Photos from Peru

My photo album from my Peruvian travel adventures is now posted online. Please click here to be directed to the online photo album. Once you see the album, click on a photo to enlarge it. I recommend clicking on the first photo and then progressing through in order by clicking "Next" above each photo.

A Grievous Oversight

I received a recent email from my new friend Kristina from Wisconsin, who I met on my whitewater rafting trip just outside Cusco, Peru. You may have noticed that I failed to mention Kristina in my Peru blog entries. Suffice it say, Kristina also noticed my failure to do so. Rather incensed, she took it upon herself to send me a transcript of my conversation with her. In deference to this oversight, I've elected to include said transcript below. My additions are in italics.

Caton: Hi, I'm Caton.

Kristina: Hi, I'm Kristina.

Caton: Oh my god, you changed my life. Thank you for your inspiring words of wisdom, and your unselfish offerings of kindness. You have truly shown me "the way". I was about to trek up to Machu Picchu to take a nose-dive off the top, but instead I will continue my round-the-world trip and periodically update my blog on my happenings, depending on the internet connection in each geographical region I'm in. You also cured my paralysis.

Kristina: Oh, okay. That's great, and not at all creepy. So, do you have a last name, Caton?

Caton: It's Walker. Caton Walker.

Kristina: You were paralyzed, you say?

Caton: Well, not anymore. Duh. I met you! So, can I email you after I leave Peru?

Kristina: You bet. Just as soon as I make up a false email address.

Seriously, this girl's got quite an imagination. They're growing more than corn up in Wisconsin.

Botulistic Doilies and Pisco Sours

After a laborious pen-purchasing episode, I was ready to embark on a City Tour of Lima. That's where you and several other tourists load onto a mini-bus (the ubiquitous mini-bus will continue to rear its ugly grill throughout my world travels) and putter about the city while listening to a woman point out things that aren't particularly noteworthy: "Oh, so that's the Venezuelan embassy? And you're going to stop the bus and give us five minutes to take photos of it? How kind of you." 

My favorite part of the tour was listening to her divergent commentaries in both Spanish and English; she'd often tell me all about something in Spanish then, presumably due to language limitations, tell me something entirely different when she "translated" into English. For example:

In Spanish: If you look to your left, you'll see a former aristocratic home that has since been converted into a luxury boutique hotel, the first of its kind in Peru. This building was commissioned by a Spanish noble in the 17th century, and is noted as having among the oldest and most well-preserved examples of the traditional "Lima balcony" in the entire city. It's rumored that its pastel yellow color originated in the original owner's love for his youngest daughter, whose favorite color was yellow. This daughter went on to marry the regional viceroy, and was subsequently killed by an outbreak of smallpox in the early 18th century. If you look just below the eaves, you'll see a relief of her face, which was added to the building by her grieving father.

In English: That building is yellow.

Fortunately, Lima itself easily overcame the limitations of my tour guide. In the course of an afternoon, we saw many colonial treasures, including the Basilica Cathedral of Lima, Peru's Government Palace, and the Plaza San Martin.

My favorite, however, was the Convento de San Francisco (pictured above at left), a Baroque masterpiece that was completed during the 17th century. What's more, the workers who toiled on the convent clearly built a sturdy building; the place survived a devastating earthquake in 1746. Even more impressive, I can personally attest that the convent withstands the weight of loads of morbidly obese American tourists every year, and with veritable aplomb. So here's to 17th Spanish engineering. It appears the conquistadors were as good at engineering as they were at genocide.

Obese tourists and earthquakes notwithstanding, the most interesting (and tititalling, if you're into the macabre) attraction at the Convento de San Francisco is its catacombs. In short, the catacombs are a series of underground caves where convent management likes to stash its dead people and then show them off to tourists. And they do it with style. Nobody's exactly sure how many bones are crammed into the convent's catacombs, but anyone can see that someone has put a great deal of effort into organizing said bones in an aesthetically pleasing manner. In one area (pictured at right), someone seems to have made a type of bone "doily," with skulls carefully flanked by outer rings of arm and leg bones. It's one of the most delightfully gross things you'll ever see. I couldn't help but wonder how all this started:

Two convent residents, a Bishop and a Monk, are walking the courtyard one day.

Monk: Man! I just tripped on another bone. Maybe we should do something about these bones lying all over the place.

Bishop: I couldn't agree more. We should put them down in the basement.

Monk: Works for me. I'll have some on the nuns sweep them up and toss them underground.

What? I didn't say he was enlightened monk. In fact, for purposes of this made-up story, I gather he was quite sexist.

Bishop: No, no, no! I was thinking we could pick each of them up, and then arrange them into really pretty patterns.

Monk: What? The bones?

Bishop: Yes, yes! Wouldn't that be a good idea?

Monk: No. As a matter of fact, that does not strike me as a good idea. You know, handling bones is a great way to develop a nasty case of botulism. And I must add that botulism is no fun at all. It's often accompanied by anorexia, uncontrolled vomiting, and excruciating muscle paralysis.

Bishop: What? I don't follow.

Monk: Botulism. It's a bacterial infection. You can get it from handling the bones of dead things like, you know, people.

Awkward pause.

Bishop: Yeah. That's where I'm going to have to differ with you. He then holds up his fingers to do quotation marks in the sky. You see, I'm more of a "Pre-Age of Enlightenment" Catholic. So, I don't really connect cause and effect. I don't know about all this "handling bones" mumbo jumbo; all I know is that if indeed you do get this botulizzle...

Monk: Botulism.

Bishop: Whatever. Like I was saying, if you do get this "botulism," it's because it was the will of God. It's all up to Him. That's the only possible explanation.

Monk: Um, okay. So, following that logic, if you were to take a nap in the middle of the street, and subsequently get stepped on by a horse?

Bishop: ....will of God, most definitely.

Monk: Wow. Well, we're just going to have to agree to disagree. You can play interior decorator with your bones all you want, but I'm going to sit this one out.

Bishop: Oh, I'm afraid that's not advisable.

Monk: Huh?

Bishop: Well, another thing about the pre-Age of Enlightenment church is that we burn people at the stake who disagree with our worldview.

Monk: You mean me? Burned at the stake?

Bishop: ...to a crisp.

Monk: Oh. I don't like the sound of that at all.

Bishop: Well, sorry. I don't make the rules. I just light the match.

Monk: What? The self-igniting match won't be invented for another 200 years.

Bishop: Well, fine. I light the whale oil or whatever. Either way, I'd suggest you repent unless you're yearnin' for a burnin'.

Monk: Yearning for a burning? That's nice. You should put that on a bumper sticker or something.

Bishop: Thanks. I'll be sure to put that one on the back of my donkey cart. So, what say you to getting burned alive for your treacherous ideas?

Monk: I was thinking that we could arrange the bones in a doily pattern! 

Bishop: I love doilies!

Monk: Yeah. Your hot pink vestments would suggest as much.

And that's how the catacombs of the Convento de San Francisco came to be.

So, after my city tour was completed, I finally joined Isabel for an amazing dinner at T'anta, a rather famous restaurant in Lima, which is the brainchild of Peru's resident celebrity chef Gaston Acurio. You really should click here to learn more about him, particularly if you're lucky enough to live near one of his restaurants in Chile, Ecuador, Panama, Peru, Spain, or Venezuela. Sadly, I didn't get to enjoy my dinner (or my accompanying Pisco Sour) as long as I would have liked; I took off directly from dinner for the airport for an overnight flight to Houston. And, with that, my trip to Peru was finished. 

Would you like to take that pen for a test write?

The Inca Trail trek left me mentally invigorated, but physically exhausted. So, I nearly fell into my bed at the Hotel Marqueses (Note: Both the hotel and my Inca Trail trek are operated by SAS Travel in Cusco, which is a fantastic outfitter in all respects). The next morning, I woke at a wholly unreasonable hour to return to Lima.

Upon my arrival in Lima, I found my way to the Hostal El Patio (photo at left) in the city's Miraflores district, which Andrew and Rosanna (mentioned in my prior post) had recommended. Like every other aspect of my Peru trip, it was sublime. Once there, I immediately set to pestering Isabel (who you'll likely remember from another prior post), who was home for the New Year. Naturally, Isabel was extremely gracious, and even seemed pleased that I was in Lima. If she wasn't, she at least gave an enviable performance. Either way, it was decided that she'd introduce me to some authentic Peruvian cuisine the following night.

To pass the time, I thought I'd tour the city, but first I wanted to send off some postcards. However, I had a small problem: I didn't have a pen. One might think that this problem could be easily rectified, but, alas, no. I piddled all over Miraflores trying to buy a pen, but all of the convenience store owners looked at me as if I were crazy for thinking that I might find a pen at a convenience store. For that, they explained, I'd need to find a pen store. A pen store?

As luck would have it, Miraflores does have a pen store, albeit a 15 minute walk from my hotel. I walked in, quite curious to see what a pen store looked like. As it would happen, it was an emporium approximately the size of a large convenience store. Except it was filled with glass counters, all of them bursting with pens. Apparently, the store had recently expanded their breadth of offerings; one of the glass counters displayed a dizzying variety of protractors. However, I didn't come to Lima to measure any angles, so I instead approached a saleswoman (who's ever heard of a pen saleswoman?) at the counter.

Me: Hello, do you have any pens that...

Saleswoman (interrupting me): We have all types of pens, sir.

Me: Yes, clearly. Well, I'd like a very simple black pen. I just want to write some postcards for friends in the US.

Saleswoman: What type of tip would you like?

Me: What?

Saleswoman: We have ballpoint pens, felt-tip pens, fountain pens, ....

Me (now it was my turn to interrupt): I just want a ballpoint, please.

Saleswoman: Of course. Fine point, medium point, or wide point?

Me: Um, medium I suppose. Do I have to make any more choices?

Saleswoman: No. You already told me you want black.

Me: Good.

Saleswoman (ushering me to another counter): Okay. This is our selection of black, medium ballpoint pens. Which one would you like?

Me: Ugh...

After (finally) selecting a pen, the woman took it out of the case and gingerly handed it to me as if it were a priceless Fabergé egg. In attempt to show the pen its due respect, I picked it up with both hands and carefully examined it. Of course, this was all for show; I had no interest in inspecting the pen. I just wanted to buy it and leave so I could get started on those postcards.

Me (pretending to be impressed): Very nice. I'll take it.

Saleswoman: Wait. You don't want to test it?

Me: I'm sorry?

Saleswoman (whipping out a blank piece of paper): You test the pen before you buy it.

Me: Um, okay.

So, I wrote my name a few times, pretending to carefully assess the pen's performance. Finally, I'd had enough:

Me: Okay, it's very nice. Can I buy it now?

Saleswoman: Of course!

Me (shuddering to ask the price given the complexity of this pen purchase transaction): And how much is it?

Saleswoman: One sole, please.

One sole? That's $0.30! All this for $0.30?

Me: Okay, here's one sole. Thank you!

Saleswoman: No, sir. You have to take this purchase order to the cashier counter. Pay there, then return to me, and I'll have it wrapped up for you. You then return to the cashier for inspection before you leave the store.

Oh geez...

Fun with Llamas

Just in case I'm not boring you enough, I thought I'd invite one of Machu Picchu's resident llamas to help bore you. Have you ever noticed that llamas chew in a nearly perfect Figure 8? I hadn't. If you think this video is interesting, it's nothing compared to the other Machu Picchu llama videos that you can find at YouTube. Check them out by clicking the "YouTube" logo at the bottom right of the graphic just below.

Oh, and if you actually do find this video interesting, you need to get out more. This really isn't interesting in the least.

Parting Clouds and Parting Ways

After using my imagination to (inadvertently) insult the Inca culture and all its descendants (see previous blog post), I was snapped out of my culturally insensitive and historically uninformed daydream by Andy, one of my fellow trekkers. Andy pointed out - in the kindest way possible, of course - that we ought to keep moving rather than standing alone amongst the ruins conducting inane inner dialogues.

Andy was a ridiculously nice person. In fact, I'm still shocked by how wonderful all of my co-trekkers were. Without exception, all 19 of my co-trekkers were well-mannered, considerate, well-educated, amiable, and all-around "good people." Everyone got along splendidly, and spending time with each of these people was a joy. What's more, we comprised a veritable United Nations: There was, of course, Andy (from the UK); Kate, his Kiwi fiance; Andrew and Rosanna, a UK couple so sweet they could give you diabetes; Rosa and Conrad from the US; Edgar and his sister Jennifer from the US; Teresa and her father Roger, also from the US; Erik and Dejane from South Africa; Morag, Tamar, and Dor from Israel; Amy and Tom from Australia; and Alexander and Robin from Sweden. In fact, given how genteel everyone was, it's probably not accurate to describe the group as a miniature UN; the real UN is far less civilized (I'm talking to you, Mssrs. Chavez and Mugabe). I think Andrew put it best: "You can always find at least one ass-hole on one of these trips, but I think we've found a loophole." Personally, I would have shied away from the hole metaphors (respectively, "ass" and "loop"), but I agreed whole-heartedly in principle.

A note to my faint-hearted readers: My apologies for the foul language, but it's a direct quote. I can only hope that I didn't give you "the vapors" or something similarly debilitating.

Now that that's settled (i.e., two thumbs up for my co-trekkers), I should move along, just as Andy requested. After two more nights of camping in the clouds (one near Sayaqmarka and another at Wiñay Wayna, a majestic set of terraced ruins near the end of the Inca Trail), we awoke at approximately 5:00 to begin our walk to Machu Picchu. After a few hours, and one dizzyingly steep climb up a set of nearly-vertical stairs at the Sun Gate (which didn't live up to its moniker thanks to choking fog), we stumbled upon Machu Picchu. I mean this quite literally; the fog was so think that I didn't even realize that I'd arrived at Machu Picchu:

Me (talking to nobody in particular): There seem to be more stone walls than normal. Why do you suppose that is?

Rosanna (always politely pretending that my questions aren't painfully stupid): Well, I believe that's because we're here.

Me: Here?

Rosanna: Yes. This staircase we're on is the entrance to Machu Picchu.

Me: Oh. How anti-climactic.

However, within 15 minutes, it became clear why so many people consider Machu Picchu to be a magical place. Almost if on cue, the clouds parted, ever-so-slowly revealing the ruins. With a splendidly eery view of the lost city (well, okay, it was found some time ago) behind us, we posed for the obligatory group photo (above), and made our way down to the city. Within another half-hour, we had a mountain bathed in sunlight, and we spent the next few hours exploring the city, admiring the jaw-dropping views (there really are no other mountains like those found in the Andes), and taunting the llamas that wandered about the ruins doing their llama thing (i.e., eating grass, and consequently helping unwitting tourists to redecorate the bottoms of their shoes). Within four hours, we were on a bus, on our way down the mountain to the nearby town of Aguas Calientes (literally "hot waters," like the US town of Hot Springs, Arkansas).

After a bizarre train ride (How many train rides have you been on that featured a dancing ghost figure and an alpaca fur fashion show, complete with pulsating techno music?) and another minibus ride, we arrived back in Cusco. Though my legs felt as if they were made of cast steel, I soon turned into bit of a softy. While I was glad to take my leave for some sleep in a proper bed, saying goodbye to my new friends was not fun. So often, when we embark on such a rewarding adventure, returning to real life is more difficult than if we'd never left. Though my "real life" is as good as anyone could hope for, I was thankful that I wouldn't be returning to real life for another six months.

Violating Pre-Colombian Building Codes

On our way down from this second pass, we came across the majestic Incan ruins at Sayaqmarka; it was as if the place had been concocted in an Indiana Jones cinematographer's imagination. We climbed to the top (via a short, but extremely steep ancient staircase) and took in breathtaking views. We were actually above the clouds; we marveled at the cloud-tops, with glacial peaks poking through every now and again. After chatting with my fellow trekkers, I wandered about the ruins, trying to decipher the purpose of each of the stone formations. Whenever you're among Inca ruins, you'll often come across seemingly random stones placed on the ground, but not so random as if to suggest that they'd simply fallen there. Instead, it appeared as if they'd been placed there intentionally. Within Sayaqmarka, I came across one particularly large stone that seemed as if it had been some sort of altar. With the benefit of my near-complete ignorance of ancient Incan culture, I imagined how the stone had come about:

Inca Bob and Inca Joe are toiling away, helping to build Sayaqmarka.

Inca Bob ("Bob"): Wow. Building this Sayaqmarka thing is entirely too difficult.

Inca Joe ("Joe"): I couldn't agree more. Here's an idea: how about we build these gigantic structures at the bottom of the mountains so we don't have to carry these stones up 3,000 meters of sheer mountain-face? Do you think the King's ever thought of that?

Bob: Well, first of all, I'm a pre-Colombian Inca, so I have no idea what a meter is, but, to answer your question, no; I don't suppose the King's ever considered that. He things big. Or, in this case, high.

Joe: What's this "pre-Colombian" you speak of?

Bob: How should I know? Do you think I'd be carrying stones around all day if I knew that sort of thing? All I heard was there's some guy who's planning to come to this part of the world one day. And he'll bring small pox.

Joe: Well, I don't know what these small pox are, but I'm not worried about something that's small. I mean, they've got "small" right in the name. And, thanks to our modern dietary standards, I'm practically a giant. I must be nearly 5 feet tall. So small is nothing for me.

Bob: Five feet? Yeah, I still don't know anything about these European units of measurement you keep using.

Joe: What's "European?"

Bob: This conversation is getting exhausting. Will you just stop talking do your Inca thing in peace?

Joe: Wait. Why did you leave that massive stone there? You can't just drop a stone in the middle of the room because you're tired.

Bob: Um, I didn't. That's where it's supposed to go. It's, um, an altar.

Joe: Really? Well, what's it for? Who ever heard of such a small altar in the middle of a room? What's it for?

Bob: Um, it's for sacrificing babies.

Joe: Babies? Since when do we sacrifice babies?

Bob: Oh, since yesterday. The gods thought it would be a good idea. Didn't you get the memo?

Joe: No. What's a memo?

Bob: I have no idea.

Joe: Fine. Never mind. So whose lady are we sacrificing?

Bob: Not lady! Baby! You know, those little things that scream and dirty up the diapers we haven't invented yet?

Joe: Oh yeah. Well, whose?

Bob: Well, not mine. That's for sure.

Joe: How do you know that?

Bob: ...gods told me so.

Joe: Who appointed you ambassador to the gods? How do you know all of this stuff?

Bob: I dunno. I suppose I just operate on a higher spiritual level than you or something like that. So do you think you can have your baby all cleaned up by tomorrow's sacrifice; we wouldn't want the gods to get dysentery or something.

Joe: How could that happen? Do they intend to eat him?

Bob: As far as you know, sure.

At least that's how I imagined it. It's a good thing I don't know much about pre-Colombia Inca history. I find that facts and knowledge make history far less interesting than my made-up versions of history.

Toffee Wishes and Inca Trail Dreams

After a particularly brutal wake-up call (it's rather difficult to wake up at 4:30 when New Year's revelers keep you awake until 1:30), I made my way to meet my Inca Trail trekking group at 5:45 or so. By 6:00, we were aboard a minibus and on our way to the trail head.

While there are many routes by which one can get to Machu Picchu (NB: The Incan lost city of Machu Picchu is where the trail ends and is sort of the point of the undertaking the trek to begin with), the route I chose (i.e., the "Classic Trail") is the most well-known among them. According to my most trusted adviser (me), it's also the best. We started from the town of Ollantaytambo (good luck pronouncing that one), which put us in place for 82 km (52 miles) of strenuous hiking. While most people are familiar with Machu Picchu, the trail is practically littered with other Incan ruins; you nearly trip over several each day. The names of these sites, however, can be extremely tricky to pronounce. You see, the names aren't in English (duh) or even in Spanish. Rather, the names were devised in the indigenous language, Quechua. Consequently, it appears is if all the ruins got their names by having someone spill several Scrabble letters on the floor; the names are difficult to pronounce and nearly impossible to spell. A few examples of stops along the trail include Llaqtapata (apparently named after a lactose-intolerant Inca King), Warmiwañusca, Pacaymayu, Sayaqmarka, Phuyupatmarka (these people really like their markas), Wiñay Wayna, and I'drathernotsaya (that was just to make sure you're still paying attention).

While the January 1 departure was convenient for me, it wasn't particularly convenient for the weather. The Inca Trail doesn't really have marked seasonal variations in temperature, but the variations in rainfall are quite stark. Of the two seasons (i.e., rainy season and dry season), I began my trek in the rainy season, and, in this respect, the Inca Trail did not disappoint. While Day One of the trek consisted of a bucolic walk in the mountains, Day Two brought with it buckets of rain. Since Day Two is also the most difficult climbing day (we ascended and descended two massive peaks), this mixture of ill-tempered weather and physical strain created a sort of witch's brew; Day Two was difficult.

As we ascended the infamous Dead Woman's Pass (so named because the peaks resemble the profile of a dead woman), the rain became white, fluffy, and decidedly colder. Snow. I tried to explain to the clouds that January is actually summer in South America, thereby negating any chance of snow. The clouds, however, didn't much care what I had to say; they would have none of it. More than anything, I was pleased to have protective rain clothing and shoes lined with waterproof Gore-Tex (or, as I call it, "God's Fabric"). While I may have been cold, I was mostly dry. The majority of my co-trekkers, on the other hand, were near-freezing and completely drenched, head to toe. Naturally, throughout all this, the porters (i.e., local people that carry our heavy stuff for in exchange for our money), were bounding past us in shorts and sandals, all the while carrying amounts that nearly tripled the load strapped to my back. Once we'd passed Dead Woman's Pass, however, the worst was over, and I dare say we all found the experience particularly rewarding in light of the harsh conditions. I've got some good photos from Dead Woman's Pass that will be posted soon, so be sure to check back in two days' time for those.

As fate would have it, our efforts were later rewarded as we approached the summit of the second pass of the day. The clouds parted, giving us breathtaking views of Dead Woman's Pass behind us. In accordance with tradition, each of us found a stone near the bank of a small mountain pond, carried it up to the pass, placed it atop other trekkers' stacks of stones (pictured at right), and made a wish. Well, at least that's what most people did. I found a stone near the pond, carried it up the pass, placed it atop some other trekkers' stones, and promptly sent the entire stack toppling over. I'm not certain whether this somehow "undid" all of the preceding wishes, but I certainly hope not. So, I hastily revised my wish as follows: "I wish that my clumsiness shall not undo the wishes of other trekkers. And if it's not asking too much, I'd also like a few pieces of toffee covered in chocolate. You know, like a Heath bar or something. Yes, that would be very nice right now. I'm very hungry, and I think the toffee would work wonders. Thanks for listening, your Wishiness, and have a lovely afternoon. Humbly yours, Caton." I waited, but no toffee appeared, so I can only presume that the first part of the wish did come true.

Popping Pills with Ipi

My first day in Peru consisted primarily of traveling. Since my first planned activity was to complete the Inca Trail trek, I buzzed through Lima (after a night at one very questionable "transit hotel" near the airport) and boarded another flight (this time on Peru's national airline, LAN Peru) bound for Cusco, Peru's primary tourist destination and self-proclaimed "gateway to the Inca Trail." Importantly, I arrived in Cusco a full two days before my Inca Trail trek, and with good reason; the trek involves climbing to some truly breathtaking (quite literally) altitudes. Even the city itself registers at a full 3,300 meters (approximately 10,900 feet) above sea level. If one has any prayer of surviving the trek, it's essential that one first spends two full days in Cusco acclimatizing to the altitude. A portable medicine cabinet of altitude sickness medication also helps; I threw those back like a late seventies Elvis.

Fortunately, if you've got two days to burn, you could certainly choose worse places than Cusco. Cusco is a UNESCO World Heritage Site, and rightly so; the little city is steeped in history. Cusco has been a thriving city for at least 1,100 years. Initially, the city was occupied by the Killke civilization. The Killke weren't masters of Cusco for very long, however. By the 13th century, the Inca Empire had handed the Killke their eviction notice, and immediately set about sprucing up the place; they built roads and, rather than bother with building bridges, they re-routed two rivers (which had originally traversed the city) around the city. I suppose the Incas were better at digging than at building bridges. For another 300 years or so, the Incas had the place to themselves. On November 15, 1533, however, the Spaniards came knocking. During the 16th century, the Spanish had a reputation as terrible houseguests; as was typical, they sacked the place, molested the women, plundered whatever natural resources they could, and refused to leave after they'd worn out their welcome. The Spaniards also brought terrible house-warming gifts (e.g., smallpox). Oh, and it generally wasn't advisable to "call out" the Spaniards on their unwelcome behavior; that would get you an appointment with another Spanish introduction, the gun. Luckily, the Spanish didn't last even as long as the Incas. By 1824, the Peruvians had shown the Spanish the door, and Cusco began life as part of an independent Peru.

Today, Cusco is well-known as an adventure destination. In addition to the Inca Trail and Lares treks, you can go water rafting, paragliding, and all sort of other things that will void your life insurance policy. And, if you're in the mood for a nasty sunburn, Cusco is the place for you! In 2006, scientists determined that Cusco is the one place on Earth with the highest level of ultraviolet light. Soak up those rays!

However, there are less damaging activities to pursue, including historical tours of the nearby Sacred Valley, visiting numerous galleries and museums, or simply wandering through the picturesque city. On my first day, I decided to get the abridged version of all of the above by taking a one-day city tour. This is where you get on an overcrowded bus, piddle about the city, and watch your tour guide (Ipi, prounounced "Eepee") take personal calls on her mobile phone. I didn't learn terribly much about pre-Colombian civilizations, but I did learn that Ipi's sister prefers Tide to other brands of laundry detergent and that Ipi would go buy some just as soon as the tour was over, so stop calling already.

While Ipi was prattling away on her mobile, I met some pretty cool new people. First was Sandra and her mother from LA, though originally from Taiwan. I immediately endeared myself to them (and puzzled them) by explaining that I would be visiting Taiwan soon. Sandra later endeared herself to me by buying me an inedible ear of maize (but I appreciated the gesture). I also met Dan and Linda, a brother-and-sister pair from Sydney. They were loads of fun. In fact, through a bizarre coincidence, they appeared again the next morning when I set out for a rafting trip. This turned into a good evening; after bonding by enduring a rafting trip full of shockingly boisterous Brazilians, the Australians and I shared a dinner at the Plaza de Armas (see picture at left) back in Cusco.

That dinner didn't last too long, however. The next day (New Year's Day), I was scheduled to meet my trekking group at 5:45 am to begin the Inca Trail trek. And, with that, I completed my two days of altitude acclimatization in Cusco. I did not, however, finish off my altitude-sickness medication; I had five more days of pill-popping to look forward to.

Adios a mis Estados Unidos

I would have never guessed that a business trip to London two years ago would circuitously lead to one of my best adventures ever. You see, I had a bit of time to burn during my first day in the city, and what better way to combat sleep deprivation (jet lag) than the excitement of sitting at a desk surrounded by accountants? So, I trudged to our London office and found an abandoned desk. As I waited for my computer to boot up (a 15-minute ordeal), I passed the time by (trying to) furtively survey my surroundings, but I immediately found myself in the midst of a conversation with my neighbor, Isabel:

Isabel: Oh, hello! How are you? And who are you?

Me: Oh, um, I'm Caton Walker. I'm here for some client meetings. I'm from the Houston office.

Isabel (by now inexplicably enthusiastic): That's great! Welcome! I'm Isabel!

Me: Well, it's nice to meet you, too. You know, judging by your accent, it sounds as if your native language is Spanish. Where are you from?

Isabel (now inexplicably alarmed): Oh no! Do I sound bad?

Me: No, no! I'm sorry. Your English is perfect. It's just that...

Isabel: ...because I don't want to have an accent!

Me (thinking Isabel should embrace her accent): I barely noticed. It's just that I studied Spanish in college and...

Isabel (wasting no time in returning to her prior state of enthusiasm): Really?! You studied Spanish?!

Me: Well, yes, but I'm afraid I've let it slide a bit since then. So, where are you...

Isabel: Oh! You should practice. You can practice with me whenever you like!

Me: Thanks! I very well may do that. But, where are you from again?

Isabel: Oh, sorry! I'm from Peru. Lima.

Me: Oh, wonderful. I hear that Peru is an amazing place to visit.

Isabel (seemingly shocked that I would say such a thing): Oh yes! That is true! I love it!

Me: Well then, I suppose I should go there sometime.

Isabel: Yes! You should! You will love it. Please, take one of my cards. If you have any questions about Peru, you can call me.

Me: Oh, thank you. And since we both work for Ernst & Young, would it be okay if I were to call you about work sometime, too?

Isabel (apparently not quite accustomed to my sense of humor): Oh, of course! That's okay too.

"Well," I thought to myself, "I like this Isabel person. If she's at all representative of Peruvians, then perhaps I should go there."

So, when I began my Round the World journey, I originally had no plans to visit South America, but, at the last minute, I realized that I had enough frequent flyer miles to make the trip to Lima, so that's exactly what I did. I booked the flight, arranged to join a group trekking trip of the famed Inca Trail in the Andes mountains (which also gave me the perfect excuse to make several trips to REI), and, after showing up at the airport at entirely the wrong time (approximately six hours early, which I suppose is still far better than six hours late), I was off to Peru.