Peru 19 - Dance of the Yellow Fever

Nov 20, Playa Hermosa, Costa Rica

We have discovered how to get completely painless yellow fever shots. A couple of days ago, at the Taca airlines counter in Lima, Peru, we have checked in our luggage for Costa Rica and the ticket counter girl is wavering our boarding passes in front of our eyes, but asks for our yellow fever shot certificates before she will hand them over. Annie and I are speechless. We don't have them, since Costa Rica doesn't require them from people travelling from US or Canada. Unless they first stop over in Peru. This last tidbit of info was lacking for us, and suddenly we were “trapped” in Lima. The ticket agent points to the local health office at the end of the terminal – perhaps they could help us? But even if we get a yellow fever shot now, you still cannot leave the country for another 10 days – for it to take effect I presume. I envision another 10 days at Eco Truly Park with a sore shoulder. And in 10 days Annies flight from Costa Rica back to the USA leaves.
We leave the secure area of checkin and wander into the airport Health Office. The lady says we can get our shots dated today, but each airline has the right to refuse boarding if we don't have the correct health documents – that is, yellow fever dated at least 10 days ago. Hmm, perhaps we could sneak into Costa Rica on another airline. I head back to check with another airline to see if they require the same health documentation (I am a naive traveller), but before I can get there I am bombarded with the usual “Taxi?” chorus from a billion taxi drivers. I lower my head and charge thru them like a bull let loose in the Madrid streets. But somehow above the taxi cacophony two words penetrate my shields: yellow fever. Huh? I turn around and a well dressed stranger with ID around his neck is asking me about yellow fever documents. How did he know about my lack of health documents? Turns out the Taca girl has surreptitiously called him on his cell to “bump” into me as I cross the unsecured area of the airport. He tells me he can get me the necessary health certificates for Costa Rica entry in 10 minutes. All I need to do is give him our names, birth dates and passport numbers. Oh, and pay a “fee” for his somewhat unorthodox health services. I smell a scam. I double-check with another airline – yes, you need yellow fever documentation to get to Costa Rica from Peru – its the CR government requirement you ignorant stupid gringo.
So we take the plunge – we give our ID to this man – in about 5 minutes we are holding Peruvian stamped health documents that state we both got yellow fever shots two weeks ago. We hand them over to a new Taca girl – she is young and confused (ie innocent and new at her post) about the already printed boarding passes – something is fishy here, but her co-worker sly tells her its all ok and soon we are jetting to Costa Rica, having danced the Yellow Fever Dance. Not only were these yellow fever shots painless (and much cheaper than US prices), but our new health documents are good for another 10 years. Life is Good!

Peru 18 - Ruined in 10 Days

November 17, leaving Peru

Sometimes you get carried away. Annie arrived in Lima 10 days ago, and since then, we bused to Nasca, flew over the Nasca lines – huge drawings in the dusty plains that can only be appreciated in the air – then bused 13 hours from Nasca to Cusco. That last bus ride was a ride from hell – things could only get better after that. Buses only leave at night from the coast for this journey into the Andes – what, no daytime buses so we could appreciate the changing scenery for dusty coastal dunes to pristine snow-capped peaks? No, I was told – only night buses.
Our first bus ride from Lima to Nasca was like flying overseas. Checkin at Cruz del Sols Lima headquarters was like a mini-airport – clean, efficient, and completely computerized. Onboard , upstairs and busing south along the dry coast, a uniformed “flight” attendant gave us blankets, pillows, drinks and a meal. He spoke a few languages so he could converse with all passengers. If Greyhound operated this way, North American airlines would be in trouble.
Of the 4 bus companies in Nasca, only one had room leaving that night, and we were eager to get to Cusco. She (bus ticket girl) told me it left at 5pm but didn't have any “beds” - that is, fully reclining seats, nor was any meal served. I returned to the hotel to ask Annie if this would be suitable. Yes. I returned to the bus station. The ticket girl then told me there was a bus at 7pm – maybe I would prefer that one since it had “beds”? Hmm, why didn't she tell me this earlier. Oh, and this later bus had dinner. Why did a 5pm bus have no dinner but the 7pm one did? I have no answer. I returned once again to the hotel to confer with Annie. Yes, take 7pm one. I return to the bus depot and attempt to buy the ticket. Sorry, cash only (I had paid with credit card for previous bus ride). I left the bus depot once again in search of an ATM. Good thing I had all afternoon to buy two bus tickets.
We left Nasca at 7, and for the next 13 mostly pitch dark hours, we were thrown about the semi-reclining seats (there were no “beds”) as the bus careened into the Andes on tight switchbacks for the majority of the trip. I threw up at least 5 times, and the bus toilet would spray chemical solution all over you when you flush it as you attempted not to get thrown against the tiny walls. In Peru? I recommend flying over busing if not a coastal route.
Annie and I both enjoyed Cusco, although we didn't miss the city noise (disco 2 doors down) when we soon left for the Sacred Valley. We visited ruins in Cusco, Machu Picchu, Ollantyatambo, and Pisac. The train ride from Ollantya to Machu Picchu was absolutely incredible – deep narrow valleys, high peaks, ruins everywhere. Following the Urubamba river, we descended down from mostly barren slopes and cacti of the upper Sacred Valley into the Eyebrow of the Amazon – the beginnings of a rainforest with the air warm and moist – orchids growing from tall trees and forest growth all the way up the steep granite walls. The train was clean and also operated like an airline – smartly attired attendants who served us food and drinks on this fairly short train ride. They even did a fashion show of local alpaca wear for the rich and famous to purchase (ie not us).
The train unloads us at Agua Callientes – a town positioned 1 km from the base of Machu Picchu, and would look like a Shangra Lai if the town itself was not so ugly – like a mini-Lima dropped in the Andes. Every restaurant served the same menu, and ugly concrete construction was the theme. We ran through it, hiking the 1km downstream and right at the base of Machu Picchu we find a delightful green carpet to pitch our tent right on the Urubamba river. Only two other tents – we more or less have the campground to ourselves. Bliss.

Next morning we hike up the steep trail – about an hour to the entrance to Machu Picchu. Beside the entrance is The Sanctuary, the only hotel right on the mountain. Its room rates start at over $1000 US (yes, US dollars, not Sols). Our camping cost us $5. Weather is warm and misty, but the sun peaks out and we can see all the ruins, even from the next local peak of Winyapicchu. Rain only descends at the end of our incredible time at this sacred site – one of the most amazing human constructions anywhere on this world.
We train back to Ollantyatamba, staying at the delightful Hostel del Orchidas, and visit more ruins up the local hills. This town still uses the same narrow street layout (and stones!) that the Incas laid down centuries ago. Then a fairly short bus ride to Pisac, for ruins stretched out along a long high ridge. We are blown away by all this amazing stonework – still standing centuries after continuous use and many earthquakes. But this whirlwind Peruvian adventure has taken its toll on us – we are both completed ruined out and exhausted. Downtime under a palm tree in Costa Rica is our only plan.

Peru 17 - Abandoned in the Un-Sacred Valley or Self-Service Eco Yoga

Nov 5, Ego Yoga Retreat, on the porch

The week has gone quickly, and I will heading out tomorrow for either another spiritual-oriented farm (la Casa de Gopal) if there is room, else bedding down in the nearby town of Pisac – a mini-Cusco – for it is a popular tourist destination. Both are only a short ride away.
To sum up this week, Eco Yoga Retreat has been abandoned, with only Martin here to greet us, and Prasada - one of the “owners” - invited a group of stoned travelers to stay here a couple of night ago – Trina and I were under the impression that this is a spiritual retreat and had a no-drugs policy. Martin (from Spain) was a young ex-devotee and now smoking weed – albeit off the property. Confusion abounded the first few days. Trina (who first came here to volunteer about a week before I arrived) is now in charge (ha!), as none of the owners are running the show here. Rama had passed on the key to Trina to cover while he was away teaching yoga for Chaityana in Cusco. Chaityana was away in New Mexico. Prasada was working 6 days a week in Pisac and had just moved to Eco Yoga to live – although Rama wasn't aware of this. Trina was doing her best to figure things out and try and find out who was really in charge here – no easy task when there are no phones nor internet. Basically, Trina and I ran the show here, with Martin occasionally pitching in. There is a sign on the road: Eco Yoga. I asked Trina to paint a sign to hang below it: Self-Serve.
One early morning Trina and I cross over the river and climb the mud steps to a small farm for fresh milk and eucalyptus honey. We missed the milk (5am or its gone to market), and all honey had been shipped to Cusco markets. On the way back we hear roosters and I comment that we could get fresh eggs – Trina says eggs are not allowed in our Krishna-based community, but after Prasada's stoned friends, I'm guessing a couple of eggs might be allowed in this Un-Sacred Valley. We both laugh.
One morning after another yoga bust due to Prasada's lack of clarity on scheduling, I walked down beside the Urubamba river and visited Vichu, an authentic tiny Peruvian hamlet, far from any tourist route or bus. Other than the ubiquitous TV satellite dishes, this adobe town probably hasn't changed much over the centuries. The church was locked, but the chickens in front of the wooden door made for a Kodak moment.
The yoga building here is the best I've seen anywhere. A spacious adobe octagon, Inca style windows (trapezoids), and a huge mandala skylight from which to view passing clouds during savasana. The east facing wall is open to the river just a few yards away, so the flow of water flows to your ears. All this place needs is people and administration to make it go. Perhaps in another era. I leave tomorrow. Both Trina and Martin are leaving the day after. Full self-service after that for anyone who follows our footsteps.

Peru 16 - Escape from Eco Truly

Nov 4, Friday, Eco Yoga Retreat, near Vichu, Peru

Last Monday (Oct 31) was my planned escape from Eco Truly Park. The night before I discover one of the kitchen helpers is also heading to the Lights of Lima (future book title) – perhaps we could share a moto-taxi in the morning to take us to the Pasamayo bus stop? I cannot call to reserve a moto-taxi – the community phone is out of money again – they pay bits here and there – kind of like pay-as-you-go phones in North America. But as luck would have it, the kitchen helper has a cell phone and will reserve a taxi – I wanted around 6:30am – she says something like probably no one will show up until 7ish. So I plan for a 6:30am departure. I'm awoken around 5:45am as a moto-taxi whizzes by the volunteer “temple”. That's odd, I thought. I get up, pack, and say goodbye to the early risers, including Pancho who has been in the temple since 4am (the life of a devotee!). By 6:45am another moto-taxi shows up, but my ride companion is nowhere to be found – I suspect she snuck out with the 5:45am taxi.
At the bus depot in the tiny hamlet of Pasamayo, I find yet another popular twin calendar combo on the shacks wall – one calendar with a religious motif (some saint), the other calendar a busty pin-up girl from some other country. I have seen this calendar combo before – sex and saints. It reminds me of Tibetan art, where the profane and sacred hang side by side, although I must confess the Tibetan art tends to be of a somewhat better artistic quality.
My bus ride into Lima goes smoothly – thankfully the ubiquitous in-road movies (twin CRT TV sets hanging from the bus's ceiling) are not blaring out at 7:15am – one is off, the other is flickering a slow disco death. I arrive at the airport with plenty of time to spare, so call up my amigo Ulises (from couchsurfing) and meet him for a brief visit. Ever the don Juan – he was busy setting up some cheap accommodations for three Swedish girls arriving that afternoon, and he said his girlfriend (from Denmark?) was arriving in a few days as well.
Flight to Cusco was cloudy, but I did get my first glimpses of the Andes – a fantastic mountain range that I've been dreaming about seeing most of my life. Cusco is nestled in the Andes at around 12,000', so coming straight from sea level meant I wasn't running around too quickly or very far. I did get light-headed and some mild head-aches, but overall was not bed-ridden nor require those portable-oxygen chambers they use at Everest base camp (I jest). Cusco is an amazing cultural centre in the Andes – the complete opposite to Lima. Concrete is to Lima as Cobblestones is to Cusco. Huge churches soar above many fountain-filled plazas. Hostals and great restaurants are by the dozen on every street. Inca ruins at the top of the hill, a mere 30 minutes walk from the central Plaza del Armas. Painted doorways and stone walls and curved roof tiling everywhere. I am in love with Cusco, and my camera battery is soon dead. I stay at Hostal Felix ($6 for private room) – recommended by resourceful Ulises that morning – and immediately bump into Trina, an American volunteer that I met a couple of weeks ago at Eco Truly Park. Not only was that meeting an amazing “co-incidence”, but she soon told me she was off tomorrow to Eco Yoga Retreat in the Peruvian Sacred Valley – exactly where I was going tomorrow – and she could show me the way. As usual, life just unfolds so smoothly that I cannot believe it. We spend that Cusco night out on the street, where zillions of tiny trick-or-treaters have flooded the plazas and cobble stoned streets. One family is fully decked out in pirate costumes and stand in front of a cross in front of the huge ancient church – I snap off at least a dozen photos.
At sunrise (5ish) and with 4 solid hours of sleep, I hop into the hot shower again for a luxurious soak – recall that I haven't had a hot shower for the past month at Eco Truly – and then slowly walk uphill to visit the ruins just above the city at sunrise. A solitary grass-munching alpaca completes the Peruvian scene – I'm not in Kansas anymore. At the morning market (in a roofed plaza about the size of Walmart), vendors sell all types of food, and I almost get bowled over as this small Peruvian comes running by me with a full sized dead hog (must have weighed about 200 lbs – the hog, that is) on his back.
Later I meet up with Trina, and we walk to the bus depot to catch a ride to Eco Yoga Retreat, near the tiny hamlet of Vichu. We discover the regular buses are not running – for it's a holiday, but somehow find a Toyota minivan that is heading to San Salvador, near Vichu, and we pile on board. Before we reach the city limits, the “bus” has stopped and picked up many more riders. Now this van is equipped with 15 seats, but I counted around 25 people – there may have been more under the seats, but it was totally hilarious, as both Trina and I had our first ToyatoVan Yoga session as people pressed in and out of the van – we required some odd contortions to fit people in. Somehow we made it to Vichu, and we both ejected ourselves from the van and proceeded up the stone steps to Eco Yoga Retreat, deep in the Peruvian Andes, beside the Urubamba River.

Peru 15 - Harmonious Strawberries Fields for Ever

Oct 29, under moon sliver and headlamp

Ever since I saw and heard a harmonium play at a yoga festival this last summer, I've been wanting to get my hands on one. A harmonium is the offspring of the piano and the bagpipes – technically a wind instrument (bellows moved by one hand) – but with a tiny keyboard not unlike a piano – white and black keys. Yesterday my dream came true. Last weekend during the Sunday festival, a young German devotee played the harmonium and sang as well. I asked if she could show me how it works, and soon I was pumping air into a small box, while my fingers completely mangled the tiny keyboard and screeches filled the temple air. The birds flew away but I was enjoying the privilege to play a soaring instrument that India has adopted for its kirtan and other musical endeavours (this harmonium was made in India). Its particular forte (haha) is in meditation for unlike a piano where a keys sound soon dies away, a key pressed on the harmonium will go on for ever as long as the bellows is bellowed. The droning sound of a single key can be played in waves of volume as you move the bellows lightly or strongly – accompanying that with you favourite mantra is a shoe-in – although I've noticed the devotees here are shoeless so that word is completely inappropriate.

This morning I had the joy of working with Isabella, a young Mexican full of light and laughter and amazing stories and on a strong spiritual path that leaves most of us in the cosmic dust. She is studying eco-tourism, but she is leaning towards painting as her true passion. We worked together on the caigua cart, transforming the green and brown ancient veggie cart into a riot of bright colours. This cart stands near the front foyer, so roving tourists can buy organic veggies as they pass by. We traded stories on kayak surfing, lucid dreaming, Carlos Castenda, Carl Jung, snorkeling, as well as sharing memories of Puerto Escondido in the stunning Oxaca province of Mexico. She commented on how painting is her meditation, like sweeping is mine. Incorportating meditation in ones work or lifestyle is a great way to get this ancient practice out of the sacred halls and remote mountain tops. As a large bowl of freshly picked strawberries was placed on the the caigua cart, Strawberry fields forever sprung up, for indeed, as you walk down the dusty roads here you see strawberries growing everywhere – they thrive well here and are sweeter than our North American counterparts. Isabella mentioned that the Beatles have many connections to this corner of the world. My Sweet Lord by George Harrison is about Krishna, and not the Christian God that I had always mistaken the lyrics for (listening to lyrics is not my forte).

Vera has a copy of Samsara on her laptop and movie night is about to start. Its a great movie and much more appropriate than the prison movies that the devotees put on a few weeks ago.

Peru 14 - The P-Files or Why is Krishna Blue?

Oct 27, after laundry done but before breakfast

The hairs on the back of my neck are still raised as I type this in the secrecy of my adobe lair. My morning sweeping ritual is a total bust, for there is not a single broom to be found. Like toilet paper, shower heads and wheelbarrows, brooms are on of the growing list of items that disappear into the foggy air. I have a growing list of questions for Scully:

1. If the aliens are very very tall, why are so many doorways under 6 feet?
   
2. Why are the shower-heads removed every time after I put them on?
   
3. Why is Krishna always depicted in blue? (see Avatar)
   
4. Are witches in cohorts with the aliens or has Hogsworth opened a Peruvian academy? (hint: missing brooms)
   
5. Why is there a steady stream of buses and trucks 24/7 on the above highway (hint: watch the last few scenes of the first (1950s) Invasion of the Body Snatchers movie)
   
6. What is really behind the locked door on Truly #54?
7. Why do all the dogs here look like they have been genetically experimented on?
8. Why is serving one large hard cookie considered “dinner”?
9. Why is there only one verse in that “Hare Krishna” tune?
10. Why do only the volunteers get sick (at a fairly high rate)? Is it that experimental what-the-heck-is-this hot beverage that they innocently serve us every night?
    
11. How do all the moto-taxi and colectivo taxi drivers know exactly where the volunteers want to go without us telling them?
    
12. Why are there no post offices in Peru? (assumption: all aliens are telepathic and don't need primitive forms of communication).

On post offices – when I first went to Pasamayo, a town with five stores (one furniture, one baby clothing, the rest like miniatures 7-11s), I could see why there was no post office. But when I went to the next big town of Chancay (pronounced Shang-Hai by Spanglishers), a town with a port, a couple of refineries, and many many pharmacies, I asked for directions to the post office, and, after getting a few “I dunno's”, I finally got the real answer – there are no post offices in Chancay. There are no mail boxes. There are no stamps. I had a time-sensitive document (i.e. California speeding ticket to pay) to send, and was getting desperate – perhaps Lima (8 bazillion and counting) might have a PO? Two visiting girls from Lima – who work in an office there – perhaps they could stamp and mail my letter? “We don't know of any post offices in Lima, but we will try for you”, they reply. Gazooks!!!! That night I kneel down and pray for Krishna to manifest a Lima PO – a completely selfish act that will probably send me to a Hindu Hell.

Peru 13 -Tall and Skinny Eco-Aliens

Oct 26, 2011, after a chess game

One of the semi-devotees (he and family show up for meals and the odd ceremonies) plays chess, and after a 3-game losing streak (he's a fine player), it was satisfying to finish our afternoon chess session today with a tie. Perhaps it was the smell of burning plastic in the air that threw his game off – the irony of burning plastic at an “Eco” park.

My sweeping meditations (haha) have progressed quite well – yesterday I started in the bathrooms and ended up just at the entrance way of the inner temple – a flow from the gross to the sublime. By the temple a devotee asks me what I am doing as I sweep the tiled floor. Perhaps they have never seen a volunteer “volunteer” their free time with a broom. I replied “meditating” and that seemed to satisfy the query.

I have now narrowed down the physical structure of the aliens that created this pod community. On the surface this place claims to be a Krishna collective of humans, but I suspect the only humans here are the volunteers. This thought arose early yesterday morning, as I trudged along the pathway with a wheelbarrow full of crap – literally – for I was taking care of the volunteers composting toilet by transferring the contents to a corner composting heap at the far edge of the property. The wheelbarrow is of standard South American design – creaky loose wheel, not an inch of unbent metal on it, and in place of plastic handles two pieces of dowel had been jammed into the metal tubes, one of which would slide out if you slightly tilt the wheelbarrow the wrong way – very stressful if you are carrying an upright bucket of odoriferous that could at any second tip over. Anyway, as I manoeuvred between the bumps on the path, I realized I could hardly fit between the wheelbarrow handles. I am a skinny rake, so for me to have to squeeze between the handles is a bit odd. Then I remembered the homemade ladders here, with steps so far apart that even from my 6' frame I have to stretch to make the next step. Clearly, when the “Krishnas” assume their native alien form, they are very very tall and very very skinny.