MikeBeGood

Look inside The Machu Picchu Blues and get a glimpse at what's in store!

The view along the Pan American Highway in Ecuador, near Riobamba. Volcanoes lurk everywhere in Ecuador, but I was quick on my feet and none of them got to me. After assaults in Colombia by the people, the Pan American Highway, and budget hotel beds, we liked mellower Ecuador. Especially Banos, a town famous for waterfalls and hot springs. At the time, the hot springs were hippie-filled natural pools in the river, just yards away from a cooling waterfall. There we met Peruvian surfer Miguel, who connected us with future roomie Manolo in Lima. For fun, we hiked the mountains, swam in rivers, and battled enraged laundry ladies. Not so fun was a cocaine party hosted by depraved hippie Verman, a real dirtbag we'd last seen in Barranquilla. After leading us to a decrepit hotel, almost getting us killed, and offering spurious travel advice, he'd cruised to the dump to catch a buzz on toxic fumes. Months later, when his shrunken head appeared in my luggage during a Customs inspection, I had some explaining to do.

After surviving Colombia, Ecuador, and almost two months on the deadly Pan American Highway, we reached Peru. Home of fantastic waves, fantastic mountains...and the Atacama Desert. Instead of exciting hairpin corners and exhilarating plunges, this is the less-than-fantastic view we had for the next 700 miles until Lima appeared. The tricky Highway, frustrated after failing to kill us, had changed strategies. Now, instead of stopping our hearts, throwing us off a cliff, or crushing us with a landslide, it wanted to bore us to death. Because there was so much to see and do through that stretch, we rode non-stop to Lima...except when our bus driver fell asleep and drove into the sand. Somewhere to the right hid the coast and non-stop waves of Chicama, reputed as the world's longest lefts and a must-see for surfers.

We ended up living in a Lima suburb called Barranco with Miguel's pal Manolo, another Peruvian surfer with an in to all-things-cool in Lima. Our house, complete with a dog named Gargoyle on the roof, was somewhere on that bluff overlooking Lima's beaches. One was named Waikiki, another Malibu, but ours was called Playa de los Pavos (the Beach of the Turkeys). When I wondered why, Buddy suggested, "In your honor?" Our backyard was a park. The place reminded me of Santa Monica. Long journey over, we surfed daily, partied nightly, and got our little export business under way. Novice smugglers who'd brought pot from Colombia in sleeping bags, we had no idea what to do. So we invented the Stealth Widget, a delivery device made of nosuchthingium and undetectable by x-rays, radar, or anything else. With our vacation paying for itself, it was time to explore Peru.

We started our explorations at legendary surf spot Chicama in Northern Peru. Now famous, in the winter of 1972, like many places we went, we had them all to ourselves. The break continued almost non-stop for the next 4 kilometers. Extraordinary. As were the non-stop thirty-mile an hour winds while we were there. When I fell off my board the playful gales blew it towards the Galapagos at near-light speed. As I chased it up the coast, caught in the current and pushed by winds, I swam like Tarzan, dodging slower sharks, zooming past local fishermen, and wishing I'd invented a surf leash. 

Another trip took us into the arid western Andes and the city of Huancayo. We went by train and wished we hadn't. Here's a shot of Little Hell Bridge and our train entering yet another tunnel. Looks kind of scary, but this was the safest part of the journey. Other bridges featured teetering rides over deep ravines and certain death should an accident occur. And man, were we relieved when only the rear cars disappeared. At the time, the route held the record for the world's highest railroad, topping out at almost 16,000 feet. Living in those barren cold mountains were weary miners chewing coca leaves, guzzling grain alcohol, and looking depressed. After dropping off a few passengers who'd succumbed from heart attacks and oxygen deprivation during the fun ascent, we headed onward.

Pictured here: revelers at the annual Fiesta del Sol in Cuzco, the ancient Inca capital and gateway to Machu Picchu. As you can see, they really know how to party. Also pictured, the walls of Sacsuhuayman, the enormous Inca fortress overlooking Cuzco. The view of approaching Conquistadors bent on rape and pillage must have been thrilling. The walls, though massive, failed to protect the Incas from the Conquistadors. Or even Buddy and me. While exploring the ruins on psychedelics, we had an incident involving a bothersome tour group from Kansas City and an alien spaceship. Amusing at the time, but it would lead to trouble with the Peruvian Board of Tourism and banishment from the Fiesta del Sol.

Here it is, amazing Machu Picchu at sunset. Back in the early 70's, except for a few hours while the tourist train was around, Buddy and I had the place to ourselves. Digging the 360 degree views from atop sister peak Huayna Picchu in the early morning, the ruins silent except for songbirds, we felt at peace. With no guest houses in nearby Aguas Calientes yet, we camped overnight in the little museum near the river. We spent a week exploring the ruins and nearby trails. As a side note, I stopped rogue German tourists from blowing the place up. As my reward, Board of Tourism narcs offered to arrest me...unless I could convince them why they shouldn't. I knew how to convince them, but with my cash hidden along with my contraband, the convincing became awkward.

When I failed to convince them, the Board of Tourism narcs escorted me on foot through the train tunnel back to the tiny village of Aguas Calientes. Not to soak in the hot springs but to visit its mini-jail. I told them, "You guys make lousy tour guides." Halfway through the tunnel we heard a loud whistle announcing imminent death. After a panicked run to safety I straddled the tracks, faced the train, and yelled, "Give me liberty or give me death." My pleas for a life free from shackles cracked my sadistic escorts up. Feeling sympathy for the pathetic hippie on the tracks, the engineer stomped on the gas. At the jail, deranged free-lance reporter Gerardo Riviera vowed to make me infamous. I told him he already had with that terrible Rolling Stone review of my concert near Santa Marta, Colombia.

After trading an Urubamba judge my camera for freedom, I got a chance to hike the Inca Trail. Here's a glimpse of the Trail and the Inca's ingenious use of rocks. Unlike the major roads in many Third World countries, the Inca Trail was paved. These guys were serious masons. In Machu Picchu, their homes (except for the roofs) still stood. Their elaborate terraces and stairways, built on landscape-prone forty-five degree slopes, are still in place hundreds of years later. Lucky for the Incas there must have been millions of square-shaped rocks hanging around like so many Leggo blocks. Otherwise, imagine the effort all that would've taken.

Like General MacArthur, I made a heroic return to reunite with my cash and stash in Machu Picchu. Unfortunately, I also reunited with the Board of Tourism narcs. Lucky me. Here's a shot of delusional General Pendejo, perverted head of the Peruvian Board of Tourism, during our negotiations at the Board's Cuzco headquarters. During a dementia break, General Pendejo attempted to convince me just how incredibly macho he was. I expressed doubt. To prove me wrong, he raped a sheep. After investigative reporter Gerardo Riviera's insanely creative five-part series about my 75-man mafia ring, the General had flown up from Lima to personally extort ten g's from the infamous in return for my promise to leave his country. "You should feel honored." 

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