comfortable. Now, I'm motivated to work because I enjoy chatting with Senor Francisco (our Peruvian coworker) or because I secretly hope that children will stop by again to ask about the park. I sometimes still feel tugged to action by stress or anxiety, but more often, I just enjoy watching the park slowly take form beneath our picos. I'd never been able to feel both content and productive before-- it is gloriously peaceful. Some old foundations of my personality have been picked away by the problems and confusions of the park project. They were cleared out (or at least swept aside) to make way for a new attitude, a low key, laissez-faire, do-what-you-can-and-accept-what-you-can't approach. I'm excited to take it home with me.

The humble Pico. Its function is simple. It bashes away at things with an opposing and overwhelming force—tearing them apart like an obvious metaphor in a class of high-achieving English majors. It rips down the old to make way for the new. That is constructive destruction.

Update: The author (with the help of many wonderful and attractive people) has since finished the volleyball field. The park was inaugurated with rice pudding and the laughter of small children-- as all great things are. The author has retired to his home state of Alaska, where he passes his time safely drinking tap water and introducing invasive species.

Routine

I fight through the gaps in traffic to cross the highway that runs past Urubamba. It's clinic time. Squatting on the far side of the road, the run-down Minsa clinic offers government subsidized medical attention in all flavors, from physiological counseling to childbirth: not a beautiful building, but an important one, and volunteering there has been both enjoyable and eye-opening.

I get pricked by a curious looks as I walk into a waiting room full of Peruvians. Maybe it's my lack of obvious medical needs, or my odd arrival time (around 2, when only a serious injury should pull one away from lunch). Or, it could be my white skin, bulgy backpack, and the variegated set of scrubs that I found lurking in a dark corner of the ProPeru office. I like to think that it's an arrival time thing. Feeling slightly out of place, I quickly retreat to a more comfortable local: The dentist's office.

Minsa's dental unit is a single white walled room with two big tables jammed with countless instruments of hygiene. The impressive collection of shiny dental paraphernalia sits out because there is no room for storage. It lends the room a daunting, slightly sinister atmosphere. Fortunately, any negative impression is soon swept away by the two cheery men in white coats. Javier is a pudgy middle aged man with subtle Santa-clause like tenancies. Reserved with adults, he's great with kids, and they usually leave his care smiling. Or at least not crying-- which is no small feat for a dentist. He also makes a mean latex glove balloon. Jaime is a young, passionate, fresh-out-of-school-er. Patients are always a bit surprised when they wade though the gray bureaucracy of a state medical program only to be greeted a energetic dentist with a radio blasting American pop. As usual, I'll spend most of my time today with Jaime. He's been fantastically welcoming to the strange gringo who showed up in his office. I get the impression that another pair of hands (even foreign, untrained, barely competent in Spanish hands) are always useful when there's a flood of patients.

And what do those hands do? Well, today they'll be holding the saliva vacuum. I'm sure the thing has an actual name, but my limited spanish vocabulary usually leaves me calling it “La aspiradora de saliva.” I think my Spanish buffoonery may actually ease tension in patients, and it certainly eliminates any status as intimidating foreigner. The suction device only works about 50% or the time, but I have job security through my roles as instrument rack, sink cleaner, pliers fetcher, and stitches holder (when we have to sew up gums, I help hold the thread so that Jamie can get a nice, secure knot). Dental work is unsurprisingly gruesome: today, we'll inject novacaine, pull teeth, and see a lot of blood. At first, I found it hard to watch any part of the work. I'd blindly hold the saliva vacuum and focus on not feeling nauseous. Now I've adapted; it helps to know that the patients really can't feel anything through the Novocaine. This afternoon, I'll only squirm during the actual injection of the numbing agent. The first minutes of our operations are nothing but needles, gums, and pure, tense discomfort, but things soon relax into light banter, saliva suction, and the yanking of molars. Peruvian dental work has become a normal part of my Wednesday-- just another routine. Arrive, wash up, chat, help, and wash up again. I have a good time goofing off with Jaime between patients or in slow periods, and I get to feel useful in the rushes. Above all, I get exposure to a basic, and revealing aspect of life in Peru.

In my clinic time, I've felt a gradual, growing understanding of poverty. I listen as Jaime explains the two options for filling: the free, mercury based filling or the ceramic filling, with a 3 dollar per tooth surcharge. People always opt for mercury. I listen as Jaime explains how the clinic doesn't have the technology to save a tooth-- we can pull it out, or the patient can go to a costlier, private dentist to repair it. People always opt to pull the tooth. I listen to Jaime explain the need for braces, and watch the patients cringe at the price. Minsa is a clinic for people without options. The clinic itself is stretched thin. Every day, I notice small wants, from the finicky, barely operational suction machine to the supply shortages to the lack of space that forces the exam room to double as storage. Minsa is built on good intentions and staffed with dedicated doctors-- but chronically underfunded and poorly equipped. I've asked myself why, but there is no good explanation: the government either can't or won't provide for the poor.

Together, the clinic and its patients tell a story. For me, they've shaped a new conception of poverty. Instead of a statistical description (x percent of people lack Y) or an emotional understanding (the shock of realizing that a friend lives with his entire family in one room), my time in Minsa is narrating poverty though an ugly process. Every day, for a flood of people, Minsa is the only choice. Every day, patients have no alternative but cheap mercury fillings and the removal of teeth that could be saved for a bit more cash. Watching this flow, I feel the human pain of poverty, but captured in a whole new scale. This is a pain bigger than individuals, or even villages. This is systematic, substandard health for people who have done nothing to deserve their lot in life, and I know that every day, the flow of patients continues. It's sobering and frustrating beyond belief.

The hours I spend in Minsa will stay with me for a long time, a sharp reminder of inequality-- and yet when I walk out the door, I will feel satisfied. Maybe thats because I'm reminded that the world is filled with Jaimes Javiers, wonderfully dedicated people. Or maybe it's because I feel like I've helped in some tiny way. Or maybe it's just hard to feel gloomy when watching a five year old play with a latex glove balloon. Whatever the reason, I'm always glad that I braved traffic and stares to go work with the dentists. There can be no better way to spend Wednesday afternoons. 

'Bout Time

Well then. It certainly has been a while. The past two months have seen quite a lot of relaxation and vacation so I'll have to catch you up on that. And proving that it isn't all play here in Urubamba, we've also launched a few new projects. So we'll be talking about that too.

On Work:

New projects! We spent a good chunk of our first half here working on an extensive needs diagnostic that resulted in a great big pile of data (and several dog scares-- the dogs in some of those houses are nothing more than hair and fury). That data was in turn refined into a list of feasible projects, which the communities then voted on. And finally, after endless hours of polling, questioning, listening, and smearing antibiotic cream on dog bites, we had our new projects:

PARK!! We'll be building a little playground in the village of Chicon. 

While technically not a picture of the Chicon playground, this is an adorable picture of me with Pedro, a kid from Chicon who will be using the playground.

YOUTH GROUP!! We'll be starting a youth group in each community, Chicon and Media Luna. We're thinking art projects, games, and possibly small bombs made of baking soda and vinegar-- assuming nobody responsible reads this post and intervenes.

ANIMAL CAGES!! No, not for the dogs. We're actually making cages for the cuys. The little guys usually just run around the floors of houses, and we want them to be safe and sound in comfy pens. Until they're eaten. Seriously though, the pens will make the houses more sanitary, the cuys more healthy, and the families more money. A sick cuy doesn't sell, and a cuy that runs around on the floor all day is at risk.

In my internal project (the project that is coordinated directly through ProPeru) I've moved out of filter production and into some evaluation work. I spend my filter days going to houses to check up on the filters therein. It has been an interesting experience. I've had a few low moments, mainly when we come across houses that just don't care about the filters and refuse to use them. There was a man who said he planned to start using his filter when he found a good table for it-- a bit of a flimsy excuse considering that he'd had it for a year. There was the woman who just didn't really think anyone in her family needed filtered water. There was the man who wouldn't let his wife even touch the filter out of some type of machismo pride. Those moments have been a bit hard to reconcile. After enough of them, it can be tempting to ask why we even go to the trouble. Fortunately, all doubt is washed away the second we come to a house that has a sparkling clean filter in a place of honor at the diner table, or a house where kids come up and serve themselves water as we talk to the owner. We've had tiny ladies rant giddily about how they no longer have to spend all their time boiling water, or how they no longer have to worry about what their kids are drinking. We've had people show off the salads that they've washed with disease-free water, or their clever systems for storing the filtered water so that they have something to drink out in the fields. One lady had been using her filter to remove the dirt from water-- but them would go on to boil it. When we explained that the filter removes parasites and bacteria as well as dirt, she looked as though Bob Barker himself had popped out to award her a BRAND NEW CAR. So there have been some high points too.

On Play:

Well, we visited Lake Titikaka. That was fun. More specifically, we visited the city of Puno on the shores of Lake Titikaka. In Puno we watched some traditional dances for two very fun, very cultural hours. And two more slightly-less-fun-but-equally-cultural hours. I've come to the conclusion that traditional dances viewed from hard concrete seating are like churros, chicha, or the music of Ke$ha-- best enjoyed in moderation. But all cynicism (and soreness) aside, the dances were truly spectacular both in scale and intricacy. I do wish I had the opportunity to enjoy more of them, perhaps in smaller chunks.

My favorite dance: It had some impressive flag work, and benefited from an early slot in the program

Just some mature Princeton types enjoying a dance. With hats

From Puno, we headed out onto the Lake (that would be Lake Titikaka for those of you needing another chuckle). We visited the floating islands of Uros, where villagers work tirelessly to layer reads into an incredibly elaborate tourist trap. Seriously. You are dropped off on a floating island in the middle of the Lake and are subject to intense guilt rays until you purchase artisan goods. Then, and only then, the boat comes to pick you up. It was loads of fun though, and the islanders were both fascinating and warm.

Those would be the floating islands

From there, we boated deeper in the Lake (that would be TITIKAKA for those of you who forgot) to the Island of Amantine. We spend the night there with a sweet widow. If anyone wants to spend the night on the lovely island of Amantine, let me put in a plug for Fernanda. She's sweet, her house is flowerful and bright, and she makes a mean quinoa soup. Also the Island is staggeringly beautiful.

This is the Island

And this is Fernanda (She's the one on the right)

Even growing up in Alaska, I'd be hard pressed to name many views that were better than these.

I'll leave you with a few more shots from our Puno trip:

On the Lake

From a set of ruins on the top of the Island

The checkered fields of the island

 

This is a herd of Llamas in a set of funeral ruins near Puno

And this is me trying to look contemplative. I believe that I was actually pondering lunch.

Photo Update-- the lazy man's blog post

In November and December we have had all sorts of little adventures and expeditions. We visited a waterfall, got soaked at a waterfall, jourenyed into Cusco for a nostalgic dose of consumerism, and did some quality hiking. We visited ruins, slid along wires far above the ground, and of course, celebrated a Peruvian Christmas. To share all the fun, I'm happy to present: The collected scraps and detritus from these last months' photos!

 We hiked about half an hour up from the small town of Calca to this beautiful waterfall. Along the way, we inadvertently harvested some tasty Capuli berries from the tree of an angry farmer. To be fair, I can't comment on his emotional condition when young hooligans AREN'T raiding his produce. He may be a very pleasant person. At the waterfall, we climbed in to get a better look. We also got soaked-- or at least I did. I think that I acted as a human shield for the girls, because I was the only one who was still properly dripping when we reached the highway for a cold car ride back.

 In Cusco for some Christmas shopping, we came across supermarkets with pine-and-snow themed decorations. Besides the oddness of seeing pine and snow after our half year of rain, sun, and leafs, the supermarket itself felt oddly large and impersonal. I can't imagine visiting Costco after I return from a town of street-side stalls.

 Hiking! We had a fantastic little picnic in a field high up in the mountains. The hike up was colorful. The path was ambiguous, we had to forge a river, and there was a bit of bush-whacking. Corny metaphor man is foaming at the mouth, ready to point something out about the nature of our path through Peru. Meanwhile, broad generalization man would like draw your attention to the way that our Peruvian companions treated the situation. As is so often the case, the Peruvians immediately accepted obstacles and started working on ways around them. When we found the river to high to cross, with no visible trail on the other side, they fanned out to search for a narrow point. They piled rocks, tossed backpacks across, leapt, waded, and hopped across. Peruvians always impress me with their direct approach to problems.

Christmas! My family stayed up late on the 24th to open presents at midnight. As you can see in the photos, they had an elaborate nativity scene. Not pictured is the marathon tournament of life that kept the kids distracted until midnight, the midnight toast of champagne and vanilla wafers, or the piles of wrapping paper that sprouted as the kids attacked their presents. It was a fun time.

I met a sheep.

While we were visiting the ruins at Chincherro.

Where we found this incredible Incan stone version of a park bench

And this rock where stone blocks were quarried.

This is the type of view that belongs on desktop backgrounds or ranch dressing bottles. Just stunning. I took this photo from a mountain where we were ZIP-LINING!

We had a fantastic, adrenaline-filled morning. At one point, we got a wee bit stuck on the wire and had to haul ourselves in. So that was fun.  

It has been an incredible 4 months-- I can't believe how quickly the time has passed.

Parallel Structure

After a brief Salsa lesson in Spanish class, I never really thought about the dance while here in Urubamba. Absent from my life were the distinctive shuffles and twirls of Salsa-- at least until an awkward encounter in the Discoteque. We were out dancing with some Peruvian host siblings. The lights were flashing hypnotically, the songs were popular and familiar, and all was right with the world. Then I heard it: The music was shifting. The pop lyrics were fading and a Latin beat was creeping in. I felt a distinctive sway in the crowd and realized that we were pairing off-- It was time to confront Salsa. I ended up dancing (very, very poorly) with Claire's shy host sister Veronica. I was embarrassed and the awkwardness was palpable. I fumbled some twirls, lost the beat, and at one point may have lost a shoe. It was ugly. But somehow, from that scary disgusting incident a new relationship was born. Veronica saw me as a comical (but doubtlessly charming) figure and I managed to expend a lifetime's worth of embarrassment in one evening. Now I smile at the memory. Its nothing major, but when I see Veronica we smile and nod, closer than before.

--“Kenny, do you know any stories about snakes?”

--”Like Adam and Eve?”

--”Heheh, no. No, other stories.”

--”Uhh... I don't think so, do you?”

--”Well, there is a small village near Urubamaba ...”

That was the introduction to the little conversation that changed filter days. I'm using the term “conversation” in a loose sense to include exchanges where other people talk and I nod, say “si, claro” (yes, clearly), and occasionally toss out a couple of vulnerable sentences in my two-month old Spanish. My patient partner in this instance was Ernestina, the Peruvian full-time Pro-World staff member on the water filters project. Ernestina is a short muscular woman with long black hair and the face of a trickster. I had been working with her every Tuesday and Thursday for the past month to mix, weigh, and finally press clay into ceramic filters. After a few fizzled attempts at small talk, we had settled into a routine of productive silence punctuated by short requests and instructions. The work was rewarding in the long run. And dull in the moment. Things changed on the day of the snake talk-- On that day I was startled, disgusted and impressed. Finally, from the ashes of an uncomfortable conversation, a new relationship was born.

Ernestina and I were mixing things up. Instead of working with wet dirt (clay) we were working with dry dirt. More specifically, we were leveling a lumpy patch of ground in order to construct a new kiln. 11 o'clock in the morning found us lugging rocks around to fill in holes. The silence was comfortable and the sun was not. As I pried one of the last rocks from the ground, out slithered the sort of animal that one would expect to slither. The sort of animal that squeezes meters of itself into small unexpected spaces to that it can surprise you with deceptive speed, a flash of exotic-colored scales, and bite that floods you with toxins and brings your stay in Peru to a tragic and sudden end. At least, those were my frantic thoughts when the snake appeared. In reality, it was about a foot and a half long, brown, sedentary, and probably generally benign. I froze. The snake froze. Ernestina did not freeze. Ernestina took a pickaxe and bashed the snake repeatedly while explaining that this type of snake was very hard to kill. She was more than up to the challenge. When finished, she must have seen the shocked and disgusted look on my face because she told me that the little guy was, in fact, poisonous and that it would have been a very bad idea to let him run around in the filters work shop. I was impressed (and disgusted and still a bit startled).

We sat down for a break, and the conversation started. When she learned that I had never heard any “proper” snake stories, Ernestina took it upon herself to educate me with some folklore from her childhood. The stories were horrifying. I spent the first few minutes doubting my Spanish and the rest of the time politely nodding and trying to stop my jaw from dropping off my face. I don't think this family friendly blog post needs to go into more detail, except to say that if you ever, EVER think that a snake may have gotten INSIDE your body, you should get an MRI immediately and pray that the snake wasn't pregnant. Yuck.

Somehow though, that 20 minute session of gross-out did the same thing for an 18 year-old gringo and his middle aged Peruvian boss that the great game of gross-out has been doing for elementary school kids for ages: It made us friends. The conversational dam shattered like a tired metaphor and we started talking about her snake-filled childhood. That turned into talk about Killabamba, a nearly mythical source of all of Peru's tastiest treats-- chocolate, coffee, mangoes and the like. Then to food, to cooking, to the traditional delicacies of Peru. Ernestina wanted to learn to cook American food, so I invited her to our volunteer dinners (we take a night every week to cook for each other). I wanted to learn more about chocolate so she told me about the process that takes weird fruit to beautiful bean to molten brown happiness.

With the silence broken, filter days became more than morally rewarding manual labor. They became morally rewarding manual labor with conversation. They became a time to talk with someone who shared my interest and curiosity for food. One day, Ernestina brought in cocoa beans from Killabamba and, together with another volunteer, we roasted, shelled, and ground them into bar form. I will dream of the smell till the day I die.

I see that snake talk as a turning point in my time in Peru. The obvious reason is the impact on my work here-- it made me a friend at work which in turn made work richer. It marked one of the first substantive connections I made with a Peruvian outside my host family. But it meant a lot to me in a more general sense as well. I realized that I (or anyone really, there was no special role I played in this) could fly thousands of miles to a totally new country with a totally new language and bond with someone over something as silly as snake-based horror stories. A humanist might cite this an an example of some universal connectedness. A cynic would point out the insufficient sample size of my data set. An herpetologist would just accept it as proof of the fascinating nature of snake talk. Fortunately, I don't need to try and mine this incident for more meaning. I have a new friend at work and a great opportunity to learn more about Peruvian food. I'm happy.

Backpack

To mix things up a bit in this week's entry (a misleading phrase considering my disregard for regular updates) I thought I'd try to create a picture of my daily life as revealed by my stalwart companion and close personal friend:

My backpack. I've grown quite attached to my backpack in the last few months. There are so many odds and ends that I don't feel comfortable without, and my backpack is always happy to soothe my insecurities by porting along generally unnecessary supplies. At the moment, it contains:

-A raincoat. The weather changes without warning here, and I've been caught in the rain too many times to leave home without my rain jacket. Particularly on those deceptive sunny days. Stupid sunny days, always trying to lull me into a false sense of security. The last week has been a solid, unbroken block of golden heat, which has me convinced that a rainy day is lurking, sneaking closer and closer...

-My trusty pink Spanish notebook. On our first day of orientation, we all received little notebooks from Pro Peru. Some people got blue notebooks with soccer players, some got black with ninjas, I got a pink one. With a cute little bunny. At first I was afraid that there had been a slight mistake, but Tavia, a volunteer coordinator was quick to reassure me-- it was quite intentional. That same notebook is now used in every Spanish lesson. My teachers find it endlessly amusing.

-Keys. For some reason, all of my keys for things back home made the trip to peru with me. I don't really know where to put them, so they live in my backpack.

-Toilet paper. One of the BIG cultural adjustments centers around toilet paper. TP doesn't live in the bathroom. Instead, one has to bring it with them. Thus, I like to have a roll with me at all times-- the possibility of making a mistake in this regard is too terrifying.

-My computer! My link to you, the beloved reader. I carry it around because Wifi here is a bit like a really great parking spot in the states-- it is never consistent or expected, but one must always be vigilant. The internet cafe I used to use now, oddly enough, no longer has wifi. The quality of their brownies still has me going there regularly. Try not to take that as an indication of your (the beloved reader's) importance to me relative to baked goods.

-My plug adapter. This beloved little fellow keeps me charged and typing, listening, skyping, and brushing (my teeth-- with the electric toothbrush which I brought all the way to Peru. Judge if you must, but never, NEVER question the state of my dental hygiene)

-My book. When applying to this program, I remember my interviewer asking me something along the lines of “How will you avoid entering a violent rage after the repeated frustration of extreme non-punctuality by Peruvians?” He may have phrased it a bit more delicately. The point, however, was that I came prepared to flex like the humble willow in the breezes of polychronic perceptions of time. As it turns out, most every Peruvian I've met has been extremely punctual, and I've spent more time waiting for gringos than I have for Peruvians. To that end, a book is a wonderful addition to my backpack. It also

A) makes me look terribly smart and impressive when people arrive, and

B) creates the impression that I have been waiting much longer than I actually have been, thereby reinforcing my reputation as a timely arriver. (A butchery of the English language? Mayhaps, but a conscious one)

I'm currently reading The Poisonwood Bible, which also gets me “cultured person” credit-- redeemable for valuable prizes and insight.

-Hand sanitizer. Miracle gel. When you can't wash-- sanitize! Before meals, before cooking, before flossing. I've consumed enough of the stuff that I'm coming to appreciate the subtleties of the bitter aftertaste it leave in the mouth. The low grade generics have a chemical sourness, but the good ones, GermX or Purell often have subtle floral undertones.

-Sunscreen. The elevation combines with the side effects of antibiotics (sensitivity to sun) to make Urubamba a giant broiler to for the unprepared. For this reason, I also always tote around my

-Beloved baseball cap. I actually have two, one from Bridge Year that I try to avoid destroying completely, and one lightening bolt cap that I found on the street in AK, and which is subject to a rough treatment. It gets sweated upon as I hike, saturated in DEET as I poison insects, and it is also the tool of choice for swatting spiders and ants off of things that ought not to have spiders and ants on them. Namely me. I honestly doubt that that poor hat will ever see the states again.

-Spare Hidden Toilet Paper. I think that my concern in this matter is valid. Can you really disagree?

-Water bottle. I don't actually drink a lot of water throughout the day; the tea that I get after each meal usually does the trick of keeping me hydrated. Instead, the water bottle lives in my backpack as a reminder to take it to the office to fill for my nighttime water needs. Those would be tooth brushing and pill swallowing. Clean water has truly become a logistical challenge. Some days I don't go to the office, and I have to plan ahead for those by filling up my spare bottle. Some days I'll have a hike and need another spare. It's all very complicated, and I pay dearly for my mistakes. That is, I pay one sole to buy bottled water-- one sole that could be spent on a churro, a bowl of arroz con leche, or two (2!!!!) tasty pastries. A sad, sad sacrifice.

This blog entry is written in memory of my pen, which until recently lived in my backpack and served nobly as a writing utensil. Pen fought valiantly against the altitude of the Inca trail, but lost spectacularly. My memories, like his stain, will last forever.

Machu Picchu and the Inca trail:

DAY 1

Friday morning, hauling backpack and slathered in sunscreen, I made my way to the plaza to begin our Inca trail adventure. A van delivered us to Ollyantaytambo, where we were to round up some porters and set off. Unfortunately, the porters, it seemed, had not been made aware of this plan. In fact, we couldn't find enough. So we waited. We ate banana pancakes at a local cafe. We slept in the van. We checked out jewelry shops with BOTH kinds of Peruvian jewelry shop workers-- the high pressure tourist hunter and the slightly stoned craftsman. We walked around. We did not hike that morning. When the necessary porters (there are actually laws about the number of porters a party is required to bring on the trail) had been imported from nearby cities, it was lunch time, so we had lunch before heading out. And then we were off.

Day 1 hiking was easy, beautiful, and fun. Our guide pointed out medicinal plants (translation, narcotic plants), ancient ruins, and the landscape was stunning. We were walking though valleys, and the mountains around us were just beginning to turn green with the rainy season. When we camped, we were introduced to the phenominal food that the porters would prepare throughout the trip. After coffee and crackers, we had a semolina soup. Dessert was also served-- a candied plantain in syrup. Luxury camping at its finest.

DAY 2:

Saturday morning, we woke very, very early. 4:45. Fortunately, the porters woke us with cups of tea in the tents and a nice crepe for breakfast. At this point, I was beginning to wonder if we were really experiencing the Inca trail as the Incas did. Something tells me they had fewer condiment choices for their crepes. Before setting out, the porters took a substantial portion of the loads off our backs in preparation for the toughest day. I had (and still do have) a moral discomfort with the amount of work the porters did for us-- their roles were uncomfortably similar to servants'-- but I have doubts about my ability to survive day two without the support of porters. At any rate, I'm immensely grateful, because:

Day two was a killer. In total, I believe we hiked for 9 hours that day, and at least two thirds was us stairs. Stairs. The Incas loved their stairs. Not much can be said about those stairs, other than that I'd be more than happy to live a perfectly level life and never see another step. The elevation gain was significant. Between the altitude (4200 meters) and the coca leaves that we kept chewing, it was the highest I'd ever been. (just kidding benevolent, fun-loving Princeton folks, please don't squash our funding!).

The grueling nature of Day 2 was more than worth it when I consider the sights. We saw mountains in mist, waterfalls, ancient green overgrowth, and ancient, pristine Incan ruins. It was in day two that I started to feel the liberating removal from civilization that marks the best trips in nature. It was in day two that I had my strongest moment of “praise be, the trail levels out now.” And it was in day two that the Princeton bridge year group proved our musical prowess by belting out “Fill Me Up Buttercup” from ancient Incan constructions.

DAY 3

Day 3 was a relatively breezy 6 hours or so, and after the morning hike, we had the afternoon free to journal, engage in insightful discussions with group members, and reflect on the magnificent beauty around us. Instead, we slept. It was wonderful. Afterwords, we hoped on over to a huge ruin with a grand set of agricultural terraces and the rainbow temple. Incan belief: Don't smile at rainbows, negative energy will enter your body and rot your teeth.

In the evening, we had the typically delicious dinner (a beet and carrot salad with Chow mein noodles and, mystery of mysteries, a cake) and then applauded and tipped the porters.

A thought on the porters: These guys do the same Inca trail we do, except that they get up an hour earlier to set up breakfast and start breaking camp. They run past us on the trail to arrive at rest points an hour earlier to set up lunch, dinner, and camp. They make the food, do the dishes, filter the water, and set the table. And they do it all with packs that are at least 25 kilos. And packs is a loose term, most don't have waist support. And a decent number of them were wearing sandals. They made the Incan trail luxurious, and they are paid next to nothing in American terms, maybe a total of 150 dollars for the four days. I can't decide how to feel about them. I feel guilty for the business arrangement that we had with them, but I also recognize that the four day income is more than many families make in a month here. And of course, they made my time on the incan trail so much more pleasant. Like so much in Peru, the situation is complex.

DAY 4 (AKA MACHU PICCHU DAY)

We woke up in the middle of the night to hike the last couple of hours to Machu Picchu. The last stretch was a high intensity cold war of a race. All the trekers wanted to arrive first, but nobody could flat out run. Instead, the line of people was marching at top speed and rudely jostling to pass. We couldn't stop for a break on that last couple of kilometers. It was madness. 

The first sight of Machu Picchu was an outline in the fog. I can't really do the lost city justice, maybe the pictures will help, but the panoramic view from Winu Picchu, the nearby mountain that we climbed, was one of the unforgettable sights of my life. I will say that I found the tourism a bit odd. This ancient lost city feels like it should be deserted, perpetually abandoned to time but instead, it crawls with bright shirted tourists and scruffy backpackers. 

Anyhow, enjoy the pictures:

 From the trail

 This is a view from dead woman pass, the high point of the trip at 4200 meters

 The trail. When we were surrounded by the mist, it seemed to stretch into nowhere

 Ruins on the way, this was a lookout tower

 A picturesque mountain lake. The cynic in my reminds you that it was probably filled with picturesque intestinal parasites.

 Hehe. Stairs.So many stairs. The Incas: renowned for their stone work and beastly calf muscles.

 My pensive reflection from an agricultural terrace.

 More terraces

 At the sun temple in Machu Picchu

The view from Winu Picchu