I... am in Peru!!!

So after Vilcabamba, I don´t know what to do with myself. I meet a Dutch girl named Rianne, and she says that two days into the Amazonian region of Peru is a crazy pre-Incan fortress, Kuelap, huge ruins to rival Machu Pichu. But almost no tourists in Kuelap because the way there is incredibly difficult to find. So we set out from Vilcabamba heading toward the frontier of Peru, asking along the way, hoping to find ourselves and our path...

A six hour bus through cloud forest from Vilcabamba to Zumba. On the bus, we meet Michael, a German. We are the only three foreigners. We become a team.

The fog clings to the side of verdant green cliffs overflowing with bromeliads and orchids. Shacks cling like the fog along the deep gorges as the road becomes nearly impassable. Jolting and jolting along the supposed highway. Our first military checkpoint.

The soldiers say that a landslide eleven days ago has shut down the border. But we continue on...

Zumba is a tiny town. In a chiva, a sort of pickup truck with benches and a roof, we head towards the border, supposedly. Another military checkpoint. The soldier says that maybe, maybe, we can cross the river on foot with our packs and find our way to the border on the other side. The locals on the chiva laugh at our ridiculously large backpacks and bewildered English discussions. The chiva drives until the road is blocked by a landslide. A friendly bulldozer driver makes, literally makes, a new road for us to get by. An hour later we are on our way again, until we come to a truck stuck in the mud. An hour later it unsticks itself. Then we go on to the real landslide.

The bridge has disappeared, leaving a naked gorge carved by a wildly rushing river. The landslide has blocked the crossing and destroyed the bridge, the highway, everything. Down a makeshift ladder we climb deep into the gorge, slipping on watery mud, squelching, the weight of our packs destroying our balance. At the bottom, our hearts sink. A thin log across the river. The only way to cross. Covered with slime. And we have our packs. No choice. Arms out, breath held, we inch across.

And we make it!

On the other side, another ladder, panting now... and a pickup truck is waiting for the locals to take them on to the border town of La Balsa.

Night is already falling as we descend unbelievably beautiful forested slopes to another river, clinging desperately to the sides of the truckbed where we are tossed with a few Peruvian migrants, two boxes of chickens (alive and squawking), and a teenage Ecuadorian girl.

At La Balsa, the immigration soldier has gone missing. They tell us to go on to Peru, but we insist on getting our exit stamps! The few families that eke out a living by exchanging dollars and soles there search for the official, find him. He stamps my passport, January 10. Then he realizes he forgot to change the date. It was January 11. No one had crossed the border in that area for at least a day. I have lost my tourist card. He does not care, hands me another.

Then, we walk to Peru, across another river, but now we have a bridge.

In Peru, the immigration official is very young, as young as my youngest sister. He has no idea what to ask us and just smiles and tries to practice his basic English. The police control needs to stamp our documents. They are playing video games in the office when we enter and ignore us for a few minutes, finally stamping us into the country without taking their eyes off of their game.

A car is waiting to take us the two hours to San Ignacio. Seven people cram into this car. We drive into Peru in the dark. No electricity in the houses. We pass tiny villages with ghostly candles shining out of concrete block homes. A CD of salsa tunes on repeat accompanies our arrival into Peru, the driver blasting the volume, the songs etching into our brains until we start absentmindedly singing the lyrics.

San Ignacio is a pit stop. Only a pit stop, but we can make it no further the first night. And the place has electricity. A cold shower then bed...

We wake up at 6 in the morning. Minibuses, tiny minibuses, run "about every hour" or "when they get full" the locals tell us. The minibus is the size of my parent´s van. Nineteen people fit in this minibus. People lying on people. People squished in between seats. Children sprawled over each other like chickens in a box. Your knees in your face. Sardines. No words but sardines can convey our situation. Worse than seven people in a car is nineteen people in a van! Three hours until Jaen.

In Jaen, we arrive on the wrong side of town. The moto-taxis are like the tuk-tuks of Asia. A motorcycle with a compartment in the back. After much hassling we get a moto-taxi made for two, squeeze three people and our packs into the back, ride to wear minibuses wait like giant white bugs in the dusty heat of the frontier town.

A minibus again. Hours from Jaen to Bagua Grande. In Bagua Grande our luck runs out.

One camioneta goes to Pedro Ruiz per day, usually. And it had already left...

A lot of negotiating with sweaty Peruvian taxi drivers. Futile. We must pay 22 soles each (about 7 dollars), a ridiculous price, to reach Chachapoyas. We pay the taxi driver and begin the drive to Pedro Ruiz, two hours away.

The roads in Amazonas in Peru are wretched, falling away in landslides during this rainy season. We do not drink so that we will not have to pee. We have not eaten. Dehydrated, hungry, tired, carsick.

We pass Pedro Ruiz and the road ends. "No hay paso" (there is no way through) says the polite female road worker. A river has risen and covered the only road out. We beg and plead and finally we are allowed to drive through... through the river. The shallowest point still nearly obscures our car, the water rising fast as we almost float over the rocky riverbed.

Past the flooded river, we drive into an incredible canyon, alone on the dirt highway, jostling along still. The scenery is amazing. Like the formations of Utah with the rocky greenness of Colorado. We drive along the river.

Night is falling on the second day as we climb out of the canyon to Chachapoyas, a small city on a ridge. The city is an anomaly. Who would build a town here? I think. We think. We don´t know. But we are grateful. A hostal to sleep in. Yes. And we even find hamburgers, hamburgers doomed to disappear quickly as we devour them after our long journey and fasting.

A local guide will take us on a two day trek to see the fortress at Kuélap. Tomorrow we leave at 8 in the morning.

And hopefully, next time I write, I will have found this forbidden city in the jungle.

Now I understand why no one comes here. It is an incredible journey...