The only thing that should be added to scotch is more scotch

The wedding was on Saturday, and it is monday afternoon and I am still hungover. Quite an event to be sure.

I made the typical American mistake and showed up to the wedding 30 minutes early to get a seat and settle in (this was a trick taught to me by my always-punctual father). Little did I know that I would be there 45 minutes before people even started thinking about showing up. I know about Bolivian time, but I figured they would at least start weddings on time. As the bride was walking down the isle, the church was about half full with people trickling in as the ceremony processed. Because the bride was a former miss-Bolivia, the TV station camera crews were at the wedding too, which provided further distraction among the many erupting cellphones.

After the church ceremony we caravaned over to the well decorated reception hall for dinner, drinks and dancing. Each table was given a bottle of Scotch. This was the first sign of things to come. They need to put a general warning on the Johnny Walker bottles, that reads something like "Contents of bottle may taste like fire at first, but after a few drinks, you won't be able to distinguish the contents of this bottle with the contents of an Dasani bottle. Furthermore, repeated consumption of this liquid will lessen your inhibitions and make you dance like a retard. (Especially if you are the only gringo at a Bolivian wedding). Don't give to minors. But if you do, take pictures." Or something like that.

The reception lasted until 7:30AM. I bailed out at 5:30AM because my ride was leaving, and my feet weren't cooperating properly. (Although, I am happy to report that I wasn't the drunkest person in the car ride home. That award goes to the gentleman who fell out of the car in front of his house. He too failed to read the General Warning label on the Scotch Bottles.

I was pretty useless on Sunday and got on a 12-hour overnight bus which, due to road blocks of civil unrest, took 18 hours. Now I am waiting to board another 18 hour overnight bus to get back to Chile. I can't wait to see what they are protesting in the streets tonight!!

The upside of a bad economy

A few bullet points:

- Santa Cruz has been really hot and muggy of late, so I slept with the windows wide open the other night, which prompted a rouge brigade of mosquitos to surge a sneak attack upon every inch of my body, leaving dime sized welts all over. This leads me to my next topic: is there anything more satisfying (yet you know it's a bad idea) than scratching bug bites??? (Maybe the saran wrap over the toilet prank.. But that is it.).

- I played golf the other day for the first time since last fall. I shot a 54 on the front nine and a 40 on the back nine. This leads me to my next topic: Is there anything more frustrating than sucking at golf?? (Maybe having someone saran wrap your toilet when you have diarrhea).

-I was invited to go to Gaby's brother's wedding, and accepted before they had a chance to rescind their invitation. I am psyched to go to a Bolivian wedding. Plus, Miss Bolivia 2000 (the bride-to-be) is sure to have some talented looking friends. One minor dilema is that evening attire isn't exactly a useful item to have in my traveling backpack, and thusly, I have been scurrying around town trying to throw together a respectable wedding outfit that will hopefully:

1) Fit. (Most bolivians are not tall and lanky with blond hair and bugbites all over them).
2) Not be a marching band outfit or matador costume with shiny buttons (because almost every clothing shop displays these types of clown outfits in the front windows).
and 3) be affordable.

I happened to kill all three birds with a stone or two as I am borrowing a shirt and tie, I have black socks, I bought a pair of shiny black shoes for $10.99 and I rented a suit for... (drumroll please).... $7.50. I LOVE BOLIVIA.

Nobody likes me, everybody hates me, I guess I'll go eat Coagulated Cowblood Sausage

As Americans (and I am making the general assumption that all four of you who read this are of U.S. origin, especially since you are (in alphabetical order) my: Brother, Dad, Mom, Sister), we live structured day to day lives and enjoy rigid scheduling that allows us to know WHERE we are going to be WHEN we going to be there. We believe punctuality is a virtue and tardiness, in addition to being a funny sounding word, is a personality flaw. (ps. when is someone going to invent the word partiness/partyness?... or fartiness for that matter?)

At some point in our lives, we have all been told to show up 5-15 minutes early for an appointment, interview or experimental medical treatment screening that pays $50 per day if you are a good candidate and don't eat too many of the free donuts. Similarly, how many times have we wanted to bludgeon the decreer/messenger of the old adage: "the early bird gets the worm!!" (Even if said bird DOES get said worm, it CAN'T taste nearly as delicious as their gummy counterparts).

Well, in Bolivia (and the rest of South America for that matter) they have NO concept of being on time. Their motto is more akin to: "the early bird gets to wait for the other birds because all the other birds don't give a shit, and if you DO happen to eat the worm, you can rest assured you will vomit and/or diarrhea for one calendar day". This is because South Americans are very adaptable and volatile plans are the norm. (and their food causes tummy problems).

I mention this because I have been trying to meet up with my New Zealand buddy in Santa Cruz for the last few days, and every time I tell him to meet us somewhere at say, 11AM, we get in the car at 1pm to meet him.

This is where I postulate that South American's need cell phones infinitely more than U.S. Americans. At least in the states we make plans with rendevoux points and meeting times, and typically stick to our appointments. Here, if you tried to meet up with friends without a cellphone, you'd always be that person at a bar sitting alone, and when people ask if they can grab one of your unoccupied chairs, you'd respond: "Sorry, my friends are coming" and then look around to confirm that you are searching for your friends. The worst part about it is you don't have a cellphone or the accompanying games to pass the time while your friends are standing you up.

On the topic of eating worms: I ate some sausage last night and after I swallowed it, my friends informed me that I had just consumed coagulated cowblood sausage. Later that night, I squirted an entire tube of colgate triple action toothpaste in my mouth and burned my clothes.

This one goes out to the single men in Greenland.. God Speed.

After 30+ nights of subpar sleeping, the sleep deprivation has finally caught up with me in the form of a hacking cough, a nasty sore throat and a cold that is too legit to quit. On the bright side, I left the high altitude areas and I am now in Santa Cruz, Bolivia which is unofficially, the "good-looking person" capital of Bolivia.

I am staying with my step-sister's (Elizabeth A.) friend from College (Gaby), who lives in Santa Cruz and is a great host. Gaby literally knows everyone in Santa Cruz. When we walk down the street, she has to stop every 5th step as a new person she knows appears. (I imagine it is what Big Bird or Elmo experiences when walking down sesame street. EVERYONE KNOWS THEM!)

As Gaby's brother, who is getting married on Saturday to Miss Bolivia 2000, pointed out, "There are two hells in Bolivia: 1) Being single in Oruro (A Bolivian city that has reportedly been beaten with the ugly stick) and 2) being married in Santa Cruz".

He said this in front of his fiance, which made me chuckle.

Beersmuggleosaurus Rex.

I spent 5 days in Sucre, Bolivia, which be some sort of touristic record. It is an ok city, but there isn't much to do other than take spanish classes, eat fruit drinks and see dinosaur tracks. The classes were above average, the drinks were refreshing and the tracks made an impression. (Handsdown, the 3rd most awesome pun I have ever made).

The most interesting thing about the tracks was that they were located along on a vertical wall, making it look like dinosaurs could walk up walls like a spider, gecko or suction cup man. [To facilitate visually: Imagine the Green Monster at Fenway Park was grey with T-rex, brontosaurus, tricerotops, etc footprints all over the wall, and that is what it looked like, only the wall was a lot bigger and there weren't any drunk red sox fans swearing or eating hot dogs on top.]

The explanation of the vertical prints was not that dinosaurs could walk up vertical slopes, hills or artificial baseball boundaries, but rather the dinosaurs left those tracks on flat land and then over the millions of years of platectonics and Continental shifts (which created the Andes Mountain Range), the flat land was gradually levered up to its current vertical position. (I wish I could explain it better, but I am not a paleontologist, geologist or capable of wracking my brain for a more involved explanation.)

On the topic of stadiums: My friend, Kelly K., and her family are longtime Buffalo Bills season ticket holders (poor saps), and they have been going to games since she was a little kid. I mention this because her father is a very cool guy who has his priorities in order. (He can also bowl perfect 300 game, which is admirable). When Kelly was 10, her father suffed her jacket and snow pants with 12-ounce cans of beer to sneak them into the stadium for consumption during the game. On one particular occasion while entering the stadium, Kelly (10-years old mind you) was stopped by security and searched. The guards found the beers hidden amongst her outwear and started demanding who the girl's parents were. Knowing he had already tragically lost the beer, Mr. K continued walking into the stadium pretending not to know her.

This would typically be Exhibit B for dead-beat-dadhood, but I can assure you, Kelly's dad is legit. (Unlike the Buffalo Bills chances for the next 10-15 years).

The blind leading the blinder

Since I have been in South America for 5 months and I still don't speak spanish "fluently", I went to Sucre, Bolivia to live with a family and take spanish classes last week, hoping I would leave the city with a greater understanding of the Spanish. Unintentionally, I left with a great understanding of english.

The house: A typical bolivian house costs $20,000 to build. In the U.S., $20,000 is easily spent on window finishings and throw pillows. (don't even get me started on the uselessness of throw pillows). This house was still very much underconstruction, as I had to climb over stacks of bricks, mounds of sand and coils of wire to get to the bathroom. And when I finally arrived to the bath room , I was typically greeted by a centrally located pile of dog shit left by the family's friendly pooch. Unhygenically, these were typically left for over 24 hours, and soon after they were cleaned, the dog would renew the bathroom's subscription to his poo.

Also, the house had exceptionally low doorways. On exactly 4 occasions, I crushed my head on one of these "homestead quirks" and Two of these collisions occured within 3 minutes of each other, which made me feel especially stupid while crippled on the floor clutching my head. Happily, I only drew blood once.

The Class: My professor said I spoke spanish "Muy Bien" (Which means Very Good, or possibly; Very Bean). After our first lesson, she asked if I wanted to help teach her english class. Since this extra class would keep me away from the host-family home and thusly lower my odds of brain damage and stepping in dog shit, I agreed.

Little did I know that by "help", she actually meant "you teach the class by yourself (eventhough you have never taught before and don't really know what a pro-noun means) while I go do other stuff". It was great. I love teaching english to beginners, as you have control of what they know. (This is probably Exhibit A of why I should not be aloud to teach).

Important phrases I taught: "You need to wash yourself", "Give me your wallet", Ditto (to be said after someone speaks in english to you and you don't understand), "sun's out, guns out", etc.

My worst student was named Axel.

(On a side note: I would like to apologize to every teacher I have ever had that I laughed at when they got chalk on their hands, clothes, faces, pants, etc. At the end of my first class, my jacket looked like the baseboard of a fingerprint crime scene investigation).

La Pazshank Redemption

La Paz, Bolivia: Under Things to Do & See:

San Pedro Prison- The 1500 prisoners here engage in various activities to get money to survive. English speaking inmates make money by conducting escorted tours of the prison- like a zoo, but with people. To contact your guide, walk confidently through the main gate and tell one of the prisoners in the courtyard that you are looking for Willie, James or Thomas. Don't fuss with the police or guards, but deal directly with the prisoners instead. Bring another $20 USD in small bills if you want to buy any of the toys or other handicrafts made my the prisoners. There are also a few good restaurants inside if the tour whets your appetite. Bring ID, but no valuables or cameras. (2002, South America Lonely Planet)..

WHAT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Are they kidding.

For investigative purposes, my friends and I went to the prison last sunday to take a tour. I was scared shitless walking up to the front gates, seeing hundreds of prisoners hanging around in the courtyard either yelling at passer-bys, looking shady or plotting their escape. Unfortunately, (and by unfortunately, i mean THANK GOD), we were turned away at the gate by some guards saying there were no tours that day. We were a little more persistent than the average hopeful tour taker, so we walked around the back of the prison to talk with one of the guards and asked if we could get in the back way.. He contemplated for a few seconds, rapidly accepted our $10 bolivianos and vanished into the prison, leaving us outside..

He came back out and said it would be more to get in, but we could talk to an inmate if we wanted. We agreed, and he went to fetch an english speaking Dutch prisoner named Sebastian, who had been there for 14 months on Drug Trafficking charges, and had 4 more months to go. It was utterly surreal to speak to a prisoner through a metal door with only a barred 5 inch by 5 inch slot to see his face. After asking a few questions, like how bad it is in there? How he got caught? how's the cuisine at the restaurants? etc, he asked us if we would contact the Holland Embassy for him, because he had no one helping him... We couldn't help but feel bad, and my friend gave him a pack of cigarettes.

We obviously didn't go to the embassy, and at the end of the day while we were enjoying a well administered food coma at a restaurant (a time when smokers typically enjoy a cigarette), my friend admits; "I really wish I didn't give him my cigarettes."

The Death Road: Fun for ALL ages!!

Going with what Bolivia has to offer, I did the "Death Road" a few days ago in La Paz. For those unfamiliar, the Death Road was voted the most dangerous road in the world (by either JD Power & Associates or Teen People. Not sure), and to harness the danger, agencies offer bike tours traveling along this expanse of cliffy and mountainous road. The entire trip lasts 75 kilometers, starting at an elevation of 4,700 meters (about 15,000 feet) and ending at 1,200 meters (about 3,800 feet). To the layman, that is 11,200 feet of vertical drop in a few hours on a bike, mostly along roads tucked along a mountain ridge with cliffs/direct drop offs of up to 3,000 feet. (The day before I did it, a truck fell off the edge killing 4 people. I was safe on a bike. However, I realized about halfway through the bike ride that we actually had to drive back up the road that we were riding down. That was a sucky realization).

In my group, I figured I would be dueling for first place with a 31-year old Irish guy, however, when we hit the road, I found myself jockeying for 1st position with an older guy from Switzerland. We had some intense over takes, and whenever we would continue biking from a break, he would bolt off of the line like a Swiss version of Seabiscut. Truely impressive off the block. In the beginning, we were like arch enemies in heated competition, who couldn't even look at each other. By the end when we were exhausted however, we started giving each other props. (Sadly, due to his age and place of origin, he had no idea what props meant). You can imagine my sheepishness, when at the end of the road I asked him his age and he said: 73. ^[Picture below, the man was half-man, half-beast.. (you can tell by his sunglasses).]

He was 48 years older than me, and I was on the brink of talking shit to him. I need serious help. Regardless, Alberto, who was in fact 73 (i verified by checking his ID) and had 9 children, is in tremedous shape and is an avid skier, tennis player and all around bad ass. When I asked him if he liked soccer and golf, he indicated that soccer was for pussies and golf is something he'll take up when he's old..

I finally met my hero.

(Peter Pan, if you reading this, don't pay any attention to the last comment).

The Italian blocker of..

When I was on the "Isla Del Sol" Boat tour, I saw a fellow puking off the side of the boat. This fellow happened to be my New Zealander buddy, Hakan, from the Salt Flats tour (See person in foreground in penis photograph from Salt Flats (6/25)). At the time, I was traveling with 2 Italian girls, and Hakan was a good addition to the group.

One of the Italian girls was the former personal shopper for David Beckham (See english soccer player that many females find attractive, and who can bend it like himself). Apparently, D. Beckham had asked about the girl (Raffaella) to see if she was single. If you don't know about David B., he had a highly publicized affair on his wife, Posh Spice, and so my first comment was: "THAT WAS YOU!!!! NO WAY!!! YOU'RE FAMOUS!!!" She quickly responded with: "No... I wish."

As you can imagine, Raffaella was attractive, but I had no chance, as I am me, and her traveling friend had decided that I was the object of her affection, and she earmarked me as "hers" pretty quickly, thusly negating any possibility of me and David Beckham's mistress making out. Sadly, her friend's earmarking, wasn't met with an equal and opposite marked ear by me.

Ps. Mom: you would be happy to know that the girl thinks you "grew me very well". Soon after that very nice compliment, I introduced her to the verb: To Raise.

The magical bus. (and by magical, I mean stupid)

I have many things to write about regarding the weekend in La Paz, Bolivia, the highest city in the world (altitude-wise and tourist-robbery wise). But first, I have to go on a rant..

I hate Bolivian buses. After doing my research to find the safest bus line, I settled on Tours Copacabana to go from La Paz to Potosi, Bolivia, a town with the deepest and most dangerous mines in the world. I was excited to go underground and see the miserable working conditions the miners endure. Instead however, our bus broke down at 3AM and we didn't get a replacement bus until 11AM. If you're counting, that equates to 8 hours of freezing your ass off because you are not Bolivian and you don't know to bring a 4 inch thick wool blanket with you because the buses don't have heat and break down regularly. (Although, I have to admit, I did have a polyester spaulding jacket several milimeters thick).

To add insult to injury, I took a 1/4 of an ambien sleeping pill hoping I could fall asleep and put it all behind me. But alas (and once again), the ambien wreaked havoc on my stomach, as I was wavering between puking and turtle pooping my brains out. What was particularly annoying (while waiting for the other bus) was that the current bus had no bathroom and the driver locked the cabin door so no one could get out. This extra security was decisively counterproductive to my stomach situation.

On top of that, there was a fat 4-year old wearing ear muffs and snow pants in the seat behind me, kicking the back of my seat and the metal heater (none functional of course) most of the night. And when he wasn't doing that, he was either farting boisterously or staring at my bag of food hoping I didn't want to eat my Sour Cream and Onion Pringles.

We finally got a new bus and I made it to Potosi, but it was too late for the Mine tour, so I forged on to my final destination, Sucre, Bolivia. I would rather have 5 of the previously mentioned bus rides than the one from Potosi to Sucre. I was flanked on my port (left) side by a Bolivian woman who really knows how to fill a bus seat (or two) and her two young children sitting on her lap and crying at pretty consistent intervals. To the stern (behind me) was two 5-year old girls, who literally did not stop shouting the entire 3 hour trip. My seat was reclined, so their vocal instruments were approximately 10 inches away from my ear. When ever they saw a street vendor they would shout out "MANDARIN!!! QUIERO MANDARIN". They would typically shout this for the next 5-10 kilometers. The drivers, hearing this banter turned on the radio, and wouldn't you know it, they were playing the same bolivian tape that I had to listen to about 15 times on my Salt Flat Tour, and the same tape that made me want to pluck out my eye balls.

In the end, I put in my ear plugs and started eating my Pringles, which are rather crunchy when you plug your ears.


Chill with Me: Ear Muffs, Argentine Vendors laughing at my 'Benjamins', Olga, Shats, People giving me horn, Stray Dogs.

On Notice: Bolivian Buses, The two girls on the bus behind me, Hangovers, Not outsourcing my travel planning, Dish rags, dogs.

Dead to Me: Mandarin Oranges, The Secretary of the Treasury, Mamushka Chocolate Store, salami.

Her name was LOLA, she was a (3rd world) showgirl...

Copacabana is a Bolivian tourist town on Lake Titicaca. It is much cooler than Puno, Peru, and I went there to embark on the famed Isla Del Sol (Island of the Sun) tour. The tour cost $3 USD and the boat that took us to the Island could not have cost much more than that. Fortunately, had the boat capsized, 50% of the people on board would have had their own life preserver.

The tour included 4 hours of boating, a three hour walk and guided tour that explained why the lake was named Titicaca. Contrary to popular belief, it does NOT mean "boob poop", but rather "Cat Rock" because the Isla Del Sol has a large rock that several indigenous fellows thought looked like a puma when they were in the midst of a 3-day alcohol binge hundreds of years ago. I stared at the rock for 30 minutes and the only animal I could come up with was a retarded turtle. (I obviously support the renaming of the lake to "turtle shit".)

Overall, the trip was good and on the boat ride home I met an incredibly nice and slightly overweight middle-aged woman from Forth Worth, Texas. I was surprised when she said I reminded her of a Texas Billionaire adventurist (John Appleton) who recently died during a skydiving accident. I guess it was a compliment. I was increasingly surprised when she mentioned that she had 1,500 skydives under her belt. Not bad for a 7th grade teacher from Texas who doesn't have the typical skydiving build.

My hotel in Copacabana was of note. The shower was one of those electrical showers that heat up the water as it passes. Thusly, to have any warmth, you have to turn the faucet way down to the point that the water pressure is commensurate with someone taking a pee on you. (And not a "Guy pee" the morning after a night of heavy beer drinking, but rather a dehydrated 10-year old peeing when his/her parents force them to go to the bathroom before a long care ride). Furthermore, the showerhead was pretty low and electrocuted me whenever I touched it. This was not very conducive to washing my hair with my hands.

The hotel also locked me out the first night, so I had to scale a 12 foot outer fence, and then pick the lock on another door to get in. When I was about 75% up the first fence, I found it interesting that a girl walking down the street thought I was in the talking mood, and moreso, if I had any cocaine to sell her. Regaining my balance and realizing we were looking for boosts of a different kind, I said "No", and finished my ascent.

They left a FLOATER!!!

Christy and I are no longer traveling together as she went back to Buenos Aires and I took a flight to Lake Titicaca on the Peru/Bolivia border. Thusly, I forged on to unchartered territories.

My first stop was Puno, Peru, which is a large town on the western side of Lake Titicaca. The claim to fame of Puno are the Floating Islands a few kilometers off the town shore that are made of reeds (2-5 meters thick), and have houses, schools and mini shops on the islands. These Islands are located in water depths in excess of 20 meters, and were reportedly erected because of outside invasion (probably Spanish or Google) which forced the locals to flee and set up shop on a few layers of squishy reeds. Sad story really.

However.. Having traveled to different parts of the lake, I have developed a new theory to the existence of the Floating Islands.. The people of Puno realized they were situated on the dirtiest, boggiest, (essentially shittiest) part of the lake, and in desperate need of tourist revenue, decided to park a few islands made of straw, with some likewise straw huts, and place a few people out there everyday pretending that they live on the islands. This is the only thing that makes sense. Because they're located in the middle of nowhere, they're practically living their life on a sinking ship, it is freezing cold and fires are seemingly counterproductive.

Nonetheless, seeing the islands and the reed boats used to bar hop from island to island was remarkable. I can't wait to get my disposable camera developed in 6-8 months time, as is consistent with my film development history.

The Lima Report

My friend, Christy, had her passport stolen in Cuzco and thusly, she had to take an immediate trip to Lima to the U.S. Embassy. I didn't have to go, but since my grandparents used to live there and it is a major South American City, I figured I would tag along. Plus, I had to see for myself how dangerous it was. (And if necessary, some ass kicking would have to be penciled in).

As it turned out, Lima was great. I don't know why. The landscape of the city looks like Hartford, Connecticut*, there is a constant cloud cover that hasn't lifted since March, half of the cab drivers are looking to pick you up and drive you to a far off place, rob you, steal your clothes and then make you sing Rod Stewart's "I wish that I knew what I know now, when I was younger" while sitting indian style on glass. Ok, Lima may not be great, but I think the timing of the visit was exactly what I needed after 4 days of camping.

The first night in Lima, we were on a strip of the City that could have been lifted, shipped and placed on any length of Route 1 in the U.S. and nobody would have blinked an eye. Our hotel the first night was strategically placed adjacent to a Pizza Hut, 3 KFC's, Burger King, McDonalds, two Shopping malls, 6 casinos, Hush Puppies and Payless shoe stores, and two movie theaters.

The second night, we stayed in the touristy part of the city, which was located on the cliffs overlooking the ocean and had a boardwalk/retail/restaurant area that could only be designed by Tommy Hilfiger, Donald Trump or some other entirely American person/brand/tool. I was happy though, as I got to watch the World Cup consolation game in Hooters, directly before watching "The Lake House" at the Movie theater, all the while contemplating whether I was up for a game of bowling or the Casino afterward. I chose the casino. I would love to see how badly the American Critics ripped up "The Shit House" (A movie with Keenu and Bullock, and another bus somewhat prominently involved).

*This is not a good thing

It's good to have friends with digital cameras.

Stu finishing up a 3,000 foot rock climb. He is exhausted. This can be evidenced by the fact that his tongue is out.

Tired yet impressed with the surroundings.

Sadly, Wendy wasn't wearing her orange pants at Machu Picchu.

Who else is going to bring you.. A bottle of rum.. there they go.. (lyrics by Rod Stuart)

My depression has started to subside having realized that Christy took a lot of the same pictures as me. Although, I still want to beat the living crap out of the dude (or possibly dudette) who stole my camera. Buying a $300-$400 camera right now will cripple my budget for the remainder of the my trip. Especially since I wanted to spend $500 for the next 36 days.

Ok, that's enough whining about the camera.

About the Inca Trail: An option on the Inca Trail is to hire a porter (a Peruvian male between 18 and 65) to carry your things the entire length of the trail. There were exactly 16 porters for our group of 12 people. This isn't exactly roughing it, and I had mixed feelings about the practice, as it seems very caste system-esque. (I used a porter for one day and he only carried my sleeping bag and jar of peanut butter). The porters are superhuman. They carry over 60 lbs of supplies (food, tents, propane tanks, cooking utensils, sleeping bags, Wendy at times, etc and sprint up massive mountains with only sandels on their feet. Over the course of the 4-day trek the typical porter reportedly earns around $30 USD. I can assure you two things; 1) they deserve much more than that, and 2) their calves are bigger than 50 of my biceps. These men are some of the most physically fit specimens I have ever seen, and when I was huffing and puffing up the trail with my 35-40 lb. pack, these fellows would bounce by me smiling with their 60 lbs worth of items wrapped up in a tarp and strapped to their back. Simply amazing. I was particularly pleased with the porter who toted the beer.

The porters can often be seen munching on "coca leaves", which is the plant derivative of cocaine and helps with altitude sickness. Coca is completely safe to chew, and can be purchased just about anywhere. Many of us were curious about the cocaine making process and asked our guide if he knew how it was made. After giving an meticulous 12 point presentation on the process, he added, "Or that is what I hear.." Regardless, I tried chewing on the leaves, and I can give you first hand evidence that it tastes terrible and makes you hike slower. In case you think that I am becoming a drug addict, please know that I haven't slept over 5 hours in the last two weeks and I still refuse to take a sleeping pill for fear of becoming addicted.

Since Machu Picchu, I have been in Lima, Peru, which is unofficially billed as one of the least safe places for tourists to go. We got picked up at the Airport by a taxi service with bullet proof windows. It's ok though, since I am on the brink of sporting a fully functional mullet, I am starting to blend in.

I don't know what people were talking about. So far, I have loved Lima.. It reminds of the Jersey Shore*.

*I have never been to the Jersey Shore.

ps. On the last day of the hike, I tried to be a porter for a day and loaded my pack with extra crap, full water bottles, and big rock for a while. In the end, I think I had about 42 lbs in my pack. I also think I had a heart attack. The porters earned my respect many times over.

Officially overtly depressed.. kind of, definitely, yes.

It took 4 months and 18 days for one of the low life scum thieves to get their hands on my personal property and run away with my belongings. Yesterday, I had my camera stolen while I was sitting in an Internet cafe sending off a fax. It was securely tucked away in my jacket pocket.. Or so I thought.

It is a hopeless feeling. Especially after you just spent 4 days hiking the Inca Trail and Machu Picchu ruins, taking 100 pictures along the way.. 100 pictures that had yet to be backed up on CD or uploaded to my snapfish account. So, essentially, I have no pictorial evidence that I actually hiked the Inca Trail. At least I have Wendy as my alibi.

In all honesty, This is one of the most annoying things that has happened to me in my 25 years, which is a decent reminder that I have led a pretty charmed life. In the meantime, I look forward to getting intimately reacquainted with all 35mm of the disposable Kodak cameras.

Looking for Peter Pan's Wendy

Hope everyone is recovering from their respective 4th of July parties.

I am recovering from hiking many kilometers along the Inca trail to the Machu Picchu ruins. I remember being weary of my group at the onset of the trip, thinking it was full of duds, feminist vegetarians, and old people who would slow us down.. Happily, I can now admit that I judged a Peruvian book by its cover, and I was completely wrong. Our group was an assemblance of some of the most inadvertently entertaining characters I would hope to meet. (partially because the feminist vegetarians were switched to a different group, and mostly because we were allowed to drink on the hike).

The cast of characters were highlighted by a 19-year old Canadian whose voice was a duplicate of Napoleon Dynamite and was constantly eating, a 55-year old Dutch fellow who was gearing up for the gay Olympics in Montreal and had a discernible crush on said 19-year old Canadian boy, and WENDY, the 60 year old Australian woman with the mouth of a sailor.

At first glance, you would think Wendy was a sweet grandmother ready to flash a picture of her grandchild and gush over that child's rosy cheeks and breastfeeding capabilities. However, upon further review, there was much more to Wendy than initially detected.

First, I must give Wendy props for completing the 4-day Inka Trail trail, as it is a rigorous 32-mile hike (up hill and down hill) at elevations upward of 14,000 feet. Secondly, I must thank Wendy for being a sport and urging us to drink at any given moment.

Wendy had a sense of fashion that manifested itself in her donning an orange fleece, orange pants and an orange baseball hat with a perfectly horizontal brim at all moments of the trip. I wore a orange shirt for most of the trip, which smelled like hell at the end of the hike. Ironically, Wendy's tent mate relayed the same sentiments about Wendy's personal space.

It wasn't until the second day that Wendy's true colors (a blend of orange and... orange) started to show. That day, we finished a tough hike that saw us climb 3,600 feet in elevation to Dead Woman's Pass (basically a pass with a big mound at the top that looks like a boob of a woman lying down.. I have no idea why she has to be dead) and then descend another 2,000 feet to camp. When we made it to our campsite, we sat down for a well prepared meal and enjoyed some afternoon tea. After the meal, Everyone had left the lunch table except for me, two others and Wendy, who was sitting at the end of the table by herself. I felt compelled to check in on Wendy, so I asked her how she was feeling. After a short pause and a muscle cringing turn in our general direction, she answered "I'm COMPLETELY Fucked", followed by; "I can't move".

Luckily for us, she managed to move, and the next day she was back on the trail declaring that she could NOT WAIT for happy hour, and that someone should really get the dead woman (on the mountain) a blanket as her nipples appeared to be erect. She was the soundbite machine.. When pressed about her family life, she said she had two sons, adding "my 2nd son is an asshole, and if he was my first born child, I would have never have had a second... I tell this to his face. Often."

Other than dropping f-bombs and s-words like a second grader who just learned to swear, Wendy's specialty was afternoon cocktails. On the last night, we all enjoyed some local beers, wines and spirits, and while most of drank about 3 or 4 bottles of beer, Wendy opted for 3 or 4 bottles of wine. Soon after, she was performing the Tango in the middle of a room that has probably never been Tangoed or danced in. When she came back to her wine (and the table) after shaking it on the non-dance floor, she leaned over to me and my friend, and whispered with a laugh; "you know the worst thing about it.. My pants are on backwards." And sure enough, the back pockets of her orange pants were front pockets. Later that night, she and the 55-year old man training for the Montreal Olympics, were both kicked out of the bar.

The next day, she was chipper and unaffected by the previous nights escapades. When we were saying our goodbyes, we realized we would both be in Bolivia in the weeks ahead, and I suggested we should meet up and get crazy (alcohol wise) like the previous night. In the most convincing response I have ever heard, she replied "Crazy?? (laugh) Last night was nothing." I have never been more certain that a person was telling the truth. I can't wait for Bolivia Smivia.