Packs of tousists meandered amongst crowds of other torusists. They all had the same deal going. Camera slung over the neck, all of them costing probably at least a couple grand, floppy hat mated down on the head, the newest North Face wind-breaker, and all had looks of ambigiuty on their faces.

Of course, Cusco was quite known throughout the world as a toursistic hotspot, with archeological sites galore. These sites, for the most part are all quite accesible. Therefore, just about anyone, from anywhere can see them with come dough in their pocket. Simple. The real gravy is where the routes to the sites become difficult. thats where the crowd is weeded out, only the strongest and most determined can make it, and you get bitchin, over the top, in your face views, which for the average photographer, means pictures galore. My camera isnt quite at the quility level yet to be considered a proper tool for an enthusiastic photographer. Moving on...My point is I happen to find this mountain in Otevallaya (spelling?) that made my day and made me realize the power of discovering the treks which were off the beaten path.

Earlier in the day, I awoke at 7 am, packed up the clothes scattered across my room, hit the shower, and was out the door to meet Josh and his buddy at another hostel. They wanted to take motorcycles to Machu Pichu. TO me this didnt seem like a great idea. It had rained last night nd the trek would be 7 hours of winding mountain roads. I had breakfast I followed them to a shop just out of curiosity. The shops to rent the bikes were not open yet. They all said 9 am. The time was 8. They wanted to head to a town Aguas Calientes at the base of Machu Pichu and so did I . My gut was telling me though I would take another option: the buses. It would be cheaper and hopefully safer. They were lagging after a while. I told them I wanted to get the show on the road. We slapped high fives and I was off to Aguas Calientes and they would probably dick around for another half an hour before they left. They had to wait for the bike shops to open and they were set on taking the bikes, so I bummed outta there.

I hopped in a small bus of about 20 people and headed up a winedy mountain road. Snow caped peaks loomed in the distance like Incan Gods. On each side of the road there were fields with old ladies net over picking the dirt. There were no trackers. Mules pulled large metal rakes as the metal claws dug trenches in the soil suitable for farming. I met a young university student on the bus. We chatted for a bit, practicing English and Spanish. The bus was full of farmers, old ladies, and vaqueros. Quite a surreal experience.

I got to a small town and the bus let some of us off. The ride had been about an hour thirty, not bad. The next bus was quite the same, only the ride to the next town I needed to go to was only 25 minutes. I arrived at another small town. Now I needed to catch a bus to Santa Maria and then Aguas Calientes. This bus ride coming up would be 4 hours. I walked around the plaza, yet I couldnt find out where to wait for the next bus. I asked a woman in a store. She informs me to just wait in the small plaza in the center of this town and it will cruise by. Gosh the answers are always so noncholant and ambiguous. I waited near the plaza. A half hour goes by. I now walk to another mujera. Shes a vendor and I ask her where the bus to Santa Maria is. And what time. She tells me to wait in the plaza as well. I wait in the plaza. Another 30 minutes go by. Now its been an hour and the sun is beating down on me amongst the dust clouds hitting my face. I now go to the building entitled "tourist information". Boy do I feel like a tool. I walk in and ask the guy in Spanish where the bus stop is and what th heck time was the bus coming. He replies in English and tells me there is a bus in 30 minutes and to wait in the plaza. AAhhhhhhhh, ione more person tells me to wait in the plaza, there gonna have it!!

I wait in the plaza like a patient sick person in a crowded hosptial waiting room. I head to a cafe to order a sandwich de pollo while I"m killing time. The guy who brough it out to me starts asking me all sorts of questions about where I"m from and yada yada. I make small conversation with him and soon after an hour of conversation my patience is thin ice. there is no bus. pop the question once again and ask the dude for the low down. He tells me there wil be a bus in 30 minutes as well. I retort back to tell hm everyone has already told me that buddy, nice try sucker! No he says, they are wrong, and he then goes into this long rant in Spanish about why he is right. Alright buddy, I"ll test your theory, I"ll wait for 30 minutes, one last time.

I wait for another 30 minutes. I then wait for another 30 minutes, figuring that since it had begun to rain the bus bus that this guy predicted would arrive in thirty minutes would arrive in double the time. I soon realize that everyone has no clue if a bus is coming or not, but hey why not blow smoke up the travlers real end for some giggles? Around 3 pm after still waiting at the same cafe near the plaze, there is still no bus. I call it quites after someone informed me of the most logical explanation. IT had rained today, the road was quite dangerous, and someone had driven off the road. I would now saty at this small town for a large bedroom and a bathroom for 5 bucks. Tomorrow I would try to get to this damn town at the base of Machu Pichu.

written by  kipmaddog on September 21, 2009 from Cusco, Peru
from the travel blog: adventures from down south
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Packs of tousists meandered amongst crowds of other torusists. They all had the same deal going. Camera slung over the neck, all of them costing probably at least a couple grand, floppy hat mated down on the head, the newest North Face wind-breaker, and all had looks of ambigiuty on their faces.

Of course, Cusco was quite known throughout the world as a toursistic hotspot, with archeological sites galore. These sites, for the most part are all quite accesible. Therefore, just about anyone, from anywhere can see them with come dough in their pocket. Simple. The real gravy is where the routes to the sites become difficult. thats where the crowd is weeded out, only the strongest and most determined can make it, and you get bitchin, over the top, in your face views, which for the average photographer, means pictures galore. My camera isnt quite at the quility level yet to be considered a proper tool for an enthusiastic photographer. Moving on...My point is I happen to find this mountain in Otevallaya (spelling?) that made my day and made me realize the power of discovering the treks which were off the beaten path.

Earlier in the day, I awoke at 7 am, packed up the clothes scattered across my room, hit the shower, and was out the door to meet Josh and his buddy at another hostel. They wanted to take motorcycles to Machu Pichu. TO me this didnt seem like a great idea. It had rained last night nd the trek would be 7 hours of winding mountain roads. I had breakfast I followed them to a shop just out of curiosity. The shops to rent the bikes were not open yet. They all said 9 am. The time was 8. They wanted to head to a town Aguas Calientes at the base of Machu Pichu and so did I . My gut was telling me though I would take another option: the buses. It would be cheaper and hopefully safer. They were lagging after a while. I told them I wanted to get the show on the road. We slapped high fives and I was off to Aguas Calientes and they would probably dick around for another half an hour before they left. They had to wait for the bike shops to open and they were set on taking the bikes, so I bummed outta there.

I hopped in a small bus of about 20 people and headed up a winedy mountain road. Snow caped peaks loomed in the distance like Incan Gods. On each side of the road there were fields with old ladies net over picking the dirt. There were no trackers. Mules pulled large metal rakes as the metal claws dug trenches in the soil suitable for farming. I met a young university student on the bus. We chatted for a bit, practicing English and Spanish. The bus was full of farmers, old ladies, and vaqueros. Quite a surreal experience.

I got to a small town and the bus let some of us off. The ride had been about an hour thirty, not bad. The next bus was quite the same, only the ride to the next town I needed to go to was only 25 minutes. I arrived at another small town. Now I needed to catch a bus to Santa Maria and then Aguas Calientes. This bus ride coming up would be 4 hours. I walked around the plaza, yet I couldnt find out where to wait for the next bus. I asked a woman in a store. She informs me to just wait in the small plaza in the center of this town and it will cruise by. Gosh the answers are always so noncholant and ambiguous. I waited near the plaza. A half hour goes by. I now walk to another mujera. Shes a vendor and I ask her where the bus to Santa Maria is. And what time. She tells me to wait in the plaza as well. I wait in the plaza. Another 30 minutes go by. Now its been an hour and the sun is beating down on me amongst the dust clouds hitting my face. I now go to the building entitled "tourist information". Boy do I feel like a tool. I walk in and ask the guy in Spanish where the bus stop is and what th heck time was the bus coming. He replies in English and tells me there is a bus in 30 minutes and to wait in the plaza. AAhhhhhhhh, ione more person tells me to wait in the plaza, there gonna have it!!

I wait in the plaza like a patient sick person in a crowded hosptial waiting room. I head to a cafe to order a sandwich de pollo while I"m killing time. The guy who brough it out to me starts asking me all sorts of questions about where I"m from and yada yada. I make small conversation with him and soon after an hour of conversation my patience is thin ice. there is no bus. pop the question once again and ask the dude for the low down. He tells me there wil be a bus in 30 minutes as well. I retort back to tell hm everyone has already told me that buddy, nice try sucker! No he says, they are wrong, and he then goes into this long rant in Spanish about why he is right. Alright buddy, I"ll test your theory, I"ll wait for 30 minutes, one last time.

I wait for another 30 minutes. I then wait for another 30 minutes, figuring that since it had begun to rain the bus bus that this guy predicted would arrive in thirty minutes would arrive in double the time. I soon realize that everyone has no clue if a bus is coming or not, but hey why not blow smoke up the travlers real end for some giggles? Around 3 pm after still waiting at the same cafe near the plaze, there is still no bus. I call it quites after someone informed me of the most logical explanation. IT had rained today, the road was quite dangerous, and someone had driven off the road. I would now saty at this small town for a large bedroom and a bathroom for 5 bucks. Tomorrow I would try to get to this damn town at the base of Machu Pichu.

written by  kipmaddog on September 21, 2009 from Cusco, Peru
from the travel blog: adventures from down south
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Cusco is situtated in a cradle-like valley. Rocky mountains surround the valley. In the late 16th century Cusco was home to the Incas. One day, Francisco Pizarro charged into the valley of Cusco along with a gang of about 57 other Spanish Conquistadors. They were equipped with Guns, Steel, Domesticated Horses, and Disease. These land pirates had gotten word that the Incas had enough gold to make a large mountain. So the legend goes. The Incas main "base" was Cusco. Led by Attapultatec (spelling might be a bit off), the 200,000 plus Incas in the valley welcomed Pizarro and his troops with open arms. Within a couple of days the Spaniards had taken Attapultatec hostage (eventually killing him) and raped, pilaged, and burned the town. So, 50 plus Spanish soldiers were able to defeat hundreds of thousands of Inca warriors. Even though the Incas heavily out-numbered the Spaniards, the introduction of steel, guns, domesticated horses, and foreign disease, were too much for the Incas to handle. The result: the Spanish murdering hundreds of thousands of Incas, the Spanish acquiring the gold, and a story to tell present day tourists.

The first day in Cusco was carried out at the pace of a Sloth. I didnt want to do anything rash after having gone from sea level to about 10,000 feet in 21 hours. The altitude would bite me in the ass if I pushed things the first day. I met an Israeli fellow from London named Paul. A large majority of the afternoon was spent sipping Matte tea, talking philosophy, and politics. Paul is a 25 year old lawyer from London and damn, can that man put up a decent argument on any topic ranging from the best Cook Book to buy to what is the best land mammal. I mean anything.....well-trained dude.

We walked the cobble-stone streets and people watched most of the day. Cusco had the air of a romantic, Venice-style city, and the grounded history of ancient Rome. I was eager to let this city sink into my senses and give me a true feeling of what this city could offer to the passing traveler....

written by  kipmaddog on September 18, 2009 from Cusco, Peru
from the travel blog: adventures from down south
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The morning was filled with a 30 minute walk from our hostel, Los Feroles, to the surf break, "El Faro", also known as the gangster of all left-handers. It"s got punch like a wave coming in at Blacks"s and point-wave style similar to breaks in Baja. We awoke at 7 am to San Francisco like fog outside. The ground outside our door was damp and sticky. The air felt maybe 55 degrees. Let"s just say it was a bit "nipply" out. We gathered up our United Nations of a surf gang: Brazil, Japan, Germany, Australia, France, Peru, and the United States. It was quite the crew. Every morning lately we have all been coming out of our rooms in the early morning hours, groggie-eyed and sleepy, yet eager to see the days swell. We brew coffee and eat sweet bread before the adventure. And boy is it an adventure to get to this wave, which is a fast, punchy left coming off the end of a point. The outside is peaky and punchy. Once one makes it to the inside after having already been on the wave for 1 minute, one hits the inside. The inside section turns into a steep barallel, reforming for maybe another 200-1000 meter ride, depending on swell direction, wind, and so forth.

We would all leave camp and make our way to the point, which was where the surf break is. The walk was gruesome. This beach allways had a weird side-shore, off-shore, kind of wind. So when we would walk you would have to hold onto the board with 2 hands. The ground was covered in large, sometimes mossy rocks. Traversing the rocks was a task in itself. WE"d get to the surf break finally. Imagine a large desert point from the sahara desert. Now, place that in Peru, along with some amazing waves. The point jutted out about 1 km, with no houses or buildings of any kind. Just the howling wind, the blowing sand, and the soothing sound of crashing waves. The point could have peen a painting for one reason in particular. On the end of the point was a white lighthouse. The top of the lighthouse had a black roof that hung down about 3 feet from the top. There was also one window at the top. Everytime I surfed I always looked back, imagining an old PEruvian man in a Sailor"s cap, peering out the window towards the sea. The lighthouse most definitely gave the point an eery feel to it, especially along with the upper 50 degree water, heavy fog, and chilly breeze.

the days have been spent reading books from other surfers, laying back amomgst wide, soft hammocks and starring at the sky. The town is small. One can walk through it in 1o minutes. Past the auromatic bakeries serving fresh assorted bread, the old ladies selling carne asada skewers with one potatoe on the end for 50 cents, or something that took quite some getting used to: the stores closing every day for 2-3 hours. I suppose they have similar style to the Italians and Spaniards in this sense. Siestas must be the most highly vauled time of the day. 10-4 over and out..........

written by  kipmaddog on September 10, 2009 from Perugorria, Argentina
from the travel blog: adventures from down south
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There is a small kitchen at the hostel. To relly save money I"ve been boiling my own water for coffee each morning and using the instant, stir in coffee. Then I might make a large bowl of rice and crack 2 eggs over the rice. this is breakfast. For lunch I might eat 3 or 4 tangerines, a can of tuna, and a huge bowl of pasta. For dinner, I "ll have a vegetable of some kind, bread, more rice or pasta, maybe some potatoes, and maybe some soup. everything is very cheap, very basic. People may laugh at such a simplistic diet, but each day I"m spending about 5 dollars on food, including maybe a beer or 2.

The hostel is one of the only ones in town. It has about 6 rooms. In this town the only tourists are surfers. So at this hostel the only occupants are surfers. The cost is 25 solas a night or about 8 dollars. So overall, one is able to maintain quite a cheap budget here. there are 2 dogs that run around the hostel frantically. 2 families live on the hostel. During the day the kids come out to play in the grass. I sit there with a book, or maybe I"ll be cooking or nappin. Currently, there are no waves. the first swell is bound to hit in 3 days. I dont feel motivated to wait it out, but the benefits would be mind-blowing. 100 yrds away is the beach. When you get to the beach you look out to your left. About a mile down the beach is the giant point that bends about a half mile out into the ocean. At the end of the point sits an old, archaic light-house. When the waves are good a set comes in and hits the reef on the outside of the point. The wave jacks up and breaks, and immediately turns into a mile long ride. The wave is a left. It is fast, chunky, and barelling. The bottom is perfectly flat. The sand dunes, from the cliffs near the beach continually blow sand into the ocean, filling in the holes on the bottom, making for a perfectly flat surface for the waves to form over.

At the moment, we are just killing the time until the swell gets here. With some books, guitars, ping-pong table, foose-ball table, and points of view from all over the world that make for some of the most incredible conversation, I think we are quite alright waiting here for the next swell to arrive..

written by  kipmaddog on August 31, 2009 from Pacasmayo, Peru
from the travel blog: adventures from down south
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Steam baths are quite popular in this regionof Ecuador. I don"t reckon its a historical practice. Banos is equipped with some natural hot springs, but I think the Steam baths we engaged in were some creation of a brilliant minded Ecuadorian Mystical Shaman.

written by  kipmaddog on August 24, 2009 from Banos, Ecuador
from the travel blog: adventures from down south
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Waking up, to your bus, hugging the side of high elevation andean mountains, looking through the window to see snow-caped peaks and a 1000 ft. drop off the side of the road.

The windows fog up, the glass is icy, and all that is in one"s sight are the high elevation, Andean vilages lining the bottom of snow-caped mountains.

Braided black ponet-tails shoot out from under black wool, Sherlock Holmes style detective hats, while thick wooled black panchos cover their leathered skin.

Children grin, bright-eyed and cheerful for a simple smile shot their way.

With it"s opening icy chills, dry air, and the intriguing aura of genuity, carried out by generations of andean peoples, Ecuador truly is the land of enchantment.

written by  kipmaddog on August 23, 2009 from Otavalo, Ecuador
from the travel blog: adventures from down south
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