Salkantay Flashback 5: The Main Event

26 01 2009

Day five inspired a few tears of its own, but this time they were tears of happiness rather than of fear or exhaustion. Freshly showered (and wearing the dirty clothes from the trip) we rose early and piled onto the shuttle. Excitement mounted with each steep turn until the bus began to slow and the main event was there, shrouded in a heavy mist, ahead of us.

Once inside we all laughed when Roberto proclaimed it would be a “10 minute walk” to our first vista. For once, however, 10 minutes was actually 10 minutes. And then we were there: before us, emerging from the ethereal mist, was the mysterious city of the Incas in all its glory. The stone structures, perfectly carved out of the mountain stretched out to the iconic Wayna Picchu, which stood watch in the distance. It was a sight that would have drawn a shudder and made the heart skip a beat regardless how we’d gotten there. Four days of sweat and mud and various challenges, physical, mental, and emotional, on top of the beauty of the picture itself, was enough to draw that final tear to each of our eyes, and I’m sure the gals will agree when I say it was utterly, perfectly healing.

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Salkantay 3: I Am Inca

23 01 2009

Today marks the anniversary of our last day of hiking on the trek, and the day when we joined with a portion of the Inca trail. We left our packs with the porters and headed out uninhibited, first crossing a wide river that all but demanded submersion of feet that would mean soggy socks the rest of the day. This, however, was nothing new and well worth it. We started out surrounded by coffee plants, climbing wide, ancient stone steps that called to mind the unfathomable notion: the Incas once walked here. The trail was high but wide, and a million shades of green splashed with colorful flowers. For a while I found myself alone on the trail, pondering the rainbow of intense colors I didn’t know existed.

flowers-blog

Alone in the silence of the lush trail, with the spirits of brave Incas all around me, the magnitude of my trek overcame me. It had not only been sweat and dirt and tears, but the solidifying of young friendships and the strengthening of character.
But that sense of power didn’t last long. Shortly after I’d caught up to the group, we discovered we had nowhere to go. The torrential rain of days past had washed away a portion of our trail the length of a medium-sized car. We were midway through the trail and there was no one else around.

Uh...

Uh...

After much deliberation, Roberto decided the only thing to do was go around. He went first, climbing up into the jungle on the side of the mountain. Tiffany followed, then Jennifer (also afraid of heights), then me. Each step was a trial, of mushing the dirt and hoping it would hold me, of grabbing a branch and hoping it wouldn’t bend. I gingerly weaved my way under and over vines, my heart pounding and my head spinning. Still, there was something almost exciting about it, and even I laughed when, well into the thick of the trees, Roberto asked if any of us had a knife.

When I was not far from the end, I found myself stalled, waiting for the others to make their next moves. Trying not to look at the almost vertical slope of the mountain and the gaping hole below me, I looked out and saw the dense vegetation of the Andean jungle and the valley beyond. There I was: perched in the jungle, forging a trail… playing Inca. And not at all scared.

That white leg is me. The tiny dot further up is Jen, where I was headed.

That white leg is me. The tiny dot further up is Jen, where I was headed.





Salkantay 3: New, uh, Heights

22 01 2009

I mentioned before that day two was the hardest, for all but me. On the morning of day three, though sore and blistered, all were rejoicing at having made it through the hardest part. I, on the other hand, was dreading what I knew was to come. The night before, Roberto had led us on a “10 minute” (read: 45) hike down to the hot springs below our camp. While the hot springs provided much needed relaxation of tired muscles (and will one day be visited in more detail for the experience they themselves were), the hike to and from them left little to be desired, especially for me. That night, as I picked my way up the narrow, tenuous trail, trying to stay close to the glow of the flashlight, my mild fear of heights became pretty major, so I was not too happy when I learned I had to head down the same trail, this time laden with my heavy pack.

What made matters worse was that by the light of day I could see how treacherous the trail really was. The wet, muddy ground was soft and crumbling in parts, and we had to clamber over tree stumps and cling to the inside of the narrow trail, Roberto’s instructions to “stay close to the side” being passed down the train where I carefully plotted each step in the back.

My feeling of relief upon passing the hot springs was short-lived; an hour later I found myself at a railroad track bridge, suspended precariously over the raging river and missing one of its boards. I said nothing of my fear of heights as I picked my way across, but when the bridge led to a narrow, gravelly trail high above the river, there was no need for words. There, hugging the mountain, my feet slipping with each hesitant step, I froze. On the narrowest portion of the trail, which just 15 steps to solid land ahead of me, I unsuccessfully fought back tears and was still shaky and bleary-eyed (and a little embarrassed) after Roberto nimbly guided me down.

That afternoon we crossed six progressively more terrifying bridges (the last of which consisted of two uneven logs set on rocks on either end of the waterfall) and I lost more resolve with each one. But with Roberto’s hand and my friends’ encouragement, I made it to camp where we all (even me, despite all the day’s waterworks) felt a sense of machismo when Roberto pointed out the massive mountain that we’d climbed. That night was our last camping. There was a makeshift shower at the farm—a spicket in the same stall as the hole-in-the-ground toilet—but no one showered. The mountain, after all, didn’t care that our legs were caked with mud. It didn’t even care that I’d cried.

You call that a bridge?

You call that a bridge?





Salkantay Flashback 2: Did You Say Hardcore?

21 01 2009

I continue to write as I could not last year, while actually trekking with no access to technology (or, for that matter, showers)…

Salkantay Day 2 was otherwise known as the “hard day” from pretty much everyone involved, with the exception of me, that is. Though I faced other trials later in the game, however, day 2 was nonetheless physically and mentally taxing. The cold, cold morning began with a quick breakfast and several hours of hiking up a virtually vertical trail (while it was, in all reality, definitely not vertical, it certainly felt that way). Our bodies weakened by the altitude we huffed and puffed all the more as we trudged up the seemingly endless trail in a dense mist.

Eventually, we reached the summit, 4,600 meters (uh, that’s about 15,000 feet, folks), sweaty and freezing, exhausted and ecstatic, only to then head back down the other side.

Suzanne, or Neil Armstrong? The mountain doesn't care...

Suzanne, or Neil Armstrong? The mountain doesn't care...

On the other side of the mountain the rocky terrain gave way to a lush, sloping valley, bistected by circuitous stone walls and shroded in mist. The whole scen was a bit reminiscent of the Scottish highlands. But when the “one hour to lunch” as promised by Roberto dripped into two, then three hours, limbs got heavy, morale began to wane, and ecstasy slowly but surely became exhaustion and weariness. Still, when I found myself on the trail by myself, technicolor green mountain to one side, raging river down below, I felt (despite a sinking fear that I’d somehow missed camp and was lost in the Andes by myself) a feeling of peace like no other I’d ever felt. It was the first, and perhaps only, time I’ve ever been utterly alone in that manner; my thoughts were clear and comforting, and it was as though I could hear nature, feel the spirit of the Incas. (As I write this, it sounds cheesy, but it’s so true.)

Finally I came upon Libby, and together we trudged along until finding lunch—only three hours after Roberto said we would. Another two hours of hiking followed lunch, but after sustenance it was far easier. Besides, we all had the satisfaction of having climbed a mountain and come down the other side.





Flashback: Salkantay

20 01 2009

I’ve spent most of today glued to coverage of the inauguration like everyone else in America, or, for that matter, the world. But euphoric as I was feeling all day long, I couldn’t help feeling slightly nostalgic. Today marks the one year anniversary of my departure on what was to be the hardest and most phenomenal journey I’ve yet to take in my life.

On January 20, 2008, I rose early with three friends I’d known just under six months, and joined four strangers and a guide on a van that would take us to the start of our five day trek. After breakfasting in the backyard of what appeared to be part general store and part someone’s home where one hut served for guinea pig roasting), we piled into the back of a rickety truck and careened up a narrow road in the verdant, craggy, dodging bushes, and holding on—to the side and to each other—as we toppled this way and that on flimsy plastic stools. Like so:

That evening we huddled together for warmth, drinking sweetened coca tea in hopes of fending off altitude sickness, in a food tent below the Salkantay glacier. After dinner we shivered outside in the black night and the mountain revealed its secrets: the mist cleared just enough to reveal the jagged peak of the glacier, icey, majestic, and unfathomable in the moonlight.

Nothing short of magic.

Nothing short of magic.





Paying it Forward (Part Dos)

31 07 2008

A few posts back I marveled at the rewards that come from that aspect of travel that has to do with passing it on, and the best part about it is when you know it’s made an impact. I knew this not only from the excitement that my brother’s girls had while looking at the photos, but from what came to pass after.

Alyssa, who had studied Peru in school and started this whole thing, told me about her project, and about how they had to make food when they presented. They were supposed to make “a…al…alfa-somethings” (she couldn’t remember). Of course I knew what they were supposed to make and didn’t. I knew firsthand. They were supposed to make alfajores. (Yes, that sounded right.) Well they didn’t make them after all, but she wanted to.

The next 20 minutes were spent trawling the internet for the alfajor site her group had found, and then we decided to give it a go ourselves. When I suggested this, Alyssa was thrilled, so off we went to the store, and we spent the afternoon (and the next morning) baking.

Having found several recipes, we wound up, for reasons I cannot now explain—nor can I now even find the recipe—using one that suggested making dulce de leche from evaporated milk. The recipes I found to this end (none of which I can recover currently) involved boiling the milk, in the can, for four hours. While this seems simple enough, it is actually a taxing project, since you have to continuously monitor the pots to ensure there is enough water that the cans don’t explode (we popped a hole in the top of the can, which helped, but then meant we had to take care that water didn’t hit the top).

My brother, who was visiting, got impatient and opened one can before it was quite time, meaning we had to pour the almost dulce de leche into a pan, then place that pan in a pan of water, and stick it in the oven for another hour (yet another recipe I can’t seem to find). All in all, the dulce de leche took nearly five hours to make. But in the end it was delicious.

The cookies, on the other hand, were a bit of a flop. I didn’t roll them thin enough, so making a sandwich was tough. We settled for slathering dulce de leche on individual cookies, which the kids loved, but it was incredibly messy. In all, though, Alyssa was happy, and I was happy, both because I had found another alfajor lover and because I had passed down yet another happy moment of traveling. As for the cookies, I’m still perfecting them.

We used this recipe for the cookies, and it was good, though a little on the dry side.





An Addendum

18 07 2008

I am still thinking about Marina and her food question. Had a long conversation with Jessica last night and it seems the answer always comes back to apple pie. Or any pie I suppose. They do indeed call it American Pie, don’t they?

Anyhow I think perhaps we’re on to something with the BBQ sauce suggestion, and I will definitely check into root beer as well, which makes me think of an interesting travel tidbit. Many moons ago, when I spent a month in the car with two college girlfriends gallivanting across the country, we found ourselves in Atlanta.

Now, there is much to see and do in Atlanta, but when you’re just passing through you must be selective. Here is what we chose to do: 1) gorge ourselves on everything Johnny Rockets had to offer since we hadn’t eaten in, I think it was 22 hours? 2) Wander around downtown and in Underground Atlanta, which happens to be a pretty cool, uh…shopping mall. And 3) Visit the World of Coca Cola. Yes, there is actually a World of Coca Cola, and in that world one learns various facts about the sweet carbonated substance. The most memorable part, however, was neither the “world’s largest collection of Coke memorabilia,” nor was it the “fully functioning bottling line,” but the tasting room.

At the end of the tour one finds oneself in a tasting room with more than 60 different varietals of soda. Yes, we tasted various types of coke and coke-like products from all over the world, including, but not limited to, some terrible concoction made with an excess of ginger (no, it was not ginger ale) that I remember coming from Italy. At the end of our tour around the world via coke we were all—as can only be imagine after 60-plus tastings of random sticky sweet substances, AND more Johnny Rockets than is USDA recommended—feeling rather sick.

A few conclusions to this story:

1) It hadn’t occurred to me (or for a long time at least) how much the varietals of soda can be definitive of different cultures. In Spain, for example, I was addicted to Fanta Mandarina, even though I never drank orange soda at home. Fanta Mandarina is entirely different, and I even tried Orange Fanta in South America, but it simply wasn’t the same.

2) Today I discovered that Inca Kola is also made by Coca Cola, (but has its own, very cool, site), meaning that I most likely tasted ithe electric green substance which is ubiquitous in Peru, many years ago; in Atlanta of all places. For those who are wondering, Inca Kola resembles Mountain Dew in color, but is much more similar to Cream Soda in taste. That or bubblegum.

Sabor del Peru

3) Root Beer might just be the thing for Marina to take home, though I worry about her suitcase.

4) Thinking about the World of Coke reminds me why I don’t really drink soda any more. Except when I’m in a foreign place and have to try their version…

Doing as the Peruvians do (with a Spaniard - there's that shrinking world again).