Rural Peruvian home

FOREWORD: Though I have all the time in the world, I can’t seem to pool the energy to write a decent post. My desktop is full of half-written stories and notes that never quite turn the corner to become full thoughts. Lately, my energy has been dedicated to exploring Peru’s food, cities, lakes, and mountains. As you can see from the photos in my Flickr account, Peru’s sights are worth seeing. Please do not despair. My thoughts and adventures will appear on this blog soon enough. I have several ideas/stories/poems in the works which I will soon post. In the meantime, I’ve been using personal correspondence to keep this blog alive. The following update was a collective mail sent to my family—even they are the victims of my multi-tasking, recycling, and reusing of letters.

Not rails to Huancavelica (photo shot by me near Junin, Peru)

Monday morning I’m going to take a train to a mountain town called Huancavelica, which I’ve read seems more like a Swiss village in the Alps than a pueblo in the Andes. The five-hour journey is a scenic climb on a three-foot gauge track through remote valleys and rounded mountain peaks, loaded almost entirely with local artisans (read: elderly women with colorful textiles) that commute from city to city to pitch their wares on market days. The city itself is famous for indigenous handmade crafts and clothes made from alpaca fur. I plan to buy knee-high socks, gloves, and a scarf for my upcoming high altitude ride. From Huancavelica I’ll bike 150 kilometers on the longest highest road in the world, all above 12,000 feet (4,000 meters), with llamas abound, steep cliffs, trodden paths on adjacent mountains where pastors maintain their ways in peaceful isolation, and lazy, long curves that will eventually descend to a sane height of existence. I’ll be forced to take in the scenery at a sane speed as well since the 250 some kilometers to the next sizeable town of Ayacucho is completely unpaved, un-groomed, a dirt path that knows not the touch of Cat machinery and winds through the wilderness proud of its sizeable potholes and ruts. Road conditions seem to change very little at Ayacucho. Based on map topography there appear to be many climbs up to 12,000+ feet, downhills to 6,000 feet, climbs to 12,000+, downhills to 6,000, repeat. It’s looking to be the most physically difficult section to-date and probably of the entire trip, especially the last thin-air upmountain crawl to Cusco.

Mercedes and I with our new market-bought goods

I’ve been staying with a Couchsurfer named Merecedes in Huancayo, Peru for several days now. Stays with people like ‘Mecha’—as her father calls her—are why I travel. From the instant she rounded the corner where we had arranged to meet we were family. When the doors opened to her four-story apartment building where brothers, sisters, uncles, parents, and one future heart-throb named Nicolos (presently age one) live in communal harmony, we were the surprised recipients of all that is wholesome. There was an all-present genuine care for our well-being, for our happiness. Food was gifted, prime couch positions were conceded, TV channel veto powers were bestowed, and for the first time in weeks we slept in real, actual beds, bathing in a real, actual shower that rained down a thing called hot water. We’ve gone out with Merecedes’ friends, eaten home-cooked meals with her family, visited her father’s rural hometown. Tonight we will celebrate Max’s one year anniversary since leaving home, or as we jokingly say, his one year as a bum. Tomorrow we will go to the countryside to meet Mercedes friend’s grandmother. This sweet woman who I have never met and never given any good reason to cook me a traditional spread of Peruvian foods, including relatively expensive guinea pig, will be waiting our arrival. We will kiss on the cheek, sit down at a table, and be family.

Peruvian liquor, wine, and ceviche

Peruvian food is renowned by those in the know as one of the best gastronomical experiences on the planet, right up there with the French, Italian, Japanese, you-name-it food. And its cheap. The following meal would cost less than a dollar: soup, a decent portion of meat, vegetables, rice, side serving, fruit drink (with a refill if you smile and ask nicely), and sometimes desert. There are so many dishes, most with indigenous names, that I will never learn them all. Everyday I eat something new. Everyday.

A one-year old bum....

My French travel partner Max told me two days ago he will return to France after traveling for over a year. He is tired and wants to get involved in a project that adds something to his life, instead of just wandering. I can understand his perspective. I’ve thought long and hard about his perspective as anyone on my open-ended type journey naturally does. As of now, I don’t feel like I’m just wandering because I learn something new everyday, confront my purpose constantly, and have the challenge of learning Portuguese on the horizon. It’s a goal, a destination, something I feel will serve me in the future. Without it, I may feel stung with simple wanderlust like Max. Max already booked a flight and will fly out of Lima the end of this month. Beginning next Monday, after my five-hour train ride, I’ll be a lone biker again. It’s not a bad thing. The big sky terrain I’m about to bike calls for silence; I’m ready to listen instead of talk. I’ll likely meet another cyclist anyway with whom to travel Bolivia en route to Brazil after our vacations in Chile.

Most all vacation arrangements have been made for your arrival to Santiago. Alejandra, the woman who helped with our domestic flights to Patagonia, is a very good friend. I’m glad you will meet her. She wants to cook Dad and I dinner before our late night flight. Mom, you too will meet her at some point. She’s a doll, speaks perfect English, and has a British fiance who Andy hosted in Denver through Couchsurfing. I have yet to meet him, but he sounds like fun too. Alejandra recently opened a language school in Santiago. When I arrive to the city perhaps a week before Dad arrives I’ll stay with Ale and her fiance while visiting her English classes to talk with Chileans, letting them hear my Midwest American accent and whatever else Ale has in mind. Maybe I’ll even make some Chilean friends this way, they’ll be around my age after all.

DATES: November 2nd, 2009 – November 8th, 2009
START LOCATION: San Alejandro, Peru
END LOCATION: San Rafael, Peru

TOTAL DISTANCE CYCLED: 229.74 miles (369.73 km)
AVERAGE DISTANCE PER DAY: 32.82 miles (52.82 km)
DAYS ON BIKE: 7
LONGEST DAY: 43.58 miles (70.13 km)
SHORTEST DAY: 10.31 miles (16.6 km)
MAXIMUM SPEED: 44.74 mph (72 kmph)
TOTAL DISTANCE CYCLED TO DATE: 1,746.95 miles (2,811.44 km)

EXCHANGE RATE:

US $1 = 2.85 Soles

TOTAL MONEY SPENT: US $44.56
AVERAGE SPENT PER DAY: US $6.37
MOST EXPENSIVE DAY: US $15.79
LEAST EXPENSIVE DAY: US $1.33
TOTAL MONEY SPENT TO DATE: US $2,633.67
TRIP AVERAGE SPENT PER DAY: US $16.36

NIGHTS OF FREE CAMPING: 1
NIGHTS IN COUCHSURFERS’ HOMES: N/A
NIGHTS IN FRIENDS’ HOMES: N/A
NIGHTS IN STRANGERS’ HOMES: 5
NIGHTS IN FIRESTATIONS: N/A
NIGHTS IN POLICE STATIONS: 1
NIGHTS IN HOSTELS: N/A
NIGHTS IN HOTELS: N/A
MOST EXPENSIVE ACCOMMODATION: US $0
LEAST EXPENSIVE ACCOMMODATION: US $0

HIGHLIGHTS:

Evangelical potlucks (bread only) attended by default: 1
Hot chocolates drank by the time the ‘Amens’ began to fly: 3
Baths in natural springs: 2
Lightning storms that forced us to take shelter: 1 (a crack-boom black cloud overhead)
Bottles of water filled from thatched-roof run-off during wait: 6
Chupetes(popsicles) bought from vendors with styrofoam coolers: 10+ (US $.18 each)
Nights camping on former coca farmer’s roof: 1
Fresh milk products consumed in a roadside restaurant painted like a cow: 5
Movies watched with restaurant owner: 1
Mountain peaks on the horizon: one continuous dream-like rock
Kids taught to jump over one leg with their other: 7 (Education is important!)

Ceviche - http://farm1.static.flickr.com/171/432625973_76c05709c1.jpg

I’ve been eating well in Peru. Peruvian cuisine is one of the most diverse on the planet. There are over 2,000 varieties of potatoes alone. Skeptical in this world worth living thanks to the inventive Italians and those fish-crazy Japanese who gave us sushi? Check out the following dizzying partial list of Peruvian dishes.

A more readable, less proving-my-point list of Peruvian plates can also be found on Wikipedia along with an interesting history of the country’s gastronomy.

ceviche: raw fish filet cut into pieces and marinated in lemon juice, onions, and aji limo * Cau-cau: cow stomach stew with potatoes, turmeric, and parsley. Sometimes served with peas * Anticuchos: grilled brochettes of beef heart, macerated in vinegar and aji panca (hot pepper) * Lomo saltado: beef tenderloin slices, sautéed with onions, tomatoes, aji (hot peppers), and other spices. It is served with French fries and rice * Ají de gallina: a chicken stew made with cream, cheese, aji (hot pepper), and peanuts * Causa rellena: mashed yellow potatoes seasoned with lime and aji (hot pepper), and filled with tuna or chicken * Choros a la chalaca: mussels covered with diced onions and aji (hot pepper) and seasoned with lemon juice * Leche de Tigre: Concentrated lemon juice, fish, and blended aji limo (hot pepper). It is the by-product of the ceviche preparation * Tacu-tacu: Mixture of beans and rice, fried, and topped with breaded and pan-fried steak and an onion salsa * Parihuela: concentrated soup of fish and shellfish * Purtumute: Boiled beans with mote sancochado (individual grains of corn boiled with cilantro) * Cuy con papas: Seasoned, cooked, and fried Guinea pig served with a potato stew, toasted peanuts, chopped onions and hot peppers * Juanes de yuca: Grated and boiled yucca mixed with rice and either chicken or beef jerky; this mixture is wrapped in a banana leaf and steamed * Tamales: Mashed corn filled with beef, wrapped in banana leaves, and steamed * Humitas: Mashed corn filled with seasoned beef or cheese, wrapped in corn shucks and steamed * Enrollado: Roast beef, rolled and stuffed with ground pork and chicken meat, raisins, and hard boiled egg * Picante de cuy: barbecued guinea pig stew, seasoned with aji colorado or amarillo (hot peppers). There is an old variation called jaka cashqui or guinea pig broth * Cuchicanca: Succulent pork meat marinated in vinegar and then roasted; it is served with boiled yellow potatoes and hominy (dried boiled corn) * Tamales Ancashinos: Mashed corn filled with beef wrapped in banana leaves * Charqui: Dry salty pork meat * Llunca kashki con gallina: Chicken broth with wheat * Pecan caldo: ram head soup, cooked with mint and the feet and stomach or innards of the ram; it is served with boiled potato and/or hominy * Tallarín Casero: homemade noodles served with a stew (chicken, beef, or lamb) and kapchi of chuño (dehydrated potatoes) * Kapchi: Lima bean or mushroom stew with potatoes, milk, eggs, and cheese * Papas con Uchullachua: boiled potatoes with aji (hot pepper) and huacatay (aromatic herb) * Rocoto Relleno: rocoto (hot pepper) without veins stuffed with chopped beef, eggs, peas, carrots, cheese, milk, and potatoes * Huatia: beef and potatoes cooked on hot stones with huacatay (black mint) * Cuy relleno: Guinea pig stuffed with parsley, black mint, mint, oregano, green onions, cleaned and boiled innards, and crushed toasted peanuts * Pepian de Cuy: stew made with Guinea pig meat, peanuts, and spices * Chupe de camarones: chowder made with shrimp, milk, eggs, and oregano * Soltero: a salad of fresh cheese, lima beans, onions, olives, tomatoes, and rocoto * Adobo: pork marinated with concho de chichi (corn beer sediment) and spices, cooked in a pot * Ocopa: boiled potatoes covered with a fresh cheese sauce, lima beans, onions, olives, and rocoto * Escribano: potato salad, with rocoto, vinegar, oil, tomatoes, and parsley * Pebre: soup with lamb, beef, and ram jerky * Qapchi: an appetizer made with cachipa or fresh cheese, crumbled and mixed with aji (a hot pepper), rocoto (a hot pepper), milk, oil and diced onions. It is served on a bed of potatoes * Mondongo ayacuchano: a soup with a base of hulled corn cooked all night long with beef, cow stomach, and bacon (cuchiqara). It is seasoned with aji colorado, (hot pepper), blended and toasted and diced mint * Patachi: whole wheat soup made with bacon, beef and vegetables * Puca picante: potato stew with peanuts, blended and toasted, seasoned with aji panca (hot pepper) and fried pork rinds. It is served with rice and salad * Uman caldo: ram head soup, rice, potatoes and dehydrated potatoes. It is garnished with mint * Cuy chactado: Guinea pig, breaded with corn flour and fried and served with golden potatoes and salad * Pachamanca: different meats, potatoes, tender corn, lima beans and humitas (sweet tamales) cooked in a pit lined with heated stones in a pre-Hispanic style * Teqtes: stew with a base of peas, pumpkin, quinua, lima beans, and dehydrated potato, seasoned with aji (hot pepper), garlic, fresh cheese, milk and eggs * Pusra: toasted and blended barley soup with aromatic herbs, potatoes, peas, eggs, and milk * Puchero: made with cabbage, fruit, chickpeas, sweet potatoes and yucca. It is usually prepared at Carnival * Picante de papa con cuy frito: cooked Guinea pig stew in a peanut and aji panca (hot pepper) sauce accompanied with potatoes * Chicharron con mote: pork rinds fried in their own fat and accompanied with hominy or corn * Caldo verde: soup made with potatoes and aromatic herbs from the region * Kapchi: lima bean or mushroom soup with potatoes, milk, eggs, and cheese * Chicharrón con mote: pork rinds fried in their own fat, served with hominy or individual kernels of sweet corn * Saralawa: soup of fresh corn, lima beans, dry aji Amarillo (yellow hot pepper), and huacatay (native herb) * Chuño cola: beef soup with rice, garbanzo beans, and dehydrated potatoes * Olluco con carne: Olluco stew with jerky or llama meat * Ropa vieja: Beef stew with beans, potatoes, rice, and cabbage * Apanado de alpaca: Breaded alpaca meat, served with rice, potatoes, and salad * Pachamanca: Different types of meat, potatoes, corn cooked in a pre-Hispanic style underground among super hot stones and seasoned with aromatic herbs * Panes Huancaveliqueños: pumpkin buns, cheese pastries, wheat and achita breads * Locro de gallina: a stew made of chicken, onions, potatoes, and aji peppers * Picante de cuy Huanuqueño: Guinea pig stew cooked in a peanut and an aji panca (hot pepper) sauce * Pachamanca Huanuqueña: pork, potatoes, yucca cassava, and sweet potatoes cooked in a pre-Hispanic style (on hot stones buried into the ground) and seasoned with aromatic herbs like wild sage * Tacacho con cecina: roasted or fried banana mashed with butter and served with beef jerky * Juane: rice with paprika and pieces of chicken wrapped in banana leaves * Asado de picuro: roasted meat of tasty Amazonian rodent * Inchicapi: chicken soup with peanuts, cilantro, and yucca cassava * Pallares: A stew of savory butter beans seasoned with aji (hot pepper) * Morusa: Mashed butter beans with roast beef or pork * Picante de Pallares: Spicy butter beans with milk, eggs and fresh cheese * Carapulcra Iqueña: Dehydrated potatoes, boiled and cooked with pork and chicken, aji panca and mirasol (chili peppers), garlic, and other spices * Uman caldo: sheep head soup with mint and aji (hot pepper) * Yaku chupe or sopa verde: soup made with potatoes, cheese, eggs, and aromatic herbs * Huallpa chupe: chicken soup with potato and rice * Mondongo: beef soup with cow innards, pork rinds, corn, and parsley * Patachi: wheat soup with beans, bacon, beef, and mint * Pachamanca : variety of meats, potatoes, lima beans and humitas cooked in the pre-Hispanic style (on hot stones buried into the ground) and seasoned with aromatic herbs * Chicharron Colorado: pork rinds fried in their own lard with an aji Colorado sauce (hot pepper) * Cordero al palo: a whole sheep on a spit grilled over glowing embers * Asado de zamaño, cutpe and sakino: roasted pork, Guinea pig, and peccary * Chicharrón de pescado de río: fried pieces of river fish * Cabrito con frijoles: Stew of tender baby goat meat marinated in chicha de jora (fermented corn liquor whose origins date back to a time before the Incas) and vinegar accompanied with beans served with fried onions and garlic * Shambar: Soup made with wheat, pork rinds, smoked ham, assorted beans, and green onions. It is served with toasted corn (cancha) and is made only on Mondays * Sopa teóloga: turkey and/or chicken soup with moistened bread, potato, milk, and cheese * Frejoles a la trujillana: Black beans with sesame seed and mirasol chili peppers * Pepián de pava: Turkey stew with rice, tender blended corn, cilantro, and chili pepper * Pescado a la trujillana: Steamed fish with an egg and onion sauce * Tortilla de raya: egg tortilla made with dehydrated and re-hydrated ray meat * Chinguirito: cebiche using the dry meat of the banded guitar fish * Seco de cabrito con frijoles: stew made of tender baby goat meat marinated in chicha de jora (a fermented corn liquor whose origin dates back to the time before the Incas) and served with beans seasoned with fried onions and garlic * Arroz con pato a la Chiclayana: tender duck meat cooked in black beer and cilantro * Chirimpico: stew made from the innards of the baby goat, covered with onions, garlic, hot peppers, cilantro and squash, mixed with grains of tender corn * Escabeche: pieces of fish or chicken marinated in vinegar and steamed with plenty of onions * Carapulcra: boiled dehydrated potatoes made into a stew with pork and chicken, aji panca and mirasol (hot peppers), garlic, and other spices * Sancochado: boiled beef with corn, sweet potato, carrots, cabbage, yucca, and potatoes * Pescado a la chorrillana: fried fish in a tomato, onion, and white wine salsa * Pescado a lo macho: fried fish in a shellfish sauce with aji (hot pepper) and garlic * Ensalada de chonta o salad palmito (the palm stem is also called pona) * Timbuche: concentrated broth made from fish and cilantro * Cecina: dried and salted beef or pork * Patarashca: fire roasted fish wrapped in banana leaves * Juane Loretano: Rice seasoned with turmeric, and chicken wrapped in banana leaves * Tacacho: a dish of mashed and kneaded green, roasted bananas with fried pork rinds. Generally, it is combined with cecina * Inchicucho: prepared with corn, peanuts, and aji (hot pepper) * Asado de venado: Roast deer meat with rice and green banana * Tacacho con cecina: Crushed bananas mixed with lard then baked or fried. It is served with dry meat * Asado de picuro: The exquisite meat of an Amazonian rodent roasted over charcoal * Caldo de carachama: Thick soup made of carachama fish, with bananas and cilantro * Patasca moqueguana o caldo de mondongo: soup made with cow innards, corn, and mint * Picante de cuy: Guinea pig stew cooked in a peanut and aji panca (hot pepper) sauce * Chupe de camarones: Shrimp soup make with milk, eggs, and oregano * Cebiche de jurel or mixto: raw fish and/or shellfish marinated in lemon juice. It is served with onions, potato, sweet potato, corn, and lettuce * Chupín de pejesapo: soup with a base of onion, tomato, aji (hot pepper), and bumblebee catfish * Sudado de machas: stew made with onions, tomato, aji (hot pepper), surf clam, white wine and vinegar. It is served with boiled potatoes * Aguadito de mariscos: rice stew with vegetables with shellfish added * Chicharrón de pulpo: pieces of octopus, fried. It is served with onion salad, tomato, potatoes, and cooked sweet potatoes * Picante de mariscos: a stew made with mashed potatoes and aji colorado (hot pepper), pieces of shellfish (limpets, surf clams) and sea weed (cochayuyo) * Cuy frito: Guinea pig breaded with corn meal and fried * Picante de cuy: Guinea pig stew cooked in a peanut and aji panca pepper sauce * Caldo de cabeza: ram head soup prepared with mint and aji peppers * Seco de chabelo: beef jerky or dried beef stew with sweetened bananas * Majado de yucca con chicharron: Cooked and crushed yucca with aji (hot pepper) and accompanied with chicharron (fried pork rinds) * Natilla: a typical dessert made from goats milk, chancaca (sugar syrup), and very fine rice flour * Cancacho: roasted pork or lamb macerated in aji (hot pepper) and oil * Pesque de quinoa: mashed quinoa seasoned with milk and cheese * Chairo: Beef and lamb soup with potatoes, lima beans, squash, cabbage, chuño or dehydrated potatoes, wheat, and chalona or dried lamb * Juanes de arroz: Chicken mixed with rice seasoned with spices and, wrapped in banana leaves * Inchicapi: Chicken soup with peanuts, cilantro, and yucca * Avispa juane: Chopped pork, mixed with garlic and spices, bound with egg and flour; this is boiled and wrapped in achira leaves like a tamale * Tacacho con cecina: Crushed bananas mixed with lard then baked or fried. It is served with dry meat * Chunchulijuane: Mashed yucca, cilantro, and chicken innards, wrapped in banana leaves * Chontajuane: Mashed chonta, palm, and paiche (fish), wrapped in banana leaves * Sarajuane: Mashed corn and peanut filled with pork, wrapped in banana leaves * Choclo con queso: Boiled tender corn accompanies by fresh cheese * Chicharron de chancho con maiz tostado: Fried pork rinds with toasted corn * Patasca tacneña: A soup made with beef, pigs feet, wheat, yellow potato, squash, starch, and garlic * Picante a la tacneña: A stew made with cow stomach, cows feet, beef jerky, onions, and oregano * Cuy Chactado: Guinea pig, pan fried under a flat, heavy stone * Pastel de choclo: Made with fresh corn, it can be either salty or sweet with raisins * Adobo de Chancho: Pork, turmeric, ground garlic, vinegar, and salt * Cebiches de conchas: scallops with lime, onion, and aji limo (hot pepper) * Aji de langostinos: prawns in a bread crumb and aji amarillo (hot pepper) sauce * Chupe de cangrejo: crab chowder * Majarisco: mashed green bananas with a shellfish sauce * Sango de plátano verde: made from black scallops and green bananas * Caldo de bolas: stuffed banana balls * Patarashca: fish wrapped in banana leaves and charbroiled * Picadillo de paiche: strips of dried and salted paiche fish meat served with onions, tomatoes, and aji (hot pepper) * Tacacho con cecina: roasted green banana with fried pork rinds. Served with smoked pork * Pan con Chimbombo: Fish sandwich, mainly silverside fish * Locro de Zapallo: mashed squash with corn, cheese, yellow potatoes and huacatay

DATES: October 26th, 2009 – November 1st, 2009
START LOCATION: Iquitos, Peru
END LOCATION: San Alejandro, Peru

TOTAL DISTANCE CYCLED: 88.61 miles (142.61 km)
AVERAGE DISTANCE PER DAY: 44.31 miles (71.31 km)
DAYS ON BIKE: 2
LONGEST DAY: 50.71 miles (81.61 km)
SHORTEST DAY: 37.90 miles (61 km)
MAXIMUM SPEED: 34.18 mph (55 kmph)
TOTAL DISTANCE CYCLED TO DATE: 1,517.21 miles (2,441.71 km)

EXCHANGE RATE:

US $1 = 2.85 Soles

TOTAL MONEY SPENT: US $25.61
AVERAGE SPENT PER DAY: US $3.66
MOST EXPENSIVE DAY: US $20.53
LEAST EXPENSIVE DAY: US $0
TOTAL MONEY SPENT TO DATE: US $2,589.11
TRIP AVERAGE SPENT PER DAY: US $16.81

NIGHTS OF FREE CAMPING: N/A
NIGHTS IN COUCHSURFERS’ HOMES: N/A
NIGHTS IN FRIENDS’ HOMES: N/A
NIGHTS IN STRANGERS’ HOMES: 3
NIGHTS IN HAMMOCK: 4
NIGHTS IN FIRESTATIONS: N/A
NIGHTS IN HOSTELS: N/A
NIGHTS IN HOTELS: N/A
MOST EXPENSIVE ACCOMMODATION: US $0
LEAST EXPENSIVE ACCOMMODATION: US $0

HIGHLIGHTS:

Kilometers of unpaved, rutted dirt road out of jungle: 22
Official publications warning about road safety from Pucallpa to Tingo Maria: 4
Number of go-for-its, everything-is-fines from locals: 33
Incidents on said road: 0
New fruits eaten: 2
Names of fruits forgotten: 2
Average price of a pinapple: US $.33
Years needed to grow one pineapple: 2
Halloweens spent conversing with Max over campstove pasta: 1
Yoga sessions on non-boat, unmoving ground: 3

Dusk on a boat named Henry

FOREWORD: Below are more snippets from e-mails to friends.

Where I am now I can’t exactly say. I’m somewhere between Iquitos and Pucullpa, Peru. I’m on another boat, one of the several on which we traversed these endless rivers. The Amazon River is to the north. We now motor south down the less picturesque, more dangerous Ucayali river. The security man with a shotgun says there are pirates, that the boat has been attacked several times, but it’s hard to imagine the gentle villagers I’ve seen up until now rocketing towards the barge in motorboats. During his night watch he pulls up a plastic chair close to where we sleep, plops down, and rests his rifle on his legs, many times with the barrel pointing in our direction. He’s obviously illiterate.  Sometimes he leans on the long steel barrel like Frank Sinatra while he talks to us in an Amazon bumpkin Spanish I find difficult to decipher. But he still has ten fingers and two hands—that’s reassuring.

Home Sweet Home

At the moment my world view is through the unzipped door of a three-person tent. The riverbank is 30 yards to my left. The motor churns loud and constant, belching a stream of thin black smoke from the stern chimney, also 30 yards away. Instead of hammocks, my travel partner Max and I decided to sleep on the roof of this passenger barge called Henry. We couldn’t believe our luck in having the entire top to ourselves, which we named ‘Penthouse Henry’ while setting up camp the first night. Why would anyone sardine himself into the lower hull when so much fresh air blows above? Silly us. It’s because this is the Amazon. At night our spot is the ripe jealousy of every unresourceful passenger who sleeps with someone’s foot in their face. During the day, it’s just hot as hell. Despite the slight shade the captain’s helm provides, the tent is at best, sucking water from my every pore; at worst, slowing cooking me until heat exhaustion strikes mid-sentence. My navel, as I sit reclined against my backpack, is a pool of sweat soon to overflow. The metal roof—our floor—heats up like an oven and needs to be hosed down periodically to keep the inside passengers cool. Max and I have become friends with the go-to volunteer waterboy. When we see him climbing up the side of the boat dragging the long, green hose behind him, we know it’s time for a rinse. The next hour or so consists of us playing in the spray, staring dripping wet at the scenery, and laying in the sun with the occasional playful douse waving over us. Life is good, and could be great if it wasn’t so ungodly hot….

Playtime

Here’s some other news from my side of the world:

Max

I’m traveling with a 22 year-old vegetarian Don Juan named Max. Though young, he’s wise beyond his years, fearless, and definitely on the same path of self-discovery as I, only he’s much better about sinking into creative storms of guitar, writing, meditation, and yoga. (I’m inconsistent lately with my harmonica, yoga, and poetry). Max traveled from his hometown near the French Alps to the Canary Islands, then to Senegal, then across the Atlantic to Trinidad & Tobago in a sailboat. In Venezuela he bought a bike and headed south. We met in Quito. It just made sense that we continue together. It’s been more than two months since we’ve paid for accommodation. We camp every night and bathe in rivers. We’ve developed a keen sense for meeting people who will let us throw down the tent in their yard, lend us a spare bedroom, or refer us to someone who will. As you can imagine, we’ve met some characters this way, not even half of whom make it to the blog, unfortunately. South American hospitality is bottomless. The future Couchsurfers I host will receive the same selfless hospitality above and beyond what I offered in Austin. This will be me paying into the karma cycle that has given me so much. Max and I will travel as far as Cusco together, arriving sometime the first week of December. In Cusco I’ll leave my bike with a trusted someone, then begin the long bus journey to Santiago, Chile to meet up with my father. I don’t have enough time to bike to Chile as originally planned. My father arrives on December 13th, the 14th we fly to Patagonia to hike for ten days in the in the National Park Torres del Paine, return to Santiago to meet my mom at the airport, then will spend Christmas and New Years in the Santiago/Valparaiso and surrounding area. Valpo is supposedly a huge glowing Roman candle on New Years, with fireworks reflecting off the bay, the whole city in festival mode. Hundreds of thousands flock to see the show. Luckily, I was able to book reasonably priced accommodations during that time. Hotels, I’ve learned, charge up to 300% more than their normal rate during this time. Once my parents leave I’ll stick around Santiago, visit a Chilean friend, then bus back to Cusco, bike to Bolivia, then finally arrive to Brazil! Brazil! Brazil! By April I will have an apartment, high-intermediate Portuguese, and a social life in southern Brazil. I’m still undecided whether I’ll bike north to Bahia, bus it for a visit, or curl up in my sedentary life while I learn the language.

Here is a gypsy moment you will appreciate: in the charming Peruvian border town of Pantoja, fairly deep in the Amazon and only reachable by fishing boats contracted in Ecuador, Max and I met a man while off loading our bike gear. In no hurry since the next boat didn’t travel down river for another three days, we sat by the shore and answered this man’s questions about our trip—the same ones I answer everyday when I meet people. At the same time a small riot of kids accumulated around us, all respectfully curious. Many had never ridden a bicycle. The man eventually invited us to stay with he and his family. Their home was an open-air thatched structure, with a fire pit stove in the main area, chickens roaming the dirt floor, and a make-shift bread oven that provided income three times a week. He insisted we eat all his wife’s local dishes, drink chicha, and pick fruit from his trees as if they were our own. Later, he fell asleep on the hammock. We left to walk around town. Upon returning to our tent the man’s 80 year-old father invited us to a drink with his friends. They looked as if they had been at it for awhile. The old timer was by far the most coherent. He told many stories as old timers do. Then Max brought out his guitar. He’s learning, which means he doesn’t play or sing particularly well, but like I said he’s fearless and doesn’t embarrass easily. He began to play and sing and the old timers who were by now somewhat comatosed began to perk up, they began to remember that they too are humans and not dead yet. And they began to dance, clap, and sing! Yes, they were drunk, but it was endearing. I then brought my harmonica and made a true mess of the scene. They all wanted to huff and puff into it. The 80 year-old father even played pretty well, blowing his whole being into the tiny slats, nothing in tune with Max’s bellowing. He didn’t care, he was lost in his music. We were making such a scandalous noise that the neighborhood eventually lined the door in silent awe, as if observing a crime scene. The old men kept singing, clapping, dancing. When we finally called it a night, the father who had been playing the harmonica, handed it to me appearing quite sober, and said, “I haven’t felt so alive in years.” It was a true travel moment. For the next couple days every time I’d encounter the father in the village he sang out a different salutation, no matter the distance between us, his arms forming a waltz as if he had once again found his dance partner and could nothing less than two-step across town to communicate his joy to the world….

Signing off I thought you’d like to know that this letter was typed under the watchful eyes of five, yes, five child and adult Peruvians mesmerized by the fact that I can push the little letters without watching my fingers. All leaned in as I tactfully evaded the “How much did that machine cost?” question by saying it was a gift. I didn’t have the heart to tell them this highly affordable, highly portable netbook would set them back one month’s paycheck, that they will probably never own one unless they steal it from me. Of course, I wanted to avoid that too….

DATES: October 19th, 2009 – October 25th, 2009
START LOCATION: Pantoja, Peru
END LOCATION: Iquitos, Peru

TOTAL DISTANCE CYCLED: 0 miles (0 km)
AVERAGE DISTANCE PER DAY: 0 miles (0 km)
DAYS ON BIKE: 0
LONGEST DAY: 0 miles (0 km)
SHORTEST DAY: 0 miles (0 km)
MAXIMUM SPEED: 0 mph (0 kmph)
TOTAL DISTANCE CYCLED TO DATE: 1,428.59 miles (2,299.1 km)

EXCHANGE RATE:

US $1 = 2.85 Soles

TOTAL MONEY SPENT: US $59.54
AVERAGE SPENT PER DAY: US $8.51
MOST EXPENSIVE DAY: US $41.19
LEAST EXPENSIVE DAY: US $0
TOTAL MONEY SPENT TO DATE: US $2,563.50
TRIP AVERAGE SPENT PER DAY: US $17.44

NIGHTS OF FREE CAMPING: N/A
NIGHTS IN COUCHSURFERS’ HOMES: N/A
NIGHTS IN FRIENDS’ HOMES: N/A
NIGHTS IN STRANGERS’ HOMES: 1
NIGHTS IN HAMMOCK: 6
NIGHTS IN FIRESTATIONS: N/A
NIGHTS IN HOSTELS: N/A
NIGHTS IN HOTELS: N/A
MOST EXPENSIVE ACCOMMODATION: US $0
LEAST EXPENSIVE ACCOMMODATION: US $0

HIGHLIGHTS:

River dolphin sightings: 14
Anacondas wrestled off of damsels in distress: 0 (but I dreamt it!)
Pounds of wild boar eaten on barge: 12
Cameras stolen: 1
Photos lost: 150ish
Incredible boat video tours made that no one but that sly f-ing thief will see: 1
Books purchased: 2
Cows that did not survive the five day boat boat journey tied to a post on deck: 1
Chickens strung together and off-loaded by one mythical man: 30+
Jungle hut parties with grandpas: 1
Total years set dancing to bad harmonica music: 240 (including Max)
Talking parrot’s vocabulary: 15 words…repeated over and over and over
Beaches visited in the middle of the Amazon: 1
Jungle legends learned: 5
Number of random foreigners I asked if they wanted to exchange books: 15
Books exchanged: 1 (Victory!)
Anteaters and river dolphins petted: 2
Papayas clandestinely knocked from trees at stops: 9ish

Cabo Pantoja's loaded deck

FOREWORD: The following e-mail was drafted to a friend while abroad the Cabo Pantoja barge that travels twice monthly between the Peruvian border town of Pantoja and the the strange jungle metropolis of Iquitos. Since October 14th I’ve been traveling on different types of river transportation, including fishing boats, dugout trunks, aluminum speedboats, and a barge loaded with 6 charging bulls, 100 pigs, 150 passengers, and 500 roosters—none of which sleep late. The cargo of countless items was piled in hard-to-describe ways; the middle and top deck were webs of intricately sewn hammocks. Some guidebooks state “This trip requires plenty of time and patience,” which is an understatement that cannot prepare you for sensory overload of life in slow-motion. I’ve wanted to embark on such a trip for as long as I can remember. Everyday was, without any poetic exaggeration, an adventure, though be it a slow one. Please note: next Monday the 26th I will embark once again on a four-day journey to Pucullpa, Peru. Internet is scarce but expect plenty of insight and photos when I return.

…I haven’t had internet access, which is why I haven’t responded earlier. Now after so much time has passed I don’t know where to begin. You’ve probably read on my blog about Surly and my near-death experience. I’m exaggerating, of course. But things could have been much worse, my head instead of hip could have hit the cement, my impossible-to-find rims could have bent instead of Surly’s weldable frame. I’m fine, he’s fine, no worries. He now looks like some of the scrap bikes people use to load and sell fruit. I doubt most thieves would pick him out in a crowd. One of the sons from the family we were staying with by the river did fancy my iPod, however, and stole it from my bags when we left them behind to bus back to Tumbaco to fix our bikes. I wasn’t even able to confront the teenager because he was away and we had to pack quickly to catch a bus to catch a boat that only embarks twice monthly. I’m over the iPod. It doesn’t matter, and besides I have a few unsold Nanos to replace it. Even in the moment I was more upset by the broken trust and the bad vibes that began to replace all good memories I would have preferred to keep, the incredibly intense and positive Ayahausca experiences with the kid’s Shaman father, the camp nights by the river under the stars, the lazy days reading and playing with the kids. Now I don’t care to know anything more about the place or the family. The energy there fell on its head, a complete 180. It’s for the best you didn’t load up my black iPod with a carefully planned playlist. I’d be physically sick with rage and might have waited around to threaten (or worse) the kid, missing the boat, delaying my trip, and who knows what other negative consequences would have rained down. It’s done and over, and I almost forgot about it completely until I wrote in this summary of happenings. [10/24/09 UPDATE: My point-and-click camera was also stolen while off loading bikes in Iquitos. Yeah, FUBAR, but I'm still surprisingly zen, as if thieves one by one are stripping me of my electronic chains, ha. I'm going to write a post addressing all the of late opportunist theft while trying to put them in context (e.g. my camera = one month of full-time construction work)].

Today is day three on the slow boat through Amazonia, though we’ve been traveling in the region for four days before this barge, arriving just in time to catch this loveable rust bucket to Iquitos. While traveling in a dugout canoe from the Ecuadorian border into Peru I saw my first river dolphin. Apparently, there are pink and grey pods of them all over the interior. Think about that. Dolphins in the middle of a freshwater continent! I still can’t believe it, and have been on the look out for shiny pink bald heads skimming the water’s surface ever since. That same night, on different passenger boat, we got hung up on a tree trunk. Bottomed-out is a better word. Imagine, again, 50 people in a giant canoe overloaded with supplies stranded in the middle of an oceanic river. And nobody cares! No talk of official complaint letters. No angry self-important old man spreading negativity. Just quiet, calm acceptance—because what could we do anyway. Max and I were having a great time. We directed the rescue effort and were some of the first ones in the water pushing us free. The sky was too beautiful, with shooting stars every few minutes, to worry about arriving on schedule. I guess it helps that for us no such schedule exists, ha. It was a minor two hour Amazonian traffic jam I’ll never forget.

I just finished my sweet rice soup and bread rations and sat down to write for the first time this trip. From the top deck of this three-story barge, where my hammock is hung, the stars shine clearly, even brighter than our night on the log, nothing but blackness above, the river and sky and treeline just different shades of dark. There is zero light pollution in this disconnected nowhere—which makes stargazing in my first south-of-the-equator sky all the more incredible. Last night I laid awake until morning watching stars move above the trees from my hammock view as we motored south. Their orbit, or Earth’s orbit, or our southern progress—I’m not sure which—can actually be seen in the shifting constellations, but only with patience. The morning sun arrived as I drifted in and out of sleepy observation. I was exhausted all day but it doesn’t matter. I nap when I want, eat bananas when I feel like it (we bought 100 for US $1), and eat meals on a schedule only because the pots would be scraped dry by the workers if we were to arrive late.

Brazil, the man, not the country

Tonight storm clouds threaten from a distance and the same jungle that lines the river flashes into view with the muted lightning. Midnight rains are possible. Now, as I write, a Brazilian with whom I’ve become partners in crime (we jump off at loading stops to knock papayas off trees) sings from his hammock. Any significant event—significant is relative on a five-day journey through monotonous terrain—sets him singing, and his jolly song has made him a minor boat celebrity, despite the fact most can’t understand his muttered Portuguese. They’ve nick-named him, uncreatively, ‘Brazil.’ When his name is uttered it’s usually accompanied by a bad Portuguese accent or famous Brazilian soccer chants that crescendo into a hoodlum chorus if left unchecked by some funny, usually not understood, come-back by Brazil himself. Besides our mutual fruit interest, I’ve been practicing Portuguese with him. I understand all but the most obscure words, all but the most extreme mumbles, which has motivated me to study my 501 Verb Book each afternoon and begin ‘The Alchemist’ in Portuguese. Maybe rain and thunder and pelted plastic roofs will make ‘Brazil’ sing tonight. I hope it rains.

You’d love this trip. There is much and nothing to do at the same time. Actually, come to think of it, I’m not sure you’d love this trip. There is definitely no running aboard and physical exercise that is not directly connected to lifting bananas or pulling roped-cows down steep riverbanks seems to be frowned upon, or at least thought a weird foreign custom. My few attempts at basic yoga movements and stretching on the top sun deck stir up a lot of interest. Hammocks are the game; passengers swing back and forth all day like hibernating cocoons, especially in the covered second level where I suspect the families and children are afraid of our third level’s rowdiness and sudden, spontaneous binge drinking bouts. (Max and I have made many friends with our refilled liter Coke bottle of sugar cane alcohol).

Ba-Na-Na

The boat makes periodic stops at isolated grass huts and small villages to load bananas. Sometimes it seems we spend more time loading than advancing. Families grow bananas then sell them to the boat captain, who in turn sells them to vendors in Iquitos for five times as much (etc, etc, with cows, chicken, pigs, wild boar skins—the same-old take-advantage-of-the-indigenous economics). Sometimes a school is the centerpiece of the settlements we visit, distinguishable only by the rows of children that file out in chaotic silence when we approach shore, but more often than not the stilted homes near the river are the community. Education doesn’t help grow bananas or catch fish, after all.

They smiled two seconds later...I'm fun, I swear

Max managed to take better photos of the village architecture. I mostly played with the energetic kids that flocked to us at each stop. The whole town lines the river when our boat bounces off the mud bank, the wooden plank slapping down between gunnel and banana pile, the workers gathering up the bounty without words or instructions. Our arrival doesn’t cause great excitement in the people anymore—one big boat or another arrives every five days—and I wouldn’t describe their presence as pure curiosity either, though I’ve been mobbed by kids and adults alike begging for their photo to be taken then viewed on my digital camera. The trick never gets old and I’ve taken some decent portraits this way. In a way, the people watch the boat happenings the same we (tjpse who don’t live in the Amazon basin) watch annual parades with the advance knowledge that it won’t ever be as exciting as the first, candy-chasing time.

Like a car accident

They line the shore and stare and point and respond to Max and I’s jokes because there is nothing else to do. Our landing is a local football match where the players don’t play particularly well but still provide better entertainment than watching wild pig skins dry. (Many stretched, smelly boar skins are loaded at each stop). Actually, there was one event that was entirely new to all involved. Max’s dreads and my now shaved head seemed to entertain one fairly large town to the point of laughter. One man took Max’s rastas in hand, pulled hard, and kept the few hardened blond hairs as a prize. There was no answer, no response whatsoever, just smiles, when Max asked for an explanation.

No one seems to be in much of a hurry—which is why the elders seem so vital, I suppose. No stress. Sometimes, the banana piles lay in the sun untouched for more than an hour as the workers drink fermented yuca called masato (known as chicha in Ecuador) with the villagers, or go off in search of their girlfriends, free meals, or sugar cane alcohol (all speculation). The same passengers, our drinking buddies, are also in no hurry to arrive to Iquitos. Most have wives waiting for them that, they say, stamp out the kind of timeless child-like adventure they feel on the open river.

At night, we play chess or talk or drink a few rounds. Neither Max or I have any money since we refused to exchange dollars in Pantoja, where few stores have a monopoly on everything, including the town-wide robbery rate for soles, Peru’s currency. The boat’s ticket collector agreed to let us abroad with the promise that one will stay with the bikes in Iquitos while the other goes to an ATM. While everyone else buys beers, Cokes, and crackers from the ship store, we munch bananas. It’s been an easy week on the wallet, and I have a feeling Peru and Bolvia will be shockingly cheap compared to my Colombian/Ecuadorian splurges. Max arranged a Couchsurfer host in Iquitos, an older gentleman who works as a jungle guide. We’ll both hoping he’ll take us out, show us around, maybe even with a group for free. (10/24/09 UPDATE: The jungle guide CSer didn’t answer the phone numbers he provided us. Instead, we met another Peruvian CSer named Jessica who lives in hostel that is currently under-construction. They are adding a second story, all the rooms are without roof, even the bathrooms. There is something liberating about a shower in a room without a ceiling, as if rinsing in pure rain water itself. Until the remodeling is completed, Jessica and the French owner Patrice sleep under the only protection from the elements: on three bare mattresses under a thatched roof that opens to a noisy street. It feels like a slumber party when we all lay down for the night).

And of course there is a lot of time to reflect, meditate, think on a barge that travels only slightly faster than the water flows….

DATES: October 12th, 2009 – October 18th, 2009
START LOCATION: Quito, Ecuador
END LOCATION: Pantoja, Peru

TOTAL DISTANCE CYCLED: 0 miles (0 km)
AVERAGE DISTANCE PER DAY: 0 miles (0 km)
DAYS ON BIKE: 0
LONGEST DAY: 0 miles (0 km)
SHORTEST DAY: 0 miles (0 km)
MAXIMUM SPEED: 0 mph (0 kmph)
TOTAL DISTANCE CYCLED TO DATE: 1,428.59 miles (2,299.1 km)

EXCHANGE RATE:

US $1 = US $1
US $1 = 2.75 Soles

TOTAL MONEY SPENT: US $88.34
AVERAGE SPENT PER DAY: US $12.62
MOST EXPENSIVE DAY: US $23.75
LEAST EXPENSIVE DAY: US $4.40
TOTAL MONEY SPENT TO DATE: US $2,503.96
TRIP AVERAGE SPENT PER DAY: US $17.89

NIGHTS OF FREE CAMPING: N/A
NIGHTS IN COUCHSURFERS’ HOMES: N/A
NIGHTS IN FRIENDS’ HOMES: N/A
NIGHTS IN STRANGERS’ HOMES: 3
NIGHTS IN HAMMOCK: 4
NIGHTS IN FIRESTATIONS: N/A
NIGHTS IN HOSTELS: N/A
NIGHTS IN HOTELS: N/A
MOST EXPENSIVE ACCOMMODATION: US $0
LEAST EXPENSIVE ACCOMMODATION: US $0

HIGHLIGHTS:

DATES: October 5th, 2009 – October 11th, 2009
START LOCATION: Mishiualli, Ecuador
END LOCATION: Quito, Ecuador

TOTAL DISTANCE CYCLED: 0 miles (0 km)
AVERAGE DISTANCE PER DAY: 0 miles (0 km)
DAYS ON BIKE: 0
LONGEST DAY: 0 miles (0 km)
SHORTEST DAY: 0 miles (0 km)
MAXIMUM SPEED: 0 mph (0 kmph)
TOTAL DISTANCE CYCLED TO DATE: 1,428.59 miles (2,299.1 km)

EXCHANGE RATE:

US $1 = US $1

TOTAL MONEY SPENT: US $137.22
AVERAGE SPENT PER DAY: US $19.60
MOST EXPENSIVE DAY: US $62.42
LEAST EXPENSIVE DAY: US $1
TOTAL MONEY SPENT TO DATE: US $2,415.62
TRIP AVERAGE SPENT PER DAY: US $18.16

NIGHTS OF FREE CAMPING: N/A
NIGHTS IN COUCHSURFERS’ HOMES: N/A
NIGHTS IN FRIENDS’ HOMES: N/A
NIGHTS IN STRANGERS’ HOMES: 2
NIGHTS IN CASAS DE CICLISTAS: 5
NIGHTS IN FIRESTATIONS: N/A
NIGHTS IN HOSTELS: N/A
NIGHTS IN HOTELS: N/A
MOST EXPENSIVE ACCOMMODATION: US $0
LEAST EXPENSIVE ACCOMMODATION: US $0

HIGHLIGHTS:

Happy reunions with Casa de Ciclista crew: 1
Total cost to fix Surly: around US $70
Hours of slow panicked what-ifs while wondering if Surly would survive: many
Movies watched in theather: 2
Meals with friends: many

Smooth riding....

Bumps in the road—inverted and gaping as the monster pothole that sent both Max and I flying through the Amazonian night—are a part of bike travel. They, in fact, keep you guessing, aware, awake, keep your senses sharp in this travel lifestyle that some consider a detriment to productivity. They force you to adapt in new and never-considered ways. They ultimately make you stronger.

Though this particular pothole setback will leave a visible scar on my left hip and a dull pain in Max’s right shoulder for the better part of the week, it was Surly who took the brunt of this life lesson.

The home that adopted us

Immediately following my last post from Tena, Ecuador in which I dreamily described my new Amazonian life by the river everything, almost literally, shattered. A sequence of bent metal, embarrassing haircuts, bad news, and well-placed insect bites began to unfold, as if signaling the end of this month’s good karma quota.

Even Max didn't see this coming....

Max and I biked to the medium-sized city of Tena specifically to buy supplies for our upcoming raft adventure. We needed food, batteries, medicines, and most importantly information. Internet, the virtual highway to the all-knowing, was high on our priority list. But the connection was slow (perhaps this the first fated link in the evil chain of events that followed?). We were delayed, which means our cross-town Easter egg hunt for supplies was also hours behind schedule. We returned to our river campsite, 25-some kilometers away, under the dirty mosquito net of night.

Naturally, we made the best of the situation, stopping occasionally to enjoy the blackness and silence of the jungle, observing in awe how domestic dogs sauntered the white line like wild cats, dodging the occasional street lamp spray, transformed savagely somehow by the mask of the cloud-covered moon. On uphill climbs we shut off our only light—a half-dead Frogger I used to use for city riding; we pedaled up the rolling hills in touch with the road, without the normal prejudice of expectation that daylight vision imposes on the sport. We moved forward, toward the goal, that much we knew, but the velocity and distance remained unimportant and ridiculous when compared to the grand mystery the dark scenery evoked, a feeling which perhaps the blind experience more often than us in our wide-eyed, light-drenched existence.

Tonight is a beautiful night...to crash

It was in this glee, this dream-like connection with our immediate world—the shadowy tree giants bent over our forward path—that we blindly and forcefully on a downhill curve coasted into the only pothole between Tena and our tents. It was deep and unforgiving, with a sharp lip that leaned into our sudden punch with a still stronger force well beyond self-defense. First I flew over my handlebars, sliding Superman across the asphalt; then Max, unintentionally (as if at this point the Karma Game left us any choice) followed, his bicycle landing atop his sprawled body several car distances away. Through the blackness, as much by instinct as genuine concern, we yelled out to each other, then quickly turned our attention to our bikes. This, I was later told, is the true sign of an avid cyclist: love of thy bike above thyself.

Ouch

It stings

As you can see from the photos Surly was in a bad way. The top tube crinkled until the front wheel rubbed against the frame, until the mudguard lay to the side, motionless, like the tongue of a dead animal. The down tube was also warped unrecognizably, like a pot belly sucked in on a shirtless Memorial Day BBQ. The Surly was unrideable.

Max’s cheaper frame miraculously did not crumble upon impact, probably because he, unlike I, was not pulling a heavy trailer. Instead he acrobatted into the air, clearing the bike completely, instead of absorbing the blow before flight like yours truly. It was obvious with minor adjustments he and his stead would be Patagonia bound in no time. Neither of us were so sure about Surly.

We managed to stop a motorcycle, who in turn called another motorcycle friend (not sure why), who then called a truck taxi who wanted to charge us double when the word “tourist” reverbed from cell to transmitter to satellite to cell. While waiting for the taxi I shuddered polite responses to the motorcyclists’ silly suggestions, such as “You should scrap the frame” or “Just buy a new one,” all the while annoyingly picking at wounds with a deep-down knowing that Surly was a survivor, that everything was Karmically cool between us and the universe.

Max and I cooked spaghetti with mozzarella that night, with portions generously larger than our normal budget rations and scientifically equivalent to the size needed to replace bad thoughts with delicious ones. The family was asleep; the stilted home silent without the normal candle flicker licking at the outside air. Gulping Pilsener beer as the water boiled and the river flowed uncaring we mutually agreed without words to forget the whole thing until morning.

Max woke me with bad news, completely unrelated to our unrideable bikes and aching bodies: the raft ride to the Peruvian border was not to be. The oldest son, whether true or an excuse, claimed the balsa trees to build the boat were prohibitively expensive. With Max the messenger, I did not sit in on the conversation, the details are mute, nor was I able to break down the expenses face-to-face, but it seems the son made up his mind. My Apocalypse Now Huckleberry Finn fantasy died before breakfast. Max and I are not so thick to think that we could build a raft the traditional way without any tradition of our own, with highly sinkable bikes and trailers aboard, then navigate waterways as confusing as a House of Mirror’s disco night. We’ll have to find another way to Iquitos, Peru.

Papa Santiago mourning poor Surly

That morning we also decided to backtrack. Instead of testing our luck with amateur bike mechanics and searching high and low for a reputable welder in Tena, we decided a five-hour bus ride back to Tumbaco, back to Papa Santiago, ringleader of our former refuge the Casa de Ciclista, was the more sensible option. Santiago knows personally a precision welder and precision welding, the sentimental equivalent to heart surgery, was exactly what Surly needed.

Welder Don Alberto ready for surgery

Surly getting a nose job

Sparks!

Good as new, just uglier

Once it was clear Surly would recuperate and continue onward to Argentina with Bob and I another itch unfolded. A real itch. In my leg.

The Amazon sprouts and festers in equal parts. Beautiful flora grows from the most unlikely places, trees on top of trees and plants in the armpits of everything; not an inch of soil goes to waste, not even when absorbed by the endless waters or filtered through gold miners’ wooden bowls. The tree line is not really a line at all, it’s a 3D illusion that criss-crosses vertically and horizontally, itself many layers of mystery, like the interactive posters fashionable in high school that nearly made us all cross-eyed. The Amazon’s festering side is less romantic. From all the aforementioned crevices, nooks, holes, layers, waters, armpits, and soil emerge bugs which I’m convinced, even in well-colonized areas like Mishualli, are still unknown to science. They may be extraterrestrial.

One such bug bit me. Five days later I sprouted (festered?) cankles. My left leg is obese with a swollen, red infection that a doctor in Tumbaco supposedly wiped away with alcohol and a smile. Insect eggs inside the wound were causing the discomfort. Now pills, creams, and bandages will accompany me back to the Amazon when we catch a riverboat in a few days.

Bad news and unfortunate fate all around. The haircut needs no further explanation:

Bad hair happens

More aerodynamic

Karma has a warped sense of humor.