Peru It Forward...

To us, the legendary lost Inca city of mossy, misty Machu Picchu has always loomed atop our South American wish list. So, stuffing two backpacks borrowed from our buddies Juan Pablo and Javier, we flew away in May on our second major South American adventure...
Unlike our unknown, undersized, underrated Uruguay, Peru and Bolivia are big and bold, bursting with tourists, and boast some of the most amazing mountains, jungles, rivers, cultures and history in the world. From soaring Andean summits, snowmelt trickles north, forming the first Amazon flows as dry mountains erode into ancient rain forests. Meanwhile, veins of mineral and ore--that once decorated Inca kings--sprinkle the wrinkled west, where desolate dust sorrowfully clusters toward the coast, across plains pillaged by Pizarro.Our itinerary--after a very literal layover in Santiago, Chile--begins in Lima, Peru's conquistador-created capital, then buses us to Paracas, Arequipa, Chivay, Colca Canyon, and Puno on the western shore of Lake Titicaca, then bounces into Bolivia--Copacabana, Isla del Sol, and La Paz--before backtracking to Cusco and Aguas Calientes for the big finale in Machu Picchu. Over twenty days we clicked three thousand pictures worth of worldly wonder. So, prepare, if you dare, to share in the thrills, spills, chills but none of the bills of our experience...Leg one of the journey transports us from the Lima airport to the little seaport of Paracas, just south of Pisco, where the Galapagos-like guano-gathering Islands of Ballestas await with their wave crushed rocks and flocks of feathered friends. But first, we had to get there...

MONTEVIDEO AND SANTIAGO
Thanks to the internet and 'CheapoAir' we found some affordable tickets to Lima, first flying with luxurious LAN airlines, then transfer and leave Santiago with lesser known LACSA Air. Did CheapoAir care to inform us that these carriers are bitter competitors?

They did not! And, this nearly caused us a major disaster before we even made it to the metal detectors. Thankfully, after a scolding and some gratuitous mumbling and head-shaking at check-in, our LAN representative reluctantly checked our backpacks through to Lima with LACSA. Whew!
What do you mean what's the big deal?! This seemingly simple act saved us from Chile's $100 American tourist reciprocity fee--$100 each!--which we'd be forced to pay just to get our humble luggage from Santiago's baggage claim. Feeling lucky, we happily posed for our adventure's inaugural photo as we wait in the gate. Then, taking Carrasco airport's seemingly pointless tram twenty meters across the tarmac, we stepped up the airplane stairs to set off as the sun sets on the Uruguay horizon.

At this point, we were big fans of LAN for checking our bags through to Lima, and our appreciation only doubled when they started serving complimentary beverages. Just so you know, the stewardess misheard another passenger's order and mistakenly poured a whiskey, so, being the helpful sort, we offered to dispose of it. We did order the Cristal, one of many fine Peruvian brews. And why not? Did we mention we'd be sleeping in the airport?

Upon arrival in Santiago, Leandra's eyes went whiter than a triple vanilla soy milk latte at the sight of her first South American Starbucks. The international transfer area was very nice--they even had Dunkin Donuts. As for sleeping accommodations, we lucked out. Instead of sprawling on the floor or squeezing our legs under the armrests of paltry padded airport chairs, we found a king sized kidney shaped island of a couch next to a cell phone company's kiosk. And--thanks to borrowing a few airplane blankets and pillows--we couldn't have slept better in a Holiday Inn.

Rising to a restroom wash-up followed by doughnut dipped injections of Seattle based coffee, we left for Lima, lifted by LACSA along the edge of the Andes...we even managed another magnificent moment mesmerized by Mt. Aconcagua.

LIMA
Landing in Lima with crossed fingers, we hugged our luggage with a grateful chuckle, before chucking them into a cab to grab the first southbound bus for Pisco, clicking away at our limited glimpse of life in the less-than-lovable parts of Lima...

Despite a clear sky, the haze lays thick over Peru's polluted, overpopulated capital.

Like most of Latin America, stray dogs wander into traffic but cause no panic while vendors perfect the art of retail and resale.

As Lima disappears behind us, the gears grind often, as the bus, stopping, spews people and fumes in the street. This photo reminds us of someone...

Increasingly barren, the land became sparsely strewn with basic brick homes. Often, long walls would line the road, doing nothing more than protecting the leftovers of bereft refugee towns, raided of any residual practical pieces.

Speaking of practical...Look! The world's largest sunglasses! Who knew they were in Peru?! (Your guess is as good as ours.)

Peru's people love painting rocks to make giant hillside signs. Every prominent slope has one, or two, or dozens. This one, however, seems ironic in a country still crippled by corruption and riddled with shoddy infrastructure--despite recent exponential growth and improvement in the tourism sectors. Not the worst but this country is far from first world other than in the zones trampled by tourists, where workers often enjoy jobs with far higher standards of living than their own.

Less grand than our previous Viña del Mar-Valparaiso adventure that reached the beaches of South America's other ocean--but equally meaningful in terms of trans-continental conquest--we claim, "We did it again!" as the Pacific laps at the local dwellings.

Four hours south of Lima, we were ousted from our front row seats and onto the outskirt streets of Pisco where we quickly acquire a tattered station-wagon taxi to trundle us to our first destination.

Attempting to ask about options for lodging, the driver replies between the potholes he's dodging, as we approach the puny but pleasant port of Paracas...ready for a room, a real bed, a real shower, and a real meal.

PARACAS
Now, keep in mind that we are on a budget. We have backpacks. We have a basic plan but no reservations. We have heard that crimes, cons, and scams do happen. We are trying to travel somewhere just above the level of the lost dreadlocked bohemian who makes trinkets to sell before hitching to the next hostel, yet far below the level of the wealthy healthy traveler who can afford to completely avoid anything less than luxury while also losing their digital camera to a pickpocket. And, these days, every tourist trap--ahem--town in Peru is teeming with aggressive businesses, big and small, from top-notch tour operators to two-bit tip panderers, that compete to extract your dollar or euro from you. So, we were a little leery...

But, it turns out that was mostly propagated paranoid propaganda! Paracas gave us our first taste of Peruvian hospitality--we hit the first hostel, had our pick of rooms at some pretty inexpensive prices! Within minutes we were flopping on our two queen beds, sliding open our balcony doors to inhale the coastal breeze, and taking two hot showers! Although, we were in the Moron Room.

Check out the view! Across the muggy but crystal blue bay hides the peninsular Paracas Nature Reserve.

Just below, a family sets up the local food market under the shade of twin palm trees.

Dressed in fresh shorts and shirts meant for summer, we checked out the outdoor deck, then went down the stairs to explore a little further...

We questioned our hostel host, Jose Luis, about things we should see and places to feast. He said, "Head for the beach, and down to the docks, there's lots of good food, just a couple of blocks." This tranquil one street sea-level town felt tropical in the early winter sun--far different than the breath taking altitude and penetrating cold we'd experience for most of our journey.

Reaching the beach and waterfront walk, we were targeted by squawking hostesses brandishing their menus and battling for our business with ever better bargains of free pisco sours--Peru's famous local mix of Pisco brandy, lime, egg, syrup and bitters--which every establishment's barker uses as their primary lure for tourists...For us, the winning waitress usually added a free beer or appetizer.

As we pondered the palatable choices, primarily from the Pacific--and a culinary variety non-existent in Uruguay--we laughed as the next lucky tourists were attacked by the waving waitresses. Comically, after each tourist's table was chosen, the losing waitresses would breathe out a disappointed sigh, smile and chatter like friends, then spy the next guy, and speed-walk in a flock to the next hopeful catch, spreading their menus and chirping their drink deals, like pigeons in a park to a kid dropping crumbs.
This was one of the best meals we've had in South America, and not just because of the idyllic location. By our pisco sour, sits an empty Cusqueña beer which, like Cristal and most Latin based brews, is a blond, refreshing lager. The salted popped maize and fresh baked bread perfectly offset the spicy side dish sauce--another savored change from Montevideo's more mundane flavors. And, the onion soaked ceviche of cool citrus seared seafood was so good that "divine" would be an understatement.

Then, we met Nicholas. At first, he and we noticed each other before we settled down to our table. After we imbibed and become smitten with our selections, he rose from his chair two open-air restaurants away, and hobbled over toward us--cane supporting one side, simple fabric-cased guitar supporting the other. He sat behind Leandra for several minutes, waiting, adjusting this and that, eventually readying himself and his instrument. He moved so slowly--blinking in methodical thought before every arthritic move--it was hard to notice what changed: his cane now neatly leaning on a knot on a nearby wood column, a sleeve rolled up, a stack of homespun cassette recordings with handwritten titles appearing on the the table, a tilt of his hat, a glance at the sea and a nearby pelican or seagull, a tiny brochure of lyrics set by his tapes. Now, our guess is, that Nicholas is nothing more than an old soul of Paracas, playing music for pleasure, for visitors, and of course, for tips--perhaps "livelihood" is a better word. We'd smile. He'd smile back. We took his picture, asked his name and his age--eighty something, seven I think. He showed us his lyrics, pointing at one particular song called "Mano de Americano", conveying with his raspy, aged, tooth-missing mouth, that he wrote these poems. Then, despite the music playing on the restaurant radio, he started to play too, his curled digits plucking away, hitting those harmonic chords that have that Latino touch, rolling his opaque eyes back a little as he sang--but one cataract would always occasionally confirm we were "with" him.
Afterwards, we clapped, and other tourists and waitresses did too. He bowed, but only with his fingering hand, the right, along with a little bend in the back and a slow blink. We gave him some Peruvian coins, called "soles". He played another tune as we watched the sea.

But, perhaps most amazing, are the untold things you can see and hear and feel in this man's marvelous face. Meeting Nicholas, and this picture, was one of many favorite memories.

Nicholas eventually departed as slowly as he arrived, and we spent the afternoon watching egrets, pelicans and all sorts of unknown seabirds search for easy meals, exploring the beach and streets of this tiny fishing port.
While boats bobbed against the incessant sound of ripples splashing, the creaking, squeaking, and squawking sound of the salty sea surrounded us.
Falling into the far peninsula, making a metallic and acryllic silhohuette of synthetic sea lions, the sun highlighted a hint of tomorrow's excursion: a trip out to Islas Ballestas, sort of a poor man's Galapagos, where millions of seabirds and sea lions nest, fest and rest.
Although we wandered into the night, staring into starlit skies from Paracas' soft sandy beaches, this dusky photo marks the end of our first day of adventure in Peru.