Saturday was our last day in Peru.  We were staying in a nice hotel near the center of Puno, on the shores of Lake Titicaca.  (This was particularly luxurious for Zoe, Caroline and me.  Throughout the trip we’ve been staying in a triple room, which was fine, but on this night our group had an extra room so I got my own.  The triple that Zoe and Caroline were sharing was two separate rooms, so they had their own space as well.)  In the morning we had a little extra time, so we wandered into town to look around the square and the church — and, for certain members of the party, to stock up on the Peruvian Inca Kola, which tastes like carbonated bubble gum.  The shops here are tiny — about the size of an average walk-in closet — so we had to go to several to find this many bottles.  (Zoe’s, at least, survived the trip home in her suitcase.)

Unfortunately, this was the first day that dawned gray, drizzly, and cold — not ideal for a boating trip on Lake Titicaca.  Van had one more surprise for us when it was time to get to the docks.  He summoned a whole group of bicycle taxis, and offered an excellent tip to the one that could win the race.  We jumped into the taxis in pairs, got covered with an inadequate sheet of plastic for rain cover, and set off as fast as our taxistas’ legs could pedal.  These guys were motivated.  At one point, Van’s taxi tried so hard to pass us that it crashed into an oncoming car.  It was crazy and exhiliarating weaving through bicycle, foot, and vehicular traffic in the rain, careening wildly in the direction of the docks.  Christine was so happy to have won that she gave her driver a tip probably worth a month’s wages.

 

Once we boarded our boat and got underway, the rain tapered off and then stopped.  Some of us headed up to the roof of the boat to check out the views of the vast lake (which we could only see a small part of).  Our destination was the famous floating reed islands, inhabited by the Uros people, an indiginous group that

speak the Aymara language.  Scholars think that the original islands were constructed in pre-Inca times, and have been inhabited by the Uros ever since.  As lower layers of reeds rot, the islanders just add more reeds to the top.  The modern-day Uros live much as their ancestors did, except that they have solar panels and tourists.  They live in huts woven from reeds, travel in elaborate boats made of reeds, burn reeds for fuel, and even eat the reeds.

 

We visited an island inhabited by 22 people, all extended family.  Walking on the island felt like walking on a waterlogged sponge.  The islanders showed us how the islands are built — a time-consuming and labor-intensive process.  (Apparently, when an island gets overcrowded, the inhabitants get together and build a new one.)  A new layer of reeds has to be added every 15 days.  The islands have to be anchored, they told us, or else you go to sleep and wake up in Bolivia.  When someone asked what happens if a family isn’t getting along with the others, the elder of the island picked up a large saw and mimed cutting off a piece of the island and setting the troublemakers adrift.

We got to try on some traditional clothing, and go for a short ride in the largest of the reed boats.  (“Boat fits 30 Americans, or 50 Japanese,” the village elder told us in Spanish.)  We also were shown some of the woven and embroidered tapestries that the women here make, and it was made very clear we were expected to buy one.  Unfortunately, it being our last day, we were running a little short of soles, so Helen and I had to split the cost of one.  We’ll see who ends up with custody.

By this point the sun had come out and the temperature risen, so the more intrepid members of our group prepared for a jump into the freezing waters.  Ann once again proved herself the best of us, as the only adult to jump in and the first one overall to take the plunge.  The kids all went in together and came up laughing and gasping with cold.

After the boat trip back, we had time for one last big meal before hopping on the bus for the last time to drive to the airport.  You may recall what I said yesterday about Juliaca, the city where the airport is located.  None of us were that thrilled about having to go back there — but the reality was worse than we could have imagined.  What with the traffic situation and random road closure, our bus driver didn’t know how to get to the airport and apparently decided to wing it.  We ended up on a small, incredibly potholed back road that was clearly leading nowhere.  Undeterred, he tried to correct his mistake by making a series of seemingly random turns onto ever more desolate roads with even worse conditions.  By this time it was dark, and we were truly in the middle of nowhere.  I

was waiting for a gang of people with guns to emerge from a nearby hovel and hijack the bus.  My friend Tiffany was praying that we didn’t get a flat tire.  Eventually, after what seemed like an hour, the bus driver saw someone driving around in one of these three-wheeled vehicles they have here and asked for directions.  That kind soul offered to lead us to the airport, and thankfully managed to do so in time for our flight.  We all — even Van — shuddered to think what we would have done if we’d missed it and been trapped for the night in Juliaca.

 

 

 

 

After that, all that remained was a long day and night of travel — from Juliaca to Lima, Lima to New York, and New York to Boston — exhausting, but fortunately uneventful.  (This time I decided what the hell and went for the full dinner and glass of red wine that Latam Airlines was serving at 2am (3am Boston time).)The C&J bus brought us back to Portsmouth in time for Sunday dinner, tired but full of happy memories.

 

 

 

 

Friday morning it was time to say farewell to Cusco and hop back on the bus for an eight-hour drive to Puno, on the shores of Lake Titicaca to the south.  Luckily, Van had planned a few stops for us to break up the drive.

The first one was actually the only supermarket we’d seen in on our trip.  We procured sandwich supplies for a lunch on the bus, since we’ve found that meals for 17 people in a restaurant tend to take hours.  The next stop was also food-related.  In a small village square, the bus pulled over and Van told us we had 15 minutes to get some bread from someone he knew.  We crossed the square, ducked down a small alley, and ended up in a courtyard in the midst of what appeared to be the homes of a group of people.  It turned out the person Van knew wasn’t there anymore, but there was another man working at a huge wood-fired oven (like the kind you see at Flatbread), just about to pull out some fresh bread.  We bought a ton of it for pennies a loaf, and it was delicious.

Our next stop, the Incan ruins at Raqchi, was a real treat.  Van was acquainted with a 17-year-old girl whose mother is the local village shaman, and who is heir to the title herself.  He arranged for her to give us a special tour.  Rather than talk about names and dates, she told us about the religious significance of the place, and walked us through the rituals that the Inca pilgrims needed to follow to purify themselves before entering the sacred temple.

She brought out several artifacts of her own  to share with us, including a 2000-year-old poncho that she passed around and even let Andrew wear!

Next to the ruins of the temple, she formed us into a circle and got what appeared to be a rock out of her blanket.  She handed it to Van and told him to eat it.  He expressed some skepticism, but eventually took a nibble.  She explained that it was made by burning a mint plant, then forming the ashes into a rock-like substance.  You were meant to nibble a piece of rock, then chew a couple of coca leaves at the same time.

We all eventually got our chance to eat the rock, and it actually wasn’t too bad.  (Kind of tasted like Necco wafers, in fact.)  However, adding the coca leaves caused some kind of strange reaction that made it taste really terrible.  All of us were in the circle, grimacing and clearly contemplating how rude it would be to spit out the sacred Incan food next to the sacred Incan temple.  (When the second rock, made out of eucalyptus, was brought out, I elected to pass.)

 

Our guide had wonderful stories, too — about playing hide and seek in the ruins as a child and seeing spirits, and about how she had become the “chosen one” (to be the next shaman).  It involved almost getting struck by lightning on one occasion, and getting surrounded by a group of foxes on another.  The people here have a much stronger connection with their ancestors and with ancient traditions than anyone I know in our country.

Our final stop was a desolate parking lot on the side of the road.  At 14,222 feet, we were above tree line and at the highest point accessible by road in Peru, and the second highest in all of the Americas.  There was a small group of artisans selling their wares, and a bathroom of sorts.  For one sole (about 30 cents) we gained admission.  There is no running water up here, so after each person used the bathroom the man attending it would go in with a bucket of water to flush.  (Bathroom amenities are pretty scarce here in general — frequently there’s no toilet seat and/or toilet paper, and as in Central America you have to throw your toilet paper in the trash can — but this was a new one.)

Van had a blood oxygen sensor, and we all tested out our levels.  Most of us were in the low to mid eighties, with normal being 95+.  It certainly explained why we felt out of breath.  (The next morning, at our hotel at a bit under 13,000 feet, I was up to 91.)

Some of the kids were very interested in an alpaca out back, but were told that it was a spitter.  Zoe’s “friends” strongly encouraged her to approach it, but each time she got close it would look menacing and she’d retreat.  However, Ann showed up, marched right over to the alpaca, and began nuzzling it.  After that, the beast had been tamed and everyone was able to pet it with no spitting involved.

The excitement was not over, though.  After dark, we were cruising along through the rather depressing city of Juliaca, on the main four-lane highway through the town.  Suddenly we started coming across other vehicles driving towards us, coming the wrong way down the street.  Now this in and of itself is not as surprising as you might think, since traffic rules here seem to be either non-existent or ignored.  What WAS surprising was when we got a bit further up and found that the road ended in a large pile of rubble, with no warning.

What followed was an epic journey that few tourists have probably ever made.  We had to back up, then turn around on the highway.  After that we started driving down what appeared to be a field of dirt next to a set of railroad tracks, tremendously rutted and potholed.  Many other people were doing the same, so we were surrounded by cars, trucks, bikes, and the occasional livestock, all traveling along in various directions with no particular order.  Once we got back to what passed as a road, the situation wasn’t much better.  The streets were lined with grim-looking buildings and piles of trash.  We all agreed that it seemed like some kind of post-apolcalyptic hellscape, or possibly the set of the Walking Dead.  (Our driver said the city is controlled by the mafia, and there’s so much corruption that everything is falling apart.)  We all breathed a sigh of relief when we eventually got back to a real road again.  Unfortunately, we have to return to the Juliaca airport for our flight back to Lima.  We’re just hoping they manage to maintain the runway.

 

 

 

 

During our two days in Cusco, we’ve had the mornings free to explore this lovely city, the center (belly button) of the Inca world.   Many buildings in town are built on top of the ruins of ancient Incan walls, and some of the narrow Incan roads still survive.  At 11,000 feet elevation, the air is thin and we all get winded easily — which is unfortunate given that the city is built atop the Andes and there are hills everywhere.

When we arrived our bus somehow made it down the steep, winding streets to our hotel, despite the fact that the road was barely wider than the bus.  It involved a lot of gasps and near misses of buildings and pedestrians, as well as delays when inevitably a car would come along in the opposite direction, or was parked on the side of the road.  (Our driver’s technique for dealing with this last scenario was to lean on the horn until the car’s owner arrived to move it; apparently this is the generally accepted practice here.)  Understandably, the driver didn’t want to take this on again, so on our subsequent outings we had to climb an enormous set of stairs to be picked up on the higher road.  This left everyone gasping for air and on the verge of collapse.

On the first morning, the group of us summoned several taxis and set off to Coricancha, the ancient Incan Temple of the Sun.  It was considered the most sacred of all Inca sites, and the center of the Inca world.  Like many such sites, it was partially destroyed by the Spanish, who then built their own cathedral on top of the ruins.  (The Spanish cathedral has been destroyed and rebuilt multiple times due to earthquakes, but the ancient Inca walls still stand unscathed.)  The walls of the temple were once plated with solid gold (stolen, of course, by the Spanish).

The tour was really interesting, and highlighted the construction skills and astronomical knowledge of the Inca.  Much of the stonework did not use any mortar, but instead stones that inside the wall were carved like Legos to fit together with barely a visible joint.  The walls were precisely oriented to the directions of the compass and the openings designed to capture the sunlight during the solstices and/or equinoxes.

From there it was a short and scenic walk to the Plaza de Armas.  This is a lovely and lively town square with three beautiful cathedrals, a plaza with a fountain, and an almost infinite number of people selling pretty much everything imaginable.  Zoe and I strolled the square and surrounding area while most of our group ate lunch.  (We were still full from the hotel’s huge breakfast.)

On our second morning in Cusco, Zoe, Ann, Shannon and I headed for the Choco Museo (Chocolate Museum), very reminiscent of the Choco Museo in Grenada, Nicaragua.  We were hoping to do a chocolate-making workshop as we had in Nicaragua, but sadly the timing didn’t work out.  We still were able to get some great free samples and souvenirs to bring home.  We also toured the Catedral del Cuzco, a beautiful and elaborate church that unfortunately doesn’t allow photography.  I think that in our limited time window we’ve barely scratched the surface of what Cusco has to offer, but that gives us a good reason to return someday.

(When the time came to leave Cusco, the bus once again ventured down to the hotel to pick us up with our luggage.  Given the road situation described above, this meant blocking the street. As we were starting to load the bus it abruptly took off to let other vehicles pass through, with poor Shannon alone on the bus.  We just caught a glimpse of her startled face as the bus pulled away from us.  Luckily, it soon looped back around and the rest of us were able to board.  Unluckily, various other vehicles including construction equipment, a dump truck, and several taxis were all trying to move about in the same area.  It was like one of those puzzle games where you have to slide the individual pieces around to try to make a picture.  It took a lot of time, and much maneuvering in various directions, for the bus to finally make its way out of the labyrinth.)

 

Two of our afternoons and evenings here have been spent at Azul Wasi (“Azul” = blue in Spanish, and “Wasi” = house in Quechua — a descendent of the Inca language which is still spoken by many people in this area). This is a home for boys who were living alone on the streets, arrested for stealing food or other petty crimes. A police officer who was involved in their arrests decided to open a home for them. Now 17 boys, ranging from 8 or 9 up through university age, are living in here. Some of them have no memories of their parents, or any life before homelessness. Generations Humanitarian supports the home by undertaking construction projects and paying various expenses.

After greeting us upon arrival, the boys all introduced themselves and told us (with Van translating) what their ambitions for the future were. These ranged from mechanics, to tour guides, to scientists. The oldest boy, Dante, who has lived in the home since its inception, got the fifth highest score in the country on the national physics exam and is now attending university on a scholarship. It was touching to see how they had come to see themselves as a family, speaking of one another as their “brothers”, and to hear the hopes that these formerly homeless boys now held for their futures.

Our first day involved replacing a garden fence, working on a roof, and doing some painting. I was on garden fence duty, and we saw firsthand how in a place like this, you can’t just run out to Home Depot for tools to make the job simple — instead, you figure out how to make do with what you have.  In this case, it meant using large needles and plastic “thread” to sew the fence panels to the fence posts, because we didn’t have a staple gun. (In the end we managed it, though our work was almost destroyed by a rogue sheep who got trapped inside and tried to barrel through our new fence. A few of the kids had to herd the sheep to the new opening at the other end of the potato field.) When we finished, some of the other moms used the remaining plastic to attempt to repair the boys’ soccer net.

On the second day, we’d planned a special surprise — a “prom” celebration. Christine had brought button-down shirts and bow ties for all the boys, plus fancy dresses for the three girls who lived there (daughters of the cook). Tiffany made beautiful boutonnieres for them. We picked up a cake from a bakery and snacks and drinks, and spent the afternoon decorating the room where the prom would be held. The kids, led by Andrew, came up with a playlist of American and Spanish music.

Throughout all our efforts, the boys were curious and eager to help. Whenever they saw us starting to work on something — making the soccer net, hanging lights, blowing up balloons — they jumped right in and started to help us. (You can see in the photo of Zoe above how enthusiastic they were about taping balloons to the poles.) Some of the moms who were prepping food in the kitchens said that the boys came in to clean up and did a great job. (Their one downfall seemed to be in cleaning the bathroom, though this only seemed to bother the moms in the group.)

When the time came, things were a little awkward at first. The boys, as well as most of the kids in our group, were a little shy. A French college student who was staying at Azul Wasi as a volunteer was a great help, proving to be an excellent dancer and prodding the boys to join in. Eventually everyone relaxed and it seemed that a great time was had by all.

Another early morning today, as we headed out for another day of volunteering. Today’s program caused much humor among the group: a series of talks about puberty, to be delivered to five different girls’ schools by the doctor in our midst, Jolene. Jolene, Christine (the translator), and the five teen girls in our group set off, with pads and tampons in their bags and varying degrees of embarrassment and consternation.

Meanwhile, the rest of us went back to the Anta Home. Most of the group started painting the chicken coop. Tiffany and I volunteered, with some trepidation, to be in charge of cooking lunch for twenty people. We weren’t sure what ingredients we’d have available to us — and then we found out the ingredients would need to be harvested, by us, from the home’s gardens. (To our relief, Van also said he’d be going into town to pick up rotisserie chicken.) It was definitely a different type of cooking experience than what we were used to, but an exciting challenge!

We spent the next hour or two in the gardens and greenhouses, harvesting carrots, onions, lettuce, tomatoes, beets, rosemary, and oregano; and rinsing potatoes that had been dug earlier. It took another hour to wash everything. Because of potential contaminents in the water and soil, washing food is a serious business here. One of the nuns showed me how to wash the lettuce — dunking and shaking the heads multiple times in a bucket of water, then thoroughly washing every leaf individually under running water, and finally dipping them in another pot of water containing a small amount of bleach. (In general we’ve been warned not to eat lettuce at all here, because of the likelihood of bacteria, so having a salad was a nice change, even if it was extremely labor-intensive.)

Eventually we managed to surmount the challenges of unfamiliar kitchens, limited ingredients, and a language barrier to produce a delicious lunch.  The Puberty Crew returned triumphant, having imparted valuable knowledge and having shared some good conversations with the girls.  (Zoe is getting lots of practice with her Spanish!)  They did their best to counter some of the prevalent old wives’ tales here — for example, that it’s harmful to consume citrus during your period, which virtually 100% of the girls believed.  (We’re doubtful whether they’ll be able to convince their mothers, though.)

Before we left the Anta Home, the girls put on elaborate traditional costumes and performed some dances for us, as well as playing the pan pipe flute.  Then it was lots of hugs and goodbyes.  These girls, the struggles that they face and the spirit that they bring to the world, definitely left its mark on us.

Van had one more surprise in store for us.  A woman he knew, whose village had been helped by his organization, invited us to her home, where she and her sisters produce Peruvian textiles in a totally traditional method.  It was fascinating.  They start with alpaca fur and wash it using a root that grows locally, then spin it by hand.  The women spend pretty much all their time spinning, as they go about other tasks. The rainbow of colors you see in these yarns were produced entirely from natural materials.  The reds, oranges, and purples are all created from the blood of a bug that only lives in the Sacred Valley.  After creating a dye from dried and ground bugs, he showed us how the color would change dramatically by adding various ingredients, like lime juice or certain herbs.  Finally the yarn is threaded onto a loom and elaborate patterns are created.

 

The sisters then served us some traditional Peruvian foods — quinoa, giant corn, giant lima beans, potatoes, and — the piece de resistance — roast guinea pig, which is commonly eaten here because it’s so cheap to produce.  We then went out back to see the guinea pig farm.  Peruvians think Americans are crazy for having them just as pets.

 

 

 

 

 

 

This morning we’d checked out of our hotel in Urubamba, and tonight we headed to our new hotel in Cusco.  We saw no fewer than four spectacular rainbows on the way home.  (Conditions of mixed sun and rain seem to be very common here.  We’ve seen a fair bit of light rain, but the sky has never been totally clouded over so there are always rays of sun emerging from somewhere.)

For dinner (just appetizers and/or dessert for most of us, as we’d had a late lunch), Van brought us to Incanto, an Italian restaurant near the famous Plaza de Armas.  It’s a beautiful Colonial city square, reminiscent of similar ones we’ve seen in Central America and Quito.  The food was delicious, and we got to celebrate Jolene’s birthday.  Who wouldn’t want to spend their birthday giving puberty talks?  (Though when we raised a toast and Jolene yelled out, “To puberty!”, we did get some odd looks.)

This was the big day we’ve been waiting for, so we didn’t even mind another very early morning.  (Well, maybe Zoe and Caroline minded a little bit.  I’ve been unaccountably waking up around 5 every day anyway.)  Machu Picchu, being a remote Inca city on top of a mountain, is not the easiest place to get to.  After a 5:30am breakfast, we headed on the bus to take us to the train to take us to another bus.

The train ride was actually pretty cool.  Trains are pretty cool to start with, and this one wound through mountain passes and tunnels alongside a rushing river.  The train had windows all along the top so you could see the mountains, their tops obscured by wisps of clouds, towering on both sides.  Seats were grouped in sets of four with a table in between, so people could chat or play games.  All in all, a pleasant way to spend an hour and a half.

The train brought us to the bustling village of Machu Picchu Pueblo, full of markets and restaurants along the river, which was crossed by picturesque footbridges.  It was a little like Venice in that the lack of cars meant you’d see lot of people moving things around using large handcarts.  (Unfortunately for them, it was unlike Venice in that it’s very hilly here.  Later, eating lunch on the patio, we watched a succession of poor workers pushing overloaded carts up a steep incline outside.)

From there we had to catch a bus that traveled up the side of the mountain, along a series of terrifying switchbacks.  This was somewhat less pleasant than the train, though of course the views were spectacular.  Luckily our bus made it to the top without falling off the side of the mountain.

At the end, a short hike up to the top led us to the iconic Machu Picchu view that you always see photos of.  It was amazing, but Zoe and I agreed it had a strange Disney-like quality because it hadn’t required much physical labor to get here (although at this altitude even short uphill hikes have us gasping) and because there were SO MANY PEOPLE.  All our travels had taken almost four hours, and so we’d arrived at a pretty peak time.

Christine, our local organizer who’s done this a few times, herded us away from the crowds and onto a hiking trail to the Sun Gate.  This immediately took us away from the

throngs and we were better able to appreciate the stunning scenery.  The Sun Gate was the original Inca entrance to Machu Picchu, and the trek is along the original Inca trail.  It’s amazing to think of the effort that was involved in constructing this place and the foot trails that cross the entire region.  The Spanish never conquered Machu Picchu, because of its inaccessibility.

 

The hike was incredible — gorgeous views around every corner.  We had to stop frequently to catch our breath and take photos.  (Zoe’s cross country and track training served her well here, as she was generally zooming up the mountain while the rest of us panted behind her.)  We took our time getting there and then spent

some time sitting at the ruins of the Sun Gate itself, imagining arriving here from the original trail and emerging to behold the sacred city.

 

 

Once we headed back down, the crowds had thinned somewhat and we descended into the ruins.  The Inca had amazing construction skills — modern scientists still don’t understand how they were able to build what they did using the tools that they had.  (One of the local stories is that they were helped

by aliens.  Another theory is that they figured out how to turn rock liquid.)  Their astronomical knowledge was way ahead of the Europeans, and their building sites are precisely aligned with the directions of the compass and/or the path of the sun.  All that knowledge was wiped out when all the leaders were indiscriminately slaughtered by the Spanish.

 

 

 

 

On our way to the train Van had told us about an alternate route back down to Machu Picchu Pueblo — the original Inca steps set in the side of the mountain.  Mainly at Zoe’s urging, a group of six of us decided to try it.  Zoe and I, Ann and Shannon, and Tiffany and Ethan set off on foot down the trail, leaving the others to take the bus.

It was a cool experience following the path of the Inca, although tough on the legs and knees.  I don’t even know how many steps it was, but some very large number.  (It’s now three days later and my calves are still aching.)  Given that they were constructed of somewhat uneven stone, it was a tough trek, but we had a great sense of victory when we finally landed alongside the river.  (It was somewhat dampened when we realized we then had a

mile-long walk back to town, but it was flat and lovely, along the rushing whitewater of the river.)

The weather is interesting here.  The temperature itself is not very high — highs in the sixties, much colder in the mornings and evenings — but being as high as we are, the sun is very strong.  So when it’s out, we’re stripping layers and sweating (and for some in our group, getting sunburns), and when it dips behind the cloud or starts to set, we shiver and the layers come back on.  On the walk back a light, misty rain was intermittently falling.

Back in town we had a late lunch, did a little shopping and exploring, and then repeated the morning’s transportation in reverse.  By the time we arrived back, no one was interested in dinner — just showers and bed.

 

Despite the exhaustion of the past couple of days, I woke up at 4:30am this morning (having gone to bed at 8:30).  Once it was light out I stepped outside to get a look at our hotel, which we’d seen only in darkness the night before.  It did not disappoint.  It’s built in a 17th century monastery, with old stone walls, twisting passages, and flowering courtyards.  Mountains tower over it on all sides.

Today we were easing into our volunteer service with a visit to the Anta Home for Girls, a home run by nuns for girls who are orphaned or whose families can’t take care of them.  Our Peruvian leader, Jaime, was very anxious that we arrive on time.  (“The nuns,” he said, “they are not relaxed about time.”)  But on our way to the bus our American leader, Van, couldn’t resist a quick side trip into the backyard of the hotel to show us the “center of magnetic resonance” (I’m still not sure what that means), an area low in the ground with a strange stone structure that is apparently some sort of ancient massage chair.  He wanted us all to try it to see how comfortable and relaxing it was, so we were a little late for the nuns.

Luckily they didn’t seem to hold it against us.  The little girls at the home were thrilled to see Van, who visits regularly.  They poured into the van, full of smiles and hugs for everyone.  Despite their difficult circumstances, they seemed to be some of the happiest children I’ve come across.

Today the adults were working with newborns, giving baths and supplying new diapers and outfits.  The teens had a great time running around with the little girls from the home, painting nails and playing tag.  When we were heading out for a tour, a little girl beckoned us in to the courtyard — and we found ourselves in a raucous jump rope competition.  Caroline gets extra credit for attempting to jump with a small child on her shoulders.

Later a volleyball game broke out, and we were amazed at how good the girls were and wondered how they’d learned.

Then Mother Superior arrived:

After leaving the girls, with promises to return in a couple of days, Van took us to the Maras Salt Mines.  (I should mention here that all our travels are by bus, and (1) that the views are so incredible all the time — the towering mountains are never out of sight; and (2) the bus drivers here deserve some kind of medal.  Our driver has had to navigate narrow, winding streets with literally only a few inches of clearance on each side, and, more concerningly, narrow dirt mountain roads with sheer drops that are two-way but not wide enough for two cars.  One of our scariest moments was when we were on such a road, headed to the salt mine, on the outside lane, and saw another bus approaching from the opposite direction.)

Anyway, the salt mines were incredibly cool.  At a place where warm, salty water runs out of the mountains, the Inca built a huge system of terraces (these guys were the masters of terraces) and an irrigation system so that salty water could be routed into a shallow pond and left to evaporate, leaving a harvest of salt.  There are a vast number of ponds that are owned and farmed by individual families from the area.

We hiked down to and along the salt terraces, sometimes on a very narrow path with a stream on one side and a drop on the other.  We made it all the way down to the bottom of the Sacred Valley to the river.  Zoe declared it the “coolest day ever”.

Zoe and I have started our adventure, a nine-day trip to Peru with several others from our town and the organization Generations Humanitarian.  Turns out that getting 13 people from New Hampshire to Peru is quite an accomplishment.  We knew it would be a very long day, but didn’t know quite how long.  We were split over two flights from Boston to New York, and the five of us on my flight were trying to make the best of a 3+ hour layover by planning for a nice sit-down dinner at JFK.

Alas, it was not to be.  Somehow (we still don’t know how), in getting from our arrival terminal to departure, we managed to go through security and thus found ourselves back on the wrong side.  Zoe’s friend Caroline is traveling without her parents, and they’d told us she’d need to get a boarding pass at the gate — so that meant we had to wait in the long checkin line since she couldn’t get through security.  (It was very lucky we’d realized at the 11th hour that we needed a special form signed by Caroline’s parents, or the day would have gone much, much worse.)  Back to security again — only to have them refuse to accept the boarding passes that Zoe and I had printed off at home because they had the wrong airline on them (our two flights were on different airlines).  This time the line was even longer.  By the time we actually go to our gate, we were lucky to have a few minutes to buy cold, soggy sandwiches.  (Turns out we even could have held off on that, since Latam Airlines unaccountably decided to serve dinner after we’d taken off — at 1 am.  We decided to pass.)

After a third flight from Lima to Cusco, we had finally arrived.  We’ve been hydrating like crazy to avoid the effects of the 11,000+ foot altitude, and in Cusco started chewing coca leaves, the local remedy.  The weather is beautiful — sunny and around 70.  Our first stop was a restaurant with huge plate-glass windows looking down on the city.  Our trip leader Van set us up with a six-course meal of foods that are traditional here, and it was so much fun to try all the different courses.  Among other things, our meal included coca tea, a plate of giant corn kernels (I mean GIANT) with some kind of cheese, a soup, and a crazy, but surprisingly good, kind of purple juice

made from some kind of fermented corn juice, pineapple, and cinnamon (chicha morada).  Zoe and I bravely elected to try the alpaca steaks, and they were amazingly good — tender and flavorful.

After that we hopped back on our bus to travel from Cusco to the Sacred Valley.  It’s at a slightly lower altitude to help us adjust, but in order to get there we had to cross a pass at 13,400 feet.  (Our trip’s leader, Van, told us that planes are required to use oxygen at 13,000.)  There were amazing views around every corner and green peaks rising sharply on all sides.  All the

mountainsides, however steep, seem to be covered with vertical lines — a remnant of the agricultural terraces built by the Inca.

We made another stop at the semi-famous market at Pisac, where we found amazing woolens and textiles.  We picked up some great bargains, though after a while Zoe and I had to go into hiding, exhausted from the hard sells and our weak attempts at bargaining.  At the end Van took us to a shop where they had original pottery from the Incas and before — available for $60 or less.  (No, I am not going to attempt to bring that home in my suitcase.)

We were all grateful to eventually get back to our hotel, exhausted and desperate for showers.  We’re staying at an old monastery in Urumbamba in the Sacred Valley.  We couldn’t see much when we arrived after dark, but I’m guessing it’s beautiful.

Our options for dinner turned out to be a mile-long walk into town or the hotel’s fancy restaurant — so Zoe, Caroline and I unanimously opted for room service and an early bedtime (and the best and most-needed shower in the history of the world).  Tomorrow we start our volunteer service at the Anta girls’ home.