Big League Chu

As if our debauchery and decadence to date had merely been a preview of what was to come, our excursion reached its bacchanalian best during the final third of our trip. Immediately upon entering the “terminal terrestre” of Cusco, Rob and I were accosted by the imperious “Juana”, an aggressive hostel owner who demanded that we stay at the Hostal Samani located “minutes from the central Plaza de Armas”. Exhausted and vulnerable as we were, we accepted the reasonable fair of five dollars per person per night and boarded in what appeared to be the annex of a family household before exploring our surroundings the following morning. We found the city of Cusco to be absolutely enchanting, composed of five centuries of Spanish architecture constructed on top of Inca foundations. The narrow, shaded streets and tiled roofs are very reminiscent of Andalusia and the warm, open plazas provide a common meeting place for denizens and visitors alike. After a day of local sightseeing, we were ready for our trip to reach its culmination, both literally and figuratively.

Friday morning at 5:00am Juana woke us up and made us breakfast (her maternal instincts cannot be overstated) before walking us to the bus stop where we would depart for Ollantataytambo en route to Aguas Calientes. I should mention that we found the translation of Aguas Calientes (“hot waters”, due to the presence of local geothermal spas) to be laughingly ironic, as our showers were perhaps the most frigid to date. We spent the night tranquilly (only a few drinks) before rising before the sun in order to make the morning bus. And then it happened. After nearly two weeks of traveling, we had finally arrived at the one destination in our itinerary that was inflexible, the testament of Inca innovation, and one of the new Seven Wonders of the World: Machu Picchu. It is impossible to put into words the sensation one feels upon entering the gates of the ancient city and looking out onto the mist covered Andes. The remoteness of the mountaintop retreat that once hosted the Inca elite helps to explain why the site remained undiscovered for nearly 500 years until the arrival of Yale professor Hiram Bingham in 1911. Rob and I began the day with a guided tour of the particular points of interest before scaling the adjacent Waynapicchu, a nearly insurmountable peak that provides a spectacular aerial view of Machu Picchu. After dozens of photos and an unrelenting throbbing in our legs, we descended from what had been once of those “once in a lifetime” experiences.

Arriving in Aguas Calientes upon our return, we dined on “Mexican food” with an interesting character named “C.S.” who we had met while scaling Waynapicchu. The New Yorker explained to us that he had moved to Russia after the fall of the Soviet Union, become an instrumental part in the establishment of the Russian stock market, and (of course not in his words) made a fortune for himself. We parted with “C.S.” (only to reconvene later for an unhealthy amount of diversion) and headed for our train back to the anxiously anticipating Juana. Waiting at the station, absolutely bushed from the day’s adventure, we lay listening to an album of Beatles covers played on traditional indigenous instruments. When the final bars of “Hey Jude” (you know the part) came on, the entire assortment of international travelers began belting out the refrain in what was the perfect ending to our tour. The night, as mentioned earlier, began chasing a couple English girls (who we rightly deemed the “Spice Girls”) before meeting “C.S” for one last hoorah. Our early flight to Lima was the official conclusion to fifteen days, countless memories and a few hundred soles well spent.

The Copa...Copacabana and a Restless Peace

Our original itinerary had us leaving Arequipa to spend a day in Puno (Peru’s supposed folklore capital) before crossing into Bolivia. Unmoved with our initial impression’s of the town, however, and accompanied by our newest addition, an Australian named April who had a yearning to see Bolivia, we decided to forego Puno and head immediately to Copacabana the following morning. Upon boarding the bus we noticed a host of young attractive backpackers (much like ourselves) from every part of the globe: Belgium, Spain, Honduras—every nation, in fact, except Peru or Bolivia. Suitably, as we would find upon our arrival, the Copacabana is a quaint town on the edge of Lake Titicaca composed mainly of guesthouses and low key restaurants catering to the Western vacationer. (No, this is not the Copacabana of Manilow fame and no we didn’t meet any girls named “Lola”.) The “touristy” sector of the town runs along a steep hill that leads from the main plaza to the shores of the lake and at 3,800 meters altitude, scaling the incline can be quite a feat. (I should insert here our breakthrough discovery of mate de coca, a tea made with the infamous coca plant, which acts as a natural stimulant and would facilitate our acclimation for the duration of the trip.) The main attraction of Copacabana (in addition to the “chill” bars and fresh seafood), is the Isla del Sol, actually located 90 minutes off-shore, which boasts of being the birthplace of the two founders of the Inca Empire, Manco Capac and Mama Ocllo. The island hosts some 5,000 permanent residents, mostly sheep farmers, and is purported to be an enjoyable hike but our limited time did not allow us a very thorough exploration. Although far from establishing any sort of lasting empire, it is on the shores of the Isla del Sol where we formed a friendship with Vanessa and Eva, two charming Germans who we would share mojitos and live reggae music with in the evening.

Our German friends were anything but Arian: Eva was half Peruvian, Vanessa half Greek, and Nastaran, who we would meet later, was full blooded Persian. After a night of entertainment, as alluded to before, we decided to accompany (notice I did not say “follow”) the girls to the capital of Bolivia, a slight detour from our already amended itinerary. La Paz, translated as “the peace”, was anything but pacific. Our first day was spent on a very busy street located near the city center, allowing us to visit the principal plaza which hosts the presidential palace and populist leader, Eva Morales, himself. The conglomeration of hundreds of working aged men throughout the city in the middle of a weekday suggested the dire reality of unemployment in what is considered to be South America’s poorest nation. Rob and I bypassed the opportunity to visit more markets, realizing that it would be more of the same hand-woven alpaca articles and holistic medicinal cures (try llama fetus), only bartered in bolivianos rather than nuevo soles. We would need our strength later anyway. At 8:00 we rendezvoused with the girls and went to dine at a restaurant called “Mongo’s” where the evening began tranquilly with a few burgers. Drinks were consumed in a civilized manner until someone at the table suggested that we indulge in tequila shots. Game over. Before we knew it, our table of seven had polished off a bottle of Jose Cuervo and even the Americans and Brits with two left feet (yours truly included) we on the dance floor staggering a salsa step. The surprise of the night, far more astonishing than my falling madly in love with our Deutch acquaintances, was the evening’s bill. After dinner for seven, twenty table sized beers and a bottle of tequila, our check was 780b! While that may seem steep to those unaware of exchange rate, the conversion comes out to less than US $90 total. Realizing we had an 8:00 bus to catch, we left the salsa celebration reluctantly, leaving our invaluable company behind.

Fear and Loathing in Las Americas

After a two week backpacking binge through Peru and Bolivia, any attempt to recount all of our exploits will be hazy at best; notwithstanding, I will try to chronicle our adventures based on the plethora of digital photos taken along the way. Our three days in Lima were divided appropriately between three of the capital’s most important neighborhoods: the sprawling southern sector of Chorillos; the modern tourist Mecca of Miraflores and the bohemian barrio of Barranco. The addition of Rob as a touring partner opened several doors, both literally and figuratively, as I felt less intimidated riding in unmarked taxis or staying at unaccredited hostels. A funny anecdote found us in a seedy part of town where vendors walked among traffic selling “TAXI” roof ornaments, implying the ease at which an unemployed citizen can pose as a taxista. Likewise, our experience proved that there is absolutely no correlation between comfort and the number of stars advertised, as hotels use the “honor system” to designate their level of quality. From shared rooms to uncarpeted floors, we never found our accommodations unbearable although hot showers were always elusive.

As for culture, we got some of that too! The erudite traveler may find our omission of Lima’s outstanding museums boorish but, in our defense, we did take pleasure in most of Peru’s culinary offerings. Although the lomo saltado, ceviche, and chicharron, were all delectable, we found the pisco sour to be our personal favorite. After enjoying the smooth blend of brandy, egg whites, and lime juice we spent our afternoons walking along the Avenida Bolognesi and the Costa Verde, taking in the colonial architecture and the first world high rises, respectively. The apex our of sightseeing was a night tour of the city center in which we saw Lima’s principal plazas illuminated at night, including the nearly 500-year-old presidential palace which was constructed by conquistador Francisco Pizzaro himself. Throughout the three-hour tour Rob had to endure an 84-year-old Peruvian who insisted he spoke Spanish and proceeded to recount his life’s conquests in a half-intelligible castellano.

After three days of Peru’s chaotic capital, we decided to part for Arequipa in the south. The taxing bus ride began just above sea level and left us gasping at over 8,000ft nearly 18-hours later. Our first day was spent doing little more than acclimating to the altitude, although the intimate size of Arequipa allowed us to tour the city’s historic center in a few hours. The city’s Plaza de Armas is said to be the most beautiful in all of Peru and in my opinion may be the most handsome in the world. Surrounded on three sides by colossal colonial balconies, the 16th century cathedral rises high above a snowcapped backdrop. Further exploration saw an equally antiquated (and still functioning) Franciscan monastery that serves as the Arequipa’s main attraction. I would be lying if I left out our discovery of the night life, in which we visited a three story night club where Rob and I found ourselves learning to dance salsa with two beautiful ariquipeñas until the early hours of the morning. Rob probably could have stayed a few more days with his Peruvian paramour but our travels led us in another direction.

Máncora

Located 800km north of Lima in the province of Piura, the quaint beach town of Máncora offers a quiet escape from the flurry that is Peru’s capital. The grueling twenty hour trek in omnibus along the precipitous Peruvian coastline is about all the human body can handle but the destination is well worth the journey. Once in Máncora, one notices that the population is a fusion of local fisherman and surf instructors with a host of North American and European backpackers who have decided to stay, making it possible to enjoy an authentic Peruvian experience without missing the comforts of home.

During our stay in Mancora, a friend and I lodged at the hospedaje Sol y Mar for the affordable price of 20 soles a night. The budget hotel, complete with restaurant and pool, was situated no more than 50m from the beach and within walking distance of all the modest nightlife that the town has to offer. Though the absence of centers of culture or commerce may be perceived by some as a shortcoming, the nothingness of Máncora allows the tourist to focus on the true purpose of vacation: indulgence. Our activities included little more than reading (in my case it was Lady Chatterly’s Lover and The Sorrows of Young Werther), sampling freshly caught seafood, sunbathing, and enjoying the occasional cocktail (especially when ingredients included local fruits).

If affordability and leisure are not enough, the intimacy of Máncora offers the potential tourist an additional incentive to visit. Due to the small size of the town, it was impossible to walk more than a block without spotting a familiar face: most of the people we saw taking surf lessons in the afternoon were the same folks we had eaten breakfast alongside in the morning. Once the sun went down in the evenings and the restaurants closed for the day, everyone congregated in the few bars that lined the main strip. On the makeshift dance floor we at once ran into the receptionist from the hotel, our waitresses from lunch and dinner and a few local artisans we had seen early in the day.

Karma or Coincidence

Saturday, I lunched with a friend at a “restaurant” called Embarcadero 41. The atmosphere was similar to that of a mess hall, only the meal was serenaded by strident salsa music from overhead speakers. The plates had hardly been cleared at 3:00 when the entire room was converted into a dance party. Bottles of barena, a light Peruvian beer, flowed like water and tables were cleared to make room for the revelry. Remaining chairs served as pedestals for the female patrons (who outnumbered the males 3 to 1) and I found myself entrapped in a swarm of raucous peruanas. By 9:00, the party began to wane and we departed for la calle de las pizzas (or Pizza Street) in order to prolong the festivities. Our last stop was at Mama Batatas, a very Americanized bar in Larcomar where after one more drink, I decided to call it a night. Sunday was spent more tranquilly at a friend’s family barbeque.

On Monday morning, I was invited to accompany the sister of my host mother to volunteer with the Peruvian Red Cross. Our first stop was at a school for the mentally handicapped that hosts around thirty children, aged 5 to 15. The disabilities included autism and Downs Syndrome, although a few of the children were there because of severe physical disabilities. The capacities of the children were also wide ranging, from the students who were absolutely unable to communicate to those who introduced themselves with great charisma. After spending a couple hours with the students matching colored blocks and coloring pictures, we visited a house for cancer patients who come from poor provinces and have nowhere to stay. It was disheartening to see people who have very serious illness and so few resources and I look forward to working with both organizations next month.

Puro Peruano

Napoleon’s invasion of Spain in 1808 and the resultant debility of the colonial superpower led to a series of liberation movements throughout South America. In 1824, after centuries of imposition and exploitation, José San Martín and Simón Bólivar led Peru to its long awaited independence. Bólivar’s former residence, now in the Pueblo Libre district of Lima, has been converted into the Museum of Anthropology, Archeology and History which I had the opportunity to visit on Tuesday. To the history aficionado, the comprehensive galleries demonstrate the indigenous life of the Chavín, Mochica, and Huari tribes that existed long before the reign of the Inca; to the cynic, the museum is an elaborate display of pre-Columbian jars. The highlight of the museum is (expectedly) the exhibit on the Inca which reveals the incredible accomplishments of a civilization that lasted less than a century and had no written language and no knowledge of the wheel… Re-invent that!
Most Peruvians would argue that the only thing richer than their cultural heritage is their cuisine. Wednesday’s culinary expedition began with a seafood sampler consisting of tilapia, shrimp, clams, octopus, and yucca root accompanied by a pitcher of chicha morada, a traditional juice made from blue corn and spiced with cinnamon. Following lunch, a walk through the parks lining the coast of Miraflores led us to a viewpoint that looks over Lima, where we enjoyed maracuya sours, an acerbic jungle fruit mixed with Peruvian pisco. The evening was spent in the bohemian barrio of Barranco watching the sunset over a cold Cuzqueña beer adjacent the Puente de Suspiros (The Bridge of Sighs) before retiring for the day. Thursday saw no mercy from the gastronomic indulgence as I was treated to multiple platters of the much revered ceviche, a “raw” fish cooked in lime juice and onion served with slices of glazed sweet potato. It should go without saying that the better part of Friday morning was spent in the gym… only to treat myself to ground beef empanadas in the afternoon.

Pisco Part II

This week’s adventure to Pisco proved that the town is gradually recovering. More movement in the streets suggested the return of confidence to the inhabitants; more open markets and restaurants signified less of a dependence on canned tuna and dried fruit for me and my companeros. Though a few of the buildings left standing precariously after the earthquake have been torn down, a majority of the structures simply bear the spray-painted word “demoler” (instructions precipitating their demolition). Desperate foragers trail construction equipment closely, scouring for iron which they can sell to a scrap yard at the price of US $0.05 a pound. Families continue to concentrate in the designated shelters, deliberating on whether to bide their time with reconstruction efforts or begin a new life elsewhere; it was heartwarming to be greeted by name upon returning to the three camps visited last week. Although our contributions are minimal (and often self-gratifying) we are assured by UNICEF that the ability for children—many who have lost immediate relatives—to act like children is essential during these distressing times.

(Hector helps his father salvage scrap rebar)

(Children pose for a picture at the albergue ¨Nueva Alameda¨)

In addition to the continual “morale building” activities, our delegation had the opportunity to construct a prefabricated house which had been generously donated by the Chilean government. As I was unable to provide any professional expertise, I was asked to stand behind the unsecured walls and ensure that they did not fall. (No really, show your support.) After a few hours of hard work and camaraderie, we were able to erect the modest residence which the three older, disenfranchised women can now call home.

(Hold right there...)

(This is the house that Morgan built)

Amid the collaboration efforts with the community of Pisco, we were able to find time for diversion. During our “culinary exploration” our group encountered “pollo a la brasa” (rotisserie chicken) and “mancha pancho” (a delicious dry stew meaning “shirt-stainer” and clever pun on the ancient ruin) at an affordable price. The evenings were spent sharing a bottle of Pisco, a locale brandy and the country´s official liqour, and discussing differences in life states and life in Peru. The fellowship not only brought us closer together but kept us warm during the windy Ica nights. There is a ship leaving for Pisco this Wednesday (a 12 hour journey) but I may bypass a third consecutive trip to enjoy some of the city. As usual, plans are TBD.

(These boys were asked to keep a straight face but the one in the middle couldn´t hold it)

(In addition to an ¨S¨, the children were also asked to form a dining room table and a Christmas tree)

Picking up the Pieces

On the evening of August 15th, a massive 7.9 earthquake ravaged the southern coast of Peru. This weekend, I had the opportunity to visit the town of Pisco (four hours south of Lima) with a co-ed delegation from the Scouts del Peru. The community, once a quaint getaway and gateway to two notable nature reserves, had been transformed into a virtual ghost town. Buildings surrounding the Plaza de Armas were all but demolished (including a cathedral where over 140 perished during mass) and nearly all of the Pisco’s remaining inhabitants had moved to “albergues” or refugee shelters. Although the scouts, most of who study architecture in Chimote, spent part of their time investigating the flaws in construction that had led to the collapse of many of the town’s structures, the primary concern of the mission was to provide emotional support to the community’s youth. Children were not asked to “be still”, “keep their hands to themselves”, or “repeat after me”, but encouraged to participate in various songs and activities which provided an outlet for energy and a much needed distraction. Peruvian versions of childhood classics like the hokey pokey and musical chairs transformed the countless dispossessed families living on the town’s municipal athletic field into a unified rapture. Sugar cane, taken from a house that had been razed completely during the disaster, was used to construct kites which, containing messages like “Viva Pisco,” soared high in the sky. The weekend would not have been complete, of course, without a few games of the ever-present futbol, in which children of eight and ten were much more capable of leading the team to victory than the 23-year-old gringo who tried anyway. Overall, the experience was as rewarding to the contributing scouts as to the communities affected. Our spending three days eating exclusively tuna and crackers and not showering pale in comparison to the sacrifices made by the people of the south who have suffered so much as a result of this tragedy.

AccLIMAting

The first posting is inevitably trite – the obligatory airport rendezvous and proverbial “first day of school”; with any luck the second will be more entertaining. On Friday night I was taken to a “Foclor” (Folklore) show called Las Brisas de Titicaca where my hosts and I witnessed various traditional dances originating from the Puno province near Lake Titicaca; after a few glasses of beer, my traditional pastime, I was on the dance floor two-stepping to a Native American marachanga flute. Saturday began with a much revered slice of turon and a salver of ceviche, followed by a tour of downtown Lima, including the Presidential Palace and the archetypal historic cathedral, and ended with a drive high above to city to a view point where it is possible to see how over nine million inhabitants have constructed their quarters in a space meant for far fewer.

Sunday’s lunch featured the sanctimonious pisco sour, a surprisingly delectable blend of brandy, egg, and lime, and countless conversation, the last three hours of which were lost in translation. Monday’s tour included the “Real Felipe” a fort constructed by the Spanish to defend their colony from competing European powers, which was ironically used later by the Peruvians to gain their independence; in the afternoon the in-laws and I went to Larcomar, a first world shopping center built into the side of a cliff. Originally I was to embark Wednesday on a ship headed for the south to partake in a relief effort but a change of plans has postponed the date to Thursday at the earliest. Brilliant or disastrous, this adventure is certain to provide fodder for a good blog.

Initial Impressions

Upon my arrival at the Jorge Chavez International Airport late Wednesday night, I was greeted by my hosts, the charming parents of a former colleague at the Embassy. The drive from northern Lima to the southern district of Chorillos was uneventful save the myriad lights (Lima has over 9 million inhabitants) and the proximity of most edifices to the Pacific Ocean. Thursday morning witnessed the birthday celebration of “Charito”, a life-long friend from the local parish, in which I was surrounded by a generation twice removed from my own discussing, in a colloquial Castilian, growing old, gaining weight, and, of course, where everyone was the day of the earthquake. The afternoon was spent in the kitchen with my senora, Abelinda Portugal, and the domestic servant, Rosa, clearly of indigenous origin, peeling oranges and conversing over nominal affairs.
My initial impressions of Lima are that it is cold (in the climatic sense) and intimidating. The temperature hovers around 60 degrees Fahrenheit and is cooler in the evenings. Though the home where I am staying is very modern and looks out onto the beach, the neighbor still contains many unfinished structures and, shall we say, humble settlements. Any attempts to acclimate are generally demurred by friendly warnings: “be careful not to be robbed by taxi drivers” and “make sure to always lock the doors” which do little to provide comfort. I feel that despite my desire to take full advantage of this situation, it is more important to preserve my safety than to “prove my virility”, as was said by a wise friend.