Patagonia / W Trek

So in Chile, one eats their sandwich with a knife and fork. Plus, an average sandwich costs 3,000 Chilean pesos. No shortage of digits in their money. Oh, and don't try to bring a Chilean pisco into Peru, it is flat out forbidden. Lucky for me, the lady at the Santiago duty-free warned me, thereby sparing me the disgrace of starting yet another Peru-Chile war.

  I use this blog as a diary, so I include a lot of trivial detail…so don't feel any pressure to read it all, feel free to just look at the pictures!  

Andean Condor / View west from Torres towards Cuernos all the way to Paine Grande

Getting to the Southern Tip of South America: Arrival in Punta Arenas

I was off to catch up with Farnaz & Paul, ahead of me by a few days, in Punta Arenas, Chile. Punta Arenas is the big town (150,000 maybe) down where the Straights of Magellan cut trough the southern tip of the continent. It is roughly as close to the South Pole as Juneau is to the North Pole. [Which are both, it turns out, not all THAT close to the poles when you really look at them. It's like I've been blind to the one-third of the globe all my life, to how much territory actually lies at the extremes. Still, it FEELS like the end of the earth in Punta Arenas.] I arrived there a little frazzled, having literally sprinted through the Santiago airport to make my connection. But my midnight cab ride to Punta Arenas from the little airport was graced by a humongous half-moon reflecting off the waters and a starry night. Little did I know that this would be my last chance at stargazing here, and the driver only pointed vaguely when I asked about the Southern Cross, so I have to content myself with the strangeness of Orion sitting low on the northern horizon. I was further soothed by the little yoga-hotel, Ilaia, with crisp white sheets and simple decor and a note waiting from my friends saying we would meet at breakfast. I may not do yoga, but the place relaxed me. I insulted the landlady by asking about bottled water when, of course, their water seems to melt crystal-clear straight from a glacier to the tap.

The difference between Chile and Lima was undeniable. Uniformed officials there greeted me casually, little corrugate homes and buildings cluster together for warmth, more worried about the elements than crime. In fact, I could not escape the feeling that everything was at 2/3-scale, like model-train models glued down to a paper-maché landscape. Not that things were cutesy; the people and their town seem capable, friendly, unadorned.

Getting to the Park: Transit to Torres del Paine

Busride to Puerto Natales

After breakfast, Farnaz and Paul and I walked over and caught the bus for the 3hr ride to Puerto Natales, a smaller town from which many travelers continue up to the mountains. Our subsequent 3hr bus up to the park did not leave immediately, so we had time for Paul to choke down what may be the worst pizza in the world while I tried one of the local delicacies, king crab, but perhaps not the best sample. Both bus rides afforded uninterrupted enjoyment of the Patagonian steppes. I thought of my dad, for the landscape reminded me of Wyoming, if Wyoming had Norwegian fjords. The yellow rolling grasslands reveal snowy peaks on the horizon and estancias (ranches) keep sheep, cattle and horses. The bus winds around lakes, eventually turning for the last hour onto a gravel road from which we see guanacos (similar to llama) and rhea (similar to small ostrich). Finally, after entering the park and catching a transfer, we were dropped off at the first "refugio" of our trek.

Trail from Refugio Torres to Refugio Cuernos,
along Lago Nordenskjöld

The park goes all the way around a conglomeration of sharp peaks and towers, and it was our plan to do the popular W Trek, so named because the route forms a W as one hikes in and out of the mountains on various days. The summits are not so incredibly high (less than 10,000ft), but consider that the lakes at the bottom are almost sea level and you will get an idea of how dramatic the vistas are. Along the trails are several trekker's hostels, the refugios, that provide meals and bunks and sleeping bags.

The Torres

The first one for us, Torres, was large and institutional relative to some of the others. Still, from the front door we could see up to the tops of the 3 towers known as the Torres and it's just pretty to wander around. Many people camp, some camp and come to the refugios for meals, and in this spot at the end of the road there is even a nice lodge if one desires total comfort. In a strange way, even being so far from home, the overall experience feels less "foreign" to me. Sure, the details are new and exciting, but being on beautiful trails with people from all over the world is something I have been lucky enough to have experienced before. This day, and all days after, we encounter Spanish, German, French, Hebrew, etc. After dinner with our fellow international trekkers, we retired to our bunks. I'm a top-bunk kind of guy.

Day 1: Hike to the Torres Lookout and Back

Patagonian temperatures are relatively temperate, never much over 60-deg in summer or much below freezing even in winter. But the weather changes every couple of hours and the elements of rain or sun or hail or wind have a lot of say in how things feel. So within the first uphill half-hour of our hike, I was wishing for shorts. Within an hour of that, I had my poncho on. Exposed up on the lake, the wind robbed my fingers of their feeling. These variations describe many of the days to come.

Lago Torres (that's not me, but the little guy is good for scale!)

This hike climbed up out of the grass into a valley angling back into the peaks. Once in the valley, we loped along the wooded banks and gullies of a small river, only to have an exposed straight up 45min climb to the icy lake and viewpoint for the Torres. The trails here don't seem to see the advantage of switchbacks, so climbs and descents are all pretty steep. Three towering granite spires rise up behind a small slate-green lake. Farnaz, Paul and I all hike at our own pace, so we arrived at different times…but we were all able to be up there together at one point. Of course, we were also accompanied for a large part of the day by Jumbo, a 1st-generation Chinese-American who took a couple days to get the hint that staying with us 24-7 was rather overstepping the bounds of friendliness. On the return, I ended up behind a horse train from the lodge. It afforded me an up close look at the gauchos I had only seen at a distance. They are able to make a beret look as macho as a Stetson, with a full leather duster and supple riding boots and cowhide spats. Anyway, 12 miles later and several mashed toes we were back at the refugio to sup and bunk down for the night.

Day 2: Hike to Refugio Cuernos

Farnaz at Lago Nordenskjöld

Knowing that this portion was only 6 miles, we took our time getting going, stopping at the lodge to buy a little wi-fi time. Just before heading out, I noticed a bottle of golden liquor at the bar, labeled pisco, and was intrigued. It seems the Chileans create a caramelized version that is very much like rum, and though it was 10:30am I enjoyed a bracing dose. This route took us along the shoulder of the mountains, with a very long blue lake down on our left. We went up and down, passing small lakes or crossing streams, hitting several different ecosystems along the way. As always, Farnaz was logging her bird sightings, and this day inspired her to dub the route "Condor Alley".When we stopped for lunch sitting on a bluff, we had more than 20 condor fly-overs, a couple below eye-level so we were treated to more than just a distant silhouette. Over the course of the trip we spotted several birds new to her life-list…but the condors were amazing. I was also surprised to see a parakeet, somehow I never pictured them in a place so alpine. Moving on, every hour or so, the hike revealed to a fresh view of some new promontory, but the ever-shifting cloud cover veiled the full effect from us.

The deck at Refugio Cuernos

Refugio Cuernos feels different, being accessible only by trail. The staff strikes me as similar to a ski-lodge, as does the vibe in general. Arriving to a warm deck with benches looking up the cliffs, we relaxed in our socks with a bottle of wine. A group of guides passed around a mate gourd, refilling it from a little water thermos as per custom (mate here is made of Yerba Buena, a shrub ground up to make an aromatic, long-lasting "tea"). An Ecuadorian rolled out some jewelry he packs on the trail Just prior to serving dinner, three of the staff jumped up with sunglasses and did a lively rendition of the "Gangnam Style" dance. Not a 5-star place, certainly, but the overall sincerity (e.g. the handmade calafate-berry cream-puff dessert) made the overnight here pleasant. We had to share a room of triple-stack bunks with a French family who were not the friendliest bunch, but appropriate perhaps since the next day we set out for the "French Valley".

Peaks at entrance to French Valley

Day 3: Hike to Refugio Paine Grande, Side Trip to French Valley

By this morning, Paul was feeling the trail in his bones, and opted to skip the French Valley side trip and head straight for the next refugio. In fact, the crumbly downhills the day before had made it clear that I have probably very little cartilage in my knees anymore…downhills were pretty gimpy and painful. Nevertheless, Farnaz and I set out quickly for the 12 mile trip. 20 minutes in, however, Farnaz realized she had left a bag of clothes behind and turned around (eventually deciding it was not worth it, catching up with me later). After loping along the rolling shoulders of the peaks, I turned up the valley under a drizzly cloud cover, following the glacial river upstream. The last couple miles before the viewpoint are straight up the ridge and a good portion of the hike was over a loose moraine of wet rock. Topping out at the viewpoint was a little disappointing; there was a partial view of the glacier across the valley, but the ceiling of clouds blocked the rest and blinded us to the spectacular peaks that are back in there. In fact, every 15min or so I could hear some piece of glacier falling above…and then a couple minutes later a skree of snow would pour out over the lip of rock visible in front of us. Happily, I had just gotten a good photo of a bird Farnaz wanted to ID and she showed up a few minutes later. There was no point going farther into the clouds, so she and I turned back down and exited the French Valley.

Glacier, French Valley

Once out, we again turned west for a couple of hours. This part of the hike was memorable in part because it marked our entry into the burned area of the park. Two massive fires in the last decade have marked the park for many decades to come; indeed, there are no fires allowed in the area, even camp cookstoves only light up in the designated camping spots next to the refugios. So it was a desolate, charred forest we were walking through. But the birds seemed oblivious to the scarring, and Farnaz got some good looks. When we wandered out into the yellow grasslands, a couple of hawks put on an aerial show…diving to attack each other, performing barrel-rolls and other tricks. We finally crested the last ridge and saw a beautiful slate lake, Refugio Paine Grande on its banks, and there in front of us was Paul. We literally caught up with him at trail's end.

The last couple miles had been murder on my knee, but Paul had it worse. At least at this refugio there were options, for this is where the catamaran ferry runs across the lake to the road, so Paul and Farnaz availed themselves of the option of skipping the next two days of wear and tear, leaving the next morning on the ferry and getting themselves up to Glacier Grey by boat (which is a great story in itself: horrible hotel, but an amazing boat ride that took them right up against the 4-story edge of the glacier, complete with tumblers of whisky served over fresh glacial ice). But before they left, we spent a sunset sitting out in the grass with a bottle of wine and people from all over. The refugio is named for the tallest peak in the park, Paine Grande, topping out at almost 10,000ft. That may not seem so impressive, but keep in mind that we were sitting at sea level staring up at 10,000ft of gorgeous rock shooting straight up with almost no preamble at all. The wine tasted pretty good, paired with a view like that.

Day 4: Hike to Refugio Grey

So I headed off north towards the glacier, grateful for the hiking poles Farnaz had lent me. The hike was pretty, but again clouds hid the peaks up to my right. There was a pretty little lake early along the way, and soon after I crested up on the ridge that runs up along Lago Grey. I was surprised to see big chunks of ice floating in the lake and as I move on I was given several good views of the glacier off in the distance. Sadly, the whole 6 miles were rainy and I was soaked by the time I got to Refugio Grey. Another of the refugios only accessible by trail, this one was cozy and even decorated by someone who cared. The common area had a fire and I joined several people drying out and reading.

Glacier Grey

A couple of hours later it was nice enough to wander the 15 minutes uptrail to the spit of land directly across from the glacier's edge. I spent a couple hours clambering around, taking pictures of the true-blue chunks of ice floating there, or simply staring at the wall of ice across the water. There is something about seeing a glacier like that, it is almost as if you can feel the sheer MASS that it carries. The rock I stood on was red, oxidized and polished smooth by the glacier back before receding to its current edge. Local guides told Paul and Farnaz that the island that the glacier splits around was completely invisible a decade earlier…yet more evidence of the great melt-off. I did not see the glacier calve, having to content myself with witnessing a Volkswagen-sized chunk of one of the icefloes break off and plunge into the water. On the short return to the refugio, I saw the boat that Farnaz and Paul were on. I may not have had whisky with me like they did, but tasting the glacier ice pure was pretty special on its own.

Glacier Grey (I photoshopped in the boat just for scale!)

From the dock, Paine Grande

Day 5: Hike Back to the Catamaran Dock at Refugio Paine Grande, Return to Punta Arenas

I left before breakfast was even served, wanting a comfortable margin to catch the catamaran and, more importantly, jump on the bus that Farnaz, Paul and I had agreed to meet up on. The hike was the same, only drier and, for some reason, my knee decided to complain less painfully. Maybe the nerve just gave up and died. Going backwards in better weather, there was more chance to see the waterfall and scenery I had slogged past the day before. I made the dock in plenty of time and sat happily munching lunch, watching condors and the clouds puffing out off of Paine Grande as if the mountain was actually making the clouds like some giant smokestack. The ferry was breezy and I found the right bus to reunite with Farnaz and Paul on the other side. Our bus eventually left the park in caravan with 2 others; fortunate since our bus broke down and we had to jump on the others. Anyway, back past the rhea, the guanacos, until we hit Puerto Natales. F & P were staying the night, heading off to other locales, and I was catching the connection to Punta Arenas. We had time for dinner at a nice little restaurant on the main square, it redeemed Paul's "worst pizza ever" experience from the last time we were in this town and served artisanal beers.

Bus Station, Puerto Natales

I caught my bus and enjoyed the long, late, low-latitude sunset over the steppes and mountains. I would have enjoyed it more, but the bus put on a movie. There's no explaining it, but of my 3 busrides in South America with movies shown, 2 have been Adam Sandler movies. Late that night I arrived at the yoga-hotel, just as my first night, tired and grateful for a shower and crisp sheets.

Getting Back to Lima

My 10am flight pushed away from the gate on time, but quickly returned. Very long story made short, the plane was kaputt and they needed to fly in another, new departure time 8pm, too late not just for MY connection in Santiago but too late for ALL Lima connections. This was horrifying because it was Carter's birthday and I already felt so guilty about missing most of it. There were several hours of stress and standing in line, but finally my hero was a woman named Loreto. She got me on the only other flight going to Santiago AND got me on the last Lima flight. Sadly, this still meant Carter would be asleep upon my arrival. Just on principal, I tried to get in the door at home before midnight, but I must have caught the one slow taxi in all of Lima and came in at 12:04.

Huaraz, Ancash Region

Huaraz is the main town for those wanting to visit the "Cordillera Blanca", or the "White Range" of the northern Andes. Saying that the town sits at the bottom of a valley must be quickly followed in the same breath by saying that the city is at 10,000ft. That is, of course, if you can catch your breath. On the west side of town rises a non-snowy range, the "Cordillera Negra", while to the east rises the snowcapped Cordillera Blanca, with several peaks over 20,000ft. Huaraz is not large, not small, perhaps 125,000.

(slightly photoshopped, to show how it really looks,  too much varying depth and light for my camera skills!)

[In the early 70s, an earthquake crumbled a glacier wall and released a devastating flood, killing 25,000 people. Not sure what the population was back then, but the percentage is huge, no matter what. A taxi driver was 13 and remembers it "like yesterday", the day when so many classmates disappeared or lost every single mother/father/uncle/aunt.]

The terrain is beautiful. The high, snowy peaks poke up behind a wall of rock that makes up the range and clouds push and spill around them. Glacier-cut canyons hide small lakes, and water melts, trickles, then flows icily down through the valleys. This time of year, wet summer, the ravine floor is springy with turf and dotted by "alpine" flowers. The hillsides angling down from the rock are breezy with sharp sunlight or sharp rain, and weather can change in an hour. Locals bring their livestock up to graze or tend to small plots of potatoes, etc., nestled against the slopes. These deep-cut canyons are called "quebradas" and each is used by a collective of locals who take turns guarding the mouth against rustlers. Diana, our hostess at the Lazy Dog Inn, could tell me the number of families using each of the quebradas. Farther downhill, houses begin to appear, then villages, until eventually you drop all the way down to Huaraz with its obligatory Plaza de Armas and central church. Of course, north of town, one can get a less idyllic view of a big strip mine up in the Cordillera Negra.

To get to Huaraz from Lima, we took a "super-cama" bus, an overnight ride with seats that recline to 180-degrees. The Lima bus station at 11pm seems like some kind of off-world spaceport, but soon enough we were horizontal in our seats and arrived at 6am in Huaraz. The altitude there is significant, though it affects people differently: Jen almost unaffected, me just an occasional headache hardly worth mentioning, Carter sometimes uncomfortable, Paul not happy with it, Farnaz literally puked one day (running out to the grass from the sauna in nothing but a skimpy towel). The Lazy Dog Inn is 2000ft above Huaraz, putting it at 12,000ft, while our elevation when visiting the Llaca Glacier topped out at 15,000ft. That's the highest I've ever been. One day, Jen tried an uphill run from the local pueblo ("Marian") up to the Inn…a couple of times locals hollered out to her "Where you going?" and "Good luck!"

Staying at the Lazy Dog puts you within a couple of kilometers of the sheer walls of the range. I took a couple of walks up the road and, since this is low tourist season, we shared the terrain with just a handful of locals with their livestock or bags of harvest on their backs. The women mostly wear the traditional garb, including the hats specific to the Huaraz area. These hats have a folded fan of ornamental material on them and, apparently, the number of folds in the material reflects marital status and status as an elder. Many families may have a cow or a burro, their main wealth, but no grazing plot. Often the kids are tasked with taking the livestock uphill to the open grass. I came across a girl of roughly 9 years and her little brother; when they asked the typical question of gringo aliens "Tiene caramellos?" ("Do you have candy?") I had to say no. Up to that point, it had been hard for me to get pictures of the native dress in a comfortable way, so I asked if I could take her picture. "No," she said. But as I walked away she called after me, "But my brother doesn't mind." Nevertheless, she ran up to stand in the photo. Farnaz and Paul stayed for the whole week, and they had a couple of opportunities to be closer to the locals: first, they were invited along to a birthday party at a local woman's house (which had the typical cordoned-off area indoors to raise their guinea pigs), and second, they went to a little closing show at the preschool run by the proprietors of the Lazy Dog (just like a school show in the states, except here all the moms taking pictures with their cel phones are in tradition Andes attire).

The Lazy Dog is kind of a progressive hacienda, a compound with casitas and rooms for tourists, horses that will come munch on your houseplants if the barrier falls down, greenhouses and gardens, and the preschool. The couple in charge, Canadian expats, provide dinner and breakfast in the common room, great rooms with fireplaces and compost-toilets, and free advice on getting around the hills. There are not that many people, but still I became familiar with the other visitors, some of whom are volunteering at the preschool. Speaking of volunteers: we had the chance to go into Huaraz and have lunch with one of the local Peace Corps volunteers, J Lynne, who works on health programs there. Her apartment is just off the Plaza de Armas where a loud stage was set up, blasting music to a small crowd of people milling about. There are plenty of ladies in town wearing the local attire, but it felt very particular to turn a corner by the grandstand and come upon a 16yr-old in full traditional regalia, her "sunday-best", standing among the rowdies.

At the Inn on the first day, I discovered that I was already familiar with a family visiting there…they are affiliated with the embassy and were, in fact, the "welcome" family that invited Jen over for dinner her first week in the country. They are funny sorts, friendly enough, but one of their teenage daughters seems a taciturn, unhappy sort (perhaps because she was dragged to Peru and, soon, will be dragged to Equitorial Guinea, for the large part of her teenage years). This family went up to the Llaca Glacier on the same day Jen and Carter and I did; they even ended up hiking back with us.

The hike to Llaca is not so far as the crow flies, but we opted to pay for a car to drive us up the abysmal road so we'd only have to hike the downhill. Since Carter was joining Jen and I, it seemed prudent. Even so, as it would turn out, it was asking too much of Carter. One note on all the SUVs driving around on smooth pavement in U.S. cities: up in this area they seem to handle their rocky roads and flash floods with nothing more than frontwheel drive Toyota station wagons. The taxi dropped us off at the end of the road from which we could see the base of the glacier. We decided we wanted to touch it and set out scrambling that way. The end of the glacier is a little spooky, the slate-blue ice melting and dripping and periodically rocks or gravel roll down it's face. It feels like something moving. But, of course, these days it is losing more than it is moving. Another visitor mentioned being there a year prior and that the glacier had lost an acre since then. By the time we were done with the glacier, we had expended 2 unintentional hours, so we started the hike back to the Inn. At first it was lovely, the green valley below the glacier being so pretty, with rock walls rising up on either side and a stream the same color as the glacier twisting through it. We even saw the andean squirrel-bunny (the Viscacha), a large rabbit with a squirrel-like tail. By the bottom of this section, before the steep downhill, two things happened. First, we met up with and joined the embassy family we knew and, second, it began to hail. So hail, then rain, then hiking in the middle of a cloud. It would have been adventurous, but by the last hour of the 4 hour hike, Carter was literally miserable with fatigue and altitude-discomfort. Jen and I swapped carrying him for probably the last 2 hours.

The day after this, I took a hike with Paul up the other nearby quebrada, Cojup. But this time, just setting out from the Inn and turning back upon hitting the bridge at the canyon mouth. Jen went in the morning to see the preschool, Carter had a mellow morning letting Wayne, one of the proprietors, go through a very explicit introduction to horsemanship (leading, brushing, feeding, etc.). Farnaz happily donated time planting in the greenhouses and, later, Jen went on her uphill "run" from the pueblo. We hung out around the fireplace until it was time for Carter, Jen and I to go into Huaraz and catch the 11pm overnight bus back to Lima. Just before daylight, I was awoken on the bus by a car honking…and from the smell, I knew I was back in Lima.

(from Google)

Punta Sal / Tumbes Mangroves

Punta Sal is a beach a couple of hours south of the border with Ecuador, over 1 hour south of a town called Tumbes and over 3 hours north of Mariza's hometown of Piura.






The house house we rented sits right on the beach, with basic, airy rooms around an open terrace facing the Pacific. In the morning, the sky is filled with frigate birds coming in from the sea (perhaps using the giant cel tower up on the hill as a landmark?). The waves are skimmed by flocks of pelicans and the sand is alive with hockey-puck sized red crabs that skitter around, rolling the sand into thousands of little balls the size of peas. When approached, the crabs dart down into holes they have tunneled in the sand. The water in front of the house is rocky, but 5 minutes up the beach is nice area. The water is warm and pleasing and, unlike the many other tropical beaches, here are actually waves, perfectly calibrated to be fun but not threatening to our kids. This part of the beach is in front of the Punta Sal Hotel where they seem unconcerned that we might be sitting at one of their umbrellas or coming in to the bar or restaurant.



Carter and Julito immediately jumped into their frenetic, happy beach relationship. Keeping them immersed in enough sun block was a struggle for they seemed to have no limits to how long they could roll in the waves. There was sand to build with, snails to dig up, once a dead puffer fish even washed up. Julio found a plastic bottle at the water line that was an ecosystem unto itself, with barnacles, anemones, even a small crab. The house has a "jacuzzi" (not technically, having no heater and no need for one); so the boys had plenty of options for water play. By evening, slightly burnt and with puffy eyes, the two would dwindle down like candles until someone would take pity on them and put them to bed.


Juanita's services come with the house, she sweeps away the unrelenting sand and helped Mariza with meals. Juanita was tense the first couple days as we dealt with the owners because the refrigerator wasn't functioning properly. I think she thought she would be blamed; but it all worked out in the end…though we did lose a few sensitive items to spoilage before the new fridge showed up. There is not internet, so we went over to the hotel a few times for the wireless. Jen was also ringleader a couple of times, leading the kids to the hotel pool. Time on the terraza is relaxing, with games of Bananagrams or Mexican Train. Jennifer, Julio, Maureen and Julito all left on Monday, returning to Lima.

As they left, Farnaz, Paul, Carter and I departed in the other direction, taking a taxi 1.5 hours north through Tumbes to the mangrove swamps. The ecosystem is remarkable as two large rivers flow into the Gulf of Guayaquil, pouring fresh water on either side of the mouth of the mangrove area. The tides push and pull the waters, creating an 80% salt water mix for the mangrove area. We arranged for a boat at Puerto Pizzaro (so named because it is this area that Pizzaro used as his landing point for the conquest of Peru). While boarding our boat, a man on the dock made a point of telling us, even illustrating with a pen on his hand, that we had chosen well, arriving just in time for highest tide of the year. The boat motored out past some little shacks set up to serve families that come to spend the day, though the tide meant there was very little left of the usual sandy beach. We saw a couple of birds on the way (e.g. a very colorful kingfisher), but we didn't go far before reaching a patch of mangrove that thousands of birds agree upon as the place to nest. The boat sidled right up to the branches as the sound and smell washed over us. Pelicans in the hundreds, frigate birds in the hundreds, but also several other types. It was not just Farnaz, the true bird lover of the group, who was impressed. There were ibises, which the boatman called "crabbers" (and indeed, their long curved bills would be perfect for pulling little red crabs out of their sand holes). There were several kinds of heron (striated, tri-colored, little blue, yellow-crowned), none showing any fear of our proximity. We could have stolen little green or blue eggs if we wanted to. We had paid a little bit extra to also see the crocodiles, not really knowing what to expect. We pulled up at a landing and feared the worst; it appeared to be a horrible little zoo cynically set up for tourists. But no, it's actually a breeding program that rears and releases crocodiles into the river Tumbes. Carter and Paul took turns holding a juvenile, while Farnaz was more interested in the fact that off to the side was a new bird to add to her life list. The sun was setting and we had a pretty little ride back to the dock where our taxi man was waiting.





Prologue: Getting to Punta Sal (and yes, I know prologues usually go first)
The week prior to our beach vacation I managed to get all backed up on a project, forcing myself to stay up all night. I never worry too much about the 3 or 4 times per year that this happens, it seems a small price to pay for the converse privilege I enjoy…being able to mold my hours to my liking. This all-nighter, however, my eyes started to give out around 4am, literally blurring over with goop. I pushed on through, with the result being that for a week my eye gooped themselves every night, and only a week later were not glued shut upon awakening. In fact, I got a sore throat, my nose developed strange pimples, and my whole body seemed to rebel; perhaps rightfully so.

We left on Friday afternoon, needing 2 taxis to get all of us to the airport. Jen, Carter and I, Farnaz and Paul, and Mariza. Julio, Maureen and Julito were already up at the rental house in Punta Sal. The flight was uneventful, but when we arrived at the Piura airport we discovered 2 different vans waiting for us. Jennifer had misunderstood a text from Maureen, hence the double-booking. All our luggage was already up on one, so we apologized profusely to the other guys and gave them some compensation. They complained and we compensated them further. So it was not received well when one of the other guys, the chosen ones, complained that the flight was an hour later than he thought. This was all foreshadowing for the odyssey yet to come.

Piura is not the closest airport, being more than 3 hours away, but it was considerably cheaper than going through the closer town of Tumbes. We needed to buy groceries in Piura, which made our driver grumpy (even though it was part of the contract), and he refused to take Jen on a small errand while the rest of us loaded up on food and drink. It was dark, so we go none of the scenery as we drove north in the dark, arriving in Punta Sal around 12:45am. We were not yet at the house, however, and through a combination of factors, it took 45 minutes of confusion before we found the place. The driver looked at my map and said "OK" but it didn't seem right. By the end, I was sure that my grasp of where to go was better than his and I found myself giving him direct orders. Finally, after asking many people, we were on the right road and in front of the final security gate. When no vigilante came to our calls, I clambered up the embankment and the wall, yelling "Señor!" over and over into the night. A groggy guy eventually let us in; meanwhile, my voice was just about gone and my patience totally gone. The sound of rolling waves as we unloaded the van promised better things for the next day.

Epilogue: Getting Back to Piura
For Jennifer, Julio, Maureen and Julito, another bizarre taxi experience during their return to Piura. The dispatchers had made a scheduling error and were trying to have our folks switch vans midstream. Maureen, in a rage, literally sequestered the driver's cel phone so the dispatchers could not talk to him until they all reached the airport).