Behavior - fresh, native, copious

The center of the inca empire and now the focal point of the so-called Gringo Trail through Peru, Cuzco is treating me well, following my 40-some kilometer hike through the hills to Macchu Picchu. My legs are strong and my eyes mostly open, and I find myself surrounded by friends in a now not-so-strange land...

To the narrative.
Picked up on January 20 in front of the Cathedral in the Main Plaza after waiting for a half hour at 630am, I attempt to introduce myself to my tour group:

The Canadians (Prince Edward Island Contingent): James, and Joey. Nice fellas, all. A brief anecdote. Having some pillow talk between our tents at the last campsite (of three), Jeff mentions that a friend of theirs would have really enjoyed the day´s hike. James responds, "you know who would have really enjoyed walking up this mountain? Christopher Reeve." ouch. Great guys, though, and I´ve been hanging out with them for a couple days here in Cuzco, staying at the same hostal as them, the Loki Hostal, with an amazing view over the city and an in-house bar. More on this later.

The Canadians (Jewish Montreal Contingent): Orin, Eric Abdoo, and Rob. Mindless banter between these three sapped much of the spiritual vibe from the journey, and with each of Orin´s "you know"s at the end of every other sentence, Joey and I marked a metaphorical notch onto the board of "most annoying habits ever". Eric, a properties manager, was a nice guy and more than tolerable on his own, but with Orin (hes in shipping) and Rob, the trio were an unstoppable train, hauling Seinfeld quotes and unfinished sentences by the truckload.

The Brit: Don Johnston - yes, almost like the best looking man in a white blazer ever - a 6 foot 6 inch British wisecracker. Bad teeth and all. A triangular smile and sunglass tan like something out of a cartoon. Horrible spanish, and remarkably undignified, for a brit. A spectacular tent-mate, who awoke after my second night with "a loaded bowel".

The Frenchman: Jean, from Bordeaux, though from a different generation (30-something), a fine companion, who I had met at my first hostal in Miraflores my second day in the country.

The Irish: Steven and Lisa. Incredibly nice folks, both hotel managers from County Galway. Sadly forced to turn back after Lisa came down with some altitude sickness on day 2, they perservered and met us at the finish line at Macchu Piccu- a happy reunion.

The details of the trip are largely unimportant. Hauling 30-some pounds up and down Inca-constructed staircases at altitude was entirely worthwhile, rewarding, and exhausting. Admittedly, the trail wasn´t exactly "roughing it", as I ate better in our mess-tent than I have since I´ve been in South America, as Wilmer, the cook, whipped up some spectacular meals in the "kitchen tent" along the trail. It was all I could do not to gain weight. Wondering what Wilmer could do with a proper gourmet kitchen, we decided he´d probably pitch a tent in it.

Suffice it to say that the spiritual experience I was looking for isn´t something that you can look for. A long, strenuous climb was rewarded with the euphoria of a spectacular sweaty sunrise and a great view of Maccu Picchu, and I felt as though I´d accomplished something. I was content, but descending down into the ruins as Incas did hundreds of years ago, I found myself wondering how to find the proper balance between soaking in the experience of the now and tearing my thoughts away from what is My Life in general, at home. What should I be pondering at Macchu Picchu? Big things, small things, loves. llamas. I flowed with it, i´m fairly sure, though I´m not entirely sure what that means.

While the Inca trail was beautiful and somehow liberating, at the same time the economic divide between the peruvian porters and the white hikers stared me right in the face. This is a modern manifestation of the colonial oppression of a few centuries back. These short, Quechua-speaking porters haul fifty pounds of gear on their backs, running past us to set up the next camp or the next meal, earning (I am told) about 10 dollars a day. A decent wage, apparently, for a Peruvian, but objectively, I think, not far removed from slavery. Traveling in developing nations forces one to confront face to face that sort of divide that easily escapes consideration in my daily life. How much guilt is necessary? How much is healthy? Big questions... There was a protest today in the main plaza, Cuzqueños upset that they, the locals, are forced to pay to enter the town´s museums like any average gringo. One of the booty-shaking clubs in which I have done requisite booty-shaking, Mama Africa´s, I think has a policy that they do not let locals into the club. This infuriates me. You?

The sky is entirely different (amazing stars along the trip), though the time zone is the same, and today, as my body chemistry fights an uphill battle back to normalcy following two debaucherous nights of rum-consumption and booty shaking, I sit and reflect. These gentlemen from Canada, a fine crew. The theme of their trip, they tell me, is a quote that often crosses my mind. "I was within and without, simultaneously enchanted and repelled by the inexhaustible variety of life." Fitzgerald hits it right on the head sometimes. This jaunt through South America has been incredible, but the people along the way still make this trip - and this life. Both the ups and the downs...

I´ve passed the past two evenings with James, Jeff, and Joey and with a group of gorgeous Argentine chicas who we met along the Inca trial - José(fina), Nanín, Belú, Flor, and Luli. I think they seem to have a good read on things, an outgoing bunch who, I think, enjoy making others feel comfortable. How I am somehow lucky enough to be bar-hopping with Argentine bombshells I´ll never really know, but I guess in these situations one doesn´t ask questions. I´m content to refill my glass with Ron limón and sprite, continue the drinking games, and dance until my legs are tired and my self-consciousness erased (or perhaps that´s my dignity...) Curious how I would never go to a dance club at home, but find myself mashed up against sweaty moving bodies with some frequency in foreign nations. I guess I won´t have to see most of these people ever again.
I do hope to see those Canadians in the future, however. James and Jeff are headed to law school in Halifax next fall, and we have already clinked glasses, promising visits to our respective adopted cities of legal study. Tomorrow morning I return to the Urubama river, where I´ll stay at a lodge for two days of white water rafting with those Canadian gents, who now must abandon their holier-than-thou liberal talk as Bush´s croney Harper moves into a new place in Ottowa.

Today, my lunch costed 4.5 soles - about a dollar fifty - for soup, homemade bread, tea, a salad, a plate of Spaghetti with vegetables, and a curious liquidy cinnamony dessert. I bought a nondescript ballpoint pen for 5 soles. Disproportionality rules in Peru.

Tonight to down a 2 dollar bottle of wine and celebrate Australia Day (My Aussie roommate Adrian notes that it marks the day the first English Fleet arrived in Australia) with various Australians at the Hostal, many of whom made it a point to "get pissed" before noon this morning.

Circles: At Macchu Picchu, I ran into my friend Christina from UofM, entirely randomly. I couldn´t believe it. That night, I had dinner with Ryan and Jin, who were in Cuzco for the night. Today, I spent two hours in the plaza with my Argentinian friends from the Isla del Sol, Mariana and Damien. Ran into them by chance. This little traveler´s world seems smaller and smaller every day.

Content, though a blog entry written in seven different segments shows clear signs of that very same choppy composition. Like the traveler´s life. Stop. and Go.