Like any river city, one of the best parts of Asuncion is its location on the waterfront – in this case, the mighty Río Paraguay. Sadly, the riverfront has been neglected in most parts and has been populated with ramshackle settlements of the poor. Nonetheless, the area around the port and the government palace is quite beautiful and well worth a visit, and a boat ride on the Paraguay is a must for any visitor to Asuncion.

I took the morning on Wednesday for just such an outing with my Brazilian friends, Lourenco and Marilete, on the last day of their visit, and it was a delightful and restorative excursion. At the dock we met Gustavo, the charming captain of the bright-red skiff named Brillante, and for 3,000 guaranís (about 60 cents) we were treated to a refreshing ride up the river and a tour of his tiny riverfront village, Chacoí, just 20 minutes upriver.

Marilete had once visited the river at its headwaters, far to the north in the Brazilian state of Matto Grosso. From there it flows southward for some 1,600 miles, through Brazil and along the border of Bolivia before cutting right through the middle of Paraguay, separating the arid, largely uninhabited Gran Chaco on the west from the forested and hilly eastern half, where most of the people live, and eventually forming the border with Argentina and joining with the Paraná.

The Paraguay is important for many reasons, and not surprisingly, I learned, is increasingly threatened by the transnational agroindustry that has made Paraguay the world’s fourth largest producer of soy, most of it transgenic and most of it exported to support the vast international cattle industry. The river is the main source of water for the vast Pantanal Wetlands, the largest tropical wetlands in the world. But the governments of Brazil, Argentina and Paraguay had big plans to restructure it as an industrial waterway, largely to facilitate the export of soy, and planned to create a series of hydroelectric dams along the way.

Several environmental groups including one called Rios Vivos, conducted awareness-raising campaigns and eventually the governments stepped away from the plan, but it’s unclear how it all will end.

Meanwhile, the air is fresh and clear on the Río Paraguay and Gustavo, like the other riverboat captains who make their living ferrying people up and down its banks, he starts up his boat with a hand-cranked engine, takes the small tiller at the helm and heads upriver.

Gustavo delighted in showing us around his beloved Chacoí, which takes its name from the diminutive form of the word Chaco, from the great expanse of wilderness that stretches through half of Paraguay and much of northern Argentina. He pulled up next to his father’s equally brilliant Brillante II, painted in orange and purple. His father constructs these boats, he explained, and repairs boats as well as giving history and nature tours up and down the river.

He led us up the dusty street, past the sole restaurant bar and a horse-drawn cart to his home. There his wife has a small tienda with everything from eggs to mate for sale, and we bought chunks of fresh Paraguayan cheese, homemade dulce de leche and cups of coffee and sat at a table in a sunny window to savor them.
Later Gustavo took us down to the other end of the tiny town, where we met an Italian sailor who has taken up residence in Chacoí between jaunts around the world – next stop, Polynesia – and we visited with him before making our way down to the river.

Asuncion lines the horizon across the river like a picture postcard, framed by the leafy foreground of the forest. A path led through the forest, under pendulous hanging nests and over huge snail shells embedded in the dirt, past charming quintas with red tile roofs and whitewashed walls and a tiny abandoned colonial-style church. We wandered slowly, breathing in the clean air, the birdsong, the silence, a lovely respite from the chaos of the city, and arrived at the dock just as a barefoot pilot was preparing to head back to Asuncion.

Back in the city, we headed back up past the spectacular white Palacio de Lopez, the governmental palace styled proudly, I am told, in the tradition of the Venetian renaissance, and past the Plaza de los Desaparecidos, dedicated to the thousands of dissidents and so-called subversives who were “disappeared” during the military dictatorship. Standing out against the peaceful landscape of river and garden is a sculpture, shattered bronze pieces of a human figure, seemingly trapped between two enormous blocks of cement. Partially buried hands reach for the sky; the eyes and the lips of partially buried faces continue to haunt me as we continue, past the clutter of colonial-era buildings, street vendors and traffic to the Plaza de los Heroes.

We decided to brave the lunchtime crowd at the Lido Bar, a classic 50’s style diner where patrons sit shoulder-to-shoulder on high stools around a giant U-shaped bar and order Paraguayan classics like caldo de pescado (a delicious creamy fish soup) and tarta de palmito (soufflé with cubes of palm heart).

A few scenes from our excursion:

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ASUNCION, Paraguay – Life is settling into a rhythm here in Paraguay’s capital city. I start my day at a homey hostel called Casa da Silva with a cup of cafe con leche and some bread and cheese and conversation with Doña Da Silva, her granddaughter Angelica or Lola.

After this, it’s time for me to head to work. In the first days, it was an internet cafe down the street, but on my third day I discovered the Lugano Café, which has free WiFi – a scarce commodity in a city where only 16% of the population has internet access, according to a recent headline I read – so it’s become my unofficial headquarters. There, for the price of a couple hours at any other internet café, I can have a cortado, an espresso with cream, and log on and work to my heart’s content. I’ve discovered Asuncion is an excellent place to work because so little actually happens here, there is little to distract me.

My walk to the Lugano and back again has become one of my daily pleasures; I’m lucky to have along the route the city’s most important plazas, where I can watch the daily life unfold.

Out the creaky front door facing Eligio Ayala Street, past the cattycorner restaurants Flor de la Canela, a delightful Peruvian seafood place, and Bar San Roque, a classic 1950s-style bar-restaurant that serves typical Paraguayan food (empanadas, grilled beef and the like). Past the khaki-dressed police that dot the streets here for security – on my first day, as I made my way to the nearby riverfront – just two blocks away, you can see it from the intersection – to take a leisurely walk, they stopped me and warned me not to do it. “It’s a red-light district –very dangerous,” one of them told me, and several others have echoed his words since, so I haven’t attempted it. Yet.

Instead, I cross the street to Plaza Uruguay, a shady refuge among the busy streets. Green patches amid the dusty red soil are crisscrossed with pathways and benches and graceful white statues of Greek women, where people sit conversing, watching the birds, reading a newspaper or book, perhaps from one of several bookstores on the plaza, and above all, drinking their mate – or, now that the days have grown warmer, the cold-water version, tereré. Ornately leatherworked thermoses are giving way to plastic pitchers, which can be rented from yerberia stands that also sell “yuyo,” homegrown mixtures of herbs for every ailment that are mashed in mortars and added to the mate to bring a variety of health benefits.

Today the plaza is more exciting than usual because it’s the day of a folklore festival in nearby Plaza Democracia, and bevies of bright-skirted girls are practicing their steps and posing for photos. They look as if they’ve just stepped out of the last century with their ruffles and hairpieces and elaborate embroideries. I stop to shoot a few and watch as they preen and pose, as proud mothers touch up hair and makeup and proud fathers record the event for posterity.

Crossing the plaza I continue on along Mariscal Estigarribia, one of the city’s most interesting streets, with its curlicued and collonaded examples of 18th-century architecture; past the Café Literario and the Fine Arts Museum, a block that’s prettily paved and painted in pastel colors and planted with luxurious palm trees. I’ve become accustomed to the odd juxtaposition of a lingerie store, its plastic models provocatively posed in pink lace and black leather and French maid costumes, and the Fine Arts Museum, here on what is apparently one of the most manicured intersections in the city. Further down is are the shops selling Paraguayan artisanry, a collection of life-sized carvings of indigenous people with features so exaggerated and comical it makes me doubt they were produced by any real indigenous people.

On to the huge four-part plaza that makes up the heart of the city, each part with a different personality: the old-fashioned and carefully manicured Plaza O’Leary; Plaza de los Heroes with its spectacular neoclassical Panteon de los Heroes and its flute-playing Ecuadorean artisans; the postmodern Plaza de la Democracia with its multiple levels and underground shops, and Plaza Libertad, where vendors sell traditional Paraguayan crafts and “hippie” ware, such as big beads and tattoos and piercings. I stop occasionally to buy a hamburger from one of the street vendors (I’m not a big meat eater, but I confess to having developed a taste during the Forum of the Americas for the Paraguayan version, grilled before your eyes along with a fried egg, and served with melted cheese and fresh lettuce and tomato – all for a dollar. Take that, McDonald’s).

Today I wander through and talk with some of the artisans; my favorite is Julio DiFrani, a sculptor who, together with his wife Gladis, portrays the country’s indigenous heritages with beauty and dignity.

And special for the occasion are the red-earth sculptures of Oscar Arena, who will be continuing to shape these creations from the red Paraguagan soil here on Plaza Democracia all week.

One more block, where I stop to read the headlines – at the top of the news, ABC Color, with its constant campaign against President Lugo’s progressive government, is for the third day decrying the Environmental Ministry’s attempts to ban transgenic crops. I recall the heartfelt plea of the campesina leader Maggie Balbuena, addressing President Lugo at the closing session of the Social Forum of the Americas, to ban transgenics, a request that will be an uphill battle here in Paraguay, the world’s fourth largest soy producer, where vast tracts are deforested and campesinos displaced every year to make way for Cargill and other giant US-based transnationals.

La Ultima Hora, the other leading newspaper, tends to favor the president and has spent the week following up on an investigation of the president of the Congress, a highly powerful leader of the conservative Colorado Party which was linked with the dictatorship. The congressional leader, it seems, has large holdings of property that he has not been paying taxes on for some 12 years, and upon being discovered, negotiated a deal in which he could pay back just 5 years’ worth.

Now at the ultramodern Lugano’s, where the waitresses have begun greeting me with the warmth of an old friend, it’s easy to forget I’m in a developing country. But I’m working away and suddenly I look out the window through the parked cars to see a horse and wagon parked there among the rest of the traffic, and I smile and grab my camera.

The waitresses watch me play tourist, amused, but it’s ok. It’s just this sort of crazy contrast that makes my life on the road one I wouldn’t trade for anyone’s.

Here are a few scenes from my first days in Asunción:

Created with Admarket’s flickrSLiDR.

Less than an hour inland from Paracas is the city of Ica, where a huge sand dune looms behind the highrises. Friends with more money than I possess recommended Las Dunas, an all-inclusive resort, but I chose to stay near the city center at La Posada del Sol, which was clean and friendly and close to the internet cafes.

Partly I decided to stay in Ica because I needed to spend a solid day at work on an assignment due that night, and I needed a solid internet connection. But partly it was because of a kind offer by Raul Pino of Pino Tours, the city’s first tour operator and a student of Maria Reiche, the amazing German mathematician who brought fame to the region with her lifelong study of the Nazca Lines.

I had met Raul’s son, also named Raul Pino, at Hotel Paracas, where he worked. When he learned that I planned to make a stop in Ica, he called his father and asked him to give me the royal treatment – and he did.
So I spent Monday with this gracious and encyclopedic gentleman, seeing the best of what Ica had to offer.

We began at the Museo Regional de Ica, a gem of a museum that’s worth a stop in Ica by itself. Here Raul walked me through the ancient history of the region, beginning with the Paracas in about 400 BC. The Paracas were known for their beautifully colored and patterned textiles, some of them painted in elaborate designs, like one with purple-red hands, and others creating deshilado patterns with carefully removed threads. Others were elaborately embroidered, like the huge tapestry of a double-headed snake. This one, unfortunately, was stolen from the museum in a robbery several years ago, along with several other spectacular tapestries, but a huge photograph of the tapestry is on display under glass, where I imagine the original piece once lay.

These long tapestries, some of which took years to decorate, were used to wrap the mummified bodies of the dead, who were first placed in fetal position and set into a basket. Layers and layers of the beautiful cloths protected the dead on their journey to the afterlife, and they were buried with everything they would need for that journey: beautifully painted clay bowls filled with food, figurines, kitchen implements for the women and weapons for the men.

An extensive collection of mummies is shocking to see – a woman who died during pregnancy is on display as she was buried, with her mummified baby carefully wrapped and placed back into the abdominal cavity. Another display of mummified heads shows the various coiffures used by the Paracas, Nazca and Inca people, including one in which the tresses extended perhaps six feet. Another included a mummified parrot who accompanied its master to the grave. Still another, which included a rehydrated mummified hand, was dedicated to the research of prehistoric diseases.

Raul told me the story of Daniel Alcides Carrion, a doctor in the 1800s who was trying to find a cure for the dreaded verruga peruana, the Peruvian wart, and injected himself with cells from this rehydrated, diseased hand. He found a cure, but died of the disease – and is considered to this day to be a martyr of Peruvian medicine.

So many wonders to peruse in this museum, and with Raul at my side, each one had a story. But it was time to move on, and the next stop was of an entirely different nature: enotourism, involving the Peruvian art of pisco-making.

El Catador, an artisanal pisco brewery, is one of several in the region that has retained the traditional methods of brewing this fine Peruvian brandy and offers tours, tastings and a restaurant featuring traditional food and music from the region.

Here I learned the difference between aromatic and non-aromatic pisco, and a mixture of the two, called “cholo” after the Peruvian word for mestizo, the blend of Spanish and indigenous blood; I tasted Perfect Love, a sweet wine that for all its delicacy seems worthy of the name; and sampled a delicious concoction comprised of pisco, cream and essence of fig called simply crema de pisco.

Back in the production area, another charming and knowledgeable guide, Jhoel, walked me through every stage of the pisco-making process, explaining the origins of this classically Peruvian drink. The sweet scent in the air came from the dry grape seeds and husks that crunched under our feet; nothing is wasted here, even the waste products or their aroma, Jhoel pointed out. “This place is a dream come true for the drunks from Ica,” he laughed, taking a deep whiff.

Back in the days of slavery here in Peru, Jhoel explained, the slaves would turn the marathon grape-smashing sessions into parties, drinking chinguerito and playing their African instruments like the cajon, a box-like drum. They would work at night, to avoid the bees that would be drawn by day to the sweet and sticky scent. The traditional process is celebrated to this day in the annual Vendimia festival on the city fairgrounds.

After hours of stomping, the juice flows into the next chamber, where it is strained and placed in elongated clay containers – called piscos – and left in the sun for two weeks. In the old days, the containers were buried in the sand; these days there are wooden stands to hold them in place.

The next stage involves pouring the fermented juice into the underground distillery, where wood-stoked fires heat it to boiling. The steam passes through a copper tube that runs through a pool of cold water, causing condensation, which is captured and separated according to grade: the cabeza, or head, which is toxic and can cause blindness – this is used for sterilizing; the cuerpo, or body, which will be bottled and sold as pure pisco; and the cola, or tail, which contains the residues.

After the tour I dined with Raul on a delicious salad of palta, Peruvian avocado, asparagus and pallares, delicious lemon-marinated lima beans. He shared a few stories of his friendship with the amazing Maria Reiche, who was called “the crazy gringa” during her younger years because she was always seen walking along the Nazca lines.
Later, of course, when her discoveries were published and drew the world to Nazca, she became a local hero.

After lunch we headed for Huacachina, an oasis amid the mountainous dunes. In the 1800s a luxurious health spa was built here, where the wealthy would come and partake of the healing properties of the lake’s sulfurous waters. Today the place is a decadent shadow of its former glory, a party spot for dreadlocked backpackers, drummers and fire-jugglers who come to sandboard, soak up the sun and ride the dunebuggies in an adrenaline-producing roller coaster ride.

I was appalled at the quantities of trash that tourists have strewn across the dunes and I gathered up a large bag of it to deliver to the owner of the tour company that rented out my buggy, along with a few suggestions for engaging people in a cleanup campaign. He laughed good-naturedly at my efforts and informed me that he’d tried, in the past, to no avail.

The real problem, he said, was the local government. “I pay a lot of tax money to those people over at the mayor’s office, and what do they do with it?” he wanted to know. “They should be doing something about this!”

So much for environmental leadership in Huacachina, I sighed. Still, there was no point in dwelling on it. A party was going on all over the oasis, and I gathered my things and went out to get some dinner and join in the fun.

Here are some images from my time in Ica and Huacachina. Warning: the mummies are not for the squeamish.

Created with Admarket’s flickrSLiDR.

PARACAS, Peru – The pungent scent of the sea washes over the landscape like the rhythmic waves, and I contemplate the pleasure of lingering here in the peaceful beauty of the Paracas Hotel and enjoying a sumptuous breakfast buffet. But I’m scheduled for the first boat to the Ballestas Isles, and the penguins await.
I gather sweater and sunglasses and hat and head for the pier, where 22 people are buckling up with lifejackets and taking their seat aboard our skiff.

As if to see us off, a line of four Peruvian pelicans sails by just over the sparkling surface of the water in search of prey.

I sat next to Jose, one of the pilots from Tikariy Tours, and asked him what we were likely to see. We had been told from the start that, because it’s wintertime here in Peru, we won’t see the spectacle of the masses of breeding sea lions, as they’ve migrated for the season to an island that’s off-limits for conservation reasons. Our guide, Ana de la Cruz, is busy with a family in the back, so I ask Juan what we’re likely to see in the off season.

He pulls out a handy birding guide and begins to point out the highlights: the Inca tern, with its bright red feet and winsome white facial decorations; the endangered Humboldt penguin, at just over 2 feet tall when full-grown; three different types of cormorants and two types of oystercatchers; and the Peruvian booby, whose more famous blue-footed relative can be seen here in the summer months, but not today.

Our boat speeds past the silky golden dunes of Paracas National Reserve toward the islands, slamming periodically against the water in such a way I’m glad I held off on the buffet. Suddenly it slows down and as I look landward, I see an amazing sight: a 700-foot image resembling a candelabra etched into the side of the dune.

Ana tells us there are many theories as to the origins of this mysterious geoglyph, but nobody really knows. Some believe it to be the work of the Paracas people who originally inhabited this region and used it as a navigational device. Others think represents the sacred cactus of the Nazcas, whose mysterious Nazca Lines lie in a direct line south. Still others believe it’s the more recent creation of the José de San Martin expedition. San Martin is considered the liberator of Peru and passed by here the year before the war for independence from Spain. Proponents of this theory like to point to the triangular figure incorporated in the design and say it’s a Masonic symbol, since San Martin was a follower of the Freemasons.

Whatever its origins, the fact that the geoglyph has withstood the centuries is in itself a story worth telling. Its position on the side of the dune mostly protects it from the fierce winds, or paracas, that sweep this region. Even the occasional winds that reach it only reinforce the lines by blowing more sand up onto their calcified surface, Ana explains. Its resilience was dramatically illustrated a few years ago when a pair of young vandals decided to slide down the hills and left tracks in the ancient design. The wind eventually removed most traces of their tracks and restored the design.

Our boat once again heads southward and soon the ruggedly picturesque form of the first island emerges into view. The rocks have been worn away by centuries of the battering waves to create arches and bridges and fantastical shapes. Soon an amazing sight greets our eyes – those crags are alive with the squawking, restless forms of birds. We begin to make out their forms and Jose points them out to me – “look, a neotropical cormorant! Those over there are Inca terns – see the eye marking?”

Finally the boat pulled into a small cove and silenced the engine. Here, in a little recess of jagged stone, were the stars of the show, descending from their nests: a family of Humboldt penguins, waddling winsomely down the slope to find some dinner.

Something about a penguin truly warms the heart, and these were no exception. Their numbers have taken a steep decline in recent years, however, as have to a lesser degree the marine life in general in the region. Part of the problem has been overfishing and water contamination from nearby fishmeal factories, visitors and residents. Also, the area has been buffeted by El Niño, a series of climate phenomena that raised the water temperature to unprecedented highs and decimated the fish that the birds count on to survive.

Nonetheless, the vast numbers continue to impress; the islands are literally bristling with their birdy forms. Today we were able to observe the languid forms of the wrinkle-faced Sothern sea lions basking on the warm sunny rocks, but in the summer months from December through March, they provide a much more lively spectacle as they gather by the thousands on the beaches here and raise their young.

The two-hour tour was over before we knew it, and it was time for that hearty buffet. I also got an unexpected tour of Paracas Hotel’s extensive collection of antiquities from the Paracas and Nazca sites, including two thousand-year-old textiles, beautifully painted pottery and a horrifyingly distorted trophy head, the actual head of a defeated warrior with eyes removed and lips sealed with cactus needles in the traditional way.

These heads were carried about on a warrior’s belt, perhaps to convey the vanquished foe’s enemy to his victor, explained Raul Pino, a hotel staffer who, as son of historian and guide Raul Pino of Pino Tours, is a fount of fascinating information about the ancient cultures of Peru. He showed me examples of Paracas pottery that depicted a trophy head in the hand of a warrior, gripped by the hair. Indeed, one of the images of the mysterious Nazca Lines includes an image that appears elsewhere in the pottery: a whale with one fin or hand gripping what appears to be a trophy head.

My two-day stay at the sparkling new Paracas Hotel was all too short; I toured the beautiful grounds and watched the windsurfers from the seaside bar; spent not nearly enough time in the beautiful spa with its sauna, heated pool and Jacuzzi and fully equipped gym, not to mention a full menu of delicious massage treatments.

I did, however, partake of the gourmet cuisine prepared by two chefs, one specializing in traditional criollo or native Peruvian cuisine, the other taking those traditional ingredients and giving them an avant garde twist. Creations like the traditional classic causa rellena, rendered in miniature and topped with octopus, shrimp and clam; asparagus veloute with whipped cream and crispy quinoa; and desserts like the three stages of grape, an elaborate confection containing fresh sliced grapes, a scoop of wine sorbet and a pisco-encrusted biscotti will not soon be forgotten.

Best of all, I didn’t feel guilty – because the Paracas Hotel, as part of the Libertador hotel group and the Starwood Luxury Collection, has been constructed with an eye toward conservation, utilizing local materials and low-impact construction methods, energy- and water-saving technology and built according to LEED certification standards. The effort has paid off in a hotel that feels as good as it looks, on an ethical level as well as a purely luxurious physical level. The Paracas Hotel, for me, deserves every star in the ranking.

Created with Admarket’s flickrSLiDR.

LIMA – One more entry about Lima, just because it deserves it.

This city has been called grey and dreary and at first glance one might understandably think so, given that the coastal fog that shrouds the city lifts so rarely. But that’s given Limeños the inspiration to play with light in ways that other, more sunny cities don’t, to sparkling effect.

Case in point, the Circuito Magico del Agua, the water park in Central Lima.

Sara invited us downtown to see the special light show for Fiestas Patrias – a spectacular display of light and water unlike anything I’ve ever seen – even if it hadn’t been for the over-the-top fireworks display. These light shows occur several times a year, so be sure to check the schedule when you’re in Lima. But even without the special performances, the park is a must-see stop on your Lima tour. An interactive circuit of 13 fountains weave together water, light and music for an unforgettable experience, especially at night.

At the opposite extreme in the city’s historic center are perfectly preserved colonial gems such as the Catedral San Antonio with its famous catacombs, where the remains of thousands of believers can still be seen, some of them arranged in surreally artistic geometric patterns. Photographs were forbidden inside the catacombs, but the cathedral’s bright yellow façade was picturesque indeed, basked as we were in a rare gift of sunshine.

Lima’s extreme dryness has allowed for the preservation of ornately carved wooden balconies dating to the early colonial period, giving the city a charming European feel. We wandered the pedestrian walkways of the central plaza area, where artisans were selling beautiful filigreed silver jewelry, pottery and basketry. And we ended the evening in nearby Chinatown, enjoying a dinner of chifa – Peruvian Chinese cuisine.

Created with Admarket’s flickrSLiDR.

Who knew that Lima’s fashionable Miraflores district was the site of an ancient ruin? Most Limeños, in fact, didn’t even know until relatively recently.

This was the version presented by Alejandro Olivo, our guide, whose grandfather farmed these lands and who used to play soccer here when he was a boy. As far as he knew, these were just hills, and what was once a city off 44 temples was leveled by the wealthy Marsano family in the 1980s to make way for what is now Miraflores. The government finally intervened to seize the land and opened a park and a small visitor’s center here in 1991, and subsequent archaeological investigations revealed a fascinating slice of Lima antiquity.

The brick pyramids stand out today against a backdrop of skyscrapers and city streets, a juxtaposition of ancient and modern that serves as an apt metaphor for Lima itself.

Today seven pyramids remain of the original 44, and most of the site has not been fully excavated. What has emerged is a picture of a ceremonial site of the Lima culture, dating from 200-700 AD, where ritual games were played – the name “Huaca Pucllana” means “sacred place to play.”

The remains of some 170 bodies have been discovered, with some important distinctions. About 60 were wrapped in burial cloths and placed on wooden beds, then buried with offerings. These were the royalty, Olivo explained. There were also the remains of 50 babies, who were apparently sacrificed as offerings, or to accompany the royalty to the land of the dead.

Most striking were the remains of 60 young women, who were apparently sacrificed as an offering to the gods. Their bodies were found mutilated and tossed in a corner.

Unlike Caral, Macchu Pichu and other stone-based cities, Huaca Pucllana was built of handmade bricks, and in the courtyard of the structure, two figures of men show the process. The figures also serve to show the stature of the people, who were tiny by modern standards; most were around four feet tall.

Similar to Caral, however, Huaca Pucllana employed sophisticated anti-seismic techniques. In the case of Caral, bags made of fibers were filled with rocks and the walls were built around these bags of rocks. Here in Huaca Pucllana, the builders employed an innovative structural device, leaving space between the bricks and slightly tilting them in alternating directions.

Perhaps the best way to enjoy Huaca Pucllana is to see it twice. The museum closes at 4:30 and the tour is around 45 minutes, so arrive in the daytime. But return at night for a meal at the lovely restaurant on-site, and to enjoy the pyramids lit up against the night sky. It’s an experience you won’t forget.

Created with Admarket’s flickrSLiDR.

I’d been reading about Caral, considered to be the oldest city in the Americas, in the fascinating book 1491, a new look at archaelogical discoveries in the New World by Charles Mann. So when Sarita suggested a day trip, I jumped at the chance.

Sara booked a tour, and after a few mishaps inevitable to group travel, we were on our way. The three-hour drive up the coast took us past dramatic wind-sculpted dunes, rickety hillside favelas and cement block towns. Most drifted off to sleep; the 5:30 a.m. wakeup call had come far too early (and, in the case of Jeff, it didn’t come at all, which is why we were half an hour late).

Sleepy passengers awoke to find our driver sitting silently on the side of the road. Finally he made a wide U-turn and headed back the way we’d come. After a while, he turned right onto a road that looked a bit more developed than a cattle trail and forged his way into the countryside. We held our breaths as he scraped his way across boulders and forded a small lake until he finally ground to a halt, the van impaled on a pile of bricks.

At this point we all got out and let him try to move forward, but the wheels spun helplessly in the sand, digging the van in more deeply with each try. It was clear this driver didn’t know what he was doing. We all set about trying to help, placing bricks under the wheels and pushing.

Finally a barefoot farmer appeared from the nearby shack made from woven palm leaves. He was incredulous at the sight of a van full of tourists.

“You’re looking for Caral? It’s 2 kilometers back that way; you’ll know you’re there, there’s a big sign.”

The passengers piled back into the van and making our precarious way back out to the highway and to the sign indicating we had arrived at the UNESCO-designated World Heritage Site.

The road wasn’t much bigger than the one we’d traversed, and the site was easy to miss. Unlike Macchu Pichu, where hordes of tourists descend every year, Caral is a relatively new destination and, indeed, a new archaelogical find. For years it was overlooked by archaeologists who didn’t place any importance on the series of hills along the Peruvian coast. It wasn’t until Peruvian archaeologist Ruth Shady Solis intuited the presence of something more, began a dig on the site and sent some of her findings to the States for carbon dating, that its true antiquity was revealed, and the world community began to take note.

Even with the mishaps, Caral was definitely worth the trouble. Built at around the same time as the Egyptian pyramids, the 150-acre site is just one of a complex of similar cities in the region that have forced archaeologists to rethink their estimates of the so-called New World. As the dig continues, “we may be forced to stop calling it the New World,” writes Mann, as it may well turn out the first civilizations developed here, and not in Mesopotamia as previously believed.

Our guide was a resident of the nearby town, trained as had been a number of locals in a community development initiative launched by Ruth Shady Solis, the pioneering archaeologist who had discovered this phenomenal site. The site has taken a leading role in lifting the neighboring community out of poverty, as she shared with us during a detailed tour of the ancient city.

One of the most interesting finds was a collection of flutes made from the bones of birds – proof that even from ancient times, Peruvians were musicians – and loved to celebrate!

We ended our tour in the nearby town of Huacho, where we celebrated a delicious lunch with papas huancaina, lomo saltado, passion fruit juice and, of course, Inka cola!

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LIMA, Peru – I landed in this misty Andean capital a week ago for the wedding of my dear friend and former student, Sara Fajardo. Eight years ago I had come here with her and spent a month divided between here in Lima and in Ayacucho, where we translated for a medical mission and then did interviews with local members of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission.

The omnipresent grey mist cast a watercolor wash over the city, dampening its vibrancy, but not for long. Peru’s particular essence began to come back to me as we drove along the coast between towering cliffs and crashing waves toward the sparkling enclave of Miraflores. The cliffs were carved by the ages but soon I saw something different: They had apparently been carved a good bit more recently by bulldozers. I was shocked at the absolute dearth of greenery as we entered the seaside drive – the cliffs on the left had been stripped of the lush vegetation I had remembered, and dust was everywhere. A huge seaside construction project was going on – President Alan Garcia’s new “Costa Verde” – a project that promises “a better Lima for all” when it’s finally finished – “but that will be for my grandchildren, not for me, at the rate they’re going,” said my gravel-voiced taxista, Oscar, with a chuckle.

“Why don’t they plant something to stabilize the hillsides?” I asked, dismayed, looking out at the tide of topsoil visible all down the coast and thinking of all the erosion protection measures available in the north. “They will – they’re not finished,” the taxi driver explained. “It doesn’t rain here, so everything has to be irrigated.”

This was something I’d forgotten about Lima – which is easy to do in other parts of the city, lush as it is with palm-lined corridors, parks and gardens. The Peruvian coast, I had read, is one of the driest places on earth, as it lies in a double rain shadow – the Andes block rain from the east, and a strong coastal air current blocks rain from the west, leaving the coast with less than 2 inches of rain a year, most of that from the grey fog that covers us now.

And indeed, as I read about the Costa Verde project, it does seem it will add a marvelous new dimension to an already marvelous city, with a landscaped public space along the seafront and 17 pedestrian bridges granting access to the beach.

In the meantime, however, my eyes were relieved to see the green cliffs of historic Barranco in the distance – some things, at least, hadn’t changed. And as we made our way up into Miraflores, signs of progress were everywhere; bulldozers were paving the way for a new cobblestone entry, new buildings were under construction and the city hummed with life. The comparison with El Salvador was inevitable; suddenly I felt myself to be in a developed country. Remembering, of course, that I was seeing the Manhattan of Peru – the crazily tilting wooden shacks, stacked like dominoes on the hillsides outside of town, were a quick reminder that Miraflores does not equal Peru.

One of the first things I noticed was the cold – much colder than I had remembered, with highs hovering around the low 60s and temperatures dipping into the 40s at night. It’s winter, so I expected a chill, but I arrived just in time for a cold wave, and my host, Angelo Gandullia (of Hostal Tradiciones, an unparalleled host, by the way, and a speaker of many languages who goes to great lengths to orient his guests, helping them enjoy the best of Lima and organize trips all over the country) tells me it’s the coldest spell they’ve had in three decades – “climate change,” he says, again that word that seems to be on everyone’s lips here in the global south. The summers have been hotter than usual, he tells me, with the glaciers that supply water to the cities drying up, a trend that worries him, given that it’s the city’s only source of water. To him, the freakish cold spell falls into the same category.

Regardless of the causes, it’s a definite climate change for me, coming as I have from the tropics, and it didn’t take long for my body to succumb. I fell ill with a fever and cough my first night, and it was as I tossed and turned and sweated that I remembered a similar night eight years ago in the highlands of Ayacucho, where I developed a case of pneumonia. Determined to avoid such a scenario and to enjoy the wedding, I headed off the next morning to visit with a pharmacist, who prescribed an antibiotic that knocked that gathering storm right out of my chest. (Angelo recommended InkaPharma for the best prices and quality).

Miraflores was even more spectacular than I’d remembered, with its cafes and boutiques and plazas and the sparkling Larcomar commercial center on the cliffs overlooking the sea. I soon made my way to the lively and colorful Indian Market to pick out an alpaca poncho, which I needed to winterize my wardrobe. We had dinner one night in the restaurant on the archaeological site of Huaca Pucllana, the pyramids an illuminated backdrop against the night sky, with the modernity of skyscrapers in the distance.

We ended the evening in beautiful historic Barranco, a neighborhood adjoining Miraflores, where the central plaza lights up at night to show off its colonial charm.

“I need you to kiss me on the Puente de Suspiros,” the bride advised the groom, and we made our way to the historic “Bridge of Sighs” that looks out over gardened plazas, lively cafes and bars and in the distance, the ocean. It may well be the most romantic spot in all of Latin America.

We shopped in a special artisan market set up for the fiestas patrias, enjoyed pisco sours and sweet humitas, a type of tamales that come in all flavors, for dessert.

Here are a few images from our outings in Miraflores, including a visit to the supermarket, where staff uniforms included the traditional poncho, and a nighttime view of the Huaca Pucllana ruins, where we had a memorable dinner at the elegant onsite restaurant.

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And here’s the lovely artsy, historic neighborhood of Barranco, with Sara and Ted sealing their fate on the classic Puente de Suspiros. The artisans pictured here crafted my neices’ and daughter’s birthday gifts. And the last set is an exhibition in Barranco’s Central Plaza of traditional masks from all the Peruvian countryside.

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SAN SALVADOR – I have great hopes for this little country on the Pacific Coast, this country of volcanic landscapes and volatile history – a country whose name means The Savior. I am curious to learn what the crucible of revolution may have wrought on the human spirit here. Much has been written of the Maras, the gangs with roots in the paramilitary death squads and in the barrios of Los Angeles and Houston and New York, and their ruthless exploits throughout the country – for the record, I haven’t seen any yet.

Far less has been written of the revolutionaries who turned their passion for justice into grassroots movements for change.

El Salvador left a deep imprint on my young consciousness in the 1980s. The assassination of Archbishop Oscar Romero, the rape and murder of four American Catholic churchwomen, and the bloody massacre of four Jesuit priests at the University of Central America shocked me into learning more about my government’s key role in these horrors and many more.

So part of my journey through a now peaceful El Salvador will be the volcanoes, the beaches, the cloud forests and the charming colonial towns. But part of it will be to trace the route of U.S. financed terror through this heartbreakingly beautiful landscape, and to find the places where the phoenix has risen from the ashes to create beauty of a human sort.

This part of my journey began at the National Cathedral, where hundreds of thousands gathered 30 years ago to lay to rest a martyr: Archbishop Oscar Romero, advocate of the poor, who was shot down as he raised the chalice in a Mass. The funeral ended in a massacre as riflemen fired on the crowd from the rooftops; an estimated 44 died in the chaos. In March, the thirtieth anniversary of the assassination, the newly elected president – Mauricio Funes, a leader of the former guerilla group FMLN – addressed hundreds of thousands of cheering Salvadorans, acknowledging for the first time the former government’s role in the horrors and saying, “Never again.”

Today’s National Cathedral, with its soaring churriguresque dome and its brightly tiled façade depicting campesino life, is an oasis of calm amid the hubbub of the historic center; crowds mill about in the neighboring plaza and the nearby open-air market that seems to stretch for miles. The distant history of war is as remote and yet as present as Monseñor Romero’s austere tomb below our feet.

The second stop on this journey is a half-hour’s bus ride from the center of San Salvador on the leafy, peaceful campus of the University of Central America. Students and teachers walk the lushly landscaped paths and visit under the palms, and a few make their way to the Oscar Romero Center to pay their respects to the Jesuit priests who were wakened from their sleep here 21 years ago to face the guns of assassins, along with their housekeeper and her daughter.

A group of visitors left in silence as I entered the small museum. The images will stay with me always: A Bible with the tracks of a bullet ripping through its pages; the blood-soaked, bullet-ridden clothing of the six priests; personal items from their lives there at the University. Photographs of the four U.S. churchwomen raped and murdered on Dec. 2, 1980 by members of the Salvadoran National Guard, together with their books and clothing – some stained with the women’s blood.

A photograph of Jesuit priest Ignacio Martín Baró stays with me, as well, playing his guitar and smiling. Among his items are the handwritten words and chords of “Si se calla el cantor,” “If the singer is silenced” – made famous by the legendary Argentine singer Mercedes Sosa.

“If the singer is silenced, life is silenced/Because life, life itself is a song/If the singer is silenced, Hope, light and joy die from fear.”

I stepped out into the light, into the garden planted in their honor, not far from where the priests fell and bled – a quiet place where a hundred roses bloomed and swayed in the breeze. Outside, students laughed and talked and planned for the future.

A light tune filters in on the breeze. A young man sits in the shade and plays his guitar.

Here in El Salvador, I am touched to know, the singer has not been silenced.

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COATEPEQUE LAKE, El Salvador – The palms are swaying restlessly in the electric darkness, waiting for the storm to arrive. Lightning flashes over Santa Ana Volcano on the far side of the lake; just a few minutes ago I was walking along the shore with Elmer, catching the last bits of sunset over the lake.

He sensed the storm coming before I did. “Ya viene el agua,” he said. Literally, “Now the water is coming.” The timing couldn’t have been more perfect; rainy season notwithstanding, El Salvador gifted me with a blue sky my first full day in the country, perfect for visiting the pyramids of Tazumal and Casa Blanca, then catching a bus to this sparkling expanse of blue amid the volcanoes.

Yesterday, my first afternoon, the shower passed quickly to a glorious sunset over the gothic cathedral in Santa Ana’s central plaza, and I enjoyed the national symphony in Santa Ana’s spectacular theater before a short walk back to my hotel, La Libertad.

I left Guatemala City around 10 a.m. yesterday and arrived in Santa Ana, El Salvador’s second city, at around 2. The terminal was in the southwest part of the city and as I tried to get my bearings, a genial Salvadoran Archie Bunker type approached. “Taxi?”

It was hot and my pack was heavy. “Sure,” I said.

“Just a minute,” he rushed off and shortly pulled up with a yellow car, meticulously hand-painted with the word “Taxi” in black and red. The inside was just as quirky, with every square inch of the dashboard decorated with something – a Tasmanian devil, a leopard-skin cloth and coins from around the world.

Ismael was his name, and he was friendly and engaging, but not cheap. Our roundabout search for a hotel set me back $15. Getting used to the dollar again wasn’t going to be easy, I realized.

Ismael offered to take me to Lake Coatepeque for $75 – which he insisted was the going rate. Later I checked with another driver and it seemed to be true. So I decided to stick with public transport, and for less than a dollar, the ruins of Chalchuapa and this spectacular crater lake were mine.

Granted, the accommodations weren’t the most luxe – the hikes to the bus stops and the waits with my 40-pound pack being the biggest deterrent – but they weren’t nearly as bad as I’d feared. The routes were long and winding, but there were no chickens this time, and the buses here were not as cram-packed with humanity as the ones in Guatemala had been. In fact, after the Guatemalan chicken buses, they were downright comfortable.
The food service was excellent, with locals coming aboard to vend everything from fresh fruit to “yuquitas” – corn-wrapped yucca balls. And the stern-looking young man driving the bus down into Coatepeque, the same one that had wired his bus for maximum sound and was blasting Central American rap music when I boarded, surprised me by switching to a gentler tune as we approached the lake and stopping the bus every time I stood to shoot a photo.

At first I thought it was just because of the tumulos, the monstrous tubes of concrete that are used as speed bumps here. But after the fourth or fifth time, I glanced up into the rearview mirror and saw him looking at me. This serious young man was proud of his beautiful country, I realized, and he wanted me to capture it well.
The bus was full when I boarded, and most eyes were averted to avoid having to deal with me and my monster backpack. A young man with a friendly face smiled at me, and that was all I needed. “Here, let me help,” he said, and held my pack on his lap.

Manuel was his name, and he was 26. He was trying to figure out how to get back home to Honduras after being deported from Mexico. He’d been trying to make his way north, but his luck had been bad. He’d nearly drowned crossing the Rio Grande, and had been deported from Las Vegas and San Antonio. Now he had been deported to the border of El Salvador, penniless, a five-day walk from the Honduras border. His pantomime of the terrifying river crossing was comical, and he smiled through most of his story, as if he were talking about a movie with a happy ending.

Why didn’t he just stay home? I asked him.

“What will I do there? There are no jobs,” he said, and smiled his charming, little boy smile. He hadn’t eaten since yesterday, I discovered, so I fished out my emergency stash of nuts from my backpack and handed them over. I paid his bus fare and found a $10 bill I could spare, and tucked it in his hand before he left.

The driver dropped me off right in front of Torre Molinos, the hotel I’d read about in the guidebook, and I was overjoyed at the prospect of a few hours of relaxation with a swimming pool and a lakeside view. The hotel has a decadent charm, and after a long run of backpacker-style hotels at $12 a night, I decided it was ok to splurge.

I ordered mojarra a la plancha, grilled tilapia, and was savoring the meal along with the sunset out on the balcony overlooking the lake, when Elmer, one of the employees, dropped by to make conversation.
America is the land of opportunity, he told me – that’s why an estimated 4 million Salvadorans live there, more than half the 7 million who live here. There’s just no opportunity here, he said.

“But you have a good job here at Torre Molina, no?” I asked, naively.

Elmer laughed and shook his head. “Six dollars a day,” he said. “For that I can rent a room. I can’t have a house. I can’t get married or have kids. Why would I want to bring children into the world when I can’t support them? Why would I want to marry a woman and make her miserable?”

“Oh, that’s so sad, Elmer,” I said.

“Oh, but it’s not so bad. Here at least I meet interesting people – and in the restaurant, they give me food,” he said.

“Oh! That’s good…. Like, mojarra?”

“No,” he smiled. “Never! Like, tortillas and beans.”

I looked down at my flaky white tilapia, my salad with slices of avocado and lime, my hand-made tortillas and fresh pineapple licuado. It had been a splurge at $12 – two days’ salary for Elmer.

“That’s why we keep coming to your country, no matter how many times you throw us out,” he was telling me, laughing. “I’m one of the lucky ones – at least I have a job. Those who work at the fincas have it much worse; they earn $50 every 15 days.”

The sunset was vanishing rapidly, as was my appetite. Fortunately, I had enjoyed most of my meal before Elmer arrived.

“Speaking of work, I have to do mine,” I said, changing the subject. “Where can I get the best photos of the sunset?”

So Elmer shifted into tour guide mode, showing me the path along the lake, the national flower – izote – and the presidential quinta. The shore of the lake was lighting up now that the sun was gone, and Elmer explained to me that most of the lights belonged to quintas, or private vacation homes of the wealthy. Lake Coatepeque, unlike Lake Atitlan in Guatemala, is mainly the preserve of the rich. Which, in this context, I am, despite my meager earnings as a freelance writer.

Elmer promised to wake at 5:30 to shoot the sunrise with me, and he says goodnight. Relieved, I order a coffee and a sorbet. Another $1.80. The coffee is Nescafe, but the sorbet is exquisite. The rain patters satisfyingly around me, an occasional bolt lighting up the volcano beyond this quinta’s arched window. I sigh.
It would all be so much more enjoyable, I think, if the world were just a bit more fair.

Photos from Santa Ana, El Salvador’s second-largest city and the capital of the department of Santa Ana:

Created with Admarket’s flickrSLiDR.

From Tazumal, Casa Blanca and the town where they are found, Chalchuapa:

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From the spectacular Lago Coatepeque and Parque Nacional Los Volcanes, including a climb of Cerro Verde and then Volcan Santa Ana, with views of Volcan Izalco:

Created with Admarket’s flickrSLiDR.