The Intermission

I had to write. To put down what is continuously being said in my mind.

Adjusting back to the Western style of life was not to bad - in fact, I enjoyed it. We have it pretty good, ya know. Not worrying about parasites in your tap water is a good thing. A very good thing. Having my Jeep again was also nice. Hell, I'll just say it: I missed a lot of things.

Even with all of these ammenities that I take for granted, I am still a bit on the fringe. Not even a month passed, and I was already antsy about my next trip. That's a bit strange right? To long for home so badly and then, not even a month after my arrrival, have strong thoughts about leaving once more. Sitting down to write a term paper or analyze data - ha! Useless. It's not that I am not thinking - it's just that my thoughts are some place else. This leads to the dominant idea (feeling?) of this blog: our trip. The trip of all trips.

Australia and New Zealand.

As soon as I graduate and have that Bachelor of Science in my hand, I will be gone. Selling everything. Leaving everything.

Side note: I feel as if it's a bit irresponsible for I am capable. Capable of a lot. Yet, I forgo this responsability to relish in the idea of freedom - the idea that I am the one in charge and am not dictated by any other being or entity but death herself (yes, death is a she, people. get with the times).

My two friends and I will be heading to Australia for nearly three weeks and then on to New Zealand to embark on the hike of the century. Desired outcomes: hang ten on the gold coast, climb a 5'10, summit a mountain w/o guides, have enough footage to make a documentary, enhance understanding of nature and our connection (lots of yoga), life long friendships, and most importantly, when it's all said and done, be content all ready. I am tired of this constant desire. This insatiable appetite that consumes my every breath. The unknown is just so damn attractive. It has turned into lust if anything. Why? You tell me. In the mean time, I am going to find out.

Desired Summit: Mount. Aspiring

Concerning the documentary. Yeah. I'm serious about that. I'm selling my Jeep and buying climbing gear and recording gear which includes, but is not limited to a Bolex 16mm w/ 3 lenses and a DSLR with HD capability and 1080p at 24 FPS. The theme? Well, I'm not going to disclose that just yet.



Bolex H16

Oh yeah! How long are we staying? As long as we can. 1 month? 2 months? 3 months? 4 months? Who knows.

Hey, here is an idea: be our sponsor, and we will include you in the documentary. I'm creative! Sorta.

Cheers!

Jonathon

A Finale

Ok, ok, ok. I know what you’re thinking. This is really late. But… If you think about it, it’s not that late. I mean, I only returned to the States 6 days ago (I started writing this the 21^st). For my tardiness, I will try to spare y’all of my ridiculous rambling. Because you know it happens.

Friday July, 28^th, I finished my position with El Cultural. I kicked it off by playing a few tunes for an intercultural festival for my school with drinks and friends to follow. July 28^th is Peru’s Independence Day! Now you know something new. The drinks were a bit necessary. Good thing I didn’t have to wake up at 5:30 to catch a bus the next morning, right? Wait. I did have to catch a bus. A 10 hr bus. With a touch of Rosy Retrospection, the ride was not that bad. At that moment in time I am sure I would have told you otherwise.

So that was the start. July, 29^th, I took off. Fled. Ran. Leaped. Left. Jumped. Whatever the hell you want to call it. I was headed to Cuzco. In Cuzco awaited antiquated churches and beggars, tourists and thieves, Incan temples and over-priced coffee, do I go on? Super awesome place. Met people from all over the world. A few highlights: good English beer, a wicked burrito (and I use that adjective in more ways than one), textiles, markets, and architecture. The Plaza de Armas was one of the more beautiful plazas that I have seen.

Though Cuzco was nice, I only came to Cuzco for one thing. One big hike through the Salkantay pass that would lead me to the Incan city named Machu Picchu (named after the small mountain range surrounding the city; to this day, the Incan name of the city is unknown). Well, I did exactly that. After 36 hours in the city, I left. Left the hostal at 4:00 a.m. and did not return until Saturday morning. 'Twas good. Very good. Indeed it was my first multi-day trek! I will let the pictures speak for themselves, but I will say this: a good group can seriously elevate the experience (pun intended). And I had one hell of a group. People from Europe, the U.K., Australia, the U.S., New Zealand and even some Brazilians. Not only did I gain a few additional red blood cells to cope with the altitude, but a ton of insight. I do not know if I have ever had so much reasonable political discussion in my life! I guess it is a pretty relevant thing. Something worth learning aside from an Aussie’s perspective on federal banks or a Swiss’ opinion on Laissez-faire capitalism is that no trek is worth making if you’re viewing the entire damn thing through a lens. This is where my pictures slowed. If I found something worth gazing upon, I gazed. If something was marvelous, I marveled. With my own eyes this was done – not with a camera. And ya know what? I do not regret it. I can still feel the crisp, clean mountain air brushing against my face. I can still see the clouds below me and above me as they lingered in valleys and clung onto mountain peaks. I can still taste the cold water taken from the glacial brooks that flowed down the mountain sides. I was selfish, y’all. I drank it in rather than bottling it up. But of the pictures that I do have… well, here you go.

Coffee bean picker. 

I had to take the picture, people. had to. 

After the trek, I hung out with several of my new friends in town while I tried to recoup my strength. With a few passing nights, I felt strong enough to take on the 32 cumulative hour bus ride to Huaraz, Peru – the trekking capital of Peru and home to South America’s tallest tropical mountain: Huascaran (22, 205 feet). The bus ride from Cuzco to Lima was hell. 23 hours of zigzagging through the Andes. It really did not help that I stuffed my face with street food the hour before the departure at a festival in the square (but damn that food was good). I mean, who’s going to turn down stuffed, baked guinea pig served with all sorts of fixins and corn beer! Not this guy. After arriving in Lima, I had to find a connection to Huaraz. Though I wound up with nearly 7 hours to kill, I did pretty much nothing; well, aside from getting lost, finding myself, getting lost again, becoming fine with it, and then finding myself accidentally. That ordeal involved two beers and wanton soup.

After arriving in Huaraz and catching up on some much needed sleep, I hit the town. When I say hit the town, I really meant drank tea and had muffins and llama burgers and fondue and more tea and burritos and cheese cake and French fries and stuff. Buses don’t feed you much. Least not in my standards. In Huaraz, I stayed in another backpacking hostal (of course) where I bunked with two Spaniards and an Argentinean. THESE dudes… These dudes were cool. Extremely dedicated and experienced mountaineers. Totally took me under their wing. Had I had enough gear and time, I would have attempted to summit one of the nearby mountains with them.  Instead, I did some cross-country mountain biking and hiking. I mean… the city is only 10,000 feet above sea-level. How hard can that stuff be? Not hard when you’re already acclimatized! Boo yah! Ok, it was still hard. Huaraz was beautiful. Plain and simple. Well, the country side. If I were to return to Peru once more, that is where I would begin. Same picture mentality applied.

quite possibly one of my favorites. valleys are so nice. 

After 5 or 6 days in Huaraz, I returned to Lima for about 4 days. I stayed in one of the nicer districts called Miraflores. Dude. It was sweet. Great cafes, used book stores, photography exhibits, WI-FI park, random art showings, live music, and, of course, the Pacific. This upscale, artsy community was situated smack dab off of the Pacific Ocean. The second day that I arrived, I took a walk that lead to the water. Within 5 minutes, I was in a wet suit and charging towards that wonderful sound with a 7’5” board by my side. The water was chilly but the waves were nice. To this day, I am quite a terrible surfer, but I have the heart of a seal. Sound ridiculous? That’s because it is. It is quite ridiculous that seals are awesome surfers. Ellos corren con las olas. I don’t give a damn just how big that wave is, but I will try my best to run with it. One of the benefits from a surfer’s district is that you meet other surfers. Real ones. Surfers tend to be pretty cool people. I do not know of it not holding true in fact. During my short stay, I managed to become pretty good friends with a fellow surfer from Sweden. Lima is cool, but I believe it was definitely a little bit cooler thanks to her. I probably would not have even gone to the Billabong surf competition 30 minutes South had she not asked me – yes, I went to surf completion. Yes, the waves were big. How big? Oh… just 30 feet. Ridiculous? Insane? You’re damn right. Lima treated me well.

this wasn't the wave. just sayin'.

The night of August 14^th strange emotions begun to take hold. It was the night that I would head to the airport. It was the night that I would pass through security, pass through customs, pass through the food court not hungry, and board the bird that would carry me home. At the time, grabbing any particular feeling would have been impossible. Peru was different. This trip was different. I worked a real job. I lived a real life. I did not see the half-truths that a country portrays and a tourist sees. I saw it all. Felt it all. Heard it all. To say that I grew would not quite be correct – I believe it falls under the ambiguous shroud of comprehension. To understand. Entender. Saber. Conocer. Tratar. Probar. Escuchar. Sentirse. Those and many more.

I suppose I will visit Peru again. That’s a pretty safe bet. In the mean time, it has given me plenty of things to think about.

Sneak peak: Two of my greatest friends and I are planning a trip to New Zealand. We’re buying one-way tickets. Interpret that however you like ;)

Jonathon

Seaside

Ilo. I like the name, Ilo.

Ilo is what one may consider a boom town. It is on the coast, and its trade was not tourism or gold or oil or anything like that. It used to be a major port that shipped copper among other metals to cities all around the world. Not near as exciting as some others mentioned, but hey, I'll take it. Common trade boats bob next to bright blue wooden fishing boats that fill a harbor with no slips, but with anchors and line and trust. The fog rolls in every morning casting a grey sheen over the water only to be reflected two-fold to the Gringo attempting to take a picture.. The air is thick in Ilo. The temperature is mild in Ilo. Ilo is quiet. Ilo is… sleepy. I may like Ilo itself more than the name. 

 

The birds wait for low tide to search for open barnacles and oysters. They’re not scared of you. There are pelicans that make our Louisianan Brown Pelican look like children. Talking about size, here. No metaphors. There are birds that shine like used motor oil with bright red beaks and red eyes. There are white cranes that dance on the dark, wet sandy rock that Ilo calls beach. Contrast. They have to know how gorgeous they are. Have to.

The seafood is great. A question that I often hear, “Have you tried…[they always pause] Ceviche!?!?!” They get so excited to say that word. I guess because it is in Spanish? Or because it is one of Peru’s most famous dishes. Who knows. Oh! The question. I always answer, “si.” I had ceviche every day that I was in Ilo. My terrible appetite coupled with the anxiety of no seafood upon the return to Arequipa bred one hell of a feeding frenzy. I was the Tiburon. Oysters, muscles, octopus, crab, fish, sea urchin and squid. They all fell.

Once again, I was on the ocean. I lived the ocean life; even if it was only for a few days. I do not know if there is much more of a greater peace. For me anyway. I mean hey, I have friends who prefer other places and that’s… cool.

I realized that rarely do I speak of work in my writting. I wonder if that is actually saying anything considering I normally speak of these travels – type of these travels – in a positive light? Do I subconsciously dislike my job? I do not think so. Maybe I can give myself some credit and define the reason as a subconscious effort to avoid speaking of my job to those of you who may not find it interesting. Got to keep the readers entertained, ya? Though I will say this: I would not work at the Cultural in Ilo. Ok. That’s enough.

Since I am not an artist with words (nor any type of artist, really), I figure a few pictures will help. Not like you haven’t been seeing them thus far.

This week is my last week at the Cultural. What was that you ask? Why am I not returning until August 15^th? Well, that is a great question that I would love to answer! Later. Whenever it is finished. Basically, I am going to backpack Peru for about 3 weeks. I have been terribly grief-stricken about it.

Cheers!

Jonathon

Dude! band photo.

I think my body is especially adapted to hot, humid weather. Ya, I am pretty sure it is. Do you know why? Because I like it. I miss it. Up until now, I have been, at minimum, over 7,200 feet above sea level located in a mountainous desert. Don’t get me wrong, it is pretty cool (puns ALWAYS intended). A change of scenery is always great; I just do not think my body knows how to handle it.

Tacna is located further south; however, it is much more tropical. The sea level is practically the same as Starkville, Mississippi. I can handle that. The mornings are foggy, the air is thick, the colors are bright, the streets are clean, the AIR is clean and the seafood is great. I can handle this place. Not to mention the Cultural here is INCREDIBLE. The teachers were extremely interested in ways to improve their student’s English along with theirs alike. The administration was very organized and things went as planned. You have to realize that this does not happen often. Things as simple as mere scheduling can easily go array, so when an entire trip goes perfectly as planned, you tend to get excited.

We arrived in Tacna on a Friday. Like I said, it is a border town to Chile. Well, I think I said that. If not, there it is. It is on the border of Chile. During the middle of May, Phil went to a small surfing town called Arica. After hearing of his wondiferous time in Arica, we decided to return. I mean, Phil was returning. Alex and I were going for the first time. After quickly checking into our hostel and having a few words with the great owner of Sunny Days (his name is Ross. he is a Kiwi.), we made our way to the beach. The beach… Sometimes you really do not know how badly you miss something until you see it again. It was like I was nearly numb of all feeling for going on two months. Then I saw the Pacific. Then I saw the waves. Then I felt the sand. Then I smelled the ocean. Then I tasted the ocean. Reinvigoration. Lots of it. The Chilean beer to follow was not too bad either. 

 

The next morning we rose early to attempt to catch some waves. Well, we did catch some waves. No pictures. Sorry. But all of us surfed and paddled and floated and said nothing. It was overcast and the swells were not bad. Little choppy, really. The rest of the day we rambled around downtown with some of our new friends from the hostel. I played like… the tenth wheel. Frieken traveling couples. Always being cute and stuff. Drinks and sun and random weddings (we kind of crashed a wedding, y’all) and silly pictures and beach food. I did stump the hell out of my toe. IT NEARLY FELL OFF! So I may be being a bit dramatic. Speaking of stumbling (or stumping), we did manage to stumble into a Chilean festival that was performing a traditional Chilean tribal dance. Wicked. This was a Sunday.

Monday… we called in sick to catch the morning swell. WHOOPS. Not whoops. Totally intentional. Once again, no pictures. Only memories. Good memories. We returned to Tacna later that day to finish our afternoon classes and conversation circles. Man, Tacna was great. We left Tacna Tuesday afternoon to Ilo, Peru.

Ilo is on the Southern Coast of Peru. It’s a sleepy fishing town. I like it. A LOT. Seaside of things.

After this week, we head back to Arequipa. The adventure is slowing. Good thing that after Arequipa, I will be hiking through the Andes Mountains for nearly a week and then up to Machu Picchu. BOOM.

Jonathon

Flying Solo; A Bird's Eye View

Flying Solo; A Bird’s Eye View

For the first time (aside from mere transportation), I traveled by myself. Though I may travel a little more than the average Mississippian, I do not consider myself a world traveler by any means – especially after meeting the Australians. But what I do believe is that recently I grew a little more towards one.

Traveling tends to strip one of their comforts, their familiarities, their rocks, their homes, and maybe even a bit of their sanity. These things may merely be material, though. How about relationships? Bonds? Memories? Comfort? A voice? A set of familiar eyes that understand your same level of confusion after hearing a woman speak Quechua? These things can easily be carried with you. Beside you. These things, along with many more, are embodied in a friend or lover or family member (or all three if you’re into that sort of thing?). Having that one person with you while traveling can make all the difference in the world.  It does make all the difference in the world. How you act. How you listen. Where you walk. Why you walk. When you walk. If you walk? I mean, think about it. If the only person you have to consult with when making decisions is yourself. If the only person you have to share a marvelous sunset with is a complete stranger who speaks a foreign tongue. If you are now walking down a strange alley by accident, who do you turn to? You. It all comes down to you. The thing is… I liked it. It was only about 4 days that I was by myself, but I did. I liked it a lot. Matter a fact, as I type this blog, I am sitting in a small, adobe, reed thatched café with no one else aside from the super server.

I traveled to Puno, Lake Titicaca, Amantani, Taquile, Sillustani and Choquito all on my own accord. Twas lovely. I suppose that you’d like a recap, would ya? Ok. Here it goes.

Thursday July, 5^th, I traveled to the city of Puno, Peru; a city made famous by Lake Titicaca. Not that crazy over Puno. It's ok. The surrounding small towns and the lake is what makes this place. I knew I started work Monday, so I figured I needed to start touring a little early. Ugh. I kind of hate that word. Touring. I was a tourist. But at least not the conventional one? No one can ever guess my nationality? Anyway. After a long bus ride from Arequipa filled with gorgeous views but even more yawns, I arrived that afternoon. I had a little trouble finding my hostel, but once I did, I immediately deemed it a cool place. Like every hostel that I have chosen, it was geared towards backpackers. An afternoon café, a brief walk and a few conversations were had. That night, I settled into my dorm style room, which was only occupied by one other backpacker who happened to be from Patagonia. Sweet. Did I mention that Puno gets cold? The whole being 12,500 feet above sea level coupled with winter bred one hell of a cold night. It was in the low 20’s the first night I arrived. Talk about setting the tone early. Oh yeah! No heater. But hey! The beds were super warm? Just made it hard to get up the next morning.The tea was good. Cocoa tea.

Friday, with the help of the hostel owner whose name is Leo, I meandered down to the harbor around 7:30 a.m. to hop on a boat to the islands of Lake Titicaca. I had no desire to travel to Las Islas Uros, but I wound up getting a tour that saw them anyway. Damn’t. The boat service went to Uros, Amantani, Taquile and back to port. 

Las Islas Uros… I’ll let you do the research, because the historical aspect is way cool. Visiting them is another story. I would not suggest visiting them. I mean, it was the EPIDEMY of a tourist trap. First, pay five Soles to step on the tiny island to basically look at the huts (that they don’t even live in according to the people of Puno) that they called their homes, take a picture and then buy their crappy, little, “artesan” thingys. You can tell that I am not that fond of this memory. Thing was, I was not the only person visiting this place that instantly realized how entirely fabricated the entire image was. Nearly everyone on the same ferry looked around in amazement; not at this pretend life, but in the realization that it was, indeed, pretend. So here a few pictures. But… Whatever. Amantani was more better.

After Uros, we set sail! Nah… Not really sail. That would have been much better. To be honest, probably faster too? What was I talking about? Oh yeah! Amantani! The island of Amantani lies on the Peruvian side of Lake Titicaca, which houses a very unique culture of islanders who speak Quechua and Aymara – both Incan languages – as their primary language(s) and Spanish as their secondary. The island was absolutely, in every way, beautiful. The moment we pulled into port, waves of serenity came washing over me that cleansed all of my doubt, my fears, my negativity, my stress and my inhibitions only to be replaced with a sense of tranquility. Man, that was a nice feeling. To stay on this island means to stay with a family. No exceptions. I was not complaining. It was cheap. It was nice. It was warm. It was real. I hiked up to the house (all of the hiking was up, not down) with my new family and was fed a delicious, large lunch. Yes, I was happy. Afterwards, I hiked up to the top of the island (of course) to visit two pre-Incan ceremonial sites. Yes, pre. There was no one else there. It was 14,000 feet above sea level. I could see the Bolivian mountains in the distance. Huge snow-capped Andes smiling at me from across the lake. The lake was blue. The grass waved at me with every passing wind. At that moment… words fail. Pictures fail. All fails but feeling. And what a feeling it was. Eventually, my new German friend hiked up to join along with several of the other Frenchies, the Brits, and an Irishwoman. We shared this experience together. It was nice. Hell, even getting lost on the way back down was nice!

Later that night, I wore traditional Amantani clothes and danced traditional Amantani dances. It was someone’s birthday? For whatever it was, I was grateful. Ever had dinner by candle light? Of course you have. How about because there aren’t any lights? And that is your only source of light? Some people from the coast have, that be for true (Katrina reference). Tangent aside, it only added to realness of this island.

The following morning after a great breakfast with fresh tea clipped from the garden, we left for the port to head to the other island of Taquile.

Taquile, like Amantani, is home to several Pre-Incan sites along with an indigenous population that has been pretty well reserved. For example, one of the traditions was (and still is) if you were a single man, you wear a sack-hat of red and white, whereas a married man wore a red with blue stripped sack-hat. ALSO! Depending on which direction the hat was folded for the single man declared if he was looking for a relationship, looking for an “adventure,” or not interested. HOW CONVENIENT IS THAT! Talk about putting your intentions straight out there. Though we were only on this island for several hours, it was quite fun. By that time I was beginning to really find my niche with my new travel companions. 

I met a woman from Ireland who lived and taught in Spain. She was passing through and met the love of her life. She was originally headed for Australia, but never made it. That was 35 years ago. Granted the love story was great, but you can only imagine my reaction when she told me she was only TESOL certified and teaching full-time at a language institute in Alicante, Spain. I’M TESOL CERTIFIED. I have some experience? I have some references? Then she proceeded to tell me that a lot of European nations, especially the ones that are hurting the most (the coolest ones – Greece, Spain, etc.) have TONS of opportunities to teach English and easily make enough money to live. We talked of these things over Huajsapata, which is a strong, warm, spiced wine with a shot of grape brandy mixed in. Needless to say, I was very excited when we finished having our conversation. Possibilities. Lots of possibilities. Too many. It is kind of confusing.

Tangent absolved! We returned to Puno and all had dinner together. This is where the previous conversation was held. We exchanged information. I wrote my name on a napkin. People still have trouble with my last name. It’s ok. Great food and drink coupled with an equal level of great conversation is a pretty damn good night in my book. That’s where it went. In my book. I don’t plan on losing it.

The next day I visited the village of Chocuito, which is located outside of Puno. There was not one other pale face. SCORE! The village was small with a great view of the lake. I visited a fertility temple, the plaza and had lunch. No one rushed me. No one argued with my lunch choice. It was fried trout, if you want to know. No one was there. One of my favorite pictures was taken here. I also visited an Incan fertility temple. I mean, they weren’t hiding what they were trying to accomplish. Hell, I instantly felt fertile the moment I walked through the door. Nah, not really. It was pretty funny though?

Sillustani is not a town, but more of a tomb. Well, they are tombs. Lots of them. Huge towers on the top of a hillside overlooking the lake. There are Pre-Incan and Incan tombs alike. The bigger they are, the more important the person was. Even in death the rich were trying to show off. Regardless, it was pretty nice. The views to the lake were gorgeous. There were several different tours viewing the same area as I was, which severely impeded my attempt to raise the dead, but I sure as hell gave it my best. Shouting Incan incantations at the tombs attracted a few visitors including the only other American. Matt was his name. Ok, so the incantation thing may have been a bit fabricated, but I did meet a guy named Matt. He was from North Carolina. Fellow Southerner! Wound up having dinner that night together where he offered to buy my dinner. Coming on to me or just an extremely nice guy? Nah, he was a very cool dude.

So there is it is: Las Islas Uros, Amantani, Taquile, Choquito and Sillustani. Saw some sights, hiked some hikes and made some friends. Yes, I enjoyed it very much, but that doesn’t really give it justice. I found the entire experience quite liberating. I did it on my own? And I enjoyed it? A lot! Traveling by your lonesome. It is the ultimate freedom. Man, I have a feeling those 4ish days are going to change the way I travel a lot in the future. Good thing I have another 3 weeks of it before I return back to the U.S. to really see what it is made of.

I’m afraid to tell you that because I am publishing this blog so late that my words have lost their luster. Buy me a few drinks when I get back, and I will gladly revisit this in full-depth (most likely whether you ask about it or not).

Next blog: Arica, Chile and Tacna, Peru.

Jonathon