Bolivia, Peru and Miami

Within my first minute in the Bolivian border hole of Villazon, I had already made 26 new 'amigos'. There was no need to shout off the roof that the two Germans and I needed bus tickets to get out of this sphincter, because were the only white people in town and therefore looked a bit out of place. Many touts, all hungry for our business, swarmed and flew around us as if we were a bunch of walking turds. On first impression, Bolivia may very well be the India of South America and so, after being ripped off a couple of dollars, I hopped on the first bus to Uyuni.

This ride was in contrast with the ones I had experienced in neighboring countries: painful, overcrowded and totally backbreaking. It also stank of urine inside the coach. Since I had just parted with the Germans who where going God knows where, I was left on my own to make observations about the absurdity of the ride.

After some time spent bumping around on a muddy road, the bus pulled into a dirt-covered parking lot with a few chicken scratching around half naked babies. Everyone got off and went their way. There, I was told by the girl at the 'ticketing' agency that my new ride was underway and it would be arriving any minute so I sat on my backpack in the sun to prevent it from being stolen and there I waited, big time.

I kicked around, bought a bottle of lemonade and waited. There was not great deal going on so I killed a bit of time by waiting some more. After three hours of waiting the land cruiser finally showed up. Not surprizingly, the driver didn't seem concerned about being late; however, he didn't care the least bit either about how to fit 14 people in his land cruiser. So, as I sat down, I congratulated myself for having upgraded my ticket to sit out front with only just one other full sized adult to share my seat with while the remaining eleven people were piled up in the back.



After that we drove, and drove, and then drove some more through what has to be the dustiest place on earth. Every crack of my body was covered with this stuff and so, after we'd eaten enough 'polvo' to make us turn into statues, we entered an ugly town set in the desert where a small grid of extremely wide avenues was completely lined with crumbling mud-brick buildings. It turned out to be Uyuni, my destination.

(I have to apologize for throwing one at you already, but it is time to bash a shithole-town again)

My god is Uyuni a crappy place!! As I looked out of the window as we drove into town, I felt as though my Round-The-World ticket had also included a bonus side trip to another planet... Indeed, while I was at it, why not visit Luke Skywalker's hometown in Star Wars? I thought "dude, there is a reason why the guy left that place, what are you doing here?"

Anyhow, barren location notwithstanding, the fact that I was back on the gringo trail was apparent as soon as I saw that the town was littered with morons from all over the world who, on account of their dreadlocks, handlebar mustaches and ugly facial piercings, really looked like a bunch of cretinous characters featured in Indiana Jones. They come here in search of some real macho style adventure in the middle of nowhere, and they think that it is exactly what their 'lonely' planet guidebook will provide them. Now give me a break, gentlemen please. How can one truly believe that following the advice of the most popular guidebook on earth will point out remote areas, devoid of other tourists? Do these people really think they are the only ones reading the perfumed words that the LP sprays over these shit holes? The locals, on the other hand, know a lot better and therefore, there's really no need for a close inspection to come to realize that Uyuni is a tourist dump. The main plaza is so authentic that everyplace around it sells the two favorite dishes in travelerdom: pizzas and banana pancakes along with popular Salar tours. I therefore found it a bit wearing to see all of these freshly arrived 'adventurers' congratulating each other with high-fives for having just discovered such an "off-the-beaten-track" town. Open your eyes boys.

This tourist bottleneck on the gringo trail enjoys the same popularity as does Koh San Road in Thailand, and to anyone who's been in Bangkok's human zoo, this must sound as bad as it gets, right? Well yes, it really is. I cursed myself for my lack of good judgment. Why I had left Salta's friendly atmosphere, pleasant climate and foxy chicks in such a hurry and ended up in this grubby corner of Bolivia is still a little bit beyond me, but I should point out at this stage that not everything here is as bad as I make it sound. Indeed, Uyuni may be a true shithole but fortunately it sits at the foot of something truly remarkable: the world's biggest salt plain.




Everyone refers to this as a lunar landscape and it is therefore a 'must-see' site on most people's list; in my eyes, although it doesn't look lunar at all (in the way some volcanoes do), it certainly is one of the most interesting and diverse natural landscapes on earth. Instead of calling it lunar, people would do the Salar better service by simply comparing it with a warmer version of Antartica made out of salt, not ice.

To explore the surrounding natural wonders, there are few alternatives (if any) to the standard three or four day tours taking you from Uyuni to the salt plains and its surrounding canyons, volcanoes, deserts, geysers, etc.... I have said earlier that I am not overly fond of tours, but this one worked out well since it was composed of three very cool Irish people freshly starting a one year Round-The-World trip along with a small Spanish family from Barcelona: Mama, Papa and Maria.

As you leave Uyuni on the first day, you head towards a train cemetery a few kilometers on the outskirts of town, where a number of abandoned century-old locomotives have been left to rust in a place where tourists can presently take some nostalgia pictures. After that, you head out into the Salar. This is the remainder of a huge lake which left nothing but salt as it disappeared eons ago.





It is so white that you really need sunglasses to avoid going blind. I felt bad for the driver, who had no shades and therefore spent the entire day squinting to avoid burning his retina. He told me it was no big deal for him because he was used to it. The incredibly bright light produces mirages everywhere and the mountains around the salar seem to float like symmetric islands in the air. False lakes appear all over the place and the light also artificially shortens distance. It is all quite an intimate encounter with peculiar nature until, at one point, in the middle of it all, you reach the isla de Pescado, which is an island that is totally covered with some very macho looking cacti, and tourists.







The landscape is surreal but the natural setting is not all. In this utterly flat expanse, the combination of coca leave munching and peculiar lighting is accountable for hallucinations more commonly associated with the intake of psychedelic drugs. Now how cool is that? You get a perfectly legitimate and a completely harmless natural buzz that would make the gang from 'Trainspotting' jealous.

What is a bit less cool though is that due to all the salt, you get incredibly thirsty out there.... and of course there is no decent beer in the vicinity to quench it. In this huge stretch of blinding white, you feel as if you've just landed in the loading room of the Matrix where everyone takes the opportunity to shoot some peculiar pictures, full of otherworldly surreal effects. After having lunch, and surrounded by 500 other 'off-the-beaten track' travelers, our little group decided to join in the festivities and make some obligatory corny pictures which would be more suitable for a cheap science fiction dvd case.



Unfortunately we left before the whole thing would degenerate. Indeed, it was only a matter of time before some creative type would come up with the idea of throwing an orgy in this supernatural setting. I would have liked to witness this scene turn this into a 'sci-fi meets porn' flick. However, we hopped back into our land cruiser and headed out to a primitive 'pueblito' devoid of electricity where we would watch the sunset and spend the night.

Bolivian Independence Day

The small town sits on the edge of the salt plain, where cacti punctuate the slopes of the nearby hills and dry weed seems to line everything. It is really just a one horse affair, but in front of us the last rays of the sun created colorful reflections on the Salar which made it look as though the dune we were standing on was floating in a pocket in the sky. A French artist took the opportunity to paint a scenery which, combined with the effects of high altitude, quite literally took my breath away.





Back in the 'pueblo', the thing that struck me was the distinct similarity in how the locals were approaching the 4 day festivities for Bolivia's Independence. The women were clad in traditional dresses of dark blue and purple. This dirt-covered attire was topped by a funny round cowgirl hat; but it's the men who were the real peacocks, wearing bright colored trousers and once-white shirts with intricate woven collars and cuffs. This is an outfit that would look ridiculous on anybody else but with their cocky attitude the men here looked as self-assured as any cowboy.

I soon realized that the confidence, friendliness and the slow pace were actually a result of the fact that every person in town -except for us tourists- was completely hammered. As I walked down the main dirt street, I saw some local men and women stumbling about. Vomit was flying everywhere, and it was only 6pm. In the town square, I found a drunken fiesta atmosphere that was surreally accompanied some local tunes cracking from an indigenous ghetto-blaster. It seemed like as good a time as any for me to start drinking and so I grabbed a beer and sat wondering how I was going to find out more about the local customs.

I suddenly felt an arm being wrapped around my shoulder; it was a local man, reeking of booze. Tentatively, I offered him some of my beer and he gratefully sank the remaining third of my one liter bottle. Spilling a fair quantity down his top, he wiped off the dribbles on his shirt-cuffs and handed me back the empty bottle.

I was a little worried about beginning a conversation for not only was the man drooling, but I had also heard that the locals could get slightly carried away after a full night celebrating the nation's Independence. I was apprehensive when he reached inside his vest, and relieved when he brought out a bottle. My relief was misplaced because as it turned out, the contents of the bottle was probably some of the most venomous liquor I have ever tasted; as I downed the shot and winced, my new friend laughed.

I tried a bit of Spanish and found that my amigo could still slur a few words. The first thing he told me was that he was drinking a near-pure 96% alcohol mixed with tap water and that the shot he had given me would make me strong (you bet! this isn't Chile, I thought). The second thing was that his name was Juan, that he was from here and that he would introduce me to the rest of the 20 inhabitants of the 'pueblo'. At the party, I soon found myself in the arms of a local mama, swinging a dance that shared more resemblance with an Okeechobee rodeo than the more civilized Latin Salsa. I quickly put an end to my humiliation and peeled the shit-faced lady off of me, after which I dodged the invitation for another shot of the battery acid brew and laid off to the hotel while congratulating everyone with a shake of hands accompanied by some loud "Viva Bolivia's". As I walked back, I was numbed at the thought that these people would nurse their nasty hangovers by keeping the party going uninterrupted for another three days and two nights.



The Salt Hotel

But I was in for another surprise at the hotel; it was by far the most peculiar place I have ever stayed in. Indeed, apart from the bathroom, the entire place was made out of the local material of choice: salt! I didn't really believe it at first and so I crawled around the place, discretely and childishly sticking my tongue out on the walls, tables, stools, etc... I even did this to my bed and, good god, all of it was really salt. The hotel was not only very strange; it was quite cozy as well, with candle lit dining rooms to socialize with fellow visitors, all awestruck by this bizarre and otherworldly experience.

The next morning we set off at a too damn early 5am, but the scenery was well worth the inconvenience of it all. As soon as you leave the salar, it looks like you're heading back into the rather drab scenery of the Altiplano but then it quickly gets better again. It's mainly above 4000m and in some places it never ever rains. You'd think nothing would live here but, in fact, the lakes are full of flamingos which, if like me you grew up with 80's TV cop series, are the last species you would expect to see anywhere outside of Miami.



This remarkable landscape reminded me of the wonderful drive through the Himalayas from Tibet to Nepal; with the only difference that what Bolivia's southern desert lacks in spirituality, it makes up with diversity.

For example, we ended the second day at the Laguna Colorada, which is absolutely red and looks as though the locals have just sacrificed a few hundred llamas to the gods and let the blood drippling into the lake.



On the banks of the lake, the primitive place serving as a 'hotel' (the Eustaquio Berna's hut) we were staying at was in sharp contrast with our previous night's standard. We decided to split our small tour group and I spent the night with the Irish crew in a mud brick dorm were the temperature didn't exceed the outside temperature of -10 Celsius.



Papa, the old Spaniard of our group, had obviously been mislead by the travel agency about the harsh conditions of the tour and was clearly not enjoying himself. His usual idea of an adventure seemed to be limited to a Sunday stroll from Avenida Diagonal to a coffee shop on La Rambla in his hometown Barcelona. I often heard him bitchingly utter 'puta aventura' and 'mierda' between his teeth. He seemed quite exasperated by the third worldish poetry of the whole thing and didn't look too impressed with the llamas who were plundering the trash bin outside our dining room door under the cute gaze of two local little girls.





I'd never given llamas a great deal of thought but my god, those are filthy fuckers. The ones I spotted were clearly not happy with having us hovering around them, and so, in a way that would make their Chinese masters proud, I heard them hawk up some spit and send it flying out in the dust. I thought this fact was a comic book legend but no, they do the real thing and thanks to their loud and nasty sounding "gggghhhhhhhhhhhhkk.... Tfffffff" I was transported back to Beijing for a split second. One of them was particularly attracted by me and kept standing in front of me, as if to challenge me into a type of spaghetti western shootout. I could not understand why this was but I guessed his grievance towards me had to be related to the smell of the alpaca hat I wore which must have brought back memories of a late cousin he'd somehow sworn to avenge.



I dodged the spit and went to bed early in near polar conditions. The next morning, again at 5am (yes, we paid to do this), we weren't too unhappy to jump back into the warm land cruiser. We drove to some swish geysers where the earth was plopping loudly under the steam.



We then went to a couple more extremely neat lakes and finally through some rock formations looking like landscapes that Salvador Dali would totally agree with. There were a few rabbits nearby whose pecularity was owed to the fact they had extremely long tails.






After a long drive back, we were back in the awful town of Uyuni again. I didn't want to linger there and so I wasted no time organizing my escape to Potosi for the next morning.

The bus ride from Uyuni to Potosi is a very pretty one that weaves across the mountains and deserts. It gave me the opportunity to appreciate how strange much of the Bolivian landscape is.



Outside Uyuni, you are in a desert, full of rocks and dry bushes. The real notable thing on the journey was the activity of local passengers getting on and off. At one point, the landscape was utterly featureless but nonetheless, some old women carrying big baskets on their heads and huge bags in each hand would suddenly look up, glance out the window knowingly and get the driver to stop, whereupon they'd head off straight into the middle of nowhere.

Potosi

Potosi however, is very much a populated place since it is the highest city of its size on earth (at some point in the 19th century it was bigger then London or Paris). It flourished thanks to the silver mine on the outskirt of the city. The mine is still actively crawling with 8.000+ miners who work in dreadful conditions but seem to appreciate their lot given the fact that, with a salary of 150 Euros per month, they make a substantially better living then the average Bolivian. You can visit the mines with a tour guide, and so I did. The miners like you to bring them a bunch of presents consisting in a couple of bottles of the dreadful 96 % pure alcohol, a big bag of coca leaves and a few sticks of dynamite thrown in for good measure!

On this side of George W. Bush's war on bearded types, all of this stuff can simply be scored over-the-counter from toothless old ladies in sketchy stores who wouldn't raise an eyebrow if you were buying dynamite and wearing an 'I love Al Quaeda' T-shirt at the same time.


Miners presents: Coke, fags, booze and dynamite



The dope dealing grannie


As I later crawled around the underground tunnels -in which it is interesting to point out that about eight million people have died- it suddenly struck me that this was still fucking Bolivia and despite it being a tour, carrying around explosives, detonators, drugs and neat alcohol in my bag was probably as incredibly dangerous and as extraordinarily stupid as it sounds.



Provided you escape death, the visit is well worth it though. As is common in South America, the miners are very religious. In the daylight they are devoted Catholics who go to church and give an awful lot of their little money to Jesus and all that. Nonetheless, as soon as they get into the bowels of the mountain, they consider they are in the territory of the dark lord. In 'El Tio's lair they forget their catechism and they all worship a satanic cult. Their faith is a precarious balancing act between day and night.

A few statues representing a devil with massive genitals can be found in the mine. The guide took us through the ritual and during the ceremony we prayed for all the things God forbids. We covered Satan's statue with coca leaves and alcohol while we had him smoke one of the fags we'd brought. It was all quite interesting, especially because thereafter we went on to blow up a few sticks of dynamite.

Satanism notwithstanding, the visit to the mine really is an eye opening experience that makes you appreciate how privileged you are when you are a knowledge worker in the high-tech industry. I guess I'll have to remember Potosi the next time I find myself bitching for having a shit day at the office.

Sucre

From Potosi, I drove with a pleasant French family to Sucre, the official capital of Bolivia. Sucre is a very nice place (and just like Potosi yet another one of many UNESCO world heritage sites) but I didn't linger there since I had only just over a week left to arrive in Cusco to meet up with Hein (my friends Martijn and Rogier's father) who was planning a little trip to Machu Pichu; but more on that later.

I had little time left and so I skipped a full day bus ride to La Paz and decided to do what travelers consider humiliating: I opted for the one-hour flight; shame on me (well, F-U2! haha).

La Paz is a city I quite liked. At 3600m it is the highest capital in the world and it sits around mountains where oxygen is an expensive commodity. Therefore in La Paz, in an inversion to the norm, the poor live higher up the slopes then the rich. The air is indeed scarcer as you climb up the ciy. But the strangeness doesn't end with geography. The streets in the tourist area of town are crowded with stalls selling nasty looking llama fetuses amongst other mysterious elixirs and steaming potions. I assumed the entire country was under the spell of some weird cult but then I quickly discovered I was at the Witches' market, a place that must clearly have inspired J.K. Rowlings when she wrote the Harry Potter saga.

La Paz really is a place where you can spend a great deal of time, but then again, I had to hurry up and, before leaving to Peru, I really wanted to head north towards the Amazon.



On the way to the jungle you hit the nice pueblo of Coroico where you can enjoy a subtropical setting. The best way to get to Coroico is on a mountain bike which, although I make it sound as though this is something one just does, is probably the most hair-raising and dangerous thing I have done on this trip so far.



You ride downhill for about 70 km on a dirt path which is coined the 'most dangerous road on the planet', no less. It holds the gruesome record of claiming the life of one person each day. More often than never, entire buses plummet down the cliffs. The "carretera de la muerte" (or death road) is flanked all the way by steep 900 meter drops and the track can accommodate no more then a truck in width.



As you are riding down, you are supposed to yield to upcoming traffic and often find yourself standing only inches away of the ravine while the trucks blaze past you.



Another factor adding to the danger is the thick cloud of dust which reduces the visibility so much that you sometimes can't even see your hands anymore. It is well worth the adrenaline though, because as this dust settles, the views become extraordinary. All I can say is that I'm wearing that t-shirt with a certain pride.




Coroico

Once in Coroico, I checked into one of the nicer hotels up in the hills which offered amenities such as a swimming pool, a sauna, a pool table and a home theatre with a large selection of blockbusters. I basically put on my flip flops, I never left my swimming trunks and chilled out for a week, thereby ending up missing out on the jungle. I did have the convenient excuse of not having taken my anti-malarial medicine and therefore couldn't risk being in an endemic jungle area, but the reality is that I just enjoyed the laid back settings of Coroico. I did get eaten up alive by sand flies though, which is quite a bitch. I've done some googling on sand flies (a type of flying midge) and I currently fear them as much as the mosquitoes you find in Asia or South America who reward your blood donations with horrible fevers and sometimes even death.

Sand flies don't propagate diseases, but they are so small that you can't really see nor hear them (in Louisiana they call them 'no-see um's). The disgusting thing is that these bugs spend time actually biting a hole into your flesh, leaving ugly little scars all over your skin that itch like there is no tomorrow. A few days later, my legs were so covered in bites that, just like I'd seen on Charlie's feet in Thailand, they started to look as if I had the pox or some other gruesome tropical disease. In this condition, you wish you could just unzip your skin and get a new fit so these pathetic little flying fleas were a good enough reason for me to bail out, which I did as soon as I met Gijs and Jasper, two Dutch tourists whom I traveled with for another week to Cusco and later on to Lima.

As we got back into the pueblo to catch our bus, we had the pleasant surprise to discover that the villagers were out on the streets to make a racket again. Barely a week after the Independence Day festivities, it was time for them to get totally wasted, this time with the excuse of celebrating the Bandera, the national flag. Basically, any excuse for a nice parade through town will do in Bolivia, and in this particular one, the children were the stars of the show; they wore funny army uniforms complete with plastic machine guns and as they paraded, their parents would run next to them to yell out instructions.




South Americans love to get together on the main squares of towns. This is particularly true in high season when I suspect these gatherings make it easier to nick fact wallets from tourists.



We went back to La Paz from where we headed out to Lake Titicaca and crossed into Peru via Copacabana. Driving next to Lake Titicaca is quite extraordinary. It has waves, beaches and it stretches out all the way to the horizon. It is in fact so huge that it almost makes you forget it sits roughly 4.000 meters above the genuine article.

At some point during the ride, the bus was loaded onto a large skiff to cross to the other shore from where we would drive to Copacabana and then later to the border with Peru. As I was about to get into Peru, I looked back at Bolivia and realized how much I had loved traveling through this mysterious and enchanting country, which left my head full of fond memories of colorful locals and intriguing towns set in spectacular landscapes.




PERU

The customs formalities from Bolivia to Peru were quite literally a walk in the park and soon enough Gijs, Jasper and I found ourselves in the vaguely amusingly named town of Puno (which we coined Puto); this is one hell of a tourist junk though. It sits right on the banks of Lake Titicaca and the next morning we joined a tour where our first stop, about 10km out in Puno bay, was the Uros islands. These are not islands at all, but are large mats of floating weed on which people live.



Originally they lived out on the lake to escape predations by the Incas but now they live like this so that tourists can pay to look at them and take cute and exotic pictures.



They clearly make a good living; however, no nice weed hut or colorfully dressed local Indian can disguise the fact that these are nothing but handicraft stores floating on a world-class lake. For the authentic indigenous Uros tribe, it seems that ripping off tourists is just another day at the office.



I was a bit taken aback because I had been told that it was going to be a nice romantic, back-to-the-roots trip, but no, the rest of the day didn't get any better. I wish I had read my guidebook before embarking on this daytrip, because the Footprint is not mild-mouthed about the tour and clearly says it is the tourist industry's equivalent of a peep show. I couldn't have better described it. I can only recommend you never waste your time doing this shit.



Cusco

With Lake Titicaca ticked off the list, we took the bus to Cusco and drove through some very pretty mountainous landscapes complete with steaming trains and colorful markets.





Now Cusco is a town that is famous and touristy for good reasons for it has some beautiful architecture and it sits right next to the cultural highlight of South America: Machu Pichu. It is THE gringo hangout of the Latin world and so there is no lack of activities to be found there.

I was also there to meet up with Hein, who was on his second world trip of the year (we'd had dinner together in Beijing in April). The difference this time around was that he had planned a few extra days of Inca sightseeing next to his work obligations. Hein is a real experienced traveler who, in order to really get to know a place, hires an expert private guide to show him around. I was privileged to join in, and gained some very valuable knowledge in a short time. Hiring expert private guides is something I should look into doing more often. I mean, listening to the drivel of the traveler types you usually find swarming around highly cultural areas and who bore you with their 'expert knowledge' gained from studying three guide books can only hold your interest a few minutes or so. Real guides, however, have a deep bond with their land and provide you with fascinating insight and crusty anecdotes about the place.



We spent the day exploring Cusco and the numerous Inca sites around it then followed up with a nice dinner in one of the finer restaurants in town. I had a great time there, for not only did our conversations bring me closer back home, but also provided for some very good laughs.



The next morning I woke up early to go see Machu Pichu. Well in Peru you have to really don't you? You wouldn't go to Paris without seeing the Eiffel Tower, right?



Machu Pichu



To get to Machu Pichu, unless you are going to hike the Inca Trail, the only option is to take the train. I had passed on the idea of joining a group on the Inca Trail because following a line of 500+ tourists for 4 days and sleep in grotty tents isn't my idea of a nice time. Besides, in high season it is completely overpriced and considering the fact that I'll be back in Cusco in October when the prices drop about 50 %, I still have a second chance to make up my mind.



Anyway, I make no excuses for having taken the train, especially when you listen to the types of tourists who try to convince you it is an "awesome experience" that one shouldn't miss. These are the same people that tell you that the banana pancakes on Bangkok's Kho San Road are the jewel of the crown in the Thai food culture. Sure, considering the fact that their idea of a workout is normally limited to stubbing a cigarette into a beer can, I can see why hiking the Inca Trail is a heroic challenge. But no thanks, I'll pass for now.



Before you get to Machu Pichu itself you have to go through Aguas Calientes - which is an absolute traveler dump where I would spend the night. So, after checking out several hotels, I checked into somewhere which was OK and then headed up to the site. Once in Machu Pichu, and after a visit to the snack bar, you find yourself to happy that only half the amount of tourists who visit the site most days showed up; but even then it still gets quite crowded up there though.



However, Machu Pichu is an undeniably spectacular site. One thing you really notice about it, outstanding location notwithstanding, is how much bigger it is than the classic picture on the cover of every guide book and flyer. Another oddity is how closely it resembles, say, a ruined village in Southern Europe.


Hein, Remco and Machu Pichu

Our guide offered some great insight into the place whereafter we spent an evening in Aguas Calientes before heading back to Cusco the next day.



The train ride back on board of the Vistadome is an interesting tourist trap. Owing to the fact that gringos are held captive in there for about 4 hours, Peruvians have developed a kind of entrepreneurialism which is a bit too zealous for my liking. Indeed, after lunch is served, music starts blasting out of the speakers and the alley between the seats is transformed into a catwalk on which the South American attendants quite cheesily display the latest collections of Alpaca sweaters and ponchos under the applause of North American tourists and their pricey video equipment. It is truly quite ridiculous.

Hein and I had diner together on our last evening in Cusco in a nice restaurant on the Plaza de Armas. We were a bit gutted not to have the opportunity to sample the local dish of choice: the guinea pig. As it turned out, this is not something one just orders on an impulse from a menu, for it takes a few hours to roast the little carcass to perfection and therefore it has to be ordered well in advance. Every day being a school day, I have learned my lesson for the next time.

As we finished dinner, they started moving some tables aside and we were suddenly front-row spectators of a traditional show all complete with costumes, instruments and dances. Usually, sitting out front in such a case bodes ill and indeed, to my demise, one of the girls pulled me out of my chair to invite me in joining the festivities. Hein couldn't hide his delight for being left alone on this one. Especially since this was a perfect illustration of a point he had just finished making about him consistently being singled out to get on stage in such cases. The peculiar timing of all this was odd enough to make me suspect that he was actually the one who had masterminded my selection by discreetly flagging me. Anyway, as I danced some Peruvian limbo that night, I realized how much this city lacks in oxygen and I came back to the table completely red (maybe that was the shame) and out of breath.

Just like Hein, it was my last day in Peru this time around, and as the last act of the show came to an end, we pursued our discussion and tried to draw some conclusions about the Incas. We surfaced an interesting fact that may very well explain how an incredibly outnumbered handful of Spaniards forced them into submission and signaled their empire's extinction. The fact that the Incas seem to have lost a fair amount of cities suggests certain carelessness on their behalf. Now this is a type of sloppiness I don't quite understand. I mean, they were by far humanity's best ever stone masons and they succeeded in building some extraordinarily ambitious cities, sometimes putting in more then 70 years of work to carefully polish massive stones and fit them together like pieces of a jigsaw without using any kind of cement.



Yet, as the last worker pulled the plug and left a place, nobody within the empire would ever bother to put the new city on a map and so a lot of them went missing.

I mean, how dumb is that? Could you imagine what would happen if the US Federal government was suddenly completely at loss as to where, say Green Bay Wisconsin, was located? Gee, that would leave the Packers fans crying in their cheese hats - as I suspect Inca descendants are currently doing when they see how their heritage is overrun with tourism.

Speaking about a seeing a Packers' fan, considering my flight from Lima to San Juan in Puerto Rico was stopping in Miami, I decided to extend my layover there by a few days in order to hang out with Kristine, my travel friend in North Vietnam, China and Indonesia, who also happens to be a die-hard Packers aficionado from the Great Lakes district (well, who isn't in Greenbay?).

Lima



I first had to reach the Peruvian capital where I have only spent a day and hated it with a passion. Lima's city center is made out of yellow coated buildings that really look like shit due to the claustrophobic fog that hangs over the city all year round. I don't see how it can be worth anyone's time. Perhaps I should have spent my time in Mira Flores, the seaside resort town on the outskirts of Lima, where presumably the atmosphere is a bit better. As it was, I just lingered with Gijs and Jasper in some football fan's pub on the main square, where we sat at a table with a replica of Pele. Although the owner was a bit intrusive, it was ok because he ended up putting half of our bill on the house as we left and went to the airport.

MIAMI

When I got to the airport, I was a bit wary about my plane being cancelled due to hurricane Katrina's passage over Florida the previous day. Luckily it wasn't the case, and I arrived a few hours later in Miami where I was faced with a rare event: a friendly US customs officer. He only took my fingerprints and scanned my eyeballs before examining my passport. Looking at the various stamps in it, he inquired about the type of job I did and then asked my advice on my employer's stock. Of course I told him to buy some, although I really had no clue if this was a sound advice. He thanked me warmly for the tip and welcomed me into the country. It made my worries of having to deal with their testicle billiard look very lame in retrospect.

Anyway, soon enough I was in Miami, which is a city that hadn't changed much since I was last there a few years ago when my parents were living in Florida. It is the most Latino city in North America and it enjoy a warm and humid climate which makes it a prime location for partying.



I didn't have a lot of time to spend there but I did have the privilege to meet Kristine's brothers, whom she'd told me so much about when we were in Asia. She didn't lie back then and, although they are very different in characters, they are both the top dudes she had described. Kristine and I spent our time being lazy by the pool, trying to catch up, but this turned out to be more difficult then it sounded which is hardly surprizing when two people are not living on the same rhythm anymore. This brings me to an interesting fact about coming back from a long time abroad, like she did. Travelers seem to suffer from a sort of travel hangover upon return. This is a state in which the sudden exposure to stress makes it very difficult to be balanced and happy. I have read a great deal about this topic in order to help me smoothen my landing when that time comes. So yes, we were a bit on top of each other at first (in the figurative sense, you perverts) but it took only one heated discussion for things to clear after which we could just enjoy the time we had planned for our little get-together.

Miami was only a short flight away from Puerto Rico, where I'm spending three weeks to just hang out and have a good time with my friend Xavier, but more on that later. You can view the pictures by clicking the following link. As is very apparent, I don't want to ruin my great time here sitting behind a computer so I wish you luck in whatever you are busy with and I'll drink a few cold Heineken to your health. Cheers.

Take care,

Rem.


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