Joy,
I hope you remember me from the Chicago suburbs! Jill's friend/neighbor Debbie....we live in the house right behind Jill. I recently received this email from our Wisconsin friends who travel the world....I know they would love to hear from you via email as you both love writing and adventure! Email me and I will give you their e-address. Below is about their final days in Bolivia and Peru.
Take Care,
Debbie
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Bolivia and Peru – last adventures

In late March we flew from Paraguay to La Paz, rested and ready for our last three unscripted weeks. High on the Altiplano, La Paz is surrounded by snow-capped peaks of more than 6000 meters. Fascinating city. The poor occupy the high mountainside vistas. The lower you go, the wealthier the area. There’s a unique mix of the modern and the traditional in La Paz. Full-skirted women in tiny bowler hats with long black braids hanging down, haul their blue and pink bundles to set up shop on hectic streets squeezed between highrises and colonials, selling everything from finger puppets to llama fetuses. In and out of La Paz for a week, we watched a folkloric dancing festival with magnificently colored, sequined costumery, ate everything from pizza to pig intestines, witnessed several peaceful political protests, and saw the results of the not-so-peaceful October uprising that ousted the Bolivian president: bullet holes in a building across the Plaza from the Presidential Palace. Sobering.

We had an exciting day biking downhill for five hours on what’s modestly called the most dangerous road in the world, starting at a frigid 15,000 feet, pedaling through the clouds, under cascading waterfalls, and into the sweaty, verdant tropics. Much safer on a bike than in a car, unless your hands give out from squeezing the brakes.

But the highlight of our time in northern Bolivia was the three-day Takesi trek along a pre-Inca route of paved stone paths and steps that, 15 feet wide or so, are like a pedestrian highway. More than 800 years old, many parts were in faultless condition, the stones set flat and smooth, stairs straight and even, numerous streams diverted by channels of vertically laid stone. The scenery included more high mountains, deep river gorges, soft green hills blanketed by layered clouds, and a profusion of wildflowers, all of which helped distract us first from utter breathlessness, then from rubbery legs and aching knees. Jeanne raised a nasty blister on her little toe that promised to take the nail, and said, “Good. That means I don’t have to trek again.” Once was just right.

Leaving La Paz, we saw a sign for the Indianapolis Academy of Chaufeurs. So that’s who trains the bus and taxi drivers. We bused to the shores of Lake Titicaca, crossing the border into Peru. Instantly the houses changed. Still adobe brick, but most sported brand new shiny tin roofs – either some government project or a great tin salesman. Orange outhouses, too. From Puno, we took a two-day excursion into the “biggest highest” lake in the world, but more importantly the legendary birthplace of the first Inca. Today, Uros Indians live on floating islands a little ways into the lake. The long reed growing in the shallows of Lake Titicaca means everything to the Uros. They harvest the roots to build new islands, eat the juicy white base of the stalk, and build their homes from it. I liked their reed canoes best. It takes a month to build a canoe, and you get a year out of it before it gets waterlogged. They range upwards of 25 feet, with reed-sculpted figureheads of pumas or other animals adorning the upturned bow. Ten of us rode in a four month old canoe that was so heavy that our weight distribution meant nothing. Yet our skipper, sculling from the stern with a long paddle, moved the big canoe along easily. Ingenious.

In our slow chugging cruiser, we crossed the open lake to the island of Amantani, where we spent the night with a village family, eating meals cooked over a small wood fire in their dirt-floor kitchen, climbing the highest hill to the Pachamama Temple for sunset, and, dressed in native garb, dancing with the locals. Jeanne looked fetching in thick white petticoat and full red skirt tied with a wide belt wound round several times above the waist and cinched corset-tight. At one point I found myself, in long-eared Peruvian hat and thick alpaca poncho, linked to four dark-eyed, skirt-twirling beauties. One of the advantages of age is not caring how you look.

From Puno we took an all-day bus to Cuzco, arriving on Semana Santa Monday just in time for the procession of El Señor de los Temblores, Lord of the Earthquakes. As El Senor, a 20-foot high crucified Jesus surrounded by looping garlands of red flowers, made his way through the crowd, everyone threw red flower petals at him. The purpose: to keep the earthquakes at bay. The procession had an air of solemnity, a far cry from the drunken parades of Carnaval we’d witnessed in February. We heard estimates of a million people surrounding the Plaza in Cuzco, and have no reason to doubt.

Cuzco was the center of the Inca world, and there is still pervasive evidence of their civilization, especially in stone walls that have survived centuries of earthquakes that El Señor failed to prevent. At a site called Coricancha, there were 6-meter high curved walls and a doorway featuring a huge stone cut with 14 angles, and nowhere could you have slipped a credit card between the fitted stones. The magnificence of the stonework taps a very primal aesthetic sense, and it makes Cuzco a special place indeed.

Like every other tourist in Cuzco, we went to Machu Picchu. A lot of people just go up for the day, but we allowed ourselves two nights in nearby Aguas Calientes. The first afternoon, we decided to hike up Putucusi, a mountain just out of town that was said to have good views of Machu Picchu. Seemed appropriate to see the ruins from a distance first. Trouble was, the thumb-shaped mountain looked too steep for even a switchback trail to scale it. We soon found out. Log ladders, long ones, like over a hundred rungs, ascended the near-vertical rises. Jeanne had some fear but she overcame it. At least it wasn’t raining…until a big clap of thunder greeted us at the top. We soaked in the view across the brown, tumbling Urubamba River to the famous Lost City of the Incas for about a minute, then scrambled down. We got wet. The trail and ladders got slippery. We made it back fine. Jeanne couldn’t help saying, “You know I did this only for you.” Isn’t that what marriage is all about?

There’s probably no more recognizable name in South America, and so the chances for disappointment at Machu Picchu are great: too many tourists, bad weather, overpriced, overblown. But Machu Picchu did not disappoint. It’s truly as magical as its name sounds. I was prepared to be wowed by the ruins, but hadn’t realized how spectacularly beautiful the surroundings are: green, vertical mountains with tropical foliage at its best at the tail end of the rainy season. There are only guesses at what Machu Picchu was. I weigh in with those who say “summer palace.” It has the feel of a retreat, of a place built to be close to the gods that created such beauty and peacefulness.

We arrived early on a lovely clear morning, and wandered in awe of the perfectly preserved stone-framed windows and doorways, the still working ceremonial baths supplied by water channeled through drilled and grooved rocks, the Intihuatana, translated as “hitching post of the gods,” an observatory with four-sided rock that accurately gauges the solstices, the rounded Temple of the Sun, and on and on. The site is surprisingly compact, but complex, too. The stonework is amazing both in precision and aesthetics. We especially loved the Temple of the Condor with its natural, unworked rock wings. Surrounding the city are agricultural terraces supported by more rock walls. The Incas only dominated for 100 years. They must have been very busy.

On the second morning, a mist hung over the site, lending added magical mystery. We finished seeing features we missed the day before, then climbed Huayna Picchu, the high backdrop for the ruins. An hour or so of grunting up steep sets of switchbacks and Inca stairs brought us to million dollar views and another set of shrines. Standing on a flat terrace, the clouds drifting up and across the void between us and Machu Picchu far below, I just felt like singing: “The hills are alive…”

We returned to Cuzco, as it turned out, just in time, because that night it rained hard in Aguas Calientes, causing a landslide that killed six people and burying the train tracks in rocks and mud, stranding tourists and closing the ruins.

We stayed several more days in the Sacred Valley area. One was spent atop Peruvian paso fino horses, whose natural four-beat prancing gait makes it the Cadillac of rides. Jeanne was in heaven. We also visited the ruin of Pisac, whose extensive terracing, guard towers, and royal residences are set in another high, awe-inspiring mountain setting. The Incas knew how to pick their sites.

From Cuzco, we flew to the volcano-surrounded Arequipa, the second largest city in Peru. Built largely of white silla stone, it has a look all its own. Its most famous site is a labyrinthine, city-like convent, founded in 1580 that was home to upper-class nuns and their personal servants. We also took a three-day tour to the Colca Canyon, upwards of 10,000 feet deep, the almost deepest canyon in the world (another 100 km away is slightly deeper). On the lip of a part a mere 4000 feet deep, we witnessed, close-up, Andean condors riding the air currents rising from the canyon. And we treated ourselves to a night at the gorgeous and tranquil Colca Lodge, with its own hot springs and, even more important, trouty waters.

This email comes to you from Lima, where we’ve finally seen the ocean again, and a sea of humanity, too, around 8 million. We stayed in the fancy suburb of Miraflores, where the shops are chic and the ceviche is fantastic. There’s no way we can see Lima in a day and a half, just as there’s no way we could have seen Peru in three weeks. We missed the beaches, the highest mountains, the Amazon basin, and more, so it’s hard to generalize about Peru. From what we’ve seen, there’s a lot in common with Bolivia: a strong indigenous tradition that survives in dress, religion, and the myriad details of everyday life that comprise culture; spectacular mountain landscapes, vast and yet not wilderness, for they have been lived in for many hundreds of years; and an explosion of modernity: internet, cable tv, stuff. This last is much more prevalent in the parts of Peru we’ve seen; its economy has been probably the second strongest in South America, after Chile. There are cops on the streets with guns, but they don’t have the same ominous aura about them as in Bolivia. We found the people here genuinely friendly and kind. The country feels stable. Temper that statement with the fact that we’ve seen only the gringo circuit.

As with previous trips, we’ve been ready to go home for the last week or so, even as we’ve been enjoying ourselves. We hope to take a little Latin culture home to Manitowish Waters. And, if you’ll forgive, an unpaid political message: we have not met one soul who is not pissed off at our American President. This, despite the fact that the effect of what happens in Iraq makes not a shred of difference in people’s lives here. But South Americans understand what it’s like to live under bullying leaders. Thank goodness, most people distinguish between our government and our people. But our stature in the world is very, very tenuous. That truly is dangerous. We won’t lead the world much longer with intimidation; South Americans resent it. So do all the European tourists we’ve met. It’s a big world and our country is just one small piece. As travelers, this is the message we want to bring back home. End of message. End of trip. We miss you all. Happy spring. Love Tom and Jeanne

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I was revolted by this movie. The sight of boy scout uniforms makes me remember how David Mamet insulted me on the street in Cambridge, by telling me his didn't have any polyester in it when he was a child.

Gross.

Cake is gross, too.

Joy, when will you come to your senses and realize that I am your personal savior/savorer...

:)

S.

Joy,

It was great to see you. Coy is a very lucky man to have you.

Just remember, when you have a conversation with me make sure you don't talk about anything funny because you never know what may come out of my mouth. I really felt bad for Jill that night. I can't wait to see you at Jill's Birthday Party. Take care and see you soon... :-)
The Laughing Spitter