When vacationers think of a Caribbean getaway, Cartagena, Colombia, is not usually at the top of their list of possible destinations but it will be before long. Cartagena offers a wonderful blend of sun, sand, sea, and history. It is currently being discovered, or rediscovered, by Europeans and the cruise crowd.

Located at the tip of El Laguito Peninsula in calm Cartagena Bay the Hilton is the best accommodation choice in Cartagena. The Hilton has multiple pools and beaches on three sides making it the perfect place to experience the sun, sand, and sea. Plus it is only a short taxi ride to Old Cartegena and the area’s other attractions.

Cartagena has a long, and often violent, history starting with the arrival of Don Pedro de Heredia who founded Cartagena de Indias for the Spanish in 1533.

When gold, emeralds, and other riches were discovered, Cartagena became the port through which the booty was sent to Spain. To protect the riches from buccaneers and pirates, impressive fortifications were built. Most of Cartagena is still surrounded a coral wall seven miles long, 40-foot high wall, and in some places it is 60 feet wide.

After numerous attacks by pirates, including Sir Francis Drake and an English force that included Lawrence Washington, George Washington’s half-brother, the Fortress San Felipe de Barajas was built.

Standing more than 130 feet tall, it has a series of galleries and tunnels so linked that if a section of the fort is overcome defenders can continue fighting from the remaining sections. The building of the fortification necessitated the need for labor so slaves were imported, in part because war and disease had decimated the indigenous Carib population.

The old walled city of Cartagena is a World Heritage Site and a living museum. Just past the Puerta del Roloj, the Clock Tower, is the Plaza de los Coches, where the slaves were traded.

Today it is a picturesque square with street vendors and horse drawn carriages making it hard to imagine the angst and suffering that took place there nearly 500 years ago.

Even more hard to comprehend are the displays of instruments of torture at the El Palacio de la Inquisicion. Today all is serene. The Las Bovedas, the dungeons, a series of cells built in the old city walls have been converted into shops where local artisans sell their goods.

Beware of street vendors selling “real” emerald and offering “a special deal just for you!” If buying emeralds in on the agenda go to one of the ubiquitous emerald stores or manufacturing sites to learn how to judge the quality and value before making a purchase.

The Cathedral de San Pedro Claver was named for the Spanish Jesuit who baptized hundreds of thousands of African slaves, which was all part of a vision he had as a young boy in Spain. A beautiful stained-glass window, a series of paintings depicting his life, and a bronze statue outside in the plaza celebrate his life.

The entire old city of Cartagena is a living museum with the 16th and 17th century Spanish architecture well preserved or restored. Hours can be spent wandering the narrow cobbled lanes, visiting the churches, relaxing in the plazas, and admiring the overhanging balconies laden with flowers.

For a spectacular view of the city and harbor head to Convento de la Popa, on a hill nearly 500 feet above the city.

Sometimes known as Goat’s Leap, it was once the site of worship by the indigenous people, and legend has it that their symbolic solid gold goat was thrown off the precipice by missionaries making one wonder if it is still in the waters below.

The sea holds many treasures. One of the richest wrecks of the Spanish Main is the on the San Jose, which sank 300 years ago carrying 116 chest of emeralds, 30 million pieces of gold, plus silver and other riches thought to be worth three billion dollars.

Between sporadic periods of fighting, life settled down and some people enjoyed the “good life” as is evidenced by the beautiful homes is the historic section of Cartagena call Manga. Many homes exhibit features of Moorish architectural and have been with their bright colors glowing in the sun.

While hours can be spent wandering the city and just sitting watching life pass by there are great side trips. The most popular is a day trip to Rosario Islands, an hour by boat, where the water and beaches are spectacular with dolphin shows, and all manner of water activities.

Or head to nature’s biggest mud spa, Totumo Volcano, to soak in the warm mud. For nighttime excitement take a Chiva Tour, which is basically a party bus with live music and libations.

The best part of the day excursions is returning to the Hilton, a place where they always know your name! The staff has an amazing ability to call quests by their name.

With three pools, tennis courts, and beaches, the Hilton is the perfect place to kick back. Order room service, sit on the balcony, and enjoy the view.

Shuttle boats crisscross the bay, huge cruise ships pass by, frigate birds and pelicans glide above the water in search of food, and in the evening the lights on the rise of land across the bay twinkle as do the stars above. There is always something to see from the balcony.

The hotel is a popular destination for corporate groups. From the room’s balcony we watched the staff set up dinner for hundreds – always elegant even if it is on the beach. Some events had live music so non-invited guests are privy to a free musical show – albeit from their balcony.

In the morning it’s time to start another day of fun in the sun in Cartagena.

About the author:

Travel Editor Vic Foster’s guest this week is veteran travel writer/photographer Sandra Scott, who lives near Lake Ontario in upstate New York.

Photos by Sandra Scott:
1: The Fortress San Felipe de Barajas..
2: A gruesome exhibit at the Museum in the Palacio de la Inquisicion.
3: A splendid view of Cartegena from one of the balconies of the Hilton.

Curtains of foliage drape the sides of narrow waterways deep in the mangrove forest. Our small boat manoeuvres past the bulging roots needed to hold these towering trees upright in the silt base.

“See the crocodiles?” says our guide José. He stops the engine and points to foot-long babies squirming on an embankment. Before I can ask where the Dundee sized ones are, the water around us churns. Our boat pitches. What appeared to be a few large drifting logs blink at us with yellow eyes and propel away with swishes of their powerful tails.

After our tussle with the crocs we watch swamp turtles laze on root masses protruding from the brackish water. A pitch-black bird is oddly perched on a branch; its motionless wings spread like a fan. “That Anhinga,” says José, “is drying his feathers after diving for his lunch.”

The amazing wildlife reserve of La Tovara is the first outing my husband Rick and I undertake along the 180km coast of Riviera Nayarit from our grand hotel in Nuevo Vallarta (just north of Puerto Vallarta).

Our goal, with the aid of our rental car, is to seek out as many of the area’s natural wonders and drowsy fishing villages that pepper the coastline as we can fit into a week’s stay.

From La Tovara we veer off to the nearby port of San Blas for a glimpse of the town’s glorious past. Milling about the colonial-era tax office and hilltop fort built in 1770, I imagine the activity when this was the seat of Spain’s Pacific navel command. The original great cannons still stand guard like aging sentinels.

At the foot of the hill we enter the massive stone shell of Our Lady of the Rosary Church. The church bells once rang to signal ships coming into port. The closing of the port to foreign trade in 1872 stirred the renowned poet Henry Longfellow (1807-1882) to lament their silence in The Bells of San Blas.

The next day’s excursion brings us to the quintessential Mexican village of Bucerias. Shop owners give their best spiel as we pass by on the cobblestone streets. I purchase several pieces of intricately beaded native Huichol art in the open air market.

At a side walk café our waiter keeps the tejuinos coming (a refreshing semi-fermented corn drink) as we wile away the afternoon watching fisherman deliver their fresh catch. Benches by the water are filled with old timers gazing out to sea.

Families fill the streets by the time we dig into our specialty supper of grilled red snapper. Children dash about while their folks chit-chat with friends. It is long after sunset before we pull ourselves away from this tranquil setting.

Our village hopping ends in San Francisco (also known as San Poncho). Well stocked with snacks from a local vendor of tart tamarind candy and jackfruit (tastes like a cross between banana and cantaloupe) we head for the beach. Between dense jungle and the turquoise sea we spread our mats on a patch of creamy sand.

This same stretch of beach is, at certain times, reserved for other than human visitors.

From mid-June to November the endangered Olive Ridley and Leatherback Turtles are so intent on egg-laying, they barely notice that members and volunteers of a local conservation group are on hand to protect them during their mission.

They then collect and transport the eggs to a hatchery. I would love to be here in September and October to watch the hatchlings being released and see them scurry to their briny home.

Being slightly past the winter season when Humpback Whales come to these warm waters to breed and give birth to one-ton calves, we can not believe our good fortune when a few stragglers are seen off the coast.

We quickly make our way to Vallarta Adventures Center and are soon in an APEX (rigid inflatable boat) squinting over the horizon for a sign of these huge cetaceans.

I gasp as the gigantic body of a lone Humpback surfaces about 100 metres away, making our vessel seem like a toy. A blast of water sprays from its blowhole and a huge eye looks up at us before he submerges with a tail slap that rocks our small craft.

There could not have been a more perfect “tail end” to our Riviera Nayarit visit.

About the author:

This week Traveling Tales welcomes freelance travel writer Irene Butler who lives in Richmond, a suburb of Vancouver, B.C..

Photos by Rick Butler:
1: A street in the village of Bucerias. Rick Butler photo.
2: A seller of native Hoichol art at an open market. Rick Butler photo.
3: A whale surfaces near our vessel. Rick Butler photo.

If you go:
www.visitmexico.com
www.rivieranayarit.com
Eco-turtles Group: www.project-tortuga.org
Vallarta Adventures: www.vallarta-adventures.com

O.K. I’m not talking cigarette smoking here.

In the Peruvian Highlands, women cook over open fires in their primitive mud huts and the soot-blackened walls attest to the state of their lungs! What to do? Volunteer travel!

One good option is to take a stove-building tour, organized by Australian Ben Eastwood (www.socioadventures.com/) that is changing the atmosphere, one home at a time.

The ‘Stove-Trek Tour’ begins in the city of Cajamarca, a one-hour flight north from Lima, Peru’s capital city. Cajamarca (population 100,000) is historically rich, being the infamous site of the capture and eventual execution of Incan Emperor Atahuallpa on November 16, 1532.

The Inca Baths, Ransom Room, and San Francisco Cathedral in the Plaza de Armas all are intriguing sites to see and, during previous visits to our daughter who lives in Cajamarca, we’d been the typical turistas.

On this South American trip however, we decide to take a road less travelled (literally!) and do a small building project for the locals. An evening with Ben, our Aussie tour guide, prepares another Canadian couple, my husband, and me for the adventure!

After six hours of snaking up, down, and through the Andes in our daughter’s 4-wheel drive Toyota, we finally arrive at the Blue Poncho Lodge in Cadmalca.

Without access to a vehicle, we would have hopped on a local bus—an adventure in itself!

Two lovely Peruvian girls who, for the next few days will create delicious meals and see to our every comfort, warmly welcome us. Shortly after our arrival, the first steaming platters of flavorful goat stew over boiled local potatoes appear on the tables in the cosy kitchen.

We quickly devour supper, then relax and visit while sipping herbal tea. We are shown to our rooms—basic, but certainly adequate and, perhaps due to the high altitude, as well as our arduous journey, bed feels wonderful.

Day 1: Following a filling breakfast of oatmeal porridge, fresh mangos, and hot coffee, we trek to the house that’s been chosen for our project—a thirty minute walk UP!

The sun warms our backs as we cross potato fields and cow pastures with our basins, shovels, buckets, and a screen for sifting sand. Our guides use horses to carry the bags of cement and bricks. One guide assists each couple.

Before our arrival, the designated homeowner gathers a pile of large rocks and some sand. (The bricks and cement are purchased with monies from our tour cost.) We spend the morning sifting sand and mixing mortar in our red plastic basins before building the base for the stove.

This project is not for you if you’re worried about getting dirt under your fingernails, or maybe even breaking them! The recipient family shows appreciation in spite of no English communication. Their gracias is two guinea pigs (cuyes), a few potatoes, and a live chicken—tomorrow’s lunch!

We stop often during our descent to the Lodge, admiring the incredible view. Following a scrumptuous meal of rice and fish, the stovepipe has to be assembled for tomorrow. We take a long piece of corrugated metal, flatten it, then roll and rivet it together, and presto! —The stovepipe!

Finally siesta time and then a short hike as the sun sets beyond the majestic Andes.

Day 2: Another ample breakfast prepares us for the steep climb back to finish the building of our stove. Today’s task is to fill up the brick stove base with stones and sand and to get the iron stovetop and pipe in place.

From the yard to the house we pack numerous rocks, more bricks and mortar, and then about noon, install the stovepipe out through a hole in the metal roof. Project complete—no more smoking!

It will be two weeks before the family can actually begin using their new stove, making their lungs red and their eyes not! Smiles alone are all the thanks we need—and when we get back to the Lodge another meal awaits us, with roast guinea pig as the featured entrée. Again I say if you worry about your nails, this is not the trip for you—cuy is always eaten with your hands and fingers, never a fork and knife; so we wash up and savour Peruvian cuisine at its best.

[Prior to heading to the Highlands our tour leader, Ben, had asked if we wished to help the local schoolchildren as well as build a stove. Because we did, we shopped in Cajamarca for school supplies including erasers, glue, scissors, notepads, pencils, etc. that are often lacking in many rural Peruvian schools.]

Day 3: In the early morning sun, it’s just a short walk from the Lodge down to the local school. Having been notified of our coming, the staff and students are assembled outside the blue building—a common paint color in this area.

Much to our delight, they have an entertaining program planned to thank us for our gifts.

The 200+ students recite a poem in unison; two budding “Peruvian Idols” belt out a pop tune; a more harmonious female trio follows; and then a teacher reads a letter of thanks, complete with a few political jibes! We applaud, then respond by proudly singing ‘O Canada’ our national anthem.

Now the presentation… Our Spanish-speaking daughter presents the supplies to the school principal and our appreciative audience erupts in applause. Smiling, we hike back to our vehicle and wave goodbye to this heart-touching experience and begin the homeward journey to Cajamarca.

Although it’s not much in the big picture of Peru, we feel we’ve made a little difference in the lives of some of her rural people and a big difference in our own hearts.

It’s a tour worth taking! Ciao and Buen viaje!

About the author:

This week Traveling Tales welcomes freelance travel writer Maryalice Wood, who lives in Langley, a suburb of Vancouver B.C., on Canada’s West Coast.

Photos by Maryalice Wood:
1: The Cadmalca countryside.
2: Bringing home the wood.
3: No more smoking in Peru.

If you go:
You can fly to Cajamarca from Lima to join a Socio Adventures Tour. www.socioadventures.com/  Bus fare, accommodations, and several meals are included in the price of $US375 + $60 for the stove-making materials.

Be ready to walk, walk, and walk some more! Take comfortable walking shoes and warm clothes. Even though you are just south of the Equator, at 9000 feet above sea level, the evenings are cool anytime of the year.

Note: The ‘Stove Trek’ tour is included on the Lonely Planet Blue List as one of the best travel experiences for 2007.

2018 UPDATE: The socioadventures website is no longer active

Our buggy hurtled up the dune, and I grabbed the roll bar with both hands, preparing again to leap the crest a la the Rat Patrol. At the last second Sergio, our bugueiro, yanked the steering wheel to the right and we slued to a stop just below and parallel to the ridge line.

We hung motionless for 3 long seconds. Then gravity exerted its inexorable tug. I caught a quick glance of Sergio’s eyes in the rearview mirror. He was looking at me, and laughed at my confusion. We were now sliding sideways down the dune at an alarming clip, and I knew with absolute certainty that we were going to flip.

But we didn’t. Sergio took us to the edge several times that day, but always maintained control.

As we left the dunes for the 2-lane asphalt road back to town, I thought again, “Why does no one know about this place?”

Natal, at the point where Brazil juts farthest into the South Atlantic, is an adventure-lover’s paradise. A dune buggy ride is only one of the many activities you can enjoy in this sun-drenched paradise by the sea. Wind surfing, snorkeling, and fishing are also popular.

But Natal, though the capital of the state of Rio Grande do Norte and with a respectable population of 800,000, has yet to be discovered by North Americans. The only reason I knew about Natal was that a good friend of mine, Miguel, had married a woman from there.

Miguel, his wife Marilia, and her sister Ana arrived at my hotel just after breakfast. Five minutes later, Sergio arrived in our buggy, and after some discussion about seating arrangements (4 passengers is a squeeze), we set out for a full day of sun and adventure.

Turning off onto the coastal highway, the sensation of freedom was immediate. The cool morning air, rumble of the exhaust pipes, and Sergio’s constant jinking back and forth through traffic had me welling with anticipation before we had gone a mile.

We arrived at the Potengi River, where a couple dozen other dune buggies queued up to board a ferry. While we waited, we took pictures and bought bottled water. Hawkers sold sunglasses, sunscreen, and floppy hats – all absolute necessities, as Natal lies only 5 degrees south of the Equator.

Debarking from the ferry a half hour later, we went off-road. Sergio raced with a couple of other buggies down a beach, sometimes cutting high on the beach, sometimes flirting with the surf. From my perch in the rear, sitting on the trunk and holding the roll bar, I felt like a Viking in the wind and salt spray.

Rocketing past beach loungers and a horse-drawn cart loaded with sand, we returned to the road. Soon we came to another river. This time, instead of crossing on a large, modern ferry, we would be poled across on rafts.

When our turn came, Sergio gunned the engine, shot us onto a raft, and slammed on the brakes. The buggy’s momentum launched our simple craft, then our gondolier took over.

Now, I thought, we have arrived. We were all anxious to take on the dunes, but first Sergio signaled that we would stop for something to eat. My disappointment faded when we pulled in to one of the more interesting rest areas I’ve seen.

Around the periphery of a small freshwater lake, plastic tables and chairs were placed in the shallows, shaded by thatched sun umbrellas. Around to the right, a tower had been erected which the more adventurous could scale for a ride down the aero bunda (literally, “air butt”), a zip line which dumps riders off in the lake. Miguel and I had to give it a go, and took our turns getting unceremoniously dunked.

Twenty minutes later, we reconfigured our seating arrangements and headed off for the park and the dunes. Sergio was a master bugueiro. He bulleted us over hard pans, then pulled the emergency brake to spin us into a 180.

He charged down the back of one dune, gaining speed for the next, which we would rocket up and over, slamming down on the far side. We raced with other buggies, the drivers playing a game of HORSE, taking turns doing maneuvers which the other had to then duplicate.

But the most exciting stunt was the sideways slide. The drivers would assault a dune, then slue sideways and enter a controlled (one hoped) slide back down the dune. They were masters of this maneuver, but I always prepared to leap out, just in case.

Throughout the day, many other side adventures were offered. You can fly in an ultralight airplane for a view of the littoral north of Natal. We didn’t go up that day, but I did return to try it, and the view was sensational.

You can also ride a camel (still haven’t done that yet), or zip down a much longer aero bunda cable. Miguel and I also tried the ski bunda (right, “ski butt”), sitting on short surf boards and attempting to make it down a dune without wiping out. We did not distinguish ourselves.

Mid-afternoon, after a full lunch and a half hour in a hammock to prepare for the return, we climbed, a bit slower now, back into the buggy. Sergio took us through other dunes, and we got some great shots of Natal and the Atlantic from the peaks.

Retracing our path to the rafts and the ferry, we returned to the hotel about 4:00, ready for shower and naps before an evening of seafood and dancing.

It had been a great day. I felt more alive than I had in ages. Certainly I would return. I still hadn’t ridden that camel.

About the author:

This week Traveling Tales welcomes freelance travel writer/photographer currently Living in South Florida.

Photos by John Clitess:
1: Sergio at the wheel as our buggy tackles the dunes.
2: Rafting across the river.
3: Riding a zip line is a real adventure.

Brazil Travel Tips:

Getting There: Natal is served by Augusto Severo International airport (NAT). American Airlines and TAM have service to NAT. Likely you will have to fly first to Rio or Sao Paolo. A good strategy is to book a flight through Rio and schedule a layover there at no additional cost. If you’d like help booking a flight, contact Brazilian Wave Tours in Ft. Lauderdale (954-561-3788).

Visas: Currently U.S. citizens need a visa to visit Brazil, which costs $100 and is generally good for 5 years. For details, visit www.brazilsf.org/other_consulates_eng.htm. Note: The Brazilian legislature is moving to lift the visa requirement.

Language: The official language of Brazil is Portuguese, though Spanish spoken slowly is often understood. You’ll find English-speaking staff at most hotels and restaurants, and many beach vendors speak a bit.

Where to stay: A great value in a great location is VIP Flats (www.vippraiahotel.com.br). Contact them for rates, which vary with the season. Rates include tax and a wonderful full Brazilian breakfast. The staff can arrange any tour or activity.

Favorite restaurants: Camaroes (Shrimp) and Casa do Carangeju (Crab House). Both are within walking distance of VIP Flats. Tip: In this area, plates are often intended to be shared by two people. Inquire when ordering!

Renting a car: Unless you are adventurous, hire a local driver. While the roads in Natal proper are good, and the drivers less aggressive than elsewhere in Brazil, the roads deteriorate quickly once you leave town, and signage is poor at best. Note: Only specially licensed guides may drive buggies on the dunes, both for the safety of passengers, and for the protection of this beautiful habitat.

Money: The currency of Brazil is the real (pronounced HAY-all). At press time, one US dollar buys about 1.96 reais (HAY-eyes, the plural form). One real buys roughly what one dollar does back home, although you’ll be pleasantly surprised to find that food and drink are relatively cheap throughout Brazil.

Tipping: While not required, tipping is becoming more common with the influx of Europeans. 10% is considered a good tip. Check first to see whether a charge for service was added to your bill.

It’s four-thirty in the morning of day five. The porters have just come to our tent to wake us. No coffee or tea this morning. We need to get moving to reach the Sun Gate (Intipunku) by 7:00 a.m. or we will miss sunrise over Machu Picchu.

It is pitch black. I can feel the heavy humid fog left behind by last nights rain. This is why the tour dossier listed “flashlight.” Unfortunately my brand new one lasted only one pre-trip check.

Fortunately Dave, my traveling buddy, had a spare key chain light?giving me a shadowed view of the ground in front of me. The majority of our hiking party of nine must have missed the memo as we had only four flashlights.

An hour after wake-up call, we are on the trail. It’s dark, foggy, wet, and the rocks are slippery. We alternate places between the have and have-nots (flashlights).

As we march, the only voices heard are from the haves. “Step up, step down, watch out for the rock on your left.” We are probably better off not knowing there is a two hundred foot drop-off inches from our feet.

We reach Intipunku with fifteen minutes to spare. The view at sunrise is not what we were told in the travel brochures. Three feet in front of our face is a white substance called fog. Today was not meant to be and I recite my often used travel line, “it’s all part of the experience.”

As we inch our way down toward the Machu Picchu ruins, my anticipation is bursting. “When will the fog lift?” Slowly, as if someone is cranking up a curtain, Huayna Picchu begins to appear. First there are fleeting glimpses, then finally, there it is in its full splendor.

When I envisioned going to Machu Picchu, I always thought of mysterious ruins and the famous picture postcard of Machu Picchu with Huayna Picchu in the background.

But, there is more to this man/nature wonder of the world. It is the adventure of getting there. I knew if I wanted to experience the feel of the Inca culture and the energy of the Sacred Valley, I needed to do “the hike.”

“The hike” is the Inca Trail. Depending on your starting point, it is twenty-five to thirty-three miles of semi arid desert, breathless mountain passes, and stunning tropical cloud forest.

Our guide Mauro keeps telling us “No worries, the hike is 90% mental and only 10% physical.” I am not convinced that the physical percent is correct, but there is definitely a continuous adrenaline rush as we got closer to Machu Picchu.

By getting myself into pretty good shape, I am able to enjoy the beauty of the hike and not worry as much about aching muscles and lungs.

The first day of the Inca Trail hike was almost as eventful as the final day. We had to start the hike a half day early, due to a planned national strike. The transportation systems were about to be shutdown and quick thinking by Mauro helped us get out of Cuzco while we still could.

It got a little nerve-racking as we were leaving Cuzco. The van driver had to perform a 180 degree turn to avoid a group of protesters heading our way.

The early start gave us four nights on the trail, but also allowed us to reduce our miles per day. The first and second day we were on the west side of the Andes.

The terrain was semi-arid to tundra. We had radiant blue skies and fantastic views of Peru’s 20,000 foot peaks. Our second night was the roughest.

After hiking ten miles, we camped at 12,600 feet. A combination of dehydration and temperatures dropping into the twenties gave everyone a restless night of sleep.

The next morning was the most challenging part of the hike (but also the most satisfying), Dead Woman’s Pass. At 13,700 feet, this pass the highest point of the trail.

It helped to be fresh and starting at 12,600 feet. We made it to the pass in about an hour and waited for our fellow hikers to arrive (the ones who were working on the 90% mental).

After Dead Woman’s Pass the terrain begins changing to cloud forest. It is also the fringe of the Amazon and starts to have that jungle feel. On this part of the trail the foliage has to be cut back every three months or it would engulf the trail. No wonder it took until 1911 for Hiram Bingham “re-discover” Machu Picchu.

The workmanship of the original Inca Trail (built over five hundred years ago) was extraordinary. The majority of the trail is original and in good shape.

Occasionally we hit some rough spots where the trail was deteriorating. This always coincided with parts of the trail that had been rebuilt. The modern parts of the trail were always in worse shape than the original.

It has been said that the seven separate mountain valleys leading into Machu Picchu foster an elevated energy level.

I am not sure if it was that or the accomplishment of finishing the hike and achieving a dream that had been with me since 10th grade geography, but there was definitely an energy surge in full swing while touring the ruins.

Back in Cuzco, following the hike, our group stuck together after the official tour was finished.

Celebrating our successful hike at a local restaurant, I was the only one to brave ordering the national delicacy, guinea pig. They serve it with the head and feet intact so one would not think they were being misled and served something else, (like cat).

It didn’t taste like chicken or duck as I had been told. It was more of a wild tangy flavor – probably closer in taste to the woodchucks that burro under my deck back home (not that I know what they taste like)!

About the author:

This week Traveling Tales welcomes freelance travel writer Thomas Kamrath, who makes his home in Madison, Wisconsin, USA.

Photos by Thomas Kamrath:
1: Atop Dead Woman Pass.
2: Our highest camp at 12,600 ft (3840 m),
3: Our goal – Machu Picchu with Huayna Picchu in backgrond.

Tour Information:

There are many tour groups that plan Inca trail trips. They range from all inclusive to local guided tours. A good cross section of tours would be:
Gap tours, www.gapadventures.com, 1-800-692-5495,
Wilderness Travel, www.wildernesstravel.com, 1-800-368-2794,
Mountain Travel Sobek, www.mtsobek.com, 1-888-687-6235.

Expect the unexpected in Ecuador. One day began when I climbed onto the roof of a railcar at Riobamba and rattled through the mountains of the Andes. It ended 10 hours later after our minibus circumnavigated two road blocks on the main road to Guayaquil. We arrive at Riobamba’s local station in Ecuador’s Central Highlands at 6.45am. Our autoferro has three people on top already and another climbing the ladder up the side.

I join the four on the roof. Inside, are five jovial Italian women who go off on an adventure together each year; four Brits who have just returned from the Galapagos Islands; several Spanish-speakers from other parts of South America and a couple from Spain.

The roof has rails round the sides and we’re handed a cushion to sit on. As we wind up the hills, I realize my extremities are going stiff with cold — I can hardly hold my camera. We’re only about 200km south of the Equator, but we’re 3000m above sea level.

We twist in and out of the hills and through gorges. Some hillsides are patchworked in crops. We see an Indian in a scarlet poncho leading a dairy cow along a narrow hillside path. Another hoes a line of vegetables. These small holdings were part of a vast hacienda before the land reforms of the 1960s.

At ragged little Indian villages, the odd donkey is tethered to a fence and children watch the train go by. The village dogs chase the autoferro, barking furiously.

At Balbanera, we pass Ecuador’s oldest Christian church, built in 1534. Soon the track runs alongside a green valley with clusters of cattle. Eight years ago the Government piped the water down the valley and the Indians built an irrigation system — the Inca expertise with waterways is still there.

The autoferro stops at a little Indian village called Guamote. We’re still over 3000m high here, so the locals are in woollen ponchos or shawls with saucy little felt bowlers on their heads. Mothers carry their babies on their backs, wrapped in shawls, as they shop at the few food stalls on the street. At one, a whole pig has been roasted and slices are being sold to the locals.

Back in the autoferro, it’s warming up and we reach tussocky moorlands, the highest point of the track, at 3239m. I notice stretches of gray sand —volcanic ash from a massive eruption years ago.

Then we’re into pinus radiata trees, planted to try and attract rain, followed by a massive gorge where the hill opposite has been slashed by sulphur-mining. We pull into Alausi, a pleasant white-washed town, ready for the most dramatic part of the train trip — the stretch from here to Sibambe.

It includes the Devil’s Nose, a sheer serrated wall of rock. The track at this point is a series of sharp zig-zags carved into rock. I never did recognize the nose of the devil here, but it looks a fiendish place to build a railway.

The autoferro negotiates this zig-zag in a series of advances and reverses. We go through a few tunnels and cross one rickety-looking bridge. The rockface is relieved occasionally by rock plants or the odd cactus.

A worker gets off the train in a couple of places and oils the points (switches)! Once he clears some rocks from the track.

At the lowest point, the autoferro takes a breather and then starts the journey uphill and back to Alausi. The trip has taken four and a half hours. We continue the journey to Guayaquil by minibus.

When construction began (in 1899) on the railway which, before a multitude of landslips, joined Guayaquil to Quito, it was billed as the ‘most difficult railway in the world’. I believe it — the zig-zag track up the Devil’s Nose is certainly a masterpiece of railway engineering.

From Alausi we drive through sierra, cloud forest and the rainforest before approaching Guayaquil on a major road at about mid-afternoon.

Here the day turns to farce. We are stopped by an enormous road block made up of piles of gravel. The driver turns back, drives left, left and left again to emerge triumphantly back on the main road.

Short-lived triumph. Further along, we meet another road block. This time tires were burning on top of the gravel. All efforts, left and right, fail to find a way back to the highway.

Bystanders inform us that the road blocks have been organized by angry banana producers, fighting the Government for a better price for their product. Finally, we drive many kilometres back on the main road and turn onto another route through banana plantations and fields of sugar-cane.

We finally come to a bridge blocked by a row of rocks and manned by six men, two with machetes in their hands. Lively discussion and several US dollars oil the situation and we are on our way again.

Hours later than scheduled, I’m resting in my hotel in Guayaquil and re-calling one of the most unusual rail travel trips I have ever taken. Plus the relishing of the un-expected.

About the author:

This week Traveling Tales welcomes Judith Doyle, a freelance journalist and travel writer living in Wellington, New Zealand.

About the photos:
1: Setting off – on top of the train/bus through the Andes in Ecuador
2: Along the Pan American Highway – the Avenue of Volcanos.

I hold unto the side of the building to prevent the unrelenting Puerto Natales wind from turfing me onto the busy road. It has already scooped up at least five travellers, backpacks and all. One of the airborne was my partner, who is now laid up in our hostería with his left leg in a cast. Ergo I’ve been sent to scout and report back.

An ubiquitous summer presence in Patagonia, this morning’s “breeze” has enough attitude to prevent the hybrid cargo-ferry, the Magallanes, from docking and disgorging its passengers. On the narrow eastern shore of what’s ominously called Last Hope Sound, the vivid primary coloured ship is a hulking presence. The sky and the waters are as angry as the captive travellers who bristle on its decks.

I’m reassured, though, by the vessel’s size – 21.2 meters wide and 122 meters long doesn’t mean a lot until you see it looming in front of you. I want size. This four-day voyage to Puerto Montt takes us through some infamous water:

“Passengers prone to motion sickness should consider taking medication prior to crossing the Golfo de Penas, which is exposed to gut wrenching Pacific swells”, cautions a popular travel book. I get motion sickness on a lakeside wharf.

The wind wracked Magallanes, in Chile’s region X11 beyond 49°S, gives its name to our passenger freighter which lurches across this Gulf twice a week transporting seafood, freight, trucks, cars and herds of unhappy cattle as well as intrepid travellers. The moaning bovines lend a certain ambience, especially after the open seas, when the rural aroma becomes more pungent.

This trip has become famous among backpackers, having been compared to Alaska’s coast, New Zealand’s Milford Sound and Norway’s fjords. It’s not surprising that the company, Navimag, has been experiencing increasing passenger loads since it started its service in 1979.

Eventually the ship’s captain senses a miniscule lull in the wind and when the Magallanes lumbers to shore I return to assist my hobbling husband. Late that evening we board, are shown our cabin and burrow into bed. A few hours later, the shuddering and the jangling of heavy chains signalling departure rattle us awake.

The next morning, after we inch through Paso White, the narrowest part in the trip at 80 meters, the mountains close in on both sides and we experience isolation far greater than anything we have ever felt on British Columbia’s coast. No planes, no boats, no settlements, no fish farms, no clear cuts, instead only rivers, a milky sea and glaciers from continental ice fields nestling into the Andes Cordillera.

By dinner the first night we are nudging into an ice floe garden in Laguna San Rafael. Blue with cold, the chunky San Valentín Glacier stretches toward us. We retreat, shivering, and continue our incredible solitary voyage up the sheltered coast.

Each day a flyer slipped through our door offers a collage of information and activities. Twice-daily presentations in English and Spanish range from glaciology to history, from culture to fauna. Also offered are nightly films, pub entertainment and naturally, pisco sour happy hours. While most passengers eat in the cafeteria, we First Classers dine deliciously with the officers, consuming a choice of amazingly tasty local dishes and bottomless bottles of first-rate Chilean wines.

On our second day we idle near Cotopaxi, a wrecked Greek freighter that now serves as a lighthouse and we venture ashore at Puerto Edén. The tiny boardwalk settlement on the northeast side of Wellington Island is home to the last seven Kawéskar Indians who were relocated by the Chilean government in 1969. Other Chileans live here now, however, and all residents make their living from fishing, oyster gathering and us.

At our briefing on the third day we are given an update on conditions in the dreaded Gulf and urged to take precautions. I’ve already concealed a disc behind my hair but why take chances? I swallow gravol and slip on two wristbands, hiding them under my long shirt. I may be a wimp but the world doesn’t have to know.

Soon after, the brave ship shimmies and begins its dance. Its flanks heave, its bow dips and rises and with incredible timing, dinner is announced. How can anyone hang unto their plates, I wonder, as en route to the dining room, I bounce with bruising regularity from one side of the narrow corridor to the other.

“You OK?” My partner asks solicitously. Surprisingly, I am.

Of the ten of us, two are missing. I gloat as I grab for the wine glass sliding away and lift it up to the placid waiter.

“Is this rougher than usual?” asks my pale companion on the left.

“No. We haven’t turned yet. That’s when it gets rough.”

She thanks him, daintily takes a roll from the basket and says a gracious ‘bon appetit’ to the rest of us as she lurches out.

The exodus continues between courses, one couple retreats after spilling the soup course on their laps, two others battle out midway through the special Chilean dish. By dessert the boat has turned and only three of us remain. We say yes to more wine as the contents of the table clink and careen. I am jubilant with wine and victory.

The next morning Puerto Montt’s harbour unrolls sunshine, beaches, warmth, no wind and the promise of prawns. I am hung over but smiling, proudly wearing my “I sailed on the Magallanes and lived” t-shirt.

About the author:

Cherie Thiessen is a freelance travel writer who makes her home on Pender Island, near Vancouver BC, on Canada’s West Coast

The photos:
1: Passengers relax and play chess on the after deck. Navimag photo.
2: The Magallanes anchors at the face of a massive glacier. Navimag photo.
3: Our ship in harbour at Puertto Natales. C. Thiessen photo.

Sao Paulo is the place to feel the pulse of Brazil. It is one of the world’s largest cities and often overshadowed or bypassed tourists in favor of Rio de Janeiro. It may not have the Rio’s beaches but it is the business and cultural center of Brazil. To bypass Sao Paulo is to miss an important aspect of Brazil.

Sao Paulo sprang from humble beginnings to become the largest city in South America. Patio do Colegio is where the city of Sao Paulo started in 1554. The whitewashed Portuguese replica of the school and chapel formed the center of the Jesuit mission, where today the Achieta Museum displays original sculptures by the Guarani, the indigenous people, plus a model of 16th century Sao Paulo.

Sao Paulo may have started with the Portuguese but today it is most culturally diverse city in Brazil, and home to the largest Japanese population outside of Japan. When slavery was abolished in 1888, coffee growers found an alternate source of labor by encouraging Japanese immigration. The Liberdade area has been home to Japanese immigrants since the 1940s. A colorful gateway marks the entrance to the neighborhood with streetlights of Japanese lanterns. The Museum of Japanese Immigration offers a fascinating overview of the Japanese impact on Sao Paulo.

To explore the cultures of South America visit the Memorial to Latin America. A permanent collection highlights popular artwork of Latin America with one of the highlights a high relief map under the glass floor. But the most arresting piece of art is in the vast plaza. Standing virtually alone is Oscar Niemeyer’s hand that bleeds in the shape of Latin America.

At lunchtime rub elbows with the Paulistas at the Central Fruit Market. Try the traditional pastel de bacalhau, (salted cod fish sandwich), for dessert head to the fruit section and pick a typical fruit like coiaba. They will prepare it for immediate eating. On the way out get some amendoim, coated peanuts to munch on rest of day. Take special note of the beautiful stained glass windows.

From antiques to helicopters, like all major cities, Sao Paulo has a shopping experience for everyone. Wander the open market in Praça República checking out antiques and collectibles. Or, head to Daslu where the liveried doorman will open the door to a world that makes conspicuous consumption feel good. Salesgirls look like models and the women in French maid attire keep all the goods looking spiffy. From chocolate to helicopters, Daslu is a one-stop shopping dream. For those everyday items at everyday prices head to one of the many modern malls.

One way to learn about the character of a city is to visit a park. A visit to Ibirapuera Park, Sao Paulo’s Central Park, will exemplify the drive that makes Sao Paulo the country’s business capital. Paulistas are walking, running, riding their bikes with the same determination they take to the office. It also points out the cultural side of Sao Paulo as it is home to the Museum of Contemporary Art and Museum of Modern Art. Concerts in the park are common.

But to really feel the pulse of the people stand in line for ticket at a soccer stadium. Soccer is more than a game. It is a passion that is hard to explain without feeling the excitement of a match.

Sao Paulo is the cultural hub offering a variety of musical nights out. Music is music in any language. From Rolling Stones to the Blues to the symphony there is something for everyone. See your favorite “Broadway” musical – in Portuguese. Jazz it up with a night at Bourbon Street Music Club. Popular American jazz artists are frequent guests. Take note of the guitar signed B.B. King, who has been featured at Bourbon Street several times

The folkloric district of Embu das Artes, thirty minutes from the center of the Sao Paulo, is a quiet step into the past with the colorful building featuring arts and crafts shops. The floor boards of the old church creak as visitors check the antique religious artworks. The old manual portable organ used for processions is especially interesting.

Visitors will find Sao Paulo a great place to spend a couple of days but for those who devote more than a few days exploring the different neighborhoods will find themselves saying, “I could live here!” Slowly but surely, visitors begin to feel at home in Sao Paulo – it’s that kind of city. The city is easy to get around – except at rush hour. Helicopters flit from building top to building top like dragonflies, but people most use the subway, buses or taxis.

Sao Paulo may lack the beaches of Rio but the museums, theater, shopping, and dining are the best. For a city that is the largest metropolis in South America it is easy to begin to feel like a Paulista.

About the author:

This week Traveling Tales welcomes freelance travel writer Sandra Scott from up-state New York State.

Photos by Sandra and John Scott:
1: The open market in Praça Republica.
2: Ibirapuera Park, Sao Paulo’s Central Park.
3: A sculptor at work in the Embu das Artes quarter.

Lake Titicaca is a name all school kids know and giggle at, although most have no idea where it is – straddling as it does the border of Peru and Bolivia. Coming over a rise, our first view of its sapphire waters is stunning—170 km in length, it looks more like an ocean than a lake. Having travelled through Peru for three weeks in November and December, my husband Rick and I decide on spending the Christmas season here. As our bus enters the lakeshore city of Puno, the magical sounds of flutes, drums and bells float across the air. Craning our necks out of the window, we see elaborately costumed dancers twirling to the rhythm of the music. “Puno is the festival capital of Peru!” says our bus driver. “The whole town participates in more than 300 a year.” Hoisted above the heads of four carriers a gigantic wooden babe in a crib conveys the message of this joyous celebration.

After stowing our bags at our hotel we join the lively crowds along the street. We purchase alpaca toques with earflaps for the folks back home, snack on ceviche (a Peruvian specialty of raw fish marinated in spiced lemon juice) and book a Lake Titicaca Island excursion.

Lake Titicaca, the world’s highest navigable lake (at 3820m) competes with the sky for the deepest shade of blue under a brilliant sun. We skim over the glassy surface towards the Uros Floating Islands. “Step carefully and watch for soft spots”, our guide Juan says. I warily step onto the damp spongy surface of totora or reeds, then relax as I catch sight of children running effortlessly toward us and women going about their daily chores. Most of the men are out fishing or trapping waterfowl.

Everything is made of reeds – houses, furniture, and Viking-like dragonhead boats. We test out a reed bench while the village leader demonstrates how the island’s base is built. Huge blocks of buoyant roots are harvested from the lake bottom. Once secured together and anchored, they are piled with criss-crossed layers of cut reeds until the surface is out of the water and sturdy enough to support community life.

Juan explains the “why” of this water-world: “The Uros people took refuge here to escape Inca domination, and later to avoid Spanish slave labour in silver mines.”

The aroma of frying bread wafts from an iron pan set over a small fire – we are captivated when the women sing a carol while offering us the warm brown rounds “as a Christmas gift” Juan says smiling.

Another two hours brings us to Taquile Island. The inhabitants speak Quechua, the ancient Inca language, and hold strongly to traditional ways of life. Listen up fellows – the men do the knitting here, and are renowned knitters at that, learning the trade from early boyhood.
Half the island is rock; the fertile remainder is terraced for growing crops. Goats and chickens provide cheese and milk, and although the occupants are mainly vegetarian, they enjoy fresh catches of fish. We are served a divine quinoa soup and omelette in a private home before heading back in a sudden afternoon squall that whips the lake into frothy grey foam.

After wishing our family back home in Canada “Feliz Navidad” by phone, we walk to a small colonial church for Christmas Eve mass. We didn’t need to understand the language to be uplifted by the choir and the brightly decorated altar.

Roco, our hotel manager, and his wife Maria invite us to share their Christmas Day supper. Knowing the fare might well be guinea pig, eaten widely in Peru, we don our “try anything once” attitude.

A feast awaits as we join a dozen or so guests. And yes, one of the many courses is Cavia porcellus, which tastes rather like chicken, although there was no mistaking its form. Alpaca, roasted Inca style, is served to table on flat hot rocks just lifted from an open wood fire. The fireplace is then stoked for an evening of camaraderie while we sip fine wine.

It was an enlightening experience being so far removed from our country of plenty, and in the midst of a simpler, less affluent world. The differences of customs and traditions dissolved in the universal message of love, peace and good will as shown us by our Peruvian hosts. Truly an unforgettable Yuletide celebration.

FOR FURTHER INFORMATION:
www.peru.info/perueng.asp
www.andeantravelweb.com/peru/hotels/puno/index.html
www.edgaradventures.com/
www.plazamayorhostal.com/en/index.html

About the author:

This week Traveling Tales welcomes freelance travel writer Irene Butler who lives in Richmond, a suburb of Vancouver, B.C.

About The Photos:

1. Uros 4 – Boat (Photo: Rick Butler)
2. Uros – Frying Bread (Photo: courtesy: Mick Linthorne)
3. Taquile Island (Photo: Rick Butler)

After years spent travelling to some of the more grim areas of the world without getting sick, the Patron Saint of Safe Travel, Saint Christopher, seemingly abandoned me. Here I was in a little hotel in Bogotá in Colombia, puking my guts out for the fourth day in a row.

In between throwing up, I stuffed my worn backpack with notepads, pens and camera for a trip into the Amazon to visit several indigenous groups. Was it possible to survive a trek through a steamy jungle while so ill? I was almost too weak to care.

The flight from Bogotá to Leticia on Colombia’s southernmost tip, booking into a hotel and meeting my guide and translator were all conducted in a haze of wretchedness. The guide, Elias Cuao, shook his head at my condition. The next morning I threw up again (for good luck?), squeezed into a dented yellow taxi and set out for the jungle, taking the two-lane highway out of Leticia to its end. Literally. We and the cab fled, leaving us staring at an oppressive wall of Amazon green.

I managed to keep up with Cuao, following him over a dozen bridges of felled narrow tree boughs, cut by the indigenous inhabitants of the forest, that provide a pathway through the Amazon’s circulatory system of streams and torpid rivers. Birds shrieked and squawked. Pendulous oropendola nests hung from tree boughs. Fluorescent blue butterflies the size of my hand flitted about within arm’s reach. About 45 minutes later, Cuao hooted: “Makuna! Makuuunnnaaa!” laughing as the words echoed through the canopy of branches. We had reached our first destination — an enormous one-room cabaña with a wall of vertical wooden planks and a steep roof made of grey-weathered interlacing palm fronds. Cuao was alerting Baribú Geraga ‘Gustavo’ Mejia Makuna, the group’s political leader (payé) and medicine man (kuraca), of our arrival. Gustavo, a 59-year-old man with a naked expanse of brown belly and genial expression, gave Cuao a bear hug then beckoned us into the “Big House.” We were directed to several rough-hewn log benches that were grouped around a tree-stump table. Cuao and Gustavo, as he liked to be called, shared a sacred ritual: stuffing enormous wads of pale green, finely ground coca leaves — the basis of cocaine — into their cheeks.

I flipped open my notepad and Gustavo began a singsong recitation, describing the spiritual and symbolic importance of plants like coca and tobacco and the gods associated with these plants. Then, for some reason — was I swooning? — Cuao stopped Gustavo and explained how sick I was, using the universal hand gesture for retching, much to my embarrassment. Gustavo spoke to Cuao who turned to me and said, “He will make you better.”

My deep-rooted Western cynicism rose up like bile but dissipated just as quickly — skepticism required too much energy. Gustavo took my plastic bottle of water and placed it on the tree stump. He began to chant, a melodic locution rooted in the lower registers. His eyes looked upwards but his vision was turned inwards. He moved his hands in a graceful ballet around the bottle, then got up and stood immediately behind me. I couldn’t see Gustavo, but sensed that his hands were engaged in the same slow lyrical dance. Frissons of energy snapped my body like elastics. Gustavo returned to his seat and Cuao translated, “Drink the water, you will feel better.” Gustavo also gave me a small wad of the bitter coca leaves to dissolve in my mouth.

Cuao later told me that Gustavo has an encyclopedic store of memorized knowledge about Amazonian plants and animals — “enough to fill 10 textbooks” — passed down from his kuraca father. To a kuraca, some illnesses — like mine — are simply a form of negative energy that can be exorcised to restore health.

Plants are also used to alleviate many illnesses. As we padded across the spongy ground through the trees, Gustavo stopped to point out common natural remedies. Picking a red flower, Gustavo squeezed the bulbous stamen end, causing it to ooze a clear, thick liquid that is used to cure earaches. Another broad-leaf plant, called anyago, counteracted the poison of snakebite. Even the rubber tree is a source of medicine; its milky sap soothes stomach ailments and it is a cosmetic depilatory for hair. Meanwhile, thread is created from the chambira palm, Gustavo said, rolling a leaf vein between his hands to turn it into thin, malleable string.

When we returned to the Big House, a generous lunch of meat, vegetables and soup had been laid out on wooden tables. I was able to sip some broth, the first food I had had in five days. I still felt weak, but the sensation that my body had been invaded by demons was gone. In the two hours that had elapsed since Gustavo had negotiated peace with my virulent interlopers, I had, apparently, healed.

Why? Had the microbes simply run their course? Was I so desperate to be healed (and I was) that I was ‘cured’ by placebo effect? Perhaps the ground coca, which traditional healers say has both medicinal and analgesic effects, made me better. Was it Gustavo’s collaboration with the spirits that excised my illness? Or, was it a combination of all these things?

My illness and subsequent healing seemed the perfect metaphor for the embattled state of the Amazon, which is disappearing at an alarming rate, according to the United Nations Environment Programme. This Garden of Eden not only provides for the needs of all those who exist within its emerald embrace but is a cornucopia of pharmaceuticals. My healing came about in a way that was unexplainable. It is but one of the many mysteries of the Amazon that needs to be researched before the healing powers of this great green living organism disappears forever in an ongoing commercial plunder of its resources.

About the author

Roberta Staley is an award-winning magazine editor and writer with experience reporting from the developing world and conflict and post-conflict zones, including Afghanistan, Haiti, Colombia, Cambodia and Soweto.
She is the editor of the national science magazine, the Canadian Chemical News, and teaches magazine writing in Douglas College’s Communications Department. Staley is also a graduate student at Simon Fraser University.
http://journeystotheedge.com – Blog
http://robertastaley.ca – Website

Photo: Tallulah Photography