Ciudad Perdida- The Lost City

Juan Carlos is an impassioned man. A campesino, he has witnessed the evolution of his lands over the span of his life. At age 14 he began trekking to the Lost City, befriending Kogis and Wiwas learning first hand their history, beliefs, and customs while learning how to cultivate his family’s personal plot. From these seeds were born Juan Carlos’ economic wits. In addition to being a guide he maintains his family’s land. When coca arrived in the 80’s along with fistfuls of dollars he and his family cultivated and processed the leaf, like much of the surrounding campesinos. When tourism arrived Juan Carlos started piling pesos once again becoming a guide for several companies. However, upon the intensification of ‘Plan Colombia’ and the looming threat of coca eradication via fumigation planes, Juan Carlos feared the bankruptcy of both economies. Dreading the degradation of the land, and the death of tourism he joined side by side with the indigenous community, fellow campesinos, and environmentalists to force the hand of the government- literally. United efforts obliged thousands of agents to hack through the Santa Marta’s and manually uproot each and every coca plant, saving the region from poisoning and driving out drug traffickers. Juan Carlos was there. Juan Carlos was there serving on the team of guides who assisted the foremost Lost City scholar on his expedition into the deep of the jungle. Juan Carlos was there to guide us on our five day march into the green abyss. It was Juan Carlos’ 15th consecutive expedition, two straight months on the trail, and another run lined up upon our return. As our hammocks swing us smoothly off to sleep each night, Juan Carlos’ mosquito net is aglow forming shadow puppets in the cool night air; he thumbs through his Ciudad Perdida picture book, excited for the day to come.
Day 1
We bounce into the village of Machete in a jalopy Land Rover. Coming up the dirt road our truck gets stuck in some mud. There are five of us in total and our driver assures us that he has made this trip with 15, that number shoots up to 20 as he cranks it into four wheel drive, we continue to sink. Offering to get out and push, the driver tells us of his feat of 30 people, smiling a gap filled smile skewing his moustache, we lurch forward and are free.
The first day is a rather leisurely jaunt through the heavily trafficked clay campesino trails, providing a good opportunity to get to know the rest of our international team. A fireman from Basque country France, the Italian gelato maker who lives in Spain, a Canadian couple mistaken for brother and sister, Dutch brothers who are addicted to backflip, a Japanese guy whose world tour include Azerbaijan, Kazakhstan, Turkmenistan, and coming this July: Afghanistan, and last but not least a Pollack (is that politically correct?) who lives in London and likes tea.
Day 2
Pushing deeper into the jungle, our trail narrows and the campesinos disappear. We pass several young Kogui families while the kids ask for cookies and candy; their fathers are keen on cigarettes from our guides. Turning a worn corner we come to a medium sized Kogui village of 30 or so tightly woven round bamboo homes. Relations between tourists, campesinos, and indigenous is amiable but maintains an appropriate non-intrusive respect. Entering the village is prohibited when its inhabitants are present, tunic-clad children peer out of their houses, entrance is a no go. Juan Carlos tells me that contact with the outside world has provided exposure to certain luxuries that hadn’t existed. Upon contact with the Spanish in the 15th century hammocks replaced former sleeping arrangements in Kogui dwellings; in the last century rubber gum boots by were introduced by campesinos and now walk alongside bare feet, today young adolescents take a liking to backwards baseballs hats. Each of us must pay a fee when crossing onto the path that weaves through the protected lands of the indigenous, who also own the campsites we eat and sleep at. The small tribute helps to maintain the tiny local economy and trade. I have trouble reasoning why it is that millennia old subsistence farmers suddenly have a need for cash. Juan Carlos explains. It is a testament to all human nature: people always want more stuff.

Colombian Cities

Half of Colombia is split up by three mountain ranges, stemming from the Andes that slice through the country. What this translates to is the necessity for an iron stomach and nerves of steel when traveling on long distance bus, once you make it out of the Capital. We roll out of Bogota before the sun has a chance to roll out of bed. Or at least I thought. Edging the 10 million inhabitant mark Bogota traffic is out of this world. It even has the government befuddled; a public mandate denies drivers use of the roads up to three days a week (depending on their license plate numbers), the solution? Drivers now own multiple cars, and every single one of them seems to be on the road that morning. The bus slowly lurches forward into the perpetual gridlock. As the skyline finally disappears behind the yellow-brown cloud of smog, greener horizons head our way, and our bus driver gets into the rhythm of overtaking five cars on double yellow, blind hairpin turns while angrily blasting his horn and pumping his questionable brakes. I fall asleep like a baby in a rocking crib manufactured by Satan Associates and shaken by a depressed, tweaked out, meth head babysitter (who also happens to be from hell).

Armenia- The Coffee City
Armenia is the hub of the Colombian coffee region. Tourism gets you out of the city and into the country promoting hotels and hostels in touristic ‘fincas’ aka farm houses or cottages- which is the perfect vibe for this region. Farming is life. Coffee is vital. Rolling hills of emerald coffee and banana plantations extend into infinity.
The National Coffee Park is the product of Juan Valdez and Walt Disney’s love child. However, anyone who makes the accusation that a visit to the park does not consist of the “Authentic cultural experience” that most travellers strive for needs to take just one good look and listen to the parks clientele: Colombians, everywhere. Domestic tourism doesn’t lack in Colombia (something people to the north should take note of) I argue that pilgrimage to the National Coffee Park is a very authentic Colombian holiday if not obligation.
We hop on a buseta (the local transport, consisting of guys piling into the back of a van) to the bus terminal. Field workers mostly, I quickly notice that every man, woman, and child holsters a machete in their waist band. Fingernails to forearms you can tell they’ve had a long hot day. But the mood of the van is light, young guys pick on the even younger workers, Andrea has an exhaustive conversation with a lady about how to get to the bus terminal (it’s the last stop). A man plays with a squirrel on his lap. Broad smiles fill the bus.

Manizales- The Topographically Confused City
Andrea and I love getting to know cities from the inside, from a local point of view. In this case we hit the mother lode! Andrea’s Great Aunt Matilda agreed to escort us while we visited her stomping grounds. The diminutive nonagenarian is anything but. She could compete with an ADD toddler on a foot race to an Xbox. The only thing that slows her down is the speed of her chauffeur (who drives incredibly fast), and people on the street saying hello (she knows everyone).
Some cities are built on the tops of mountains, others in valleys, Manizales is both. The city climbs up and slides down several peaks, twists around ridges, totters on slopes, and dives into valleys. From the back of our chauffeured sedan, I got car sick for the first time in my life.
Great Aunt Matilda took us to climb to the top spires of the world’s fifth tallest cathedral. We swayed with vertigo while she prayed in a pew 371 feet below. Later, she dared us to saddle up in one of those giant catapult swings and do a skywalk outside a giant water tank monument thing. In hindsight maybe we had overstayed our welcome and she was trying to get rid of us…

Medellin- The New City
A city that was torn to shreds by rainstorms of bullets between warring narco-traffickers of the Pablo Escobar persuasion and, well, anyone who opposed them; at its peak in the 1980’s the city of 1.3 million endured up to 500 murders a month, while the Medellin Cartel earned in excess of $60 million a day, and Pablo Escobar’s net worth reached in excess of $9 billion dollars, making him Forbes seventh richest man in the world, and the sole homicidal egotist who offered to pay off Colombia’s national debt (while systematically slaying judges, politicians, and presidential candidates).
Fast forward 20 years. Modern Medellin maintains its mantra “Adelante y sin Reversa”, moving ahead without looking back. The new rhythm of life and the Medellinense motto is evident in the names of the city’s parks: Parque de los Deseos (Park of Desires), Parque de los pies Descalzos (Barefoot Park), Parque de la Bailarina (Dancer’s Park). The “Green Lung” of the city is the municipal botanical gardens: a massive green expanse of plant life buzzing with happy families playing on the grass, couples nuzzling in the shade. Medellin is truly Colombia’s modern city: a sprawling urban transport system connects the city through a spotless and speedy metro, cable cars that zip to the highest barrios, and long tram-buses that parallel the main arterial motorways of the metropolis. Neo-Medellin is vibrant with art. The Botero museum is a must see, surrounded by gargantuan statues of his “voluptuous” muses, curves bronzed by tourists hands. A deep black square, cylindrical spires thrusting towards the heavens, the symbol of Medellin “The Needle Building” (for its textile based economy) – modern art speckles downtown. Medellin is on the move, and so are we.

Cartagena- The walled city
A plane one hour north and we’re on the Caribbean coast. And so my sweating begins. Arriving in the late afternoon we stroll to the historic downtown to take pictures of the fortified city under the night lights, the amber and golden colors of the walls are amazing but nothing compared to day light and the Colonial Spanish buildings splashed with bright vivid paints enveloped by the city’s walls.
By 11 am my sudoriferous glands have punched into overdrive, much like urban Cartagena. Outside the historic downtown is where chaos resides. The sun boils high overhead, buses billow black smoke, human traffic is bumper to bumper, the splashing of oil from street side vendors frying food in combination with extreme UV rays provide a doubly crisp skin. By the time we witness a local being smacked by a screeching taxi we decide to head towards more tranquil Caribbean horizons.

Taganga- The Chilled City
I have a passion for great places with weird names. Past travels have taken me to places titled Rurrenabaque, Zipolite, Cafayate, Whakapapa, and Madison. Taganga did not disappoint. A hippie enclave of backpackers, artists, artisans, surfers, and deadbeats; the beach is a playground 24 hours a day, beer is never in short supply, and a relaxing strum of the guitar is sure to arouse an impromptu drum circle playing long after the sun has melted into the sea.

AND FINALLY

Ciudad Perdida- The Lost City



(Coming soon… really really soon.)

Zac Uses a Bidet

A few weeks later and just one little country over, after being obliged to squatting over a hole in the ground in Peru, I am now relinquished to self-violation in the form of a bidet. Argentina sure is one “fancy” place. I´ve wandered around Europe in the past and never once found myself being blessed on (and in) my backside with water.
Bidets freak me out, big time.
Give me a hole in the ground any day of the week.
I´m just sayin.

Too good to be true...

There is an exit on the highway to paradise and its called Cafayate. Four hours south of the very 'basic' Argentinian city of Salta lies this incredible land. The four N's are what makes this place so special.

First off, Nice people fill the village and a smile is constantly gracing their faces. From our hostel host giving us a discount and making us breakfast, to the lone taxi driver we encountered, to people on the street helping with directions...nice nice nice.

Next up, Noise-there isn't any! With very few cars, the honking horns of the city are replaced here with the occasionally squeaky bicycle chain.

Nature is the third N. The bus arrives through a series of blood red canyons leading to the vineyards that surround the village. On this particular occasion (in winter) the devil red rock walls that encompass the valley and giant green cacti are dusted with freshly fallen snow (a once-in-a-decade event). Climbing through the orange hills reveals frozen free-falling cascades spraying ice on to the desert sand.

The final N needed for near perfection is the sweet Nectar of the earth. Wine that is. Bodegas dot the village offering free tours and samples. Mendoza's Malbec is famously Argentinian, and every experienced passenger on the gringo trail has sampled it straight from the vineyard. However, Cafayate and its fruity white Torrontes wine are a rare jewel to outsiders- which, very important to backpackers and frugal minded individuals, keeps tourist-inflated prices to a minimum. I consider myself somewhat of an amateur sommelier, my private cellar includes my personal favorite vintage: Franzia, 2009/10 Sweet Red, Box, EZ-Fridge Pour Spout (for my international readers this is equal to Coolabah, Chasseur, and Sainsbury's ). With such highly adept taste buds (and extremely shallow pockets) I was EXTREMELY pleased with some of the incredible wines that could be bought for less than $2 a bottle. However, I was pretty upset with the lack of headache, nausea, and horribleness that my normal other wines offer the next day.

Cafayate is also home to the first Argentinian Parillada (grill) that Andrea and I enjoyed. The land of meat has been a long time coming and we are glad to get away from roast chicken for a while. To say our meal was mouth-watering is less than an understatement. It was mouth-Niagra falls watering. It was mouth- Moses slips up and the Red Sea closes watering. It was mouth- lock your lips around Old Faithful watering. With our tablecloth and shirts soaked with saliva before our parilla even reaches the table we knew we were in for an experience. Our garlic soaked meal comes sizzling on a mini-grill and includes chorizo, morcilla (blood sausage), costilla de cabrito (baby goat ribs), several steak cutlets, and a liter of Cab Sav from the bodega next door, Domingo. $15. And that's not each. That's together. We're talking a solid five pounds of meat and enough wine to help it all slide down your neck. 60 Argentinian pesos. With an average exchange rate of 4 to 1 that's 15 bucks! Divide that by two (cuz Andrea doesn't lend me any money) $7.50...am I making my point yet! I don't want to leave this place...

Any Body of Water

A road block prevented Andrea and I to travel by our preferred means of transportation: the cheapest AKA 'bus'. A strike somewhere between La Paz and our destination of Rurrenabaque had halted all traffic between the two cities. Getting through on a bus was out of the question. Our only remaining option was to book a flight. Transporte Aereo Militar: The Bolivian Military Airline, about $60 and an hour in the air and we would arrive. Upon "booking" we were told that everything was set, unless it rains. Rains? The landing strip in Rurrenabaque is dirt. Well, mud if it rains. Which presents quite a problem when attempting to land an aircraft.
I know what your thinking. And I was thinking the same thing. Military aircraft? I expected to cross the tarmac and be strapped into a bullet riddled, rifle green fuselage of a cargo plane and pushed out with a parachute over my corresponding destination. Unfortunately, this was not to be. A spotless, sparkling white and bright blue painted aircraft pulled up to our gate. Surely, I thought, there was a new coat of paint recently applied to cover the bullet holes; but as we boarded, the cabin was impeccably clean and no different than any other plane I had ever been on. The stewardess brought around drinks, followed by sandwiches, and a turn-down service. Mind you we were airborne for less than 50 minutes. Try finding service comparable to that by any US carrier, let alone for a flight less than 8 hours and in economy class! My favorite part of the plane was the obligatory pre-flight lecture about safety. Oh wait, there wasn't one, nor could you self-educate through the aid of brochures, as they too had seem to have been forgotten...I enjoy the Bolivian sense of reality. Why worry about things you have absolutely no control over and disillusion yourself with information that can persuade you into thinking that you are in control. If the plane goes down there is only one thing that can save you, and you won't find God with your head tucked between your knees.

Views from the plane window were incredible. Circling the city in order to climb high enough to hop over the Andesn(barely) we were privileged to views of their peaks cruising past an arms length away from our plane windows. The floor of the Earth rapidly changed from the dusty brown of the Altiplano, the snow capped gray Andes, and the descent into the green sea of the Yungas. I had barely finished my second cup of coffee and my hot towel still retained its warmth as we made or descent. Trees whipped by our windows at an alarmingly close proximity, and we seemed to float over the jungle canopy for an extended period of time. In the vast expanse of green I didn't even see the runway before we made impact. Brownish-red dust clouded the air and every bump of the ground jolted the plane. Our Pablo-Escobar-like jungle landing left us in the middle of nowhere. A sign above a shack indicated that we were indeed in Rurrenabaque, and that the shack was, well, the airport.
Motorcycles line the dirt road leading away from the 'airport'. Jungle versions of taxis these bikes are a two-for-one. They get you to your destination and thrill you along the way. Holding on for dear life the motorcycle taxis fly down the cobblestone and dirt roads dodging pot holes, on-coming traffic, and cattle alike.

Our next leg of the journey was a trip down the river Beni, a Bolivian branch of the Amazon, and deep into the pampas. Our rough four hour 4x4 ride was exacerbated by our conspicuous concoction of a lunch; a hamburger meat, gravy, and french fry casserole...of sorts. A relaxing dug-out canoe ride down the smooth waters of the river came just in time. For another three hours we floated deeper and deeper down river. Our guide pointed out, literally, hundreds of alligators and caymans. The overgrown mutant rat on steroids that is the capybara could be seen lounging in the mud. Squirrel monkeys shrieked at us from trees and thousands of bird varieties gave us music while we bobbed down river. These creatures among others would be our constant companions in the days to follow.
Arriving at our lodge for sunset a game of soccer with guides and local river dwellers ensued. When darkness had descended and the black shadow of night had blotted out the surrounding forest green we boarded the canoe and drifted downstream. Equipped with flashlights and instructed to point at the banks of the river our thin beams of light revealed the menacing hollow glow of crocodilian eyes hiding above the blackness of the water. The banks crawled with the massive reptilian predators, but the stillness of the night imparted a silent reverence from the beasts. We spent our nights in the lodge suspended 6 feet above the jungle floor; wine drinking nights reminiscing about the day's adventures in a neon-green fluorescent glow were cut short when the generator was switched off and we were relegated to the protection of our mosquito net beds.
The following day was spent plodding along the pampas in a search for anacondas. Not entirely fruitless, our guide managed to rustle up a skeleton from under a tree. Clomping through the wetlands splattering through knee high mud, pushing aside bushes and tall grass, as well as shoving my hand down dark holes attempting to locate one of the giant snakes kept a constant smile on my face.
Once again returning to the lodge at sundown we were serenaded throughout the night by the perpetual hum of tree frogs.
On our final day our guide invited us to try our hand at fishing... for piranhas. And the only thing I like more than fishing for piranhas, is fishing for piranhas! I stabbed a hunk of meat with my hook and tossed it, attached to a piece of string, over board. I awaited the tremendous smack from one of the voracious fish to jolt my line. After several minutes of jigging I grew impatient and pulled in my line. The entire piece of beef had been stripped clean off the hook. My next attempt imitated something I had seen on the Discovery channel. I dipped my newly baited hook just below the surface of the water. Almost immediately a swarm of piranhas, teeth snapping and heads jerking, tore apart my bait. Too small to take the hook and too quick to snag, reeling in a piranha remained elusive. But I will always catch baby catfish... and the Beni River of Bolivia was no exception. Andrea even caught one. Her first fish ever her, first ever time fishing! Luckily our guide snagged a piranha, which we later grilled. It was bony...and teethy.
Shortly after fishing we made our way back up river towards Rurrenabaque, once again surrounded by cayman and alligators. In the open water our guide stopped the dugout and said that if we would like to cool off and go for a swim, now was the time. Pulling the boat onto shore, our guide walked down the bank and started yelling at an alligator. "Juan!, Ven aca!" (Juan, come here). Whistling, splashing his hand in the water, and flinging bits of meat he eventually enticed the undead dinosaur over towards us. "Don't worry, I'll keep him distracted, go for a swim!" Insecurity set in as I had already stripped down and was now being swept down shore and towards all of the countless other hungry alligators, oh yeah and those piranhas too! A lifesaver was thrown into the water and we were told to relax and try not to splash. I could see movement just below the surface of the water. Large ripples began to give way to pointed dorsal fins. What kind of crazy river fish was surrounding us ready for lunch? A pink nose poked out of the water and the tell-tale click of a dolphin echoed off my ears. We had found the pink river dolphins of the Amazon and were now swimming with them. This, our guide tells us, is what keeps all the hungry predators away.
I fill my lungs and look around trying to breathe in all amazing the nature around me. Floating down the Amazon with pink dolphins, surrounded by things that could eat me, while being stared upon by the thousands of terrestrial fauna...any body of water, Dad....ANY body of water

Coke and Witches

Nestled within Lauca National Park, at over 4,500 meters (14,700+ feet) above sea level, Lago Chungara, known as the highest “lake” in the world, and serves as a beautiful backdrop to the Chilean/Bolivian border crossing. Twin volcanic turrets sit on either side of the frontier, the two conical towers stand opposite each other stirring in a silent standoff over the convergin altiplano. The smoky citadels safeguard their respective nations: the Chilean Volcan Parinacota in the west, and Bolivia's Volcan Pomerape (Pomarata) in the east.

First stopping to go through Chilean exit procedures I was permitted time to disembark the bus. Between Andrea and I we comprised the following altitude sickness symptomatic checklist:

Shortness of breath, check
Brain pounding against skull, check
Chocking back vomit, check
Veins popping in eyeballs, check
Nasal taste of blood, check
Variety of greenish skin tones that would make a chameleon jealous, check

By the time we reached the Bolivian entry the symptoms were in full effect. While attempting to bribe the Bolivian border authorities, my hand became my only steady anchor point firmly grasping the officers desk while avoiding a sweaty brain twisting blackout. Making it back onto the bus without having vomited or passed out was viewed as a success, in spite of my $135 donation to the people of Plurinational State of Bolivia.

When making the transition from Chile to Bolivia you KNOW your in a completely different country/ income bracket. Earthen homes dot the altiplano, the typical dress of the cholitas is the vestment of choice, half finished (or half decayed) buildings comprise the skyline of Ciudad El Alto (a suburb of La Paz), with urbanization comes the blare of car horns, traffic jams; and shouts from drivers, vendors, and beggars-which lacks in Chile.

The slogan “Viva La Revolucion” drips from the red graffiti at the boots of the metallic Che Guevara statue as the bus driver pays the toll to head into La Paz. Below the horizon it becomes visible the hole that is La Paz. I don't mean that negatively, the city literally occupies a giant hole in the ground know as Chuquiago Marka valley. Houses sprawl out from the city center, located in the deepest part of the valley, and crawl up the mountain sides yearning to reach the snow capped peaks of the massive Mount Illamani which casts its shadow over the metropolitan valley.

Arriving at the bus station just after dark we clutch our bags, pockets, and wallets and head off into the night. My grip loosens as I see children I their school uniforms skipping down the sidewalk in front of us, and joking on the road beside us. We finally settle into our Irish pub of a hostel and unwind for the night.

Awaking the following day I was still fighting a bout with an altitude headache...although, upon reflection it may have had something to do with one of the two-dollar, one liter, seven percent alcohol beers I had managed to inhale at the hostel bar the night before...hmm...Luckily, in the land of the cocalero a medicine is just around the corner. Remedy and cure-all for absolutely anything the “controversial” coca plant is a fact of life in Bolivia. To investigate more (and to attempt to cure my headache), Andrea and I head towards the Coca Museum.
Upon entering we find the curator and his friends huddled around the reception desk, wads of green coca bulging from their cheeks like a horrendous tumor, cigarettes hanging limp from their bottom lips as they chatted the morning away. Greeting Andrea with green tooth grins, she inquisitively asked if we could try some. They were more than willing to share and invited us to take a handful of leaves. We are instructed to wedge the coca in between our molars and inner cheek along with some ash (which intensifies the sweet flavor), and occasionally squeeze the mucousy juice to the back of our throats. With my entire mouth numb and green drool running off my chin, the pressure in my brain relaxes and my headache retreats.
The coca museum spells out the ABC's of coca facts: Traditional use in worship of the Pachamama (Mother Earth), mandatory chewing by the enslaved native mine workers (as a stimulant it “increases ability to work in harsh conditions, decreases appetite, and creates a sense of 'euphoria'”), the eventual outlaw by the 'evil imperial northern nations' (except in the manufacture and flavoring of their tasty beverages), the reinstatement by the president for the people- Evo Morales, and the fact that coca is NOT synonymous with cocaine. A few snacks at the coca cafe: tea and coca cookies, as well as a coca infused fluorescent green beer; and our coca experience has come full circle.

El Mercado de las Brujas: The Witches Market, a heavily travelled box to tick on every tourists checklist, here in South America's poorest nation I anticipated the impending assault by money clambering merchants. The uncrowded stone pedestrian street is lined with shops offering colorful artisan llama and alpaca knit textiles, stone trinkets, wooden Andean instruments, and “Inca” remedies to improve virulence, physical allure, and instill good luck. Dried llama and alpaca fetuses hang from shop ceilings, a bizarre novelty to be seized by customs for tourists, a generous offering of faith to the Pachamama for local practitioners. A relaxed marketplace is an understatement. If the shopkeepers weren't so friendly to us, I would have thought them annoyed by us for interrupting their peace and quiet. 'No' meant 'no', unlike our Moroccan experience where 'no' meant 'grab my arm and shove me into your store'. Bargaining was honest, and I was surprised by vendors telling us directly “This one is cheaper because its synthetic rather than organic” instead of just taking us for foolish gringos. I opted for a hammock. Now I have a home...

Pisco´d

After a topsy-turvy, roundy, curvy three hour scuttle through the Chilean pre-cordillera directly east of La Serena lies the tiny village of Pisco Elqui. The village lies at the far end of the aptly named Elqui Valley which has been the subject of work for South America´s first Nobel Prize winner, the second most prominent Chilean litereary figure (after Pablo Neruda), the feminist poet Gabriela Mistral, who was born in the Valley Elqui.
Pisco Elqui was renamed since the time of Mistral from the patriotic sounding “La Union” to its present day liquor soaked name-sake. The potent alcoholic drink that is “Pisco” is made from fermented Moscatel grapes (which hang from vineyards throughout the valley) which are then distilled, maximizing its inebriative powers.
A Pisco-shooter sense of intoxication enveloped my senses that day:
Shot 1: Head on a swivel, eyes popped, possibilities: endless. The bus ride into the valley leaves Andrea and I wide eyed with excitment. Steep barren mountain ridges drop deeply into the fertile green veins of the valley. Growing thirsty for adventrue...
Shot 2: When is this party getting started? Arivving around eight in the morning its difficult to distinguish if the secluded village has yet to be roused from its Pisco induced slumber, or if in fact the inhabitants are already  hidden deep in the vineyard laboring away and sweating out their hangovers.
Shot 3: Feelin Fine! A horse ride through the town up onto a depilated lookout over the valley exposes us to the extreme contrast at work. From where we are perched a parched desert wasteland leaves us suceptible to an attack by the Tusken Raiders at any moment. Meanwhile the lush valley below is home to nothing more dangerous than the mind-numbing grapes.
A short cut back to the ranch affords us the “opportunity” to maneuvre our stead down some intense declines. Visualize horses on a slip-and-slide...
Shot 4,5,6 and maybe 7 or 8...: No metaphors, figurative language, or creative writing here. These were indeed Pisco shots we received while touring the distillery.
A browny single distilled variety at 70% alcohol by volume.
A slightly beige  double at about 90%.
A clear triple distilled delight at a lethal near-purity.
And finally a national cocktail “Pisco Sour”, or two, or three, or...
Shot eeerrrmm...9 or so?: ANOTHER PARTY WOOOHOOO! With vision skewed and a wobble in our step we arrive to Montegrande where a festival is underway to honor Gabriela Mistral´s birthday. The town is preparing for quite the fiesta. School children and day laborers alike pile into the villages chapel for a pre-party mass, as non-parishoners arrange speakers and band instruments outside. Banners adorn the statue in honor of Mistral featuring the handiwork of the town´s school kids. Collapsable tables are unfolding for a banquet in the town square, and within a few hours the valley will be luch with Pisco-soaked revellers.
Shot ???: Ummm....err... oh boy. How did I describe that bus ride before? Curves, lots of turning, up, down, seemingly upside down. World spinning. I feel quite Pisco´d. I fight with every ounce of energy not to recreate a green, lush, Pisco valley on Andrea´s blouse.