The Best of Both Worlds

After a beautiful night at the hot spring in Aguas Calientes, I woke up early and took the shuttle up the mountain to the entrance of Machu Picchu. Very lush, very green, humid, it felt like Japan. I’m always so excited the night before seeing a world-famous monument. It’s like Christmas for me as a 28year old adult. I really can’t wait to run around the corner and catch that first glimpse of the real thing.

Right at the entrance there was a guide who asked if I wanted a better explanation for everything I was going to see. A perfect chance to practice my Spanish listening skills and I thought “I’m only here once”, so why not get some background to what I was seeing. The cost was 35 soles, about $10, a bit pricey for my backpacker budget but I figured it’d be worth it.

Some travelers believe that guides are a waste of time. They think the experience alone is more than letting the impressions that the art or leave upon you do their thing and make the experience all your own. But I am interested not just in the aesthetic experience, but also the historical one. I want to know what I am seeing. I understand that the experience itself can sometimes lose a bit of its magic when you are flooded with facts and inundated with verbiage, but that’s a tradeoff I didn’t mind making.

But I was not the only person in the group. Along with me was another traveler, a backpacker with long, straight, black hair. She was wearing a knit cap, and I thought for sure she was another American. But then she introduced herself in Spanish, and at first, I couldn’t recognize her accent- it sounded Italian and had all these grammatical differences from the Spanish I new- Vos for tu and tense for tienes. Took me a second but then I recognized it as being from Argentina. I had not known many, if anyone from her country before, but here was my chance.

Victoria and I started our tour. The guide was Peruvian and proud of her heritage. I met many people like this in my travels in Peru. At the time there was a lot of discussion about Yale returning the artifacts that Hiram Bingham, the American explorer who first brought to attention the ruins of Machu Picchu, back to Peru. I told the guide I thought it’d be sad if all these artifacts in American museums would no longer be seen by the broader public. and tourists from abroad because this is how people become interested in a place like Machu Picchu in the first place. That’s how it worked for me! But of course, I did understand her argument, especially the sentiment behind it. But I was a visitor in her country and didn’t want to be rude, so I left it there.

The tour ended and I invited Victoria to join me on the climb up to Huyana Piccu. We made it to the top of the very steps and then decided to take a break on an open section of grass. The views here were incredible, and the weather was unbeatable. Bright blue skies, a sharp wind. But this was warmer than Cuzco or the sacred valley. Not as harsh or intimidating.

Victoria was travelling by herself after recently turning 30. She looked more like 26 to me. She was from Buenos Aires, the big city. She was also a biologist, specializing in studying fungus. Funny people you meet traveling. I was also traveling alone, so we had that in common. She thought it neat that I had lived in Japan. She then opened to me that today was her only sister’s birthday, who had died two years earlier of cystic fibrosis.

We then made our way down the steps back to the main plaza and found an isolated spot, basically a covered little room, one of the many at Machu Picchu and she asked if I wanted to smoke a joint with her. I was quite scared about the stories of foreigners being locked up for smoking weed, but something felt OK to me and I went with it. I was never able to get much out of a joint, and this time was no different. More of a mood setter than anything mind altering. It was now time for me to leave and catch the train back to Ollantaytambo, while she was going to stay the night in Aguas Calientes. We exchanged emails and said we’d stay in touch.

But I didn’t want to leave it there. The next morning in Ollantaytambo I walked over to Hostal Sauce where Victoria told me she’d be staying in town when she got back. But she wasn’t there. Right when I was about to leave, however, I saw her walking down the street with two other people and she waved for me to join the group. She was with a couple, a Peruvian guy and an Italian woman, and they were all going to take a cab to a neighboring village that had a market Victoria wanted to see.

The place was so colorful! All the indigenous Peruvians, with the women in their bowler caps selling crafts and blankets. The indigenous cultures of Peru and Bolivia are so vibrant. Experiencing this in person is one of the great joys of visiting these two countries. It’s unique, very far removed from America. And it’s everywhere, not just a few groups here and there. For Victoria, the fun involved taking pictures of all the locals in their clothing. This was her thing.

Afterward we all got lunch in the center of town and engaged in your typical traveler’s conversation. How we saw our countries; what we thought of travelers from our own countries- at this point I was still that guy who tried to avoid other Americans when I could (I’ve grown out of that level of pretentiousness); which countries had the cheapest travelers- Israel was the most common answer but I said that Japan was up there. Of course, we also talked some politics, and the Peruvian/Italian couple turned out to be very left wing. They don’t like capitalism– they didn’t even let me order a Coca-Cola! I decided not to fight it. Victoria took my side, which I appreciated.

We ended up hanging out together all day and, in the evening, walked to the Plaza de Armas in the center of town to see a local festival. The sun had set and all day trippers went home. It was a regular town again. I could not understand what this festival was about though: a large group of local young dudes, in white ski masks and whips standing in a circle lashing each other while music played in the background. What was going on here? We had no idea, but the atmosphere was incredible. All the boys loved Victoria.  They asked her to dance. They asked her about Che Guevara. I had some OK conversations myself, but I was clearly not the person they wanted to speak to most. Finally, we pulled ourselves away for the night.

Monday morning, time to back track out of the Sacred Valley and get back to Cuzco. We decided to travel together on to Bolivia, and the first stop out was Urubamba. We took a collectivo, basically the famed ‘chicken bus’, super overcrowded, very unsafe, and of course were stopped by the police. Funny stuff as they didn’t do too much and had a laugh at the two foreigners crammed in. From Urubamba it’s another bus to Cuzco, that magical city, where we buy our bus tickets to La Paz with a three-hour layover in Puno.

One last evening to spend in Cuzco. I had all my stuff, but Victoria had to pick up a few things from her prior hostel, where she had been hanging out with some Irish backpackers. Was she ditching me now? We had agreed to meet back in the Plaza de Armas after she got her stuff. Why couldn’t I come along too? I’m sure she was thinking this over. “Did I want to travel anymore with this guy?” I was in a state of panic that she would leave me without a trace.

But then she appeared, ready for our journey to Bolivia. But first we shared dinner at a local Chinese restaurant I knew from my prior stay. Comida Chaufa, as Chinese food in Peru is called, was one of my pleasant little discoveries during my time here. It was my turn to introduce to her something local.

The overnight bus from Cuzco arrived in Puno at 5am. From here we would change buses for La Paz. Overnight buses in Peru were fairly comfortable. The seats were spacious enough, and usually leaned back enough to get a bit of sleep in. Still, the overnight bus intimidated me. A night without sleep, sitting up all night, was a scary proposition. You had to balance feeling like crap the next day with the savings from one night at a hotel. Hard to imagine now, but that is the backpacker mindset.

You would have so many interesting stories about the people you met on these buses. There was the time in Mexico when my bus back from Chiapas was stopped by armed military who escorted off the bus a Guatemalteco without papers and ignored me completely because I was white. The strangest sight was this one guy who came on, speaking English with and American accent, very tall, full beard, who was wearing a suit and a top hat. He looked exactly like Abraham Lincoln. The guy was very irritable and complaining about Peru. Later I saw this same person, in the same attire, walking around Cuzco. Who was he? Who knows. But an image I won’t forget.  

Finally, our bus arrived in Puno, with a 3-hour layover until the next bus to Copacabana in Bolivia. But Victoria didn’t want to wait, so she found another bus leaving right away. We jump on board. It’s completely empty. At the first stop, some new passengers get on, and I overhear them talking about going to Cuzco. Is this right I ask the driver, yes, he says, we’re going to Cuzco. We got on the wrong bus! Blame it on the tiredness of the journey.

But it was all worth it because morning in Copacabana was gorgeous. Another day of the brightest blue skies, but this time alongside the cold, dark blue water of Lake Titicaca. It was cold, in the 50s, like a crisp Fall Day in Michigan, but very comfortable. When we got off the bus the driver told Victoria “Have a safe trip” in English. She told him, in Spanish, that she spoke Spanish, and the driver ignored her and continued to speak English to her! She did not look like the other Latinas and during our time traveling together she would continuously be confused for being a gringa. I thought this hilarious much to her consternation. Victoria was a proud Latina.

We crossed the border and my very first Bolivian experience was breakfast at an outdoor café, lake side where the service took forever and the sun was blinding. It took about an hour for our food to arrive, and when we asked about it, all we got was “estara listo en un ratito”. According to Victoria, this is life in Bolivia. Got to get used to it.

Got back on the bus and eventually arrived at the bus station in La Paz. But just before then the driver was kind enough to stop and let us get off to admire the view of the city seen from up above along the highway leading to the city. Truly a remarkable sight- the isolated city below surrounded by nothing but red mountains all around it. It felt very much like the highest altitude capital city on earth.

We quickly found a room at the Hotel Contintel. My first impressions of La Paz were good. The streets were clean. The people were friendly. The police officer stopped to give us directions without asking. No poor treatment of scrubby backpackers here.

That night she opened up to me about her sister’s death two years earlier and the shadow it had cast over her life.

Wednesday morning and we’re ready for breakfast. I’m fine with skipping a meal occasionally, but not Victoria. Especially not breakfast. I thought only guys cared that much about eating, but she was skinny, so it was working for her somehow.

Now it was time to hit the streets and be tourists. First a stop in Plaza Murillo where we take our pictures. Then a walk up a street full of old colonial style buildings and a walk down to the Coca museum. This was one of the ‘must see in my guidebook. I love quirky little museums led by enthusiastic docents even if I don’t’ have a particular interest in what’s on display. After the museum we stop for coffee and engage in our first political discussion. She likes me, but she doesn’t think the US means well at all. She also loves Venezuela. I don’t agree with it either. She also almost provokes me by saying that “George Bush is a murderer”. I was not a Bush voter, but he was still my President, and I truly believed that the US was a force for good in the world. I lose my cool a bit arguing and really began to worry that she thought I was a crazy right winger.

It happened to be the day of the Champions League final between Barcelona and Arsenal. I wanted to see it, she did not. She hated sports in fact, and I wonder if this was because of her dad who she no longer ever saw. I found a bar that had the game on and sat down to watch with the other local Bolivians. No Messi in this one, he was injured and held back to save himself to play in the upcoming World Cup. The other guys around me weren’t having it and called him a ‘maricon’ (a homophobic slur) for not playing. Of course, Arsenal lost, and although I am a Madridista, I always root for Spanish teams, so I was happy with the result. But the whole time I was watching I couldn’t really enjoy the game because I was worried about Victoria leaving me because of my political views. I was so relieved when we met back up after the game and she said she had missed me.

That night I was able to convince her to go out for pizza at this funny little restaurant that was nearly empty. We sat on the second floor where they happened to have a U2 concert on TV. She told me she loves U2 and has always wanted to see them in concert. We held hands and sang “One” together. What a moment.

Thursday morning, we went to Pepe’s, the restaurant her guidebook recommended first for “24 hours in La Paz’. It was our new thing to try and re-create the whole program in the book. At breakfast she mentions again her sister, and the beach near her house where they spread her ashes. She is so sad and I do my best to cheer her up, but it’s not easy. Eventually we make our way to the bus station and buy tickets to Coroico, a town in the Yungas, the start of the jungle, at the bottom of the altiplano mountain range. The most popular way of getting here was doing a guided bicycle trek down the “world’s most dangerous road” also known as the but Victoria had no interest in this so instead, we took the bus.

Our seats are at the very back of the bus, and we’re squeezed in tight as the bus slowly navigated the narrow curves of this winding road with sheer drops of over 3000 feet. At one point we had to stop and back up, and I looked out the back window and saw our rear tire about a foot from the ledge. What would my mom think if this was how it all ended for us? Through it all I was never that scared. I was traveling with a beautiful girl, and I had so much in front of me. But the drivers were definitely stressed. At one point we were delayed when a fight broke out on the road between two other drivers who had gotten into an accident.

When we arrived there was a young couple and their baby who were offering us a room in their hostel, the Villa Bonita. Turns out the guy was a Swiss, Buddhist, vegetarian and his wife was a local Bolivian. He was also a cook and made a great roti. The hostel was a lovely, peaceful house with great views of the mountains below. That night we had dinner at the hostel and met an English/Aussie couple who flatter Victoria by telling her how much they loved Argentina. Also, how they had to learn to say “caca de perro” due to all the dog crap on the streets in Buenos Aires. Victoria agreed!

We had a great big room that led out on to a covered, outdoor common area with couches, and a CD player. Me and Victoria took turns picking what music to play as it was only us here. They had a surprisingly diverse selection of CDs, so I tried to get her into some American soul- Sam and Dave, Ray Charles, Isaac Hayes, Aretha Franklin, but she didn’t seem particularly interested. When it was her turn, she played Silvio Rodriguez, and some Argentinian rock, particularly Charly Garcia. Charly Garcia! The Argentine Bob Dylan, or Mick Jagger. Victoria was teaching me things.

Friday morning started with a big breakfast at a table outside. The setting is idyllic with the green hills rolling off into the distance. We tried to decide how to spend the day and I told her that I wanted to walk to some of the waterfalls near the hostel. She asks for directions from the owners and off we go.

But before our next adventure we stop to check emails at the internet café in the center of town. She’s worried about getting back to Buenos Aires in time for work. It was the first time since we met that the reality of real life started to break through the bubble of magic, we had been living in. I didn’t want to think about it, and I don’t think she did either. So instead, we picked up some provisions and headed on our way to the waterfalls.

On our way there we took a wrong turn, and instead of ending up at the bottom of the waterfall where you can swim, we ended up at the top. To get to where we wanted to go we try to take a shortcut through the brush, but it became impassable so we take another detour through thicker woods until we hit a different waterfall, cross it, and make our own trail up the hill, hacking through the woods until we find the proper trail.

During the whole time we were lost, Victoria was so calm and collected. Instead of losing it, and getting angry, she was strong and guided us through. A side of her character came through something that I had never seen before.

We finally found the proper swimming hole, changed into our swim suits and hang out at the waterfall. On the way down we bumped into some local farmers who offered us some mandarins and whose names were all Thomas! What a wonderful day with wonderful people.

Eventually we caught a taxi back to Villa Bonita. That evening was the most romantic of the week. The owners of the Villa Bonita were all occupied with a party they were hosting for their relative’s downstairs. That left the upstairs balcony overlooking the mountains all to ourselves.

The next morning began the sad, long trip back to civilization. I didn’t want to leave. I was dreading it, but there was no choice. Nothing remarkable happened on the bus back to La Paz, or the overnight bus we took south to the city of Potosi, on the way to Argentina. I thought about asking to go home with her. But I chickened out. What would I do there? How would I survive?

Potosi was cold, we were firmly back at the high altitude of the altiplano. In fact, signs around town said this was the highest town in the world alongside Lhasa in Tibet. It had a very sad history of exploiting the local indigenous people to work in the silver mine. This mine was one of the biggest in the world in the colonial period. And the streets themselves were somewhat deserted, except for groups of carousing drunk young men, one walking around exposing himself. A fitting end to our trip.

We walked around town in an emotional limbo, knowing our parting was soon, but trying to figure out what to do in the meantime. It was difficult to find any proper place to eat. We stopped at one restaurant that had the worst apple strudel I’ve ever had in my life.

The whole time I was wondering how much this all meant to her. But then she would show random signs of affection to put me at ease.

Nighttime came, we went back to the hotel I had booked for the night and she quickly packed her bags. It didn’t feel like she was leaving. We had been together the whole of last week; it couldn’t end like this. But sure, enough it would. We drove to the bus station, through a packed night market- this was where the people of the town were, not the touristy center. She got on the bus. I waved to her in her seat. Then she got off, came down and we held each other for the final 15 minutes. I didn’t know what to say, so I just whispered in her ear that “I’ll come to see you in Argentina”, words that conveyed absolutely nothing of what I was feeling. Finally, I told her that I can’t believe it’s only been a week, it feels like I’ve known you much longer.

But the bus did leave, and I did make the long, lonely walk back to the hotel. I was on my own again. Just me and the world. Like waking up from a dream.