In Ecuador this morning, in LA tonight,
That makes this my last foreign post on the site.
As I gather my things for flight 71,
I realize with shock that the end has begun.

While friends made dorms their second home,
I had a pack on my back and a ticket to roam.
Every few nights I was in a new place,
Every few months a familiar face.

My lifestyle changed as the trip proceeded,
I learned just how little I actually needed.
A guidebook or map will no longer do,
Being back home will take getting used to.

Back to English and home-cooked meals,
Back to my bed and my own set of wheels.
Back to pressure in my shower,
Back to days of the week, the date, the hour.
Back to water from the tap,
Back to Dasher in my lap.
Back to a drinking age over eighteen,
Back to the movies I haven’t seen.
Back to stoplights where people stop,
Back to the dentist and barbershop.
Back to dryers and back to drawers,
Those are the Backtos, now for the Nomores:
No more bargaining on the street,
No more mosquito bites on my feet.
No more TP in a bin,
No more adaptors that won’t fit in.
No more rides on crowded buses,
No more internet or phone card fusses.
No more bootleg DVDs,
No more markets of oddities.
No more fear of being mugged,
No more baggage to be lugged.
No more peeing where you please,
No more entry and exit fees.

After 280 days of being away,
There’s a challenge in going back to LA.
A life is waiting that was put on hold,
But who I am now won’t fit into that mold.
A change occurs during this kind of trip,
A result of travel one cannot skip.
I may not remember which town, which kid,
Which moments had impact, I just know they did.

I’ve tried to be diligent with the site,
And record my stories every night.
My journal never left my side,
My camera ‘round my wrist was tied.
But understand nevertheless
Those impossibles to express:
The hands I shook, the eyes I met,
The thousands of memories I’ll never forget.

My favorite place? Q number one.
It’s already been asked a ton.
The truth is it’s too hard to say,
Favorite – favorite in what way?
I say a name to satisfy,
Though it pains me so to simplify.
The countries big, the countries small –
The answer is I loved them all.

It’s nearing noon as I post this rhyme,
Miss my flight – now’s not the time.
I can’t decide just how I feel,
My life right now is so surreal:
The final stamp in my passport,
The In ’n’ Out by the airport.
Most of you I soon will see,
Thanks for sharing this year with me.

The Equator passes through a handful of countries, but no others that have it as their namesake. It just seems more special to see the “Ecuador” in Ecuador, and it’s clear that they feel the same here. Buses with “La Mitad del Mundo” – The Middle of the World – written all over drive the route back and forth from Quito all day. Although the orange line is no more than four inches wide, a small city has grown around it. The most prominent structure is a monument with a globe on top. From the lookout, we saw compass markers on the ground below. I faced the big “N” and did my best E.T. impression.

It was a total tourist excursion, but one of the better ones. Julie and I agreed we’d never had so much fun with a sign and a line before. While most people snapped their shot and left, we stayed to come up with as many straddling both hemispheres positions as we could think of. I ran serpentine down the line, announcing: “North….South…North…South…” There was added significance when Julie and I realized we met at the tip of Argentina – a point they call the end of the world, and have traveled together all the way to the middle.

We quit being beach bums and worked our way up to Quito. Now we’re just regular bums. It just so happens that Chad, one of my guides on a Rustic trip to Costa Rica three years ago, is living here. He and his girlfriend Mary are teaching English. They couldn’t have been more welcoming to two weary travelers. We once again have had the privilege of making ourselves at home. The morning after we arrived, we realized what gorgeous views of the city they have.

Mary had mentioned a place near “Mitad del Mundo” where they do wacky experiments, like balancing an egg on a nail exactly over the Equator, and demonstrating how water spins in opposite directions on each side and doesn’t spin at all when right above it. Julie and I must have checked out every building in the small city except for that one. Supposedly, the orange line we obsessed over isn’t even the actual Equator. It was the second time they made that mistake, but too late now. The real deal is in the spot with the spinning water. We were bummed we missed the cool tricks, but Chad gave me hope when he pointed out I’ll be flying over the Equator tomorrow; I’ll just need to time a perfect zero degree flush.

Montañita is the classic hippy hangout. The streets are lined with dreadlocked, “Castaway” bearded guys who weave jewelry, glue shells, or spank a bongo drum. A blend of incense and pot fills the nose; the marijuana leaf is the resident emblem. Bob Marley, the King of Reggae, plays in every bar, loudest during 2 for 1 happy hour. The hostels are all of rickety bamboo and dried palm leaves, with names like “The Funky Munky” and “Tiki Limbo.” Backpackers – who got sucked in by the tropical vibe and see no reason to leave – adorn the colorful hammocks. Extremely tanned locals with Polynesian tattoos and board shorts sagging below their cracks compete for the single blonde.

Julie and I were ready to relax on a quiet shore, not rebel against shoes and shampoo, and enter an indulgent cycle of partying and hangover-recovering. We moved on to Canoa, a spot highly recommended to us. We didn’t have a guidebook, so we didn’t know what we were getting ourselves into. If we left in the morning, we figured, we would be lounging on the sand of Canoa around lunch. As we lugged our bags from bus to bus, we were hoping to make it that same day. Vehicles intended for twenty people were stuffed with three times that. I found myself with a dog on my lap one minute, a breastfeeding baby the next. While Julie and I leaned out the window, we exchanged “This better be worth it.” looks.

It wasn’t until we stepped out of our beachside bungalow this morning that we could see it was indeed worth it. Canoa is a lot of beach with a touch of town, the tranquil opposite of Montañita. There are more stray dogs than tourists. Our hostel has pool and ping pong. If we had time to get sucked in, we would.

Exactly nine months ago, I left on this incredible adventure. The longest I’d ever been away was five weeks. My hair was trimmed short, and my backpack was bulging with clothes I later sent back. A return date was yet to be decided. Friends thought I was insane when I recited the list of twenty-two countries, especially since I wasn’t sure what I’d be doing in each. I didn’t even know most of the people I’d be traveling with. To be honest, it didn’t seem real to me at that point either.

Day by day, country by country, this trip has unfolded and exceeded all my expectations. It was often when I was back in Bangkok for a few days – to do laundry, sew a patch on, upload photos, organize my things – that I realized I was living my dream.

It was also during those stops in Bangkok that I realized how fortunate I am. Or how spoiled, depending on what mood I was in. I’ve been experiencing once in a lifetime opportunities back-to-back, visiting more places than many will in their entire lives. I’ve always been appreciative, but I’ve felt extremely guilty at times as well. It is now the homestretch, and rather than jam pack the next four days, I’m going to reflect on the past nine months. My Dad once related my situation to someone pushing back from a groaning buffet table. In an email, he wrote:

“You have been dining very richly on your experiences and seem to be experiencing something of a natural reaction. A diet may be in order to work off some of the excess and help appreciate both the lush and the lean. And it’s worth noting for someone as hungry for experience as you are that you can’t possibly eat everything at the buffet at one sitting – and shouldn’t want to. At some point, every journey must end, so that another can someday begin. And the wise traveler needs time to recover, to ruminate, to sit with himself and reflect on all he’s seen and done.”

Last stop: Ecuador. Our bus eventually crossed the border, though it wasn’t easy squeezing past the trucks, tents, carts of onions, racks of shoes, and bustling peddlers that filled the two-lane road. In terms of distance, I’m the closest to home I’ve been all year – a fact I’m constantly reminded of by Ecuador’s national currency: the US dollar.

Julie and I know very little about this new country, and we considered it fate that we lost our guidebook. It’s about the size of Colorado, so we’re hoping the days of long bus rides are over. We’re about to leave Guayaquil, the largest city, and beach hop along the coast. Just for you, Mom, I’ll refrain from any bungee jumping, mine touring, white water rafting, white shark diving, skydiving, bike rides, train rides, bus rides, plane rides, questionable foods, drugs, and prostitutes. Happy Mother’s Day!

The flight from Quito to LA will be my next and last. For over a month, Julie and I have traveled overland from the north of Chile into Bolivia, through Bolivia and into Peru, and now across the entire length of Peru to the border of Ecuador.

In contrast to the make-ourselves-at-home time in Huaraz, we spent the last two nights on crowded buses, curled up in semi-reclined seats like fetuses. In theory, you fall asleep and wake up in your desired destination, but the lack of legroom, fresh oxygen, and courtesy of bathroom-goers makes satisfactory snoozing a farfetched feat.

We had planned a brief layover in Trujillo, a town put on the map for its Pre-Colombian civilizations. We had just spent ten hours on a bus, but another eleven-hour ride was still more appealing than a day in Trujillo. We searched desperately for an early departure, but there was nothing until late in the evening. With fourteen hours to kill, we did what any hopeless tourist would do – no, not see the adobe ruins, but watch “Mission Impossible 3” and try our luck in one of the many casinos. After the movie, I was inspired to launch my own mission: win back the money I had lost before the movie. Mission accomplished.

I spent my prize money – a grand total of about three dollars – on crackers and water, dinner for the next night bus. We arrived in Mancora, one of Peru’s best surf beaches, at the crack of dawn this morning. It took three tries to find an open hostel. It will take three showers to feel clean. My next mission: learn how to surf.

A look at Peru, from its ancient wonders to casinos, ceviche to guinea pig, coca tea to ubiquitous, bright yellow Inca Kola:

4/27 Crossed the border at Lake Titicaca
4/28 Explored “Sexy Woman” and other parts of Cuzco
4/29 Inca Trail meeting, prepared for the trek
4/30 – 5/3 Hiked the Inca Trail
5/4 Machu Picchu
5/5 Guinea pig experience
5/6 The Nazca Lines
5/7 Met up with Julie in Huaraz
5/8 Scrabble and mac ’n’ cheese
5/9 Dog guided us to alpine lake
5/10 Night bus to Trujillo
5/11 Casino and movie, night bus to Mancora
5/12 Day at the beach
5/13 Bus across the border to Guayaquil

While I detoured to see the Nazca Lines, Julie went straight from Cuzco to Huaraz. More than thirty hours on a bus later, I made it to Huaraz as well. I had planned on spreading the rides out with a night in Lima, but I was so disgusted by the capital city that I continued north.

Huaraz is considered the mountaineering capital of South America, boasting the world’s highest tropical mountains. The snowcapped peaks of the Cordillera Blanca are visible from just about anywhere. Huaraz had a colonial town as impressive as its mountains until an earthquake leveled it all in 1970, killing thousands of people in the area. The town was hastily put back together and therefore looks a bit shabby, but it managed to retain its charm.

Julie arrived the day that her friends Ted and Jen were preparing to return to the states. She had planned on just popping in to say “hello,” but they made time to copy their house keys and teach her all the tricks. It was a very pleasant surprise. When I arrived, Julie opened the gate and welcomed me in as if she’d been there for weeks. We have a kitchen to cook mac ’n’ cheese in, a living room to watch DVDs in, and our own rooms to settle in. Since the rainy season hasn’t yet surrendered, we don’t feel bad chilling in the house or playing Scrabble in a nearby café. Our only responsibility is to feed the chickens each morning.

It would’ve been ridiculous, however, to not take advantage of our picturesque backyard. Yesterday we hiked to a lake perfectly placed in a bowl between alpine mountains. It was the nicest day all month, locals told us. We didn’t intend to have a guide, but a dog ended up leading us the entire way. We never saw another tourist, never heard an unnatural sound. Julie bet me twenty bucks to jump in the glacier lake, but I couldn’t be bothered to get up from my rock.

When Ms. Tritica taught us about “Las Lineas de Nazca” in 10th grade Spanish class, I never thought I would see them in person. I still remember the photo in our textbook’s chapter on ancient South American ruins and mysteries. I believe “El Yeti” – the Abominable Snowman – was also in that section, so you can’t blame me for considering the Lines to be a fanciful topic as well.

For those who weren’t in my 10th grade Spanish class, or those who forgot everything after the quiz, the Nazca Lines are another of Peru’s archaeological treasures. In the middle of the desert, there are massive animals, perfect geometric shapes, and extensive lines spread out over miles and miles. They were etched out thousands of years ago, but were only recently discovered since they’re only distinguishable from way up high. The obvious question is then: how did the creators make such large-scale designs?

The night bus from Cuzco brought me to Nazca at five in the morning. That’s pretty much the worst time to be dropped off in a strange town, for nothing is open and it’s too dark to get any sort of bearings. The few other backpackers and I couldn’t have looked more vulnerable to the men with hostel pamphlets and pilot licenses. It was the classic fresh bait scenario that was once maddening, but is now just amusing. I joined two other guys for a free ride to a central hostel, but I had a bad feeling about it the minute we got there. While the convincing owner showed the guys to their rooms, I darted out and caught a taxi to the airport. I dropped my bags off at a hotel across the street, and grabbed one of three seats on the first flight out. I had just enough time to eat breakfast, though I regretted it as the tiny plane banked left and right over each animal.

As we soared from the whale to the monkey, from the spider to the hummingbird, from the tree to the enormous rectangles, I started thinking “why?” as much as “how?” Why did these people decide to turn their barren backyard into a canvas if they didn’t even have the technology to appreciate them the way I am? Some say they acted as ceremonial sites, others say an astronomic calendar, and a few even argue alien landing pads with a straight face. My theory is no less probable: the world’s biggest game of Pictionary.

I wasn’t just prepared to eat guinea pig on the Inca Trail, but actually looking forward to it – when in Rome, right? I was clearly disappointed when Adam, one of our assistant guides, told me it wasn’t on the menu, for he offered to take me to try it the day after the hike. Lucy, one of three awesome Aussie girls on the trek, joined me for the cultural culinary experience.

The three of us met in the main plaza around lunchtime yesterday. Lucy and I had thought Adam was taking us to a specific restaurant, but it was more like a neighborhood. As we rode in the taxi, he announced, “This is the pork area.” A few blocks later, he said, “Now this is for cuy.” Cuy is the Spanish word for guinea pig, and a “cuyeria” – you guessed it. That word was painted on literally every building, along with a drawing of the cuddly critters. Adam asked a local to recommend a restaurant, and the man pointed down an alley. He added, “All you need to say is: ‘I want cuy’.” Patches of fur on the ground told us we were heading in the right direction.

Adam made it clear to the lady at the restaurant that we wanted to learn about the process as much as we wanted a taste. She welcomed us into the kitchen, and put four roasted piggies aside to show us into a backroom full of live ones. It’s quite common to have a small room or section of the kitchen act as a pen. As we walked in, they frantically huddled in a corner and made high-pitched noises. The lady explained step by step…with visual aids:

1) Pick a fat fella and break its neck with your hands
2) Drop it in boiling water to remove most hairs
3) Cut open the mouth and stomach to stuff with herbs and such
4) Oven roast, smaller hairs get burnt
5) Garnish with spaghetti and potatoes

We returned to our table, regretting that we had requested a behind-the-scenes look. The lady brought our plates out, and we instantly noticed a black shape she hadn’t addressed before. The stomach lining, of course – “the best part.” That’s where Lucy and I drew the line.

It’s all about presentation. A chicken breast and beefsteak look appetizing, but there’s something about feet and teeth that just screams, “I WAS ALIVE!” Little black hairs further revealed the identity of our meal. Before digging in, Lucy asked the lady for a knife. She laughed, using her hands to show that no cutlery is needed; I followed her lead.

In the end, Lucy and I agreed that it tasted more or less like chicken, but repulsed us too much to be enjoyable. We were raised in societies where guinea pigs are household pets and classroom mascots, not main courses. Spot and Fluffy should be spinning in a wheel, not on a spit. We were glad we tried it, but went “Yuck! Yuck! Yuck!” all the way home.

It’s astounding that Machu Picchu was forgotten for hundreds of years. Incan inhabitants fled after word of Spanish invaders, abandoning their architectural masterpiece. After what many call genocide of the massive Inca population, the great citadel and knowledge of its existence became lost in time. A handful of natives knew about it, but they cherished it as a sacred part of their ancestry. Hiram Bingham, the American explorer who’s credited with its discovery, had to bribe a few men to guide him to it. Nowadays, it’d be hard to find someone who hasn’t heard of Machu Picchu. It’s the biggest draw card for Peru, if not for all of South America. It was at the top of my life list, as it is for many.

The Inca Trail refers to the 21-mile stretch from the Sacred Valley to Machu Picchu, though there are countless trails in Peru and its neighboring countries. The Incas created a spider web of paved paths to connect their expanding empire, with steep steps that wind around mountains and narrow passes through cloud forests. It is a testament to Incan construction that people today can trace their steps. The five-day hike along the Inca Trail makes the visit to Machu Picchu more like a pilgrimage than a vacation.

There were 16 people in our group, most of who came to South America for the trek alone. Believe it or not, we had 23 porters and 3 guides. It’d be hard to find luxury on the Inca Trail, but we were by no means roughing it. Our stuff was carried by porters, our tents were up when we arrived to camp, we were woken up each morning with hot coca tea (to help with the altitude), and the food was amazing. Our main guide Carlos joked we would gain weight, not lose it.

A bus took us to the starting point the first morning, where we were bombarded with bamboo walking sticks and wide-brimmed hats. There has been major concern that the influx of tourists is destroying the trail, so the checkpoint ensures that only 500 people enter per day, all of which must be accompanied by a guide. After a group photo with the Inca Trail sign, we started walking. For four days, we climbed up jagged peaks, maneuvered down slippery slopes, zigzagged across terraced fields, and wandered through various ruins. We were often at cloud level, where harsh landscapes suddenly disappeared into white mist.

The porters are remarkable. They raced past us carrying ten times the load, as we watched with amazement and fumbled a Quechua greeting. Each time we heard “porter!” and moved out of the way, we discussed how crazy those men are. It was impossible to imagine what their job is like, so Julie and I tried it out for half a day – an afternoon in the life of a Peruvian porter. It wasn’t hard to find two who were willing to swap their heavy bundles for our buoyant gringo packs. I exchanged my baseball hat for a colorful beanie (the team uniform), and I would’ve worn tire shoes if they had fit.

A real backpack would distribute the weight in a comfortable form, but the makeshift sacks the porters use concentrate the 50 or so pounds on the shoulders straps. Nevertheless, Julie and I were determined not just to survive the walk, but to make it to camp with the other porters. We got in the zone, and it was clear that we had impressed the rest of the team, for we were welcomed with clapping and a line to shake our hands. Julie and I gained respect for the men that do it every day, and, as it turned out, they gained respect for us.

Nature is the one thing out of the control of the guides and porters. It could rain every day, clouds could obscure all of Machu Picchu, or a landslide could obstruct the final stretch of the Inca Trail. We suffered from the latter. A landslide wiped out a crucial section of the path, forcing everyone to detour until it can be cleaned up. We got down from the mountains and followed train tracks to the town of Aguas Calientes, where we were exposed to civilization a day earlier than we hoped. Instead of walking through the Sun Gate and down into the citadel, we had to take a bus with all the other (lazy) tourists. It was a real bummer: we had hiked for four days to earn the view from above and the sense of accomplishment in reaching Machu Picchu by foot. I bet the Incas could have fixed it in no time.

The good news: Machu Picchu was even more spectacular than I dreamed it to be. No postcard can capture its strength and majesty. It’s simply perfect. We got there just as the sun rose over the surrounding mountains and slowly poured into the valley. It was surreal. I was so in awe that I had to remind myself to take pictures.

Although we had trekked on higher mountains in the area, we could never see Machu Picchu before. It was strategically nestled in a circle of mountains, which is why it remained undiscovered for so many years. The Incas created a Garden of Eden, where man and nature cooperated and thrived. The terraces follow the contours of the mountain face and the stonework is inseparable from the natural boulders. The waterways through the buildings are still flowing.

Carlos led us on a tour before he let us wander freely. It was great to learn about the sites, but it was equally satisfying to blindly explore. I got lost in a maze of ruins more than once. Many people find a quiet spot on one of the grassy plazas and meditate on what it was like back in the day. Julie and I chose to tackle Huayna Picchu, the famous peak that juts out from behind Machu Picchu. There are some more Incan ruins perched atop, so we brought our bag lunches and snacked as we looked down on the lost city.