Have Itch, Will Travel

Huanchaco is a little town on the beach. Cute and relaxed. The nights are cool but it warms up nicely by lunch. It's so easy to stay here and laze on the beach in the sun, eat at one of the many cafe restaurants fronting the water then go to a beach party later in the evening (unless you drink too quickly at the pre-drinks bar and pass out amid a dense cloud of cigarette smoke). Also, there's a spot of fishing to be done on the muelle (pier) which is a bonus for me. s/0.50 gets you on the muelle and for s/2 you can buy a bit of bait and a simple jig on a handline from one of the guys selling them. I pulled nine fish out of the water in an hour and each time gave them to the couple next to me. I think the locals would've thought I was loco if I had thrown it back. The fish have a kind of ugly comparable to catfish, with a soft squishy body devoid of scales. The live bait I used was a bean pod shaped crustacean that took me a few goes before I eventually got the courage

The city of Trujillo is big, with a crazy mercado a few blocks from the Plaza de Armas and also big city things like cines and a huge department store. The people here are friendly and love to talk to you in normal-speed Spanish after you've told them you speak very little. It seems that the kangaroo and Kangaroo Jack is representing Australia over here! Trujillo is near Chan Chan , an expansive adobe city in ruins. Niños and hundreds of years have badly eroded its walls so that on average they only stand two or three metres high. It has large plazas and distinctive diamond waffle walls representative of fish and the fishing industry, being strategically near the coast and inland forests. There are also many carvings in the adobe of things related to the ocean like pelicans, waves and fish, as well as a lake where ducks paddle amongst the lillies. On a tour, you will only visit a small portion of Chan Chan, but if you're tall or can jump high when you get to a platform li

Instead of spending a day catching cabs up, down, and around the expansive city of Lima with only the help of a tour map, I decided to fork out the cash and do the touristy thing of booking a four hour city tour. I got convenience, information, and a good sleep in. We visited a few sights in the district of Miraflores; first the Parque del Amor  which looks over the cliff, and features tile mosaics, pretty gardens, and a big statue of two people kissing called " Beso ". Nearby, parasailors jumped off the cliff and floated over the water and parks. The city housed archaeological sites as well, including  Huaca Pucllana,  a huge solid pyramid of mud bricks which only the base and some chambers remain. In the district of San Insidro , there were parks built around an olive grove where some trees were over 400 years old, having being imported from Europe during the colonial period. The trees and their fruit were protected, except from all the birds. Central Lima's Plaza d

Other travellers associated Lima with words like crazy, dirty, and dangerous. I intended to blitz through the city, but guidebooks painted a more appealing picture of certain suburbs outside centro .  Miraflores,  an affluent district full of department stores, banks and parks, hosted  Parque   Salazar , a clifftop park with views over the ocean. Couples stared at the patient surfers below and gutsy paragliders above, alternatively opting for a wander through  Larcomar,  an underground mall carved into the side of the cliff. There, I found a book recommended to me. I had met a fellow Brisbanite at  The Flying Dog Backpackers  (distinct from The Flying Dog Bed And Breakfast and The Flying Dog Hostel nearby) on Canseco Street. The Aussie sense of humour had been a refreshing reminder of home, but Dave was an intriguing character in himself, an Atheist priest on the way to help rebuild the earthquake-devastated town of Pisco in the South. He also shared my interest in socialism and g

Over the last few weeks, conversation between Julie and I has been getting more and more scarce. We have not been able to find many decent hostels with dorms for a while, so finding other people to hang out with has been difficult. We meet others on the same day tour, that sort of thing of course, but those interactions are always short and fleeting, and we have finally reached the stage where we are bored of each other and crave other company. We've not stopped talking because we've argued, but I think it's simply because we are together all day, all week, and experience the exact same things that there is nothing new or different. Though we saw each other every other day back home, at least then we still had separate lives to keep ourselves entertained. And I've never been a good conversationalist. Though I say random and superficial things, I just don't have the talent to talk bullshit at ease for the sake of talking. I operate much better if someone else takes t

The Necropolis de Chauchilla sits in the middle of the bleached dusty desert and is only visible across the land because of the two small permanent buildings near it and the little shades seemingly randomly erected over the area. The story goes that the ancient Chauchilla people who lived in the nearby valleys would mummify their dead in seated fetal positions and place the bodies facing east in pits lined with adobe bricks, covered with bamboo. The graves were marked with rocks, but though there are many bodies on display and other undisturbed tombs covered by the desert sands, many are damaged and missing artefacts buried with them due to grave robbers over the years. The following day, we were taken to the little airport near town where we boarded a six passenger Cesna to fly over the famous Nazca lines . It was about thirty or forty minutes of yawing to allow each side a clear view of the lines, but despite being in such a small aircraft, it felt quite safe and surprisingly fre

The only "backpacker" train from  Aguas Calientes  stopped at  Ollantaytambo  where taxi drivers and  colectivos  (minibuses) accosted people for fares to  Cuzco . Travellers wandered or stood around in a confused mess while drivers impatiently waited for them to figure out the system and choose their vehicle. The travellers who chose the more expensive private taxis set off promptly while those in the  c olectivos  sat wearily, waiting for the minibus to fill. Our colectivo  was finally filled, but by obnoxious Irish, who yelled "¡Vamos, vamos!" though we were pinned between other vehicles, and made loud remarks about a range of things from the music in the bus to the local street food. When we broke away from the traffic, our driver seemed to make a point of ensuring our journey would be quick. He drove on the opposite side of the road, overtook traffic that was overtaking traffic, overtook on blind curves and crests, screeched around corners and tail-gated othe

People glowed over the achievement of trekking to Machu Picchu  and reaching the city ruins at dawn. Breathtaking high altitude experiences in Bolivia had every ounce of influence over our decision to own such bragging rights. We took the train . When we arrived at  Aguas Calientes , the valley town below the ancient city, we learned that our intended accommodation was located five blocks up a hill. We settled for the first place at the bottom of it. The town itself was nice enough, with hilly cobblestone streets closed to traffic, and very touristy. Again, markets selling the same old thing, wait staff waving menus as you pass, trying to get your business, and streets of tour company offices, hostels, hotels and the like. The town seemed to be constantly under construction, but it was a pleasant enough to walk around and enjoy a balcony dinner while a band of musicians serenaded diners with cheesy hits like "La Bamba". We bought our Machu Picchu tickets for a hefty s/.12

First impressions of  Cuzco in the evening were bound to be lasting. Symmetrical colonial buildings bordering the Plaza were gently lit with warm orange tones that enhanced their intricate designs. The ancient cobblestone streets were polished from millennia of wear, and jolted us in our seats as our friendly cab driver introduced the major landmarks we passed. We spent the ensuing days wandering the attractive town, declining meals on special at hawkers' restaurants, but accepting massage deals from competitive young women ushering us towards their small salons. A popular day tour out of Cuzco was an excursion to visit local markets and ancient structures in The Sacred Valley . Markets were markets, selling the same things, and minor ruins felt increasingly like some square rocks on a hill. More memorable than The Sacred Valley was a Latin American family on the tour. They behaved worse than Western tourists, throwing away cash for tacky souvenirs. Hats, water bottle carriers, a

As I dozed to my music on the way to Cuzco , I noticed something. It was nothing new, but in my semi-bored state I thought to test it. I had observed during a previous long bus trip, Julie's tendency to occupy space. My space. Since she is oftentimes restless just prior to falling asleep on overnight buses, I try to allow some distance between us in order to prevent connecting with a stray elbow. As she tossed from one side to the other on that previous trip, I noted that the space I had consciously left became occupied by either a pair of knees, or feet, depending on which side she happened to favour at that point. Not that I minded; I had been reasonably comfortable and it only made sense that she should be too. I had assumed then that she took the space because it was available. On the trip to Cuzco, however, she was not asleep. She was devouring a novel this time, so I thought it within my right to claim the airspace above my seat and sat in it square. But there was an elbow

Copacabana 's busiest hilly, cobbled street was populated with shops displaying signs in multiple languages. The lakeside town welcomed the sun to drive the evening's frost away. Ice on the stone roads returned to puddles, windows grew misty, and eaves began to surprise the few tourists with stealthy drips of freshly melted frost. Our stay on  Lake Titicaca  was to be chilled out, so after a noon sleep-in and lunch, we hired a paddleboat for an hour to enjoy the sun and stillness. Several hundred metres from the shore, we were only in the company of the rhythmic churning of the paddles, the water lapping at the hollow fibreglass form of the swan, and the frequent squeaks of a poorly lubricated rudder. Paddling was enough to remind fatigued legs of the Death Road bike tour, but surprisingly soothed any remaining aches. Wobbling on the shore and still hungry for the sun, we sought out a café with outdoor bamboo lounges that pumped out chilled reggae tunes and spent the remai

We had heard recommendations for tour companies that would arrange for you to charge down the World's Most Dangerous Road on a bicycle. Some hostel-faithfuls would parrot guidebook and advertising posters, proclaiming that Gravity  was the safest and only reputable company for the exhilarating task. They recollected the tour as they strutted around in striped happy pants and alpaca jumpers with bored llamas knitted on them. They were embracing the local culture while hanging around Irish pubs. This set paid  over $b600 ($AU100) for their experience, when there were options available for as little as $b200 or so. We favoured the middle ground and signed up with  BSide Adventures   who charged  about $b410. Our small group and guide drove to the starting point after paying $b25 for bike passes. There was a  bitterly cold wind at 4500m altitude where we donned our gear, became attached to our bikes, and received instructions. The first section of the tour was sealed bitumen, winding

The three hour trip to Santa Rosa across bumpy stone and dirt roads was rewarded with the sight of pink river dolphins quietly grazing on small sardines, a promising start to the wildlife spotting tour. A narrow motorised canoe would take us to the ecolodge another three hours upriver. Our guide, Oscar, a cheeky local topped with a white cowboy hat, pointed out scores of caymans basking in the sun, turtles stacked upon each other on branches sticking above the water, many birds, curious squirrel monkeys, and docile capybaras. The day was mostly gone when we arrived at our accommodation, basic wooden cabins on stilts. Before the last of the light left, Oscar took us to a sports field where tourists were able to mix with locals playing volleyball and soccer. Dusk arrived with the mosquitoes and we made our way back to the ecolodge in the canoe, shining our torches at the river banks where the eyes of many caymans lurking in the dark glinted back. The following morning, we embarke

It was all worked out perfectly. That morning, we would check out at 9am and take our cold weather gear, boots, and souvenirs to the post office. By 10am we would have posted our packages home and have a few minutes to buy some snacks for our bus trip to Rurrenabaque, in the Amazon. Then, catching a cab to an unknown location of the bus station, we would arrive at precisely 10:30, exactly the right time to check in at the station office, load our bags, and be on our way to shorts and singlets weather, and an exotic jungle experience. Perfect. It was nearly not to be. Julie Versus The Post Office At 9am, we dragged ourselves and our heavy mochilas out of a cab, one arm occupied by a bulky package, and the other, fumbling with change for the driver. The post office looked like an airport or train station; big, empty, and very official looking. We found the information desk in the corner and were directed downstairs to the international parcel area. There, the man behind the coun