The last day that the three of us spent together was also the last run I took in Peru. We woke up late in our hostel in Ollantaytambo making up for the last two days of sleep deprivation with ten hours of sleep. We got a large breakfast in town and left ourselves about five minutes to digest before we laced our running shoes.
The workout was a doozy because of altitude, but it was one of the must beautiful runs we'd had yet. The road followed the railroad tracks that we came in on and was surrounded by the majestic, white-capped Andes. Ollanta is at almost 10,000 feet above sea level and we were soon huffing and puffing in the thinner atmosphere. Also, the first half of the run was downhill, and you know what that means for the second half. Factoring in these challenges, we decided that six miles was plenty for us. Fortunately, we only had one violent showdown with a canine during the course of the run, which wasn't bad for Peru.
At the end of our run, we were slightly concerned to discover that we had been locked out of the hostel. We rang the bell and knocked on the door but it was to no avail. At last, we decided that it was time to take things into our own hands (James Bond music starts playing.)
Max stood post at the door while Ben and I clambered down to the stream in the back of the building. Like fleet and nimble spies, we climbed over the back porch railing to the rear door which, sure enough, had been left unlocked. We slipped through the empty lobby and then let Max in through the front door. A minute later, a confused member of the hostel staff knocked on the door and we let her in. How had we got inside?
After the weird experience of having to break into our own hostel, we were set to get back to Cuzco. So it came that we walked into the Plaza de Armas, where we found a guy offering to drive us in his van. Because we were the only customers, we had to pay jacked up rates. He saved on gas money by driving us a few miles down the road and passing us off to a friend in a smaller taxi.
Once again, we bore witness to some amazing mountain scenery. For at least an hour, the road did nothing but gain altitude until we were at roughly the same height as the pass into Colca Canyon. The glaciated peaks of the Andes stood in the distance, but now we were almost on level with the snow line.
Back in Cuzco, I was pleased to find that the guy at the repair shop had indeed been able to fix my camera. I let the boys do some shopping for their nearest and dearest, and went to Sacsaywaman a second time, then to the ruins of Pisac for an extra hit of archaeology. With functional camera, I was able to snap a few of the photographs I had wanted before, especially ones that captured the effect of shadow upon the walls when the sun became low in the sky.
It was getting dark and I was starving. I spotted a vendor at the bottom of the steps from Sacsaywaman who was selling steamed Choclo, a type of corn with gigantic, white kernels. An ear of it cost me fifty centimos and I paid another fifty for a small white cube of cheese. Though, it was not exactly what I would call a flavor explosion, it was wholesome all the sameand took the edge out of my hunger.
For our last night together, we went out and got a good vegetarian meal in town. I recall that my lentil burger with a side of fries was particularly toothsome. Pretentious fare like that would have cost a pretty penny stateside, but here it came to less than the equivalent of five dollars.
Max and Ben both needed to turn in early because they had their flight out to Iquitoes the next morning. We said our goodbyes and wished each other luck on our respective jungles. They would fly out to the jungle for a couple days before they went back to Lima and home. I would go on a bus adventure through the central Andes, eventually arriving in Huarez where I could climb my mountain.
After they had went to bed, I realized two things: I was wide awake and extremely bored. I began to wonder if it had been the wrong decision for me to go off on my last week and a half. Was this final part of the trip going to suck now that I had no friends to share it with? Another thing to consider was that I was now completely in the hands of my own judgement, not necessarily a good thing. I would also need to rely on my own primitive Spanish to handle day to day tasks. Pondering these doubts made me think that at the least, maybe I should have joined Max and Ben in seeing the jungle. In any case, it was too late now.
Instead of going to sleep, I wandered into a terrible classic rock show in the hostel bar. To the cover band, classic rock meant no less than 50% of the songs were by The Doors. Light My Fire, Break On Through, Hello I Love You, one after another. In between songs, the guitarist, who definitely wanted to be somewhere else, would play a metal riff and then look around the room, anxious to see approval. The guitar, drums and bass were actually pretty good, and delivered an excellent, hard-rocking rendition of Communication Breakdown. The singer, however brought the entire band down. His thickly accented, off-key bellowing was hilariously bad. The drunk tourists ate it up, and I did too for a while. After he shouted out the lyrics of Baahn to bee Wahld!!!, I shuffled off to bed.
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