Cartagena

Colombia is no longer the violent cocaine capital that Pablo Escobar left behind 22 years ago. It has capitalized on it’s towering mountains, lush jungles, Caribbean beaches, nearly unequalled biodiversity, abundant natural resources, thriving cities, and strikingly middle-class and educated population. I heard early and often that Colombia is a backpacker’s dream: friendly, cheap, tasty, beautiful, and safe. I was all the more anxious to get there after my sister and brother-in-law made a plan to meet me in Cartagena. 

Lauren and Geoff wanted to see a lot in 10 days, which meant accelerating my pace. While I couldn’t travel for a year at the speed of a two week vacation, the occasional burst of efficiency is nice. And the change of speed was gradual; the syrupy Caribbean air demanded a slow start. We filled our time in Cartagena with surprisingly good food, rum cocktails, patient and friendly people, beautiful beaches, balmy sunsets, and pleasant strolls throughout the walled city. The historic center is a mix of brightly painted stucco, red tile roofs, narrow streets, leafy plazas, chill bars and restaurants, artesenal (see: touristy) shops, and life-saving gelaterias. The tropical heat could be overwhelming, but was often squelched by a sudden rain. One of our highlights was a late lunch, huddled under an umbrella in the middle of an impressive and refreshing thunderstorm. The waiter, who spoke english, didn’t mind standing in the downpour several minutes longer than necessary to take Lauren’s order in Spanish.

North

Back in Arequipa, I reconnected with a few people I’d met in the canyon. A couple from Portland pointed me towards a small bar that was opened six weeks earlier by another Oregonian. I felt at home ordering microbrews from a guy with a beard and a Timbers hat, beneath a green flag with a big yellow ‘O.’ I tried to go back the next evening but found it closed. No matter, a few hours of great conversation on the roof of the hostel was the perfect way to spend my last night in town. 

The next morning I was headed back to Lima for three days of ceviche and clouds before hopping up to Colombia. When I checked into a cool hostel in the popular Miraflores district, I was immediately challenged to a game of ping-pong. Here’s some trivia: I will fall into a brief existential crisis and a few hours of introspective melancholy if I lose a couple games of ping-pong to an inferior opponent. Depending on my rhythm and confidence, I’m either impossible to beat or entirely incompetent. Challenge me in the early stages of a lazy afternoon, and I’ll crumble. Give me three beers and two hours to warm up, and I’ll take you down. It’s disappointing that I didn’t discover that recipe when I was playing competitive tennis. On my second night in Miraflores, after the necessary precautions, I was awarded a free night at my hostel and two free drinks for winning their weekly tournament.

Colca Canyon

There were a lot of people hiking to and from the small towns in the canyon. By taking a longer route we found ourselves on a road less travelled, and we were well up for the more challenging trail. Ruben is an athletic dutchman with tree trunks for legs. He stumbled clumsily downhill, but motored powerfully uphill. Daniel is Swiss-French, with equal passions for trekking and Tinder. Patricio was our legendary guide; 5 feet tall, portly, 50-something, fleet-footed, soft-spoken and all smiles. He hiked in a long-sleeve padded goalie jersey, track pants, and tattered, imitation Keds. He is poor, possibly because he spends his money taking care of two wives and four kids. He walked with his arms flared wide, and took three steps for every two of mine, but I could barely keep up with him. The trek was all steep climbs and painful descents, but I bit my tongue. I couldn’t complain about my knees to a diminutive 50 year-old. 

Overall, Colca Canyon was amazing but somehow familiar. The highlights were the impressive condors, the well-timed earthquake that shook scree and boulders from canyon walls while we stood at a scenic overlook, and the lazy afternoons. Even though we signed up for the longest of the popular canyon tours, we arrived each day by 1pm. So we passed our time playing cards, reading by the pool, and lounging in a riverside thermal bath. It was incredibly relaxing, which was great, because my life has been so stressful lately.

Arequipa

I swore off overnight busses, but they’re often the only option. The bus from Cusco to Arequipa was more comfortable than most, but the road was too curvy for sleep. When I arrived, a man at the official tourist information kiosk asked if I was going to do cocaine while in Arequipa. He assured me he could help me find it. It took me far too long to realize he’d said Colca Canyon, one of the largest canyons in the world and the main draw to Arequipa. But it’s not all the city has to offer. It’s attractive, historical, and navigable, without feeling like Disneyland. My first two days in Arequipa were the usual song and dance; explore, meet people, make plans.

First I met Hadrian, who sounded American. In fact, he’d split his time between Paris and Las Vegas, a fascinating dichotomy that was actually the least interesting thing I learned about him. He walked with a limp, which he attributed to a motorcycle accident. Later, he admitted his story was a half-truth. He’d grown up playing tennis, and was in the early stages of a professional career when he was forced to withdraw from a match with pain in his legs. He awoke the next morning paralyzed below the waist. He was diagnosed with a rare genetic disease whose name I never had a chance of remembering. Only two people had ever walked again under those circumstances, but three months after his hospitalization, Hadrian became the third.

He’ll probably never play tennis again, but he can carry a backpack around South America, and he doesn’t take it for granted. His positive energy in spite of a life that has been turned on its head was inspiring. He didn’t have much trouble convincing me to go whitewater-rafting, which was the highlight of my time in Arequipa. But Hadrian checked out of the hostel the next morning, and I was left to research this cocaine place. On cue, in walked a pair of backpackers talking about their plans for the canyon. Half an hour later, we’d booked a three day trek with a spanish speaking guide.

Cusco, Salkantay and Machu Picchu

Cusco is beautiful and charming, but is overrun with tourists (a hypocritical thing to dislike about a place). It has good energy, but none of the restaurants, bars, luxury hotels, or english signage seemed authentic. And even though the city is a destination in it’s own right, many of its visitors are simply passing through on their way to Machu Picchu. Just like me.

These days, the Inca Trail requires a reservation at least six months in advance. So I chose the lesser-known, but highly recommended, five day Salkantay Trek. I arrived in Cusco a couple days early to acclimate and attend a sketchy “orientation.” Bring $100 to tip us. Your rented sleeping bag will be too small. Altitude sickness may affect you. The first night will be -3˚C. Be ready tomorrow at 4am. Don’t complain. Our apparent guide didn’t introduce himself, or ask for our names. He was so chilly, we all wanted out.

If his goal was to lower our expectations, it worked. Everything was well thought out and carefully organized. The trek was beautiful, our guide warmed up, the five course meals were good by any standard, and our group was a lot of fun. There were 7 paying customers, and probably six guides and porters with five donkeys. We hiked roughly 40 miles over five days, climbing from a picturesque valley to a barren 15,000 foot pass, then descending into the beginnings of the Amazon Rainforest. In a few hours, we went from snowy peaks to wild strawberries, colorful orchids and coffee plantations. It wasn’t always easy - 4:30 am wake up calls, long hikes, altitude headaches, mosquitos, quad-busting climbs, and relentless, knee-rattling descents - but the scenery alone was worth the money and the hassle.  Arriving at Machu Picchu for sunrise on the last day was icing on the cake. 

Lima

On July 13th I was back at LAX, boarding another plane to South America. Generally speaking, I was happy to hit the road again, and reenergized by a month of things I missed; friends and family, soccer games, peanut butter, vegetables, and a few extra pairs of pants. But on that Monday I felt like hell. I paid the price for Sunday night’s enthusiastic farewell. My cup runneth over. I drinketh.

After a painful 12 hour travel day, I landed in Lima and hit the ground walking. I took my time digging in to Peru’s largest (and grayest) city. Maybe I needed to recover after so much excitement in California, but that’s a bit like saying I needed a break from my break from my break, and that seems ridiculous.

In order to tie up some loose ends and focus on a bit of work, I avoided the distraction of a hostel and found an apartment on Airbnb. I met some people along the way, but I spent a lot of time wandering around Lima alone, and I spoke no english for 4 days. It was a nice change of pace.

I slept a lot, feasted on ceviche, visited an impressive museum, meandered through the largest circuit of fountains in the world, and before I knew it, I was on a plane to Cusco. 

Intermission

I’m sitting on the rooftop balcony of the Mercadero Backpacker’s Hostel, drinking a Cerveza Arequipeña, watching the sun set behind the pumice-white cathedral in the center of Arequipa, Peru, and wishing time would stand still. It’s the eve of Peruvian Independence day, and red and white flags are waving from every roof. Celebrations are starting, and sounds are rising from the city like smoke. Somewhere in the distance, a steel drum is playing “Under the Sea” from The Little Mermaid. As I begin to reflect on an amazing month back in California, life has rarely felt better.

I have to remind myself that things haven’t always been this good.

I felt compelled to take this trip. Drawn by the luster of the unknown, and ushered out by a life that was feeling stifled. The last few years have been tough. I cringe at the thought that I had started feeling sorry for myself. Six months later, self-pity seems like a foreign and impossible idea. In this sense, this trip has already been an unqualified success. I’m grateful for everything that has led me to this point. I don’t believe that everything happens for a reason, but we’re adaptable creatures, and good things are sometimes born of bad.  A lot of good fortune allowed me to even consider the possibility of traveling for a year.

On the road, life is unpredictable, irregular, unrestricted. For five months, my calendar had been almost empty. A wedding on June 20th was the only impingement on my freedom, and it haunted me. I wanted to keep traveling, so I settled on the inefficient plan of briefly traveling to California and returning to South America a month later. As my itinerary congealed, resentment turned into excitement. Suddenly my calendar was full of dates I was looking forward to: a 10 year college reunion, two weddings, July 4th, my birthday, and a few days at work.

I came to look at the month at home as just another destination along the way, and it was a highlight. I felt replenished by so much time with family and friends. Inspired by my moms’ wedding. Grounded by a few days at work. What the trip home had cost me in freedom, it repaid tenfold. On my birthday, for the first time I can remember, I didn’t know what to wish for.

End of the Beginning

We had one more day in La Paz, which we spent exploring the largest flea market in South America, wandering a densely packed cemetery, eating street food we hoped wouldn’t make us sick, shopping for oddities at the Witch Market, and watching game one of the NBA finals.

The next day, we took a four hour bus to Copacabana, a charming town on the shores of Lake Titicaca. Frank and I were joined by a pair of Austrians named Franzis and Philip, who I’d originally met back in San Pedro de Atacama. It happens often, that I find a familiar face in an unfamiliar place. It’s always fun, but also a reminder that I need to work harder to escape the “Gringo Trail.”

We arrived in Copacabana on the town’s birthday, so we were greeted with a parade, and entertained all day and night by fireworks and festive gatherings in the two main plazas.

Aside from the celebrations, Copacabana was a chilled out place. We spent much of our time there quietly sipping coffee on beachside roof decks, enjoying views of the largest lake in South America. During our three days there, we also rented jet skis, watched the champions league final, swam at 12,500 feet, saw Incan ruins and hiked the nearby Isla del Sol.

I returned to La Paz with 36 hours before my flight home; I’d left myself just enough time to spend a day on the “Death Road.” Officially called the Camino a los Yungas, it is exactly what you’d expect: narrow, winding, cliff-lined, gravelly (or muddy) and deadly. It held the distinction as the world’s most dangerous road until an alternative route was built a few years ago. It took five hours on bikes to descend from barren, snow-capped mountains to a balmy jungle almost 12,000 feet below. The views were spectacular, and it gave me an itch to finally replace the mountain bike I had stolen 5 years ago.

It was a great day; a suitable end to the first leg of this adventure. It felt strange to fly into LAX 30 hours later, knowing it was just another quick stop along the way. Nonetheless, it felt good to be home, and even better to see some familiar faces.

Warm Welcome

Border crossings are arduous and - for US citizens in South America - costly. So, when I walked directly into Bolivia without a bag check, an entry payment, or any paperwork, I was confused. I asked a guard if I’d missed something, and he waved me into the country. I’d been expecting to owe another $60 entry fee, so I was happy to have saved time and money.

15 hours later, I arrived in La Paz, anxious to reunite with Frank. But, when I checked in the hostel, they asked to see my border entry papers - which, of course, I’d never received. They sent me to a nearby immigration office to get the small green slip of paper, which they thought would take 20 minutes.

I dragged Frank out of bed and we headed out to explore the city, via a quick stop at the government office.

210 dollars, six hours, four visits to the bank, three trips to a photocopy store, several long lines, and countless conversations with confused and incompetent employees consumed the entire day. Frank, my hero, stuck it all out with me.

First, they’d smacked me with a “border evasion ticket.” Evasion. Right.

Next, they told me the law had changed in the four days I was in Argentina. Effective June 1, 2015, Americans (and only Americans - I’ve grown to hate this passport) need a $160 visa to enter Bolivia. Then, after five hours, they informed me that they had no system to process this new visa, and I needed to go to the airport - at rush hour. Thankfully my disbelief and anger seemed to inspire some creativity, and they found a way to issue the visa from the city office. It was a small victory in a day full of brutal defeats. Between two Bolivia entries, I’d paid $265 just to enter the “cheapest” country in South America.

By the time I received my visa, the sun was setting. We hurried to an overlook and watched as the surrounding mountains blanketed the city in shadow. Sure, it was beautiful, but my god was I ready for a beer.

Salta

We arrived in Salta on Thursday morning, but I had to wait until Friday to see Pri, and until Monday to see her again. Adrianna and Costanza left for Buenos Aires, and Patrick got sick and spent the weekend in bed. By Sunday I was feeling like I’d made the wrong choice by coming back to Salta.

Monday changed that. Patrick and I had a sunny lunch on the main plaza before he began a miserable journey home; 30 hours of busses south, followed by a long chain of flights north to Minneapolis. It was a sad goodbye, but Patrick is a compatriot with ties to Los Angeles, so there is little doubt I’ll see him soon. After our farewell, I went shopping for an Argentina soccer jersey, then met up with Pri for a sunset mate (not a typo or freudian slip; a typical Argentine loose leaf tea drank from a gourd through a filtered straw). As I sat at the base of a large cross overlooking a beautiful city, with an Argentine girl, wearing that new baby-blue and white striped jersey, and sipping on the most traditional of Argentine drinks, I felt like a bit of a cliché. But a fondness for cliché runs in my family.

After the sun dipped below the horizon and the temperature dropped, we took the gondola back down the hill, left our bags at my hostel and walked to the grocery store. I bought the groceries. She cooked - Argentine.

The next morning I was off. I could have stayed much longer, but the countdown had begun - I was flying home from La Paz, Bolivia in a few short days. I left Salta happy to have made the trip.