Peru

I find myself in the midst of another winter break from school, spending my sweet time in a country 20 longitudinal degrees removed from home. This time around, I аm in Peru, volunteering, trekking, and exploring мy way through this vast and diverse country.

Cusco

My fifteen-day jaunt began with a week stint in Cusco, Peru’s self-proclaimed cultural capital that sits at approximately 11,500 feet in the Andes mountain range. While not my first time spending a prolonged period at altitude over a mile high (see previous summers’ entries on India and Ethiopia), Cusco took the title as the highest altitude I’d ever visited. Apart from the geography, another distinctive factor about the visit to Cusco was the aim of my visit. For the Monday through Friday that I would be there, I would volunteer at the non-profit Helping Hands Preschool just outside of the city. The aim of the preschool, run by super woman Rosa Gutierrez, is to heighten underprivileged kids’ chances at getting into a good primary school. Helping Hands relies mostly on volunteer contributions and donations, so Rosa was more than happy to welcome me into the Helping Hands family.
I arrived in Cusco in the mid-afternoon and met up with Teresa, an 18 year old from Austria who had been volunteering with Helping Hands for a month and half prior to our visit. She took me to my accommodations which were just a short five minute taxi ride away, an apartment owned by Rosa and her husband, Mario, where I would stay with the other volunteers. After laying low for a little bit, I headed out with some of the other volunteers to get some great food amid an astounding variety of options that downtown Cusco offers in terms of tasty cuisine. We were all immediately enchanted by downtown, as it had a rustic, mystic, and alive feel to it. Much to my initial dismay, we settled on an Indian buffet which turned out to be quite delicious. The meal was definitely a testament to the diversity of Cusco as a whole, including its cuisine.

The next day, Monday, was a bright and early start, as the rest of the weekdays would be. I was out the door at 8:30 AM to head off to the preschool. A five minute taxi ride deposited me and other volunteers at the end of a road, from which we trekked up to the preschool, nestled on the mountain side. After catching our breath, we explored the Spartan grounds of the preschool, which featured a two-room school house, a jungle gym, and a greenhouse. By 9:15, all of the thirty-some kids had trickled in and the day’s lesson began. Rosa and I agreed earlier that I would be of best assistance if I could teach the kids one-on-one using some apps on my iPad, so I began teaching and flexing my bilingual muscles right away. While I may have been only going off of three years of Spanish instruction, I felt like my instruction with the kids was good and that they enjoyed themselves.










Most days at the preschool proceeded without a hitch and I enjoyed my time with the kids immensely, whether it was through a game of soccer or “tackle Alek.” Thursday, however, was the exception, as the kids did not attend school. Instead I, along with the help of Rosa and the other volunteers, would be hosting a road race in the neighborhood where the school was located. We coined the race as the first ever “Inca Dash.” The race, geared towards recruiting the youth of the area to participate, featured four age categories: 4-5 year olds, 6-8 year olds, 9-13 year olds, and moms. Just like I did prior to our trip to Ethiopia in July 2010, I solicited donations in the months leading up to my trip from the running store 1st Place Sports, which donated an overwhelming amount of t-shirts and medals.

Race preparation began about two hours before the scheduled start time for the 4-5 year old race, at 8 AM. There was a multitude of tasks to be completed before anyone could run. First, we had to spray paint and hoist up the start and finish banner (which was bilingual, of course). A couple dead brain cells later, the banner was spanning the road, soundly attached to a telephone poll and a power line. Next, with chalk in hand, I ran the two courses (one was 1.5K and the other was 0.5K) and marked the muddy road with course directions so the kids wouldn’t get lost. I also made sure to fend off any stray dogs that may have found their way into the middle of the course. With the first race about to start, I assumed my role as a “human pace car,” ready to show the kids where to run (and hopefully not get caught by them). The first race, which consisted of 4-5 year olds, would be run on an out-and-back 0.5K course.

The race itself went fine, but as the first finishers neared I frantically attempted to construct some semblance of a finish chute. The kids piled up, completely out of finishing sequence, while I tried to keep them single file as I ripped the tags off their bibs numbers. Just when I thought I had done a good job of organizing the finish, another volunteer, in all his ineptitude, drops the line holding the tags, causing them to scatter and lose order. Luckily, I and some of the other volunteers were able to piece together the finish sequence and thus learn from our mistake. The next race, the 6-8 year olds, went perfectly, with the finish being much better organized than before. The final kids race, the 9-13 year olds, would go a little differently. With a competitive field featuring many of the neighborhoods fit youth coming out of the woodwork, I was wondering if the 1.5K course should be used or not, for fear of confusion and bedlam. The kids met the prospect of running the shorter courses with protests, so we decided to go with the longer course. I positioned myself further down the course so I wouldn’t get dusted in the earlier stages of the race. As the leaders came around, I ran to make sure the course was clear. After turning around and heading back the way we came, a neighborhood brawl between the scraggly pooches endemic to the area broke out, leaving myself and a few other runners cautious as to not run near the dogs which occupied the middle of the roadway. My plan of running ahead of the lead runners did not work out too well, as I got caught by the leader and was almost dropped! Luckily, the hill on which the finish was situated served as an equalizer as we both suffered for those last 100 meters.







The last of the races, the moms’ race, was quick and hassle-free. With all of the races complete, there was the final task of sorting out the results and distributing awards. As some ominous-looking clouds rolled in, we quickly assembled the makeshift podium (which consisted of a stool and plastic chair) and readied the age group awards, which consisted of a medal, a certificate, and a toy. As the last of the awards finished, it started to drizzle, which soon turned into a downpour. As the first drops came down I distributed medals to every participant. Rosa also had bought different types of toys for every participant, but by the time we had started to give them out the rain was coming down hard. We volunteers, sheltered from the elements under the tent, tried to give out the toys as fast as we could but it wasn’t fast enough. The scene seemed vaguely familiar, resembling the Occupy Wall Street protests as participants demanded their toy. Eventually, we dished out a toy to every participant (and probably some scam artists who didn’t participate but wanted to cash in on a free toy). Needless to say, the first inaugural Inca Dash was a success.

On Friday, which was the last day at the preschool for me, I got to say good bye to the kids as they spent their last day at school before winter break by drinking hot chocolate and eating other various sweets. I was very pleased with my time at the preschool, an experience I would recommend to any volunteer. I had a fun time and got some great practice speaking Spanish. Friday was also the last day for me in Cusco, embarking with my family on a four day trek on the Inca trail the next morning. Knowing I had a long day ahead of me, I got some necessary shut eye.

Inca Trail Trek

The next morning we got up very bright and early to be picked up by our bus which would take us to kilometer 82, the start of a four day, 50K trek to the final destination of Machu Picchu. The two-hour bus ride dropped us off, along with 12 other trekkers, at the start, nestled in between miles of mountains. We lost some altitude during the bus ride, so when we began the first day of trekking at 11 AM, it was starting to get pretty hot. With the exception of a couple small hills, the beginning of day one wasn’t too difficult. But the trek as a whole was described as very strenuous, so it wasn’t long before we hit the first serious inclines. Mom, who was already bringing up the rear, shed her 20lb pack, which I had to carry along with my own backpack. For the rest of the trek, I took on the role of human pack mule. Not deterred by my extra baggage, I sped up the final incline of day 1. After arriving at the first campsite, I was surprised by how civilized the whole thing was. Our tents were already assembled and required no work by us, and within 30 minutes fresh tea and popcorn was served in the dining tent. Following that, a great dinner was served, an amazing feat considering the minimal equipment and ingredients that had to be carried and divided over the four days. Our trekking company, SAS, was quite good at what it was doing whether it was the impeccable food, excellent tour guides, or determined porters that carried all of our goods.

Day 2 was the most challenging of all days and featured two passes, the first of which was at 14,000 feet. After about 3 hours of strenuous climbing, I reached the top with some other trekkers (I was first out of every trekker, might I add). Drenched with sweat that came as a result of wearing two backpacks, three layers of clothing, and a poncho, I immediately froze my butt off at the top of the pass. Once I became fully aware of my surroundings, I noticed snow flurries which only made me want to hurry the heck up so I could escape the cold. For reasons that still evade me to this moment, I spent a brutal 45 minutes at the top of the pass. For a couple moments, I even thought I was going to get hypothermia as my extremities became numb. Eventually, I started to make the back-breaking descent into the valley, where I fell multiple times. The day’s second pass wasn’t nearly as bad and I sped through the rest of the trail like I had on day 1.








Day 3 featured more downhill, which I had now grown accustomed to and seemed to effortlessly navigate. The overall pace was also slower because we were nearing Machu Picchu. We stopped at many ruins away to take in the great history and breathtaking views.

And last but not least, Day 4 was the day we would reach Machu Picchu. It was a very early wake up (3:30 AM, to be exact) as we wanted to be the first one to be admitted to the park at 5 AM. The morning met us with a steady rain, which dampened the group’s morale. But the closer we got to Machu Picchu, the more it cleared up and soon we were met with a beautiful day that gave us a great view of the whole site. Despite being the fifth wonder of the world that we’ve visited (don’t quote me on that, I’ve lost count), we all agreed that Machu Picchu’s architecture and mystique put it above and beyond the rest of the crowd. By noon all of us were exhausted, and I took a glorious nap on one of Machu Picchu’s green and lush terraces. It was quite the way to cap off an excellent four day trek.









Lima

After an uneventful last day in Cusco after our trek, our trip concluded with three days in Lima. Unfortunately, I was “sidelined” with the world’s worst case of traveler’s diarrhea and only managed to make it out of the luxurious accommodations of the JW Marriott once (oh, what a travesty). And from what I gathered during my two hours outside the hotel, Lima seemed like a less historical version of Rio de Janeiro. My journey in Peru was unforgettable and I hope to go back next year to volunteer at the preschool and hopefully discover more of what the country has to offer.

India

Shimla
After thirty-six agonizing hours of numbing transit, which started in Jacksonville, my mom and I arrived in Shimla, a town built into the mountains in Northern India. At our hotel we met up with my dad, who was one week into teaching a two-week course in International Environmental Law in a summer abroad program for law students from the U.S. and India. Over the next few days, we explored much of what the town had to offer. What seemed to me to be an unassuming place at first, Shimla is a diamond-in-the-rough, overshadowed by conspicuous destinations in Delhi and Mumbai, yet just as interesting. For comparison’s sake, I saw Shimla as a mix between the pollution and locale of Addis Ababa, Ethiopia and the idyllic nature of Paraty, Brazil. On the first day, a nice tour of the town was to be had inadvertently during our hike to Viceregal lodge. We passed the Mall, Shimla’s main drag lined with high-end retailers, mom-and-pop shops, and many restaurants serving mostly local dishes. Once the Mall ended, it was just a matter of time until we were at the lodge. Although it was just “some historic building” to me, the Viceregal lodge would make any history buff revel in its glory, as the lodge and its grounds were home to the British government during the months of March to October, when Shimla served its role as India’s summer capital.



Day two saw us head up to Jachoo Temple, simply known as the monkey temple. Poking out of a mountaintop, the monkey temple marks Shimla’s highest point at 8,020 feet. Needless to say, the temple is a tribute to the monkey god, and many of the monkeys which populate the place, as well as the path leading up to it, are there to show for it. So, about that path: to get up to the temple, one must traverse by foot a one-mile path, which is at a dauntingly steep incline. To make matters more interesting, those making the pilgrimage to the temple are advised to rent sticks to fend off the monkeys which inhabit the path. I fared well going up, as did dad who was suffering from a herniated disk in his lower back. Mom, however, struggled as she was fighting what we would later understand to be a bad case of “Delhi Belly” (food poisoning). Yet, once we were at the top, the temples and monuments were very impressive rewarding.

Other highlights of our stay in Shimla were the Buddhist monastery, and girls’ ashram. The former was a secluded monastery about thirty minutes outside of town. Like most of the temples which populate India, the art work and craftsmanship in each was extraordinary. It was also fun to watch the monks dutifully working and devoutly spinning their handheld prayer wheels. We saw the opposite end of the gender spectrum a couple days later when we attended the latter, the girls’ ashram. Generally, ashrams act as residential quarters and safe havens for its residents aged eight to eighteen when they are not at school. A treacherous one-hour drive brought us to a small girls’ ashram, as we awaited the arrival of the girls from school. (Correction: it was ALL girls with the exception of one poor [or lucky, depending on how you look at it] boy, the teacher’s son, who was destined for childhood therapy at one point or another.) Once the fifty-some girls arrived, we were treated to some English and Hindu sing-alongs and dances. Later, we presented every one of the girls (and the boy) with goodie bags, watched the ensuing Christmas-morning-like joy, and then waved goodbye. The trip to the girls’ ashram was a great ending to our stay in Shimla.


Dharamsala
The following day we embarked on another long, treacherous, 8-hour drive to Dharamsala, a town northwest of Shimla. On the drive, I found out why the state in which Dharamsala (and Shimla) resides in is called Himachal: for the last two hours of the drive, we were treated to stunning views of the Himalayan mountain range. As we got closer and closer to Dharamsala, the terrain got hillier, to the point where a steep 20 minute drive punctuated our arrival in McLeod Ganj, the downtown district of Dharamsala. To quote from Frommer’s India guidebook, McLeod Ganj is, literally, a “backpacker’s ghetto.” I was able to affirm this moniker, whether it was through the smell of fresh cannabis on a morning run or the sight of many Sanuk-clad, flannel-loving hipsters. Regardless, McLeod Ganj differed greatly in personality from Shimla. Whereas Shimla was a retreat for South Indian tourists, McLeod Ganj was a melting pot of all races, with peaceful interaction between Tibetans, Indians, and tourists. You see, McLeod Ganj is home to the Tibetan government-in-exile, which has resided here since 1959. Also, the fourteenth Dalai Lama’s residence is here, making McLeod Ganj a spiritual town. We got a glimpse of this on our first day, as we visited (another) Buddhist monastery. The most memorable experience I got out of this monastery was watching the philosophical debates between monks, who would accentuate their points with an emphatic downward clap in the opponent’s face. For the rest of our first day, we explored the town’s narrow streets (complete with throngs of people dodging motorcycles and cars). It seemed that McLeod Ganj’s laid-back atmosphere got the best of us, as the rest of our three-day stay was relaxing and anything but ambitious.



The second day at McLeod Ganj saw us take a small excursion to the Norbulinka Institute, a handicrafts village. We got a tour from a knowledgeable guide who showed us the on-site temple, guesthouse, puppet museum, and store (unfortunately, due to our trip falling on a Sunday, we were unable to see the making of the crafts). The place was very serene and relaxing. Afterwards, we went to another temple and then a tea garden. In the afternoon, we explored some more and did some shopping. In comparison to our second day, our third day was a bit more packed, as I had a few volunteer opportunities. First, I tutored a Tibetan yoga instructor, Sonam, in various aspects of human anatomy and physiology so he could communicate to English-speaking tourists what muscles and systems each yoga exercise stressed. Afterwards, Sonam helped us with some shopping, as we ended up buying prayer wheels, a Tibetan “singing bowl,” and a tonka (a painting of a Buddhist figure with embroidery around it). Our second volunteering opportunity presented itself in the afternoon at the Lha Center, where a one-hour English conservation class was to take place. The class is powered by volunteers, so for that specific day there were four volunteers, including my mom and me. The class size presented a challenge, as there were nearly fifty Tibetan students and only four of us. We made due, however, as we split into equal sized groups and went from there. In my group, I conducted a game of Scrabble to Tibetans who had never played the game before. I explained the rules to them and, much to my surprise, they picked up how to play easily, with most groups getting an excess of twenty points on any given turn. Despite the fact that most of my last day was spent volunteering, I greatly enjoyed giving back to underprivileged Tibetans.


Amritsar
After our stay in Dharamsala concluded, we embarked on another (you guessed it) car ride. I must take a much-needed digression here to describe exactly how bad these car rides are. To begin, there is no such thing as a “lane” on Indian roads; cars, auto-rickshaws, motorcycles, and bicycles simply move as one big, unorganized conglomerate, dodging pedestrians. Thus, you can imagine how often tourist passengers’ knuckles turn white. Here, the only way you can survive is if your driver has a good horn, allowing him to slalom on the road through anything from cows to the ornately decorated Tata trucks.

So, after yet another long, 6-hour drive southwest, we arrived in Amritsar. If you think Delhi is chaotic, just wait until you experience the bedlam in Amritsar. The place was utterly unbelievable, complete with haggling street vendors, elusive con artists, and aggressive drivers. But the chaos here is justified, as Amritsar is home to the Golden Temple, the most sacred place of the Sikh religion. For those who need to brush up on their world religions, Sikhs are those with the long beards and turbans whose religion stresses unity and brotherhood. Fittingly, Amritsar and its state, Punjab, are home to largest percentage of India’s Sikhs. Knowing this, you can imagine the pandemonium that arose at the Golden Temple. Before we entered, we worked our way through the crowd to a shoe drop-off area, where we deposited our shoes and socks. Prior to entering the temple, all guests must wash their feet, which is done by trudging through a (cess)pool of “water.” Once inside, we walked in a clockwise direction around the temple, which was at the center of a large pond and could only be reached by experiencing India’s largest mosh pit, a long line packed with people that stretched from the temple to the complex. While walking around the square-shaped complex, we marveled at the doggy bowls of water that were handed out at every corner, to any person in need of a cool, refreshing drink. Escaping the hot marble, we queued up (reluctantly, if your name is Alek) to get into the Golden Temple, sardined with thousands of other sweaty, stinking, practicing-lack-of-personal-space Indians. I’ve never experienced such emotions as anticipation, boredom, and anxiousness, respectively, in such a short period of time, as I initially was eager to see the icon proclaimed to one-up the Taj Mahal, subsequently became bovine at the prospect of waiting in a hot, stuffy line, and then yearned to get into the frickin’ temple so I could escape the hot mess. If someone had told me while I waiting in line that I would enter the Temple, I wouldn’t have believed them. Yet, the moment came when two Sikhs lifted a pole guarding the monument, and everyone lurched forward to the shout of my “Push!” Call in karma, or perhaps a spiritual message from the Sikhs, but the second I stepped inside the Golden Temple I was hip-checked into the large, six-foot door hinge holding the palace door, a pain so intense that it elicited a yelp from me so piercing it would make a Sikh’s beard vibrate. I opened my eyes to briefly catch a glimpse of the perpetrator, a young woman with her baby in tow. The rest of my temple experience was uneventful and, for the sake of brevity, very gold.


Once out of the temple, we traversed the land bridge at a quick clip, only to be whisked into another line upon exiting. The occasion? To receive a complimentary ball of mush, served up lunch-lady style by a devout Sikh. We kindly passed on the opportunity, not wanting to play Russian roulette with amoebic dysentery. Out of the temple, Dad and I thought we had the worst behind us, yet Mom suggested that we go see the dining halls where 35,000 people are fed, for free, each day. Upon arrival, I was handed a tin dish, doggie bowl, and spoon as Dad, Mom, and I queued up yet again to get into the dining hall. This mosh pit rivaled the previous one, but once the doors were open everyone rushed in so they could get their fix of lentils and bread. Mom opted only to take pictures of the scene as we were pressed for time.

With the Golden Temple experience finally behind us, I was expecting anything and everything to happen. On our walk back through Amritsar to our driver, I witnessed the repercussions of the haphazard driving habits on India’s roads, which were at their worst here. An innocent, approximately seven-year-old boy donning a Playboy shirt (which is a surprisingly popular article of clothing for the male tweens in India) was walking with his family through the streets of Amritsar. The next moment, a motorcyclist riding his bike at an unreasonably brisk clip hits the boy, flipping him in a cartwheel motion and landing him back first on the pavement. The boy was shocked more than anything, but the real story is the mutiny that unfolded as the boy’s dad shoved the reckless driver, choking him as bystanders egged them on and placed bets on who would come out on top. Our guidebook confirmed that the bedlam that unfolds after a vehicular accident is endemic to India’s culture.

Believe it or not, our eventful day was not yet complete. Once back with our driver, we headed west thirty minutes to the Pakistan border. No, we weren’t being coerced to carry out al-Qaeda initiatives in India; rather, we were going to attend the Wagah border ceremony, which is best described as a flamboyant, bicep-flexing contest between the two rival nations, as loyal Indian nationalists cheer on the border guards to outdo their Pakistani counterparts, and vice versa. Just when I thought our day couldn’t get more hectic, we arrived to a giant mass of people waiting in line. It was another swelteringly hot and sweaty, thirty-minute affair to get into the stadium, as we filed into our seat at about 6:00 PM, with the daily ceremony scheduled to start at 6:30 PM. The festivities before the ceremony were amusing, to say the least; spectatators participated in a running of the India flags relay-type activity and run fifty meters with the flag down to the border gate. On a few instances, some Caucasians from the “foreigner’s gallery” in which we resided also participated, surprisingly eliciting a roar from the crowd as they carried the flag. Also, there was a dance in the street fling, where Indian women (and a few brave men) danced in the street to latest club hits, including “Jai ho” from the award-winning movie, Slumdog Millionaire. After the aforementioned concluded, the ceremony commenced, first with a long “Go!” note by one of the border guards. Over the course of the ceremony, the guards high-stepped and straight-legged their way to glory to chants of the crowd brought forth by the MC’s shouting, “HINDUSTAN!” and some other words in Hindi. I greatly enjoyed the ceremony, yet was left kind of skeptical; there seemed to be sentiment of indifference in the foreigner’s gallery, as I appeared to be the only one dutifully waving my mini India flag and rooting for the home team. The guards also seemed a little on the hostile side, as they forced us Westerners in every-which-way, with one even remarking to me that I shouldn’t be sitting on my Golden Temple bandana, to which a disgruntled female tourist scoffed at me “It’s a holy symbol, so don’t sit on it.” At least for her, I was able to attribute the source of the permanent scowl throughout the ceremony to a serious case of “angry fat girl” syndrome. Needless to say, I was treated to a very memorable experience at the Wagah Border Ceremony.

Even though the night had fallen on our day-long stint at Amritsar, there was still one more adventure to be had: surviving India’s notorious rail system. Traveling by train was the only other mode of transportation for this car-sick, too-poor-to-afford-plane tickets group of travelers, so we embarked on our ten-hour train ride to Delhi. As I boarded the train, my initial thoughts were that our sleeper car accommodations only fell a few notches below the very civilized Thai railway system that we enjoyed in 2008. Upon further inspection, I noticed a couple of cockroaches, a rat, and some stained pillows – enough to keep me wincing the night away.

Delhi
At 7:00 AM the next day, we arrived groggy and smelly at the groggy and smelly Delhi train station. Moments later we were whisked to our digs for the next three day and two nights, to the swanky, business traveler oriented Le Meridien hotel. After freshening up and having a mediocre breakfast, Mom and I did some leisurely sightseeing of Old Delhi, as we toured a mosque and the Red Fort, while Dad remained in the hotel recovering from back pain or from sightseeing overload – you be the judge. The excursion wasn’t complete without beggars, more con artists, and one helluva rickshaw ride, which is only slightly more nerve-wracking than a fast bicycle ride through L.A. traffic. In the afternoon we did some shopping and eating, the highlights being picking up a pair of legit fake Ray Bans and indulging in a McDonald’s McVeggie sandwich (only to be found in India!) For the most part, we took it easy before our day-long marathon in the following twenty-four hours.

Agra
I was stirred out of bed at 4:30 AM the next morning, but for good reason: we were to take a 6:15 AM train to (Vi)Agra, sight of the one and only Taj Mahal. Once we arrived in Agra at 8:30 AM, we met up with our guide who immediately took us to the Taj. We were given excellent commentary as we entered the grounds before the Taj, and then came the moment where one was able to spot the glistening white-marble monument. Seeing the Taj up close was an amazing once-in-a-lifetime experience, to say the least. And our guide was able to explain the history and many intricacies behind this wonder of the world. Up next, we went to the Agra fort, another great structure dating from the days of the Mughal dynasty. Only four miles away, we were able to snap excellent pictures of the Taj as its white marble seemed to blend in with the white sky. After all photo opportunities were taken, we headed to lunch at the Oberoi hotel, the fanciest establishment in town and one of the most exclusive hotels in the world.



A leisurely lunch to reenergize left us ready to embark to the lost city of Fatepuhr Sikr, about an hour away from Agra. The city was another mark left by the Mughal dynasty, as it served as a capital albeit for a very short time. It took about ten years to build but was only occupied for four years, becoming abandoned due to lack of water availability. Although most of the city is destroyed, some important parts remained, like the emperor’s quarters, the houses of the each of the three wives, and the treasury. Our trip to lost city concluded the day’s sightseeing, after which we relaxed at a coffee shop before heading back to the train station.


India’s train stations never cease to amaze me. Seemingly normal people came out on the middle of the platform, rats run rampant on the tracks, and many homeless people call this place a refuge. Armed with a large bag of candy, I treated some of the homeless inhabitants, most of which were young boys. We made friends with a few boys, one of whom had a cleft palate, and ended up giving them the leftovers from our lunch, which they devoured with delight. My heart went out to the homeless boys. Ironically, karma was at work again on the train ride back, although this time it wasn’t of the good nature. During the meal service on the train, I ate some mysterious potatoes in curry, which both Mom and Dad refused to ingest, and ended coming down with a horrible bout of food poisoning on our last day in India. Just seemed to me as another reason why India is mysterious and magical, and why I hope to return sometime in the future.

Paraty

Day 10 – Travel

Having had our fill of Rio in four days, we were ready to begin the end of our vacation in the costal, laid-back town of Paraty, which was a 5 hour bus ride away. We were up bright and early to board our 9 o’ clock bus, which brought us to Paraty right around 2 PM. We settled into our quaint B&B, Pousada Guarana, and relaxed before heading into town in the early evening.





After a 20 minute walk, we arrived in the historic district of Paraty, which dates back to the 16th century when the town was used for the neighboring gold trade. Needless to say, the historic center is very nice, closed to traffic, and conveniently accessible by foot. It reminded us of a more rustic and less touristy version of St. Augustine, FL.





To start our culinary feast, we indulged in some excellent gelato. After some walking around, we headed to a nice restaurant which served excellent pasta. And just when you thought we had enough, for dessert we tried (for the first of three trips), the acai (pronounced AH-sigh-EE) berry puree, which was served with various toppings (like honey or condensed milk) and fresh fruit. This dessert is surely the nectar of the gods. I felt invincible and close to nirvana after each generous serving.



Day 11 – Paraty

Having a full day ahead of us to explore, we kicked off our first day in Paraty by having a laid back morning, sleeping in, and enjoying a great homemade breakfast. At about 10 AM, we headed out to the main drag and hailed down a cab, who agreed to take us to a waterfall not that far away called Penha. Turns out, this “waterfall” is actually a large slab of rock over which water flows in a steady and thin stream, making it Nature’s own waterslide. Many crazy locals, and even some tourists, took part in this experience, but I valued my life enough to pass on this tempting recipe for a concussion. Still, we enjoyed relaxing by the water in the jungle. Upon our return to the historic center of town, we did some more walking around and exploring.



Similar to the first night, our second night in Paraty was a culinary tour of the town, to say the least. We started off with appetizers and drinks at a Thai restaurant (where Dad was offered two free shots of clove-flavored cashasha, which made him a little loopy for the rest of the evening), followed by a very large meat filled Pastel from a street vendor as the main course. Finally, to top it all off, we returned to the acai restaurant where I tackled a whopping 500ml of berry bliss.

Needless to say, Dad and I had no choice but to continue the losing battle to offset this deluge of calories with an ambitious running agenda (this time with challenging hills). The final mileage scoreboard for our Brazil vacation was 68 miles for me, 52 miles for Dad, and a big goose egg for Mom (“I prefer to just walk and enjoy my surroundings.)”

Day 12 – Paraty

With a day left to our stay in Paraty, as well as to our entire trip to Brazil, we wanted to end with a bang and enjoy a memorable experience. So, what more could you ask for than a five hour long tour by boat through Paraty’s beautiful bay and nearby islands? We did just that, boarding our boat, the Rei Cigano, at 10 AM and departed for our tour.





The ride was very nice, to say the least, and included four stops to swim and snorkel. With all the swimming, I got an extra dose of Vitamin D as I discovered later in the day with a nasty sunburn on my back, rivaled only by Mom, the human lobster back. Upon our return back to land, we headed back to our pousada (B&B) before heading out to the historic district later in the evening.





Following the suggestion of our B&B owners, we headed to a local restaurant called Camello for our fix of Arab-inspired esfihas. The esfihas are excellent mini-pizzas, which disappeared in seconds after they were served to us.

For the first time in our entire trip, we took part in some entertainment, although it might not be what you think. On our final night in Paraty, we went to see an internationally acclaimed puppet show, which was an hour long wordless production. The puppeteers were excellent in execution and made the puppets seem like real human beings rather than a lifeless doll. All in all, the show was a great way to end our stay in Paraty.

Day 13 – Travel

The day finally dawned on us where we would be heading back home. With a day of travel ahead of us, we waved good bye to the beautiful country that is Brazil, hoping we will find ourselves there again sometime soon. Feliz Natal and Feliz Ano Novo!