Monday, January 1, 2018

Four Peruvians and

A Gringo Jew hike the Salkantay Route.

Or...the Coca Leaves vs. Starbucks Challenge

I met my Guide Walter on Christmas Eve. He sported a cherubic face, a ready smile and a baby bump belly. Upon meeting, I exchanged a handshake, followed quickly by a bottle of beer. I thanked him for showing up to this Holy Night.

Walter then began his Cliff Notes version of our hike. He gave me estimated hiking times per day, the need for staying hydrated at altitude, the benefits of layering in inclement weather and the fact theirs less Oxygen the higher one ascends. 

I smirked and shook my head as he gave his spiel. Afterwards when he was done, I summed it up this way, “Walter! This ain’t my first Rodeo! I hike a lot. You don’t have to worry about me on this Trek.”

He smirked back. We said “Goodnight!” in order to get some rest for our 5 am start. (This isn’t a siesta-in vacation). 

Sleep wasn’t  meant to be. In Peru, Christmas Eve is not a Silent Night. The Boom! Boom! Boom! of fireworks began promptly at 9:30 and  steadily continued until 3 am. Who knew? 


I estimated I scored less then 127 minutes of slumber. Needless to say I wasn’t full of vim and vigor when Walter arrived at 5. Other crew members stumbled in, except for our driver. He and the Van didn’t show up until 6. Maybe he was the one setting off the fireworks?

We piled our gear and ourselves in. All the passengers except me and our tardy driver passed out with no problemo. I sat back and took in the scenery on Christmas morning 2017. 



We climbed out of Cusco, crossed some Pass and dropped down along a surging river before ascending once again. After 2 plus hours we stopped for breakfast in a sort of down trodden town. I was led to one room while the Peruvians were deposited in another. A tray of toasted flat bread and a cup of bitter coffee were placed in front of me. I assumed that was my meal. I nibbled on a few slices and downed my coffee. Not very satisfying and highly overpriced for Peruvian standards. This wouldn’t be my last time I was charged the Gringo Rate. 


Forty-five minutes later along a rutted dirt road, we halted at a nondescript hairpin turn. A few skittish horses and a burro were standing by. (One could say the horseman was responsible for getting this “Ass” over the Pass). These Beasts of Burdens would be our SAG (Support and Gear) transport. 


Walter and I shouldered our packs and off we went. He walked in my wake and called out directions. It didn’t take long for this old hiker to realize we were shortcutting the switchbacks. I whirled around, “Walter! We are shortcutting the main trail. These steeper grades will wear us out faster than sticking to the longer gentler switchbacks. Besides, shortcutting accelerates erosion. You love your country and this trail, don’t you?”

That was the last time he directed me to take a shortcut. 



We made our camp, ate a petite lunch and headed uphill again for a few bonus kilometers. Our goal was a lagoon with a view. Walter pointed me in the general direction and said, “Follow those other hikers. I’ll catch up with you.”

 He didn’t. 

However the over 14,000” view was simply amazing. See for yourself. 





That evening (after a paltry dinner), my guide and I sat in a drafty see-through shed and talked. It was time for me to learn more about this Peruvian pperson I would be spending the next five days with. 

Walter is 38 years old. He’s been guiding for Valencia Travel for nine years. He lives in Cusco with his Mother. He doesn’t own a car, “too expensive.” He’s never been out of Peru or on an airplane. He went to school  to learn English so he would be more employable in the skyrocketing Tourism industry. This being Christmas, he spoke about his religious beliefs. 

“I’m a Christian.” He then went on to talk reverently about the Inca’s ancient deities. There wasn’t any mention of the White Man on the Cross. I noticed whenever he drank a liquid, he sacrificed a few drops to the Inca God of Mother Earth. As Stevie Wonder once sang, “Very Superstitious.” But then again, who am I to judge? 

The next morning dawned with more blue than gray. From our vantage point below, we could see Salkantay Mountain. In other words, the reason I came to Peru. Our day’s goal was 15,200” Salkantay Pass, where splendid close-up views  of this muscular broad shouldered peak was to be had if the Goddess of Weather cooperated. 

It was not to be. A foggy, damp cloud bank roared up the valley. The Sacred Mountain of the Incas had now gone missing. Bye! Bye! 


My breakfast was calorie and protein deficient. A few slices of toasted flat bread, (my leftovers from the morning before?) and a single crepe with a squirt of gooey Nutella on top. Yech. It was too late to say anything. It was time to go. Fortunately, I had my secret liquid weapon in me. Two shots of Starbucks Instant Pikes Market Blend. 

Immediately, I went into my tried and true hiking style. AKA.  Don’t stop until you reach the top. OR: A short step is better than no step. Because of the low lying fog, there wasn’t much to see. I passed a covey of hikers, lots of boulders and a few local stranglers. A steady flow of Salkantay glacier water was my one constant companion. The stream was good company. 



When I made the Pass, I realized I was standing on the Continental Divide of South America. Water flowing east would make its way to the Amazon and eventually the Atlantic Ocean. The creek which had been my constant neighbor on the way up would become a larger waterway bound for the Pacific Ocean.

I pondered all this as I donned dry clothes and a poncho. I inhaled a snack or three and waited. A Local Hombre sat a few rocks away from me. Every now and then, I’d hear him performing a melodic chant. It was all so fitting for the scene. 

Walter showed up  twenty minutes later. We exchanged High-Fives, shot some pictures for posterity and Facebook and exchanged some words. Then I announced, “I’m getting cold. I’m heading down.” With that, I took off at a trot. 


After a few kilometers downhill, it was noticeably warmer. I was also very hungry. I ate my emergency fuel supply, a 240 calorie Clif Bar. I decided to wait for Walter.  I didn’t know the where or when of lunch. While I sat on a soft rock the “Boys” went by. That is the Cook, Assistant Cook and the Horseman with his four-legged menagerie. They told me Walter was a kilometer away “Mas o menos.” 

When he made the scene, I got to the point.

 “Walter, I’m going to speak to you Hombre a Hombre. You guys have to start feeding me more than what’s been showing up on my plate.That breakfast wasn’t enough to get me around a city block, let alone up a Pass and more.” 

Walter thought about this a moment and gently asked, “What do you normally eat for breakfast?” 

“Three eggs with veggies, a potato and some toast ought to work.” 

From that moment on, all the meals were plentiful, hardy and delicioso. See? There are times the trickle down effect works. 

After this brief interlude, Walter and I continued downhill in a steady rain. At the end of a 14 mile day, we waded through a muddy lane to access “Camp Florintina.” We’d be staying within the confines of the Florintina Family Compound. Skinny chickens and dirty dogs loitered around. Dried mud covered most surfaces. The buildings were in need of repair. This was no KOA. 


Now a word about hygiene in Peru. If you are germaphobic or a clean freak, Peru might stress your comfort zone. In a country as poor as Peru (20.7% poverty rate, more than double that in the rural areas), things many take for granted in other Nations are sadly lacking. Many WC’s have no hand soap, no toilet paper and  no toilet seats. There won’t be warm water to wash up in even if a sliver of soap is available. Potable water must be bought or local water boiled. Don’t think too much about the fact all your eating utensils are washed in the same water you aren’t supposed to drink. Of course,  money is the issue. The average yearly salary in Lima, Peru is $590. It’s no wonder all those above mentioned items are considered a luxury. Let’s just say, I made an extra effort to stay as clean as possible.

Even the Natives aren’t immune to whatever germs are lurking in this moist, warm climate. That night, both Walter and the Assistant Cook had a bout of Montezuma’s Revenge. Walter claimed it was the “Bad Wind” on the Pass that brought about this malady. 

My reply, “Walter, I was in the same wind longer than you. I’m fine. Stop touching all the animals you come in contact with along the way. They are filthy!” 

After a REAL breakfast, we packed our gear said goodbye to our Horseman and his charges, and hit the road. Walter led me to a trail off the dirt byway, “Stay on this until you get to a parking lot. Please wait for me there. See you later, Mi Amigo.” 


Just like that I was off. It was a beautiful trail. I passed waterfalls, rain forests and oh-so-many pretty flowers. A thundering coffee colored river was on my right. I had some of my most memorable views along this stretch. The Salkantay Trail isn’t always Wilderness. It trespasses through many family compounds. Most are selling or offering something in return for a few precious Sols. It’s a hard life here in Peru. 






Walter caught up with me in the parking lot. He arranged a Taxi pickup to take us to the campground. The CCapacnan Family compound was immediately different than the rest. In lieu of mud there was grass and landscaping. There was a poultry-free porch to relax upon. Best of all, the WC was clean AND there was a toilet seat. I’ll admit it, I had to fight back the tears. 

By 1:00 we were done with our day’s hike and lunch. “Walter! Please take the rest of the day off. I’m just going to relax and read.” Translation: Leave me alone. I need some quiet time. 

By 4ish, I was ready for a pre-dinner beer. “Walter! If you see the owner, can you ask her if I can buy a beer?” A few minutes later, I had a cold brew in my paws and was about to resume my position of sloth. That’s when the International Incident began.

“Jeff! She would like to show you her coffee making process.” Trapped! I saw trouble brewing. 



Next thing, she was showing me the coffee beans from her small plantation. I smiled appreciatively. Then she began to grind a few handfuls of copper-colored caffeine. She poured the fresh ground into a bag. She wanted to make a sale. 

“Walter, please tell her I’m traveling light. I don’t have anyway of making the coffee either. Please tell her the coffee looks and smells great!” (The real reason: I did not want to cross Borders with coffee in my backpack. Drug smugglers stuff cocaine in coffee sacks to fool the drug sniffing dogs. I wanted to avoid a body cavity search!) 

Her feelings were obviously hurt, and I felt like the Ugly American. We made a compromise that I would have a pre-hike cup in the early morning. (It was the strongest cup of Java I ever drank. I paid her well to ease the International tensions.) 

That evening, I had another Hombre a Hombre chat with Walter. 

“Please don’t put me in these awkward situations anymore. Couldn’t you tell, I just wanted to hang out?”

He shook his head, and went into his Guide speaking to a Gringo pre-hike speech. In other words, like many times before, he wasn’t listening. 

“Jeff! Tomorrow’s hike is very long and steep. We need to start walking earlier. You should bring extra clothes and layer if you need to...” ETC. ETC. 

I let out a frustrated sigh. “Walter! Haven’t you figured out by now, I know what I’m doing. You don’t have to babysit me. You are preaching to the choir.” 

The next morning, I set off at a brisk hyper-caffeinated pace. The climb wasn’t steep or long. It was quite scenic. I scored smoke ring views of the Machu Picchu site. Walter barely looked around. He was too busy texting his girlfriend. 





We covered the seventeen miles to Aguas Caliente in short order. Walter led me to my hotel.

“Jeff! Later on, I’ll meet you for dinner at the pizza place. You already paid for your meal.”

“No Walter. You won’t see me for dinner. Take one of your buddies there instead of me. I’m going to find a quiet place to have a beer and meal. Where and when should I meet you for the Machu Picchu Tour?” 


At that moment, the Guided Gringo became the Guide. 

It was a drizzly early morning when I met Walter at the Machu Picchu bus stop. We were both more relaxed and jovial with each other. The awkward moments were gone for now. It was quite apparent we both needed a Time Out. 




We did a quick lap of Machu Picchu. Fog and clouds obscured the iconic views. For me, it was never about Machu Picchu, it was all about getting to Machu Picchu. Just like it had been in February 2016. 





We took a deserted bus down. 
 ,
On a busy street corner, I tipped Walter well. We said our Goodbyes (Adios) and parted ways. 

Sometimes the gap in cultures, age and life experiences can keep people from becoming true “Mi Amigos.” 

Happy New Year from the Hilton in Quito, Ecuador. That’s how I roll. 

May there be Peace on Earth and less awkward moments for all.

Jeff





Sunday, December 24, 2017

Please Don’t Call Me...

Bwana. (Apologies to Bob Hope’s 1963 Classic).

In 2015, I signed up to hike the Inca Trail to Machu Picchu. Then the entourage was thirteen other guests, three guides and twenty-two porters who performed most of the sweat labor. Read all about these Uber Athletes below. 


It was a great, beautiful and wonderful meander through Mountain Passes, ancient Inca ruins and rain forests. 

In some ways getting to Machu Picchu was anticlimactic. I enjoyed the hike more than the finish line. (I thought MP would be larger.) 

Before leaving Peru, I already decided to return to hike the Salkantay route to Machu Picchu. It’s famous for being a prettier amble with 15;200”Salkantay Pass being the literal highlight. I wanted to experience being this up-in-the-air without an airplane. 

So I signed up again with Valencia Travel. I tossed out some dates, paid my $$$$ and received a nice looking itinerary. I booked my flights after they assured me I was good to go. 



Since that time, I have been emailing Valencia to get more info. (I ask a lot of questions because I wonder too). One question was, “How many other Gringoes will be joining me?” 

Their answer, “So far there is you and Ms. Alyson. However more people can sign up before your departure.”

Well, since that time Ms. Alyson bailed out. (Did anyone of you tell her I was hard get along with?) 


So...it’ll be me, one Guide, one cook, an assistant cook and two horsemen. I’m assuming they will bring their horses too. That’s five Peruvian and two beasts of burden to take care of one Jewish Gringo. That’s nuts! Hence the title of this blog.

All but the guide will speak Quechua, the indigenous language of the people residing near the Andes. For them Spanish is a second language. My guide will speak English. I hope he’s prepared for an onslaught of questions from me. I’ll use this experience as a full-on immersion of Inca, Peruvian and Cusco potential knowledge. I like learning. 


So...after a Red-eye flight from Miami to Cusco, I’ve been strolling around the plazas, crowded streets and surrounding hillsides. This is what I’ve noticed and learned.

Cusco was once the Capital of the ancient Inca Empire. All paths, rudimentary roads led to and from Cusco. I’ve included a photo of the size of this historic civilization. It was HUGE!



Now Cusco is the epicenter of Peruvian Tourism. In recent figures, two million tourists sucked hard on the thin air while walking its narrow streets and lanes. Most visitors have aspirations (and lots of inhalations) to visit Machu Picchu. I’m one of them.


Tourism is now the new “Inca Gold.” For many locals learning English is their ticket out of poverty. This morning, I took my coffee outside of my nice hotel. A bellhop named Jonathan followed me out. We struck up an English-only conversation. He was practicing his language skills on me. This polite young man went on to tell me he once was a porter on Machu Picchu treks. He made enough money to go to University. What does he aspire to become? A Machu Picchu Trekking Guide. This career path is a game changer in Cusco. It’s steady work and steady income. 



The other thing I’ve learned while walking around here. By and large the Locals aren’t very, well, large. I’ll give you a frame of reference. If the Cuscoans were going to start a basketball team, I’d be asked to be the intimidating shot-blocking Center. Having the chance to look down at peoples faces is kind of a pleasant change for me.

Well, I know you are all BUSY with the Holidays.
So, I’ll blog to you on the other side of the Salkantay Trek.

Feliz Navidad to all my Christian friends, 

Salud!
Jeff





Monday, December 4, 2017

I fear I’m losing...

my Mojo for this Wandering lifestyle. 

After my most recent trip to Europe, http://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2017/11/would-you-ever-move-to-europe.html. I’ve been feeling B.B. King Bluesy. I’m worried that the Thrill is Gone. 

With barely a break in the action, I had to come up with a feasible game plan for my upcoming South America trip. 

In a few weeks, I’ll be traveling to Peru to do another trekking route to Machu Picchu. Then a National Geographic (read crazy pricey) ten day guided tour to the Galápagos Islands. Seven of those days will be spent on a boat. (I get seasick looking at a glass of water). 

When all this planning began, I was thinking I’d stay in Ecuador for a month. That was very ambitious with my present mindset. Currently, I don’t have it in me to figure out the how, when and where. I’ve had too many visions of asking for a table for one, getting on buses where my seat mates might be a chicken or worse a pickpocket, or spending too much time alone again in a country where English is a second or third language. I’ll be returning to the US right after seeing Darwin’s Islands. 



Am I running out of gas? Yes, in many ways I am. I’m getting tired of being my own travel agent and going it alone. 

It’s a couples world. I would love to have someone to share the misery of delayed flights, rental car ripoffs, eating lost in translation meals and the joy of going around a roundabout four times until you figure out which exit to take. I need more input than what I’m providing for myself.


Remember the origin of the word travel comes from travail for unpleasant work or torment or labor. It’s not always Joy!Joy! Happy!Happy! out there. 

Don’t get me wrong. It’s not nauseatingly terrible either. It would be beyond swell to share the hike to get there views, the quiet campfires, the chillin’ with a book moments, the coffee in hand sunrises or the IPA in koozie sunsets with a like-minded woman. 


I hinted at all the above in a blog not so long ago. http://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2017/11/one-is-loneliest-number.html

On my recent visit to my old hometown of Fort Collins, Colorado I even glanced at Real Estate listings. Is it time for me to settle down?


I don’t know. 

After South America, I’ll return to the United States of Dark Ages, I’ll hang in Florida with my brother and sister-in-law. Eventually, I’ll go on a road trip in the Sunshine State. Then back to the Southwest to begin another three month lap in Barley the Van. In that yearly quarter, I think I’ll figure out whether I’m going through the motions of Wandering and Wondering or am I still Living the Dream. 



Maybe I just need a recharge.

Many decades ago, I took a winter vacation to check out Guadalupe National Park in Texas. When I pulled into a Trailhead parking lot, I noticed an older gentleman sitting in the doorway of his Winnebago RV. His head was cupped in his hands. When I returned from my four-hour hike, he hadn’t moved. He was lonely. He wasn’t a Happy Camper. 


I don’t want this scene to repeat itself with me.

I’m hoping for the best of outcomes,
Jeff 

PS. I’ll be in Scottsdale, AZ until December 18th. Of course, I’ll be shopping! NOT! 





Wednesday, November 15, 2017

“Would you ever move to Europe?”


was the question Hans and Sonja asked me during a Happy Hour conversation. 

Between sips of adult beverages, we were exchanging stories and information about our respective countries: Nederland, Finland and the US. 

I thought about the question for a moment. “No. I need more space than what I’m seeing in Europe. I would miss America’s National Parks, Wilderness Areas and Monuments.” 


With that said, here’s  the stats for comparative shopping analysis. There’s  743 million Europeans. There’s 323 million Yanks. Europe is slightly larger than the US as far as landmass goes. There’s a lot of humans milling around here. Europeans notion of personal space is a lot tinier than mine. 

Later on when we parted ways, I thought about this question some more. Below are multiple reasons why I don’t think I’m a good fit for Europe. (To my European buddies, the facts are correct according to Google. As usual, I’ll embellish this yarn. Please don’t start WW III over this blog. Unfortunately, America has a President with an itchy nuclear trigger finger)


I would have to take up smoking. Nearly twice the number of Europeans smoke compared to Americans. (29% to 15%.) Yet, most Europeans live longer than Americans. 

I would have to up my caffeine allotment. Europeans swill endless dainty cups of espresso/day and night. On a world wide basis, the US comes in 16th in Java consumption. 


I would have to grow a hipster beard and start sporting a Boy Bun hairdo. (No stats on the next few reasons). 

I would have to wear a scarf regardless of the weather or the season. 


I would have to relearn how to eat. A European will clutch their knife at all times. They poke, plod and shovel food around with it. A sort of multi use tool. Americans only use a knife as a cutting instrument or to butter bread. Most of the time, a knife is in stand-by mode. 

I would have to wear garments that are not quite long enough to be pants but too long to be shorts. 



I would have to shift my daily schedule by becoming a creature of the night. No more early to bed early to rise. I would have to-“Sigh!” - burn daylight by sleeping in. 


I would have to learn lots of languages. The Swiss people use four languages in a country the size of Vermont and New Hampshire combined. English is already a second language to me the way I get tongue tied at times.





I would have to give up my trail runners and flip flops. I would have to purchase real leather shoes! I have not owned a pair since the late 80’s. I would have to start dressing age accordingly. 


Here’s the toughest thing I would have to change. I would have to slow down. No one has ever said, “Faster than a European Nano-Second.” The Europeans don’t move all that fast. (Except when they are driving!) I say Americans move at the speed of money. That’s fast. 

All in all, I just couldn’t make all these paradigm shifts to become a true European. I barely fit the standards of being a typical or normal American. To quote Eddy Vedder of Pearl Jam fame, “I changed by not changing at all.” 




Alas, I’ve been this way for a long time. It’s my comfort zone. 

I’ll be Stateside soon. However, I shall return to Europe next summer and fall. Like I’ve said so often in this blog. It’s cool being in Europe!

Cheers from beautiful, rugged Madeira on my 63rd birthday. 
Jeff 





Wednesday, November 8, 2017

“One is the Loneliest Number”


Three Dog Night

Truer words were never sung in regard to a Solo Traveler’s quandary of eating dinner alone.

Supper time is the social meal. It’s the end of the day to hang and Happy Hour with friends and family. It’s the time to say to a significant other, “Honey! How’s your day been?” It’s the worse meal to eat alone in any country.

In Portugal, it sucks even more. 

For the most part, eating here seems to be a matter of function over form. Cafes, restaurants and bars are white light lit like a Walmart Store. Tables are squeezed together awaiting paying customers who don’t arrive in this off-season. The few locals who just occupy space without spending money get a full-on look at the Lonesome Loser amongst them. 

Dinner is not a Happy Meal for me in Portugal. 


Portuguese Proprietors and chefs must also be stressed because the meals are subpar as well.

At the same price I was paying in Spain for a three course meal with a bottle of Vino Tinto, I’m receiving an anorexic fish and fries on my plate. Not very filling or satisfying.


 The other day, I decided to go Native. I ordered a supposedly traditional Portuguese meal of white bean stew with shrimp and mussels. By the consistency and taste of those creatures, I’d say they hadn’t seen seawater since the Truman Administration. The next morning my stomach was gurgling. Nothing debilitating, but annoying. 


That evening, I decided to forego surf for turf. I ordered a pork chop. (Might not be the wisest choice for a Jew). The other white meat had the texture of a baseball’s cowhide. A chainsaw would have been the tool of choice to dissect it. A nibbled on a few ends. 


The following morning, my gut was in full rebellion. I was losing weight and not in a good way. I paid a visit to the local pharmacy. I’m now downing Maalox tablets like M&M’s. I think I’m turning the corner to a quiet stomach. I hope so. That way I can return to those brilliantly lit Portuguese cafes, restaurants and bars. 


I’ll say this. I’m missing simple American bars. There, I’m an IPA sipping, burrito eating, chillin’ out Dude totally engrossed in watching a sporting event. I’m a Man with a reason for being alone. I’m not a Lonely Loser. 

Cheers from way down South and West in Portugal,
Jeff