ECUADOR/PERU and the parting shot...
All those people who told me that told me that Guayaquil was a bland city, with nothing to see and best avoided, were clearly talking rubbish. Sure there was someone who knew someone who was robbed at knife-point in broad daylight in the bus station, but there is always someone who knows someone.
I had most of the day to kill before my flight back to Lima, so I headed down to Malecón 2000, a major redevelopment along the banks of the Río Guayas. It is a slick waterfront promenade stretching for 2 1/2kms, heavily policed and a welcome respite to the rest of the steaming chaos that swarms the rest of the city.
I arrived in the morning and seemed to be the only person about save for an army of gardeners and security guards who bid me "Buenos dias" and most of whom managed to restrain themselves from the irritating "Fsssst!" of which they are so fond of using when they see women.
I strolled along past shiny new playgrounds and well equipped outdoor gyms and followed paths that wound through colourful gardens, cooled by sprinklers, over bridges that led across little streams and 'water features' listening to classical music that was being piped out through speakers mounted on lamp posts. All was calm and tranquillity and the slight breeze from across the water was very welcome.
I followed the promenade north to Las Peñas, a pretty barrio of colourful little houses and cobbled streets that wound steeply up to the lighthouse and small church where there is a panoramic view of the rest of the grey, smoggy city.
I pottered about happily for a few hours until it was time to gather myself up and fly back to Lima.
I arrived last night about 4 hours late, thanks to delayed LAN flights, but my Flying Dog Hostel pick-up was still there with my name on a sign. A welcome sight which saved me from battling with the scrum of taxi drivers all keen to take me to Miraflores for 3 times the price.
I slept my last night in a bunk bed (for a while I'd imagine) and awoke today with the best part of a day to kill in Lima. First things first: Manicure and pedicure, of course... For the equivalent of $10 it is hard to resist. So I sat by a window watching Lima rush by listening to lively Andean pipe music while 2 nice ladies clipped, filed, buffed and polished me into something a little more presentable.
Time for a cafe con leche where the friendly waitress promptly stepped on my feet whilst leaning forward to admire the results of my pampering. Hey ho.
I was then pursued by an American man keen to discuss Iraq and what we ought to be doing with "all those muslims." Oh God. I dived for cover in the Markets and picked up a few more souvenirs and now here I am, sitting in an internet cafe and, for the last time, perusing my scribbled note book for raw material that I type up in the form of this blog. Time for another little recap I think.
So, in the second leg of my journey what have I been up to? Well...
I've danced Tango in Buenos Aires, chased goats and drank wine in the North West of Argentina, paraglided over the Andes, stuck my head in an active volcano, been bashed about by the famous winds in Patagonia, wandered dizzily around at crazy altitudes, in Northern Chile and Southern Bolivia, been photographed sitting in my own shoe in the Uyuni Salt Flats, delivered dynamite to the miners of Potosi, mountain biked down 'the world's most dangerous road', visited the floating villages on Lake Titicaca and stayed with a family, tramped through the Amazon, hiked for four days to Machu Picchu, danced at an Ecuadorian wedding won prizes for dancing in a remote jungle town and visited a men's prison in Quito. And more, of course...
Travelling South America is by far more physically challenging than South East Asia. There the heat dictates that you spend much time reflecting on the mysticisms of wats and temples from the comfort of a hammock whilst sipping beer or fruit shakes. The atmosphere is one of inactivity and you could easily spend a week doing very little other than floating around in a big rubber tube. My fellow travellers were a younger lot there too, average age being about 22. Here people seem to be a little older, South America I think attracting a crowd of slightly more adventurous travellers who have flocked here despite the language barrier and endless tales of the dangers.
People are always asking me which country over the last 9 months was my favourite, which is an impossible question of course. I have no idea. India will always be very special as it was my 1st port of call and so totally different from London that I hit the ground running and did not look back. South East Asia was magical, fascinating and heaps of fun, Australia was a welcome island in the midst of my adventures to take a breather, see family, get spoiled and prepare myself for the next jaunt and South America was exciting, exhausting and infinately rewarding. I can't really imagine how the last 9 months could have gone any better and I am a very lucky girl to have seen and experienced so much.
So, with that, I ought to sign off. I am very grateful to people bothering to read this, knowing that people were kept me on it even when I didn't feel like it and it has been invaluable to me as a way of committing things to memory as well as paper.
Over mojitos in Buenos Aires, Posy made me promise that I would not stop there. And so this marks the birth of the sequel: What Katy Did Next (wotktdidnext.blogspot.com)
This is really a writing exercise for me as much as anything else and I can't promise to be even as remotely as interesting as I would be if I was touring the world but London has some noteworthy aspects too and I might just try and jot some of them down.
But for now that's all folks. I look forward to seeing you all very very soon! xxx
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Monday, November 19, 2007
ECUADOR, Quito (written from Guayaquil - see below for Jungle parties and arrival in Quito) Monday 18th November.
"Roses man. I'm telling you, that's where the money is. F**king roses! When I get out that's what I'm gonna do, sell roses."
In a stark contrast to, well, just about everything, I found myself sitting cramped up with 5 other backpackers in the prison cell of Marty, a 35 year old Canadian drug trafficker, listening to his highly strung torrent of opinions on just about everything and harrowing stories of life inside and Ecuadorian prison. Not your average tourist occupation but a shocking and rather heartbreaking insight into a world far less sunny than the one most of us know.
Morbid curiosity, and a cynical sense of novalty, lead me to tag along to Visitor's Day with some of my fellow Secret Garden dwellers. One girl had been to the women's prison the day before and had enjoyed(?!) it so much that she was keen to see the men's too. So, laden with toilet paper, batteries and chocolate, the name of an inmate to visit scribbled on a piece of paper, we joined the rather festive throng of families all gathered outside to see their daddies/husbands/brothers/friends.
I was feeling a bit intrusive and a little like I was going to a zoo as we were thoroughly searched and ushered through the clunking metal doors into the prison were Ecuadorian men begged us for money and eyed the girls amongst us keenly. We were introduced to Fred a 58 year old Londoner who looked some 20 years older than he was, a result of the harsh battering that life has dealt him, I would imagine. He is serving 8 years for drug trafficking as seemed to be so for all the Western prisoners.
One chilling case was put to us by a young London guy about my age. His story is that he was set up by his hostel. He was backpacking, like us, when the hostel stole all his belongings, planted a substantial amount of coke on him and turned him over to the police. One year on and he still hasn't been sentenced. We asked him if there was anything we could get him and he just mournfully said "I only want my freedom." He could not bare to spend long with us, we were too reminiscent of a life not long snatched from him. If his story is true (and these things do happen) then I can't really imagine how awful it must be for him and his family.
Marty then bounded up and took us all in hand, seating us in his cell and chatting to us about his life and survival in the prison. They have to buy their own cells, money being made above or below board (Fred makes pies, Marty would not disclose such information). Guns and knives are everywhere and people are often shot. Fred is due into hospital to have the infect bullet hole in his stomach treated. They swapped stories of gang warfare and prison strikes in return for news of the outside world. "So guys, what's the plan tonight then? Tell me where ´we´ are going out?" Joked Marty. They were mostly open to questions but, every so often, they would say we were prying too much and could not tell us. Marty did not want more visitors, saying that it drew too much attention and made him vulnerable but Fred said he'd be happy to receive more so we took his full name to give to the backpackers who were visiting the following day.
Visitors are allowed in over the weekend and every 2 weeks they can stay over. Fred and Marty invited us to do so but my adventurous nature only goes so far. I was feeling pretty out of my depth as it was and, despite the warm hospitality of Fred and Marty, was a little uncomfortable. It was all a bit too much and I was relieved to step out through the barred doors and walk free.
We were all rather affected by the experience I think and talked of little else for the rest of the day. "It is nothing like the womens' prison." Remarked the girl as we left "They were a lot more sorry." It is true, Fred and Marty's only regrets were being caught, they both spoke sadly of the money they would have made if they had got through to Europe...
Time is running out for me at quite a rate now so I had to take my leave of Quito and, after 2 hours sleep (last Saturday in South America and all) I took the 9 hour bus back to Guayaquil in time for my flight back to Lima which is in just a few hours...
"Roses man. I'm telling you, that's where the money is. F**king roses! When I get out that's what I'm gonna do, sell roses."
In a stark contrast to, well, just about everything, I found myself sitting cramped up with 5 other backpackers in the prison cell of Marty, a 35 year old Canadian drug trafficker, listening to his highly strung torrent of opinions on just about everything and harrowing stories of life inside and Ecuadorian prison. Not your average tourist occupation but a shocking and rather heartbreaking insight into a world far less sunny than the one most of us know.
Morbid curiosity, and a cynical sense of novalty, lead me to tag along to Visitor's Day with some of my fellow Secret Garden dwellers. One girl had been to the women's prison the day before and had enjoyed(?!) it so much that she was keen to see the men's too. So, laden with toilet paper, batteries and chocolate, the name of an inmate to visit scribbled on a piece of paper, we joined the rather festive throng of families all gathered outside to see their daddies/husbands/brothers/friends.
I was feeling a bit intrusive and a little like I was going to a zoo as we were thoroughly searched and ushered through the clunking metal doors into the prison were Ecuadorian men begged us for money and eyed the girls amongst us keenly. We were introduced to Fred a 58 year old Londoner who looked some 20 years older than he was, a result of the harsh battering that life has dealt him, I would imagine. He is serving 8 years for drug trafficking as seemed to be so for all the Western prisoners.
One chilling case was put to us by a young London guy about my age. His story is that he was set up by his hostel. He was backpacking, like us, when the hostel stole all his belongings, planted a substantial amount of coke on him and turned him over to the police. One year on and he still hasn't been sentenced. We asked him if there was anything we could get him and he just mournfully said "I only want my freedom." He could not bare to spend long with us, we were too reminiscent of a life not long snatched from him. If his story is true (and these things do happen) then I can't really imagine how awful it must be for him and his family.
Marty then bounded up and took us all in hand, seating us in his cell and chatting to us about his life and survival in the prison. They have to buy their own cells, money being made above or below board (Fred makes pies, Marty would not disclose such information). Guns and knives are everywhere and people are often shot. Fred is due into hospital to have the infect bullet hole in his stomach treated. They swapped stories of gang warfare and prison strikes in return for news of the outside world. "So guys, what's the plan tonight then? Tell me where ´we´ are going out?" Joked Marty. They were mostly open to questions but, every so often, they would say we were prying too much and could not tell us. Marty did not want more visitors, saying that it drew too much attention and made him vulnerable but Fred said he'd be happy to receive more so we took his full name to give to the backpackers who were visiting the following day.
Visitors are allowed in over the weekend and every 2 weeks they can stay over. Fred and Marty invited us to do so but my adventurous nature only goes so far. I was feeling pretty out of my depth as it was and, despite the warm hospitality of Fred and Marty, was a little uncomfortable. It was all a bit too much and I was relieved to step out through the barred doors and walk free.
We were all rather affected by the experience I think and talked of little else for the rest of the day. "It is nothing like the womens' prison." Remarked the girl as we left "They were a lot more sorry." It is true, Fred and Marty's only regrets were being caught, they both spoke sadly of the money they would have made if they had got through to Europe...
Time is running out for me at quite a rate now so I had to take my leave of Quito and, after 2 hours sleep (last Saturday in South America and all) I took the 9 hour bus back to Guayaquil in time for my flight back to Lima which is in just a few hours...
ECUADOR, Banos, Tena and on to Quito (written in Guayaquil Monday 18th November
I think it might be safe to say that, in my attempt to relax and just stay still, I failed totally. This might or might not come as a surprise to some of you. Since my last entry I have been scampering around Ecuador like a crazy thing.
In Banos I attached myself to a nice group of solo female travellers who had joined forces in Quito and Banos. Some of them had been rafting the previous day and, through their guide Eduardo, got wind of a fiesta in Tena, a town deep in the jungle. This sounded too good to pass up so I delayed my departure from Banos in order to tag along.
That night, Eduardo took us to a local salsa club where we were all whirled around at high speeds by sweet, and very patient, local boys who did their best to teach us the steps and had us spinning about in a manner that made it look like we knew what we were doing. After Ecuador I think I'll be a master...
With my extra day in Banos we hired bikes and cycled down to the impressive Pailón del Diablo waterfall on the road to Puyo. We wound our way through valleys surrounded by lush, green hills of fields and jungle, over rivers, through tunnels and stopping to take a heart-stopping ride on a cable car over a wide, deep canyon dangling precariously over a river. The waterfall was a short hike through pretty jungle and turned out to be the deafening, thundering, crashing tumble of water that I had been promised. Most satisfactory.
On Thursday my new travel companion Rachael, Eduardo and I took a bus to Tena for the fiesta which celebrates the town's anniversary. Tena only attracts tourists who are on their way to the jungle or on a rafting expedition and is otherwise just a functional little town set around the banks of a river, surrounded by dense jungle. It was once an important colonial trading post in the Amazon and is now the commercial centre of the Napo Province. It was a-buzz with activity when we arrived as people prepared for the night's revels, food stalls were setting up and people were milling about with beers.
Rachael and I ventured out later on in search of Eduardo and dinner. We settled ourselves in the concrete football pitch, which was the main focal point of the event with plenty of make-shift bars and a huge stage where people kept appearing to do blaring sound checks. We sipped peach wine and watched events unfolding. Children were having a very energetic game of football with a plastic bottle, young men sauntered about in search of young women and old men sat around drinking beer, people caught up over beef kebabs with plantains and there was a general sense of festivity and anticipation. During our hunt for dinner we were discovered by Eduardo and his friends who scooped us up and took us to a little outdoor bar where they were all drinking and making merry. They were a lovely bunch, most of them jungle tour guides and professional rafters like Eduardo and spoke good English.
Eduardo wanted to introduce us to his family so, with him and his friend Julio, we headed back out of town standing in the back of a pick-up/taxi.
We found Eduardo's family standing around a dance floor in front of a stage where a Mexican band were crooning. They greeted us warmly and commenced with the beer drinking. I am becoming rather familiar with the Ecuadorian way of drinking now: They half fill small cups with beer and with a "salute!" its bottoms up and all down at once. This is repeated, the cups rotating, until the bottle is empty. The beers went round and round, kebabs were devoured and finally the Mexicans left the stage to be followed by a salsa band and we all spun onto the dance floor where we stayed until we were all dripping with sweat and in need of more cold beer.
One man swirled me around in such a manic dash across the dance floor that we began to attract attention. People watched, laughed and took pictures of this crazy man whirling around a Gringa who was struggling to hold her own (but not doing too badly). I returned to the side of the dance floor, gasping and giggling to find that they were all pointing at the stage. "You have won a prize," Eduardo explained. "They are calling you over." Very bemused I shuffled across the now empty dance floor to the stage where I was given a Tshirt and a round of applause. By now a fetching shade of beetroot, I returned to my group, the music started again and we were swept up again and proceeded to wiggle around the dance floor...
Having exhausted ourselves and the music there we said goodbye to the family and the 4 of us went back into town to join the heaving throng of people that had packed out the football court and danced some more until we could barley stand and had to go to bed. A great night, lucky us to have been part of that.
On Friday we bussed it to Quito and on the bus a remarkable thing happened:
I was sitting in the window seat with Rachael next to me and my bag wedged between my feet and the side of the bus, the strap hooked over my knee. When I went to leave the bus I discovered that my camera (yes, I know again) was gone, as was the $10 that had been in my wallet. Someone, very small, had got into my bag, fished out the plastic bag that held my camera and passport, taken the camera and then folded up the plastic bag and put it back, taken out my wallet, removed the cash and put that back (cards and all) all while the bag was right with me, on my person. There was a little girl behind me so it must have been her but how and when I have no idea. Very annoying, as you can imagine, so close to my return home too! But I am very grateful that she did not take the passport or bank cards.
With that little cloud hanging over me we arrived in Quito and checked into the Secret Garden Hostel in the heart of the Old Town.
Quito is a rather beautiful city surrounded by green hills, rivers and waterfalls, with neat, clean streets, elegant plazas and cobbled streets of well maintained colonial houses painted in pastel colours. The streets are not as dirty or chaotic as those of Lima and the whole place feels a good deal more loved and better organised. Secret Garden has a roof terrace providing stunning views of the city both day and night as well as strong cocktails, large communal dinners and a great little social scene. Rachael and I had a wader about the Old Town in search of cash machines, down busy little shopping streets with teams of police everywhere. I have heard plenty of horror stories from Quito so that was a comforting sight. The Old Town used to be notoriously dangerous but has cleaned up its act recently shifting the reputation to the New Town which is the main backpacker hang out, providing banana pancakes, clubs, pubs and muggings with equal fervour.
Being Friday night the hostel was in full party mode and after a lively dinner we all struck out en masse to the New Town and its nightclubs and danced the night away with the Quito youth. A perfect place for my last weekend in South America...
I think it might be safe to say that, in my attempt to relax and just stay still, I failed totally. This might or might not come as a surprise to some of you. Since my last entry I have been scampering around Ecuador like a crazy thing.
In Banos I attached myself to a nice group of solo female travellers who had joined forces in Quito and Banos. Some of them had been rafting the previous day and, through their guide Eduardo, got wind of a fiesta in Tena, a town deep in the jungle. This sounded too good to pass up so I delayed my departure from Banos in order to tag along.
That night, Eduardo took us to a local salsa club where we were all whirled around at high speeds by sweet, and very patient, local boys who did their best to teach us the steps and had us spinning about in a manner that made it look like we knew what we were doing. After Ecuador I think I'll be a master...
With my extra day in Banos we hired bikes and cycled down to the impressive Pailón del Diablo waterfall on the road to Puyo. We wound our way through valleys surrounded by lush, green hills of fields and jungle, over rivers, through tunnels and stopping to take a heart-stopping ride on a cable car over a wide, deep canyon dangling precariously over a river. The waterfall was a short hike through pretty jungle and turned out to be the deafening, thundering, crashing tumble of water that I had been promised. Most satisfactory.
On Thursday my new travel companion Rachael, Eduardo and I took a bus to Tena for the fiesta which celebrates the town's anniversary. Tena only attracts tourists who are on their way to the jungle or on a rafting expedition and is otherwise just a functional little town set around the banks of a river, surrounded by dense jungle. It was once an important colonial trading post in the Amazon and is now the commercial centre of the Napo Province. It was a-buzz with activity when we arrived as people prepared for the night's revels, food stalls were setting up and people were milling about with beers.
Rachael and I ventured out later on in search of Eduardo and dinner. We settled ourselves in the concrete football pitch, which was the main focal point of the event with plenty of make-shift bars and a huge stage where people kept appearing to do blaring sound checks. We sipped peach wine and watched events unfolding. Children were having a very energetic game of football with a plastic bottle, young men sauntered about in search of young women and old men sat around drinking beer, people caught up over beef kebabs with plantains and there was a general sense of festivity and anticipation. During our hunt for dinner we were discovered by Eduardo and his friends who scooped us up and took us to a little outdoor bar where they were all drinking and making merry. They were a lovely bunch, most of them jungle tour guides and professional rafters like Eduardo and spoke good English.
Eduardo wanted to introduce us to his family so, with him and his friend Julio, we headed back out of town standing in the back of a pick-up/taxi.
We found Eduardo's family standing around a dance floor in front of a stage where a Mexican band were crooning. They greeted us warmly and commenced with the beer drinking. I am becoming rather familiar with the Ecuadorian way of drinking now: They half fill small cups with beer and with a "salute!" its bottoms up and all down at once. This is repeated, the cups rotating, until the bottle is empty. The beers went round and round, kebabs were devoured and finally the Mexicans left the stage to be followed by a salsa band and we all spun onto the dance floor where we stayed until we were all dripping with sweat and in need of more cold beer.
One man swirled me around in such a manic dash across the dance floor that we began to attract attention. People watched, laughed and took pictures of this crazy man whirling around a Gringa who was struggling to hold her own (but not doing too badly). I returned to the side of the dance floor, gasping and giggling to find that they were all pointing at the stage. "You have won a prize," Eduardo explained. "They are calling you over." Very bemused I shuffled across the now empty dance floor to the stage where I was given a Tshirt and a round of applause. By now a fetching shade of beetroot, I returned to my group, the music started again and we were swept up again and proceeded to wiggle around the dance floor...
Having exhausted ourselves and the music there we said goodbye to the family and the 4 of us went back into town to join the heaving throng of people that had packed out the football court and danced some more until we could barley stand and had to go to bed. A great night, lucky us to have been part of that.
On Friday we bussed it to Quito and on the bus a remarkable thing happened:
I was sitting in the window seat with Rachael next to me and my bag wedged between my feet and the side of the bus, the strap hooked over my knee. When I went to leave the bus I discovered that my camera (yes, I know again) was gone, as was the $10 that had been in my wallet. Someone, very small, had got into my bag, fished out the plastic bag that held my camera and passport, taken the camera and then folded up the plastic bag and put it back, taken out my wallet, removed the cash and put that back (cards and all) all while the bag was right with me, on my person. There was a little girl behind me so it must have been her but how and when I have no idea. Very annoying, as you can imagine, so close to my return home too! But I am very grateful that she did not take the passport or bank cards.
With that little cloud hanging over me we arrived in Quito and checked into the Secret Garden Hostel in the heart of the Old Town.
Quito is a rather beautiful city surrounded by green hills, rivers and waterfalls, with neat, clean streets, elegant plazas and cobbled streets of well maintained colonial houses painted in pastel colours. The streets are not as dirty or chaotic as those of Lima and the whole place feels a good deal more loved and better organised. Secret Garden has a roof terrace providing stunning views of the city both day and night as well as strong cocktails, large communal dinners and a great little social scene. Rachael and I had a wader about the Old Town in search of cash machines, down busy little shopping streets with teams of police everywhere. I have heard plenty of horror stories from Quito so that was a comforting sight. The Old Town used to be notoriously dangerous but has cleaned up its act recently shifting the reputation to the New Town which is the main backpacker hang out, providing banana pancakes, clubs, pubs and muggings with equal fervour.
Being Friday night the hostel was in full party mode and after a lively dinner we all struck out en masse to the New Town and its nightclubs and danced the night away with the Quito youth. A perfect place for my last weekend in South America...
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
ECUADOR, Banos, Tuesday 13th November (see below for Montanita)
Well, it seems that I have chosen well, Banos is wonderful. I am in love with it and all the people here.
Nestled in a valley, surrounded on all sides by green, rolling hills with waterfalls and hot springs in abundance, Banos is a major holiday destination for Ecuadorians as well as tourists. Its sheltered spot in the valley ensures a temperate climate all year and feels like a little bit of an Eden.
It is overshadowed by Volcano Tungurahua which smokes and sputters above the town, a grim reminder of the chaos that it has wrought on the town in the past. In 1999 the town was evacuated by the army on account of its grumbling (and killing of a tourist and guide due to its gaseous belching). The evacuation turned out to be a false alarm but the army wouldn't leave, having made themselves rather comfortable. In 2000 the inhabitants, desperate to return to their town and livelihoods, stormed the military check point and forced the army out. They still mark this day, of which they are very proud.
The town is small and has a lovely relaxed holiday feel. It has a leafy main plaza, complete with a Punta de Amore in the gardens, and a sombre, dark, gothic Basilica honouring the Virgin of the Holy Waters which they illuminate colourfully at night.
I arrived yesterday evening after my bus ride from Guayaquil. Even without passing field after field of banana plantations, I would have known I'd entered banana country when I tried to buy a bunch of small, sweet bananas from a woman selling them on the bus out of a huge sack. "Uno dollar." On receiving my dollar she dumped the entire sack of bananas on the seat next to me and stalked off the bus before I could say anything. What was I supposed to do with a whole sack of bananas?! I eyed it nervously, slid it under my seat and slunk off the bus in Banos abandoning the bananas to whoever chose to claim them. I am sure someone would.
Almost as soon as I had checked into my hostel I was swept off out to dinner and up to look at the volcano by my friendly room mates. We chugged up on the roof of a minibus and stopped to gawp as the volcano coughed up a great spurt of lava which then dribbled down the mountainside. Even our guide was impressed. We sipped local liquor overlooking Banos at night and then returned to town for a few drinks.
Today I hiked up the same hill again to see the views in daylight. I was joined for the first part of my walk by a cheerful group of school children and their teacher. They smiled and waved and a couple of them beamed up at me and bid me a very carefully pronounced "Good morning!" One little boy hurried on ahead to guide me over a stream instructing me where to step. "E ca, y e ca, y e ca... Esso! Muy bien!" He applauded once I had reached the other side safely. Sweet.
Children are often a good, honest reflection of their parents attitudes and it seems that foreigners are received warmly here. I bought a bottle of water from a smiling woman on route stopping to chat briefly to her little girl who too was smiles and giggles and delighted to have her photo taken.
I climbed on up the hill feeling warm and fuzzy after such beaming friendliness. The view was beautiful, the weather was gorgeous and the idea of sitting in hot water just didn't seem right, so I forwent the hot springs, for now, and settled myself on the pretty, sunny balcony of my hostel and languished in the sun for the rest of the afternoon. I was supposed to be relaxing after all.
Tomorrow I head on to Quito, where my room mates are now and have booked me a bed in a hostel. So reunions tomorrow night and another place to explore. Can't believe it is all nearly over...
Well, it seems that I have chosen well, Banos is wonderful. I am in love with it and all the people here.
Nestled in a valley, surrounded on all sides by green, rolling hills with waterfalls and hot springs in abundance, Banos is a major holiday destination for Ecuadorians as well as tourists. Its sheltered spot in the valley ensures a temperate climate all year and feels like a little bit of an Eden.
It is overshadowed by Volcano Tungurahua which smokes and sputters above the town, a grim reminder of the chaos that it has wrought on the town in the past. In 1999 the town was evacuated by the army on account of its grumbling (and killing of a tourist and guide due to its gaseous belching). The evacuation turned out to be a false alarm but the army wouldn't leave, having made themselves rather comfortable. In 2000 the inhabitants, desperate to return to their town and livelihoods, stormed the military check point and forced the army out. They still mark this day, of which they are very proud.
The town is small and has a lovely relaxed holiday feel. It has a leafy main plaza, complete with a Punta de Amore in the gardens, and a sombre, dark, gothic Basilica honouring the Virgin of the Holy Waters which they illuminate colourfully at night.
I arrived yesterday evening after my bus ride from Guayaquil. Even without passing field after field of banana plantations, I would have known I'd entered banana country when I tried to buy a bunch of small, sweet bananas from a woman selling them on the bus out of a huge sack. "Uno dollar." On receiving my dollar she dumped the entire sack of bananas on the seat next to me and stalked off the bus before I could say anything. What was I supposed to do with a whole sack of bananas?! I eyed it nervously, slid it under my seat and slunk off the bus in Banos abandoning the bananas to whoever chose to claim them. I am sure someone would.
Almost as soon as I had checked into my hostel I was swept off out to dinner and up to look at the volcano by my friendly room mates. We chugged up on the roof of a minibus and stopped to gawp as the volcano coughed up a great spurt of lava which then dribbled down the mountainside. Even our guide was impressed. We sipped local liquor overlooking Banos at night and then returned to town for a few drinks.
Today I hiked up the same hill again to see the views in daylight. I was joined for the first part of my walk by a cheerful group of school children and their teacher. They smiled and waved and a couple of them beamed up at me and bid me a very carefully pronounced "Good morning!" One little boy hurried on ahead to guide me over a stream instructing me where to step. "E ca, y e ca, y e ca... Esso! Muy bien!" He applauded once I had reached the other side safely. Sweet.
Children are often a good, honest reflection of their parents attitudes and it seems that foreigners are received warmly here. I bought a bottle of water from a smiling woman on route stopping to chat briefly to her little girl who too was smiles and giggles and delighted to have her photo taken.
I climbed on up the hill feeling warm and fuzzy after such beaming friendliness. The view was beautiful, the weather was gorgeous and the idea of sitting in hot water just didn't seem right, so I forwent the hot springs, for now, and settled myself on the pretty, sunny balcony of my hostel and languished in the sun for the rest of the afternoon. I was supposed to be relaxing after all.
Tomorrow I head on to Quito, where my room mates are now and have booked me a bed in a hostel. So reunions tomorrow night and another place to explore. Can't believe it is all nearly over...
Saturday, November 10, 2007
ECUADOR, Montanita, (written from Banos) Tuesday 13th November
I began composing this in a damp internet cafe in Montanita on Saturday. Outside the temporary bar stands pumped out latino music in preparation for what was clearly going to be another big night.
I arrived on Friday evening exhausted from sleep deprivation induced by coldy fluy thing which I finally grabbed by the horns and pummelled with antibiotics.
After a lovely luxurious LAN Peru flight to Guayaquil in an empty plane I landed in the shiny Guayaquil airport and paid too much for a taxi to the bus station, to which I could have probably walked. Dodging the ticket touts trying to grab me this way and that screaming out various destinations, I made my way to the wall of bus company booths, also hollering. I located one offering my destination and hopped on a bus bound for Santa Elena.
I alighted at an intersection outside Santa Elena after a smooth air conditioned ride where I had an isle seat and all the curtains had been drawn, so no hope of an explanation of Ecuadorian scenery from me as yet...
Once at the dusty intersection, numerous men with badges round their necks pointed me to the bus stop that I needed and one of them sold me a ticket. I seated myself next to a policeman and a chicken sauntered up and eyed my quizzically, as chickens do.
They then bundled me onto a rattling local bus, full to the brim, and we bounced off down the road in the direction of the coast. For the next hour we chugged along a pot-holed road through various costal villages, all looking hot and scruffy, people lounging by the road in hammocks with a general air of inactivity. Finally I was shunted off onto the roadside and pointed down a dusty path to 'el centro' of Montanita. Once round the corner I spotted a few bronzed gringos mooching in a dozy sort of way and concluded that I must be in the right place.
I ambled down the main street, past people selling beaded jewellery and bars promising Happy Hours all night, and checked into a hostel. The day was grey and not too warm so I forwent the beach and made friends with a group of Russian guys staying at my hostel, the first Russians I have met travelling... I inadvertently shared my dinner with a Frenchman and suddenly felt too exhausted to have any more conversations with predatory men so slunk off to bed. A fruitless activity really considering all the bars were located right outside my bedroom and I had been promised that they would push on until 4am.
Miraculously, however, I did manage some sleep and awoke to another grey day. After a few hours on the beach I was bored and reminded myself that I often get bored when there is not much to do but lie on the beach so maybe I'd better leave Montanita to the surfers and seek adventure elsewhere.
Having decided this I skipped off to an internet cafe to do some research only to be cornered on the way out by Christian. Christian was one of the Ecuadorian surfer types who had tried to lure me into conversation on the beach, he had been trying to get me to eat a meal with him all day, even spotting me on my balcony where I had gone to ground. Once he'd cornered me for the third time I figured that actually I was pretty hungry and food might not go amiss so consented warily. Some hours later it was 2am and I was dancing with a man about a 3rd of my height in the heart of a local wedding... Funny how things turn out.
Christian turned out to be harmless enough but kept me well watered with beer during our very lengthy dinner (fish, plantains, rice and salad, yum). I politely agreed to have a dance with him and was plotting my escape when he suggested looking in on a wedding that was going on. Now that sounds more like it!
We arrived on the scene to join a group of other loiterers outside the entrance where the wedding could be seen in full flow. People were seated at tiny children's party-sized trestle tables on little stools. The aisle that ran the length of the room was already filling with wiggling bottoms of people of all ages as the music began. The father of the bride came to the door and smilingly waved the outside loiterers inside. The wedding had just become open to gatecrashers.
We stepped in and Christian took me over to table where a jolly faced fat man sat perched awkwardly on his stool next to a tiny little guy whose size seemed rather fitting with the dolly-tea-party set up. They were, it turned out, Christian's flat mates and friends of the groom. Dolly tea party it was not however and, with a wicked grin, the larger of the two signalled to a waiter who produced several litres of beer and set them down. He winked at me and motioned to the pile that was already building up under the table and I came to believe that some earnest drinking was about to commence.
Endless "Salute!", endless cup draining and endless refilling. I was thankful that my female status excused me from participating too seriously in this game although they made damn sure I was drinking and not just holding the glass to my lips. Christian began to look a little wonky and I was relieved to escape when the tiny guy asked me to dance and we joined the wiggling throng of people all of whom moved with such grace and rhythm, age being no barrier. I towered above everybody on the dance floor and received some very odd looks but most smiled at me and my attempt to wiggle away with the rest of them. Such a happy occasion. The only person who did not appear to be all smiles was the surly faced bride who scurried around distributing presents and generally looking preoccupied. I returned to the table to find more beers had arrived and decided it was time to bow ought gracefully. Another dance and then bed. I excused and extracted myself from a hopeful Christian and retired at the reasonable hour of 3.00 leaving the party in full swing and Laurel and Hardy sitting on their stools toasting one another and giggling.
The next day I bid farewell to Montanita figuring that I'd pretty much drained it of its attractions, the wedding being a hard one to beat. I bussed it back to Guayaquil, accompanied by Christian whom I shook off at the bus station and taxied it to my hostel to try and figure out where I was planning on going next. Christian had mentioned Banos as a place worth a visit and a quick browse in a nice Australian girl's LP settled it. I was heading north and back up into altitude again. Ecuador is not a big country and I reckoned that I could probably have a fairly good shot at seeing some of its sights before flying back to Lima in a week so off I set.
Relaxing week for me on a beach? Apparently not.
I began composing this in a damp internet cafe in Montanita on Saturday. Outside the temporary bar stands pumped out latino music in preparation for what was clearly going to be another big night.
I arrived on Friday evening exhausted from sleep deprivation induced by coldy fluy thing which I finally grabbed by the horns and pummelled with antibiotics.
After a lovely luxurious LAN Peru flight to Guayaquil in an empty plane I landed in the shiny Guayaquil airport and paid too much for a taxi to the bus station, to which I could have probably walked. Dodging the ticket touts trying to grab me this way and that screaming out various destinations, I made my way to the wall of bus company booths, also hollering. I located one offering my destination and hopped on a bus bound for Santa Elena.
I alighted at an intersection outside Santa Elena after a smooth air conditioned ride where I had an isle seat and all the curtains had been drawn, so no hope of an explanation of Ecuadorian scenery from me as yet...
Once at the dusty intersection, numerous men with badges round their necks pointed me to the bus stop that I needed and one of them sold me a ticket. I seated myself next to a policeman and a chicken sauntered up and eyed my quizzically, as chickens do.
They then bundled me onto a rattling local bus, full to the brim, and we bounced off down the road in the direction of the coast. For the next hour we chugged along a pot-holed road through various costal villages, all looking hot and scruffy, people lounging by the road in hammocks with a general air of inactivity. Finally I was shunted off onto the roadside and pointed down a dusty path to 'el centro' of Montanita. Once round the corner I spotted a few bronzed gringos mooching in a dozy sort of way and concluded that I must be in the right place.
I ambled down the main street, past people selling beaded jewellery and bars promising Happy Hours all night, and checked into a hostel. The day was grey and not too warm so I forwent the beach and made friends with a group of Russian guys staying at my hostel, the first Russians I have met travelling... I inadvertently shared my dinner with a Frenchman and suddenly felt too exhausted to have any more conversations with predatory men so slunk off to bed. A fruitless activity really considering all the bars were located right outside my bedroom and I had been promised that they would push on until 4am.
Miraculously, however, I did manage some sleep and awoke to another grey day. After a few hours on the beach I was bored and reminded myself that I often get bored when there is not much to do but lie on the beach so maybe I'd better leave Montanita to the surfers and seek adventure elsewhere.
Having decided this I skipped off to an internet cafe to do some research only to be cornered on the way out by Christian. Christian was one of the Ecuadorian surfer types who had tried to lure me into conversation on the beach, he had been trying to get me to eat a meal with him all day, even spotting me on my balcony where I had gone to ground. Once he'd cornered me for the third time I figured that actually I was pretty hungry and food might not go amiss so consented warily. Some hours later it was 2am and I was dancing with a man about a 3rd of my height in the heart of a local wedding... Funny how things turn out.
Christian turned out to be harmless enough but kept me well watered with beer during our very lengthy dinner (fish, plantains, rice and salad, yum). I politely agreed to have a dance with him and was plotting my escape when he suggested looking in on a wedding that was going on. Now that sounds more like it!
We arrived on the scene to join a group of other loiterers outside the entrance where the wedding could be seen in full flow. People were seated at tiny children's party-sized trestle tables on little stools. The aisle that ran the length of the room was already filling with wiggling bottoms of people of all ages as the music began. The father of the bride came to the door and smilingly waved the outside loiterers inside. The wedding had just become open to gatecrashers.
We stepped in and Christian took me over to table where a jolly faced fat man sat perched awkwardly on his stool next to a tiny little guy whose size seemed rather fitting with the dolly-tea-party set up. They were, it turned out, Christian's flat mates and friends of the groom. Dolly tea party it was not however and, with a wicked grin, the larger of the two signalled to a waiter who produced several litres of beer and set them down. He winked at me and motioned to the pile that was already building up under the table and I came to believe that some earnest drinking was about to commence.
Endless "Salute!", endless cup draining and endless refilling. I was thankful that my female status excused me from participating too seriously in this game although they made damn sure I was drinking and not just holding the glass to my lips. Christian began to look a little wonky and I was relieved to escape when the tiny guy asked me to dance and we joined the wiggling throng of people all of whom moved with such grace and rhythm, age being no barrier. I towered above everybody on the dance floor and received some very odd looks but most smiled at me and my attempt to wiggle away with the rest of them. Such a happy occasion. The only person who did not appear to be all smiles was the surly faced bride who scurried around distributing presents and generally looking preoccupied. I returned to the table to find more beers had arrived and decided it was time to bow ought gracefully. Another dance and then bed. I excused and extracted myself from a hopeful Christian and retired at the reasonable hour of 3.00 leaving the party in full swing and Laurel and Hardy sitting on their stools toasting one another and giggling.
The next day I bid farewell to Montanita figuring that I'd pretty much drained it of its attractions, the wedding being a hard one to beat. I bussed it back to Guayaquil, accompanied by Christian whom I shook off at the bus station and taxied it to my hostel to try and figure out where I was planning on going next. Christian had mentioned Banos as a place worth a visit and a quick browse in a nice Australian girl's LP settled it. I was heading north and back up into altitude again. Ecuador is not a big country and I reckoned that I could probably have a fairly good shot at seeing some of its sights before flying back to Lima in a week so off I set.
Relaxing week for me on a beach? Apparently not.
Wednesday, November 07, 2007
PERU, Lima, Wednesday 7th November
In a tinny, clattering chaos, Lima reared its head from the cloud of overcast smog as we trundled towards it in the jostling stream of shabby traffic. I emerged from the bus depot and picked out a yellow taxi (supposedly the legit. ones, although mine was more a shade of home-painted orange) from the throng attempting to get me, and my bag, into their back seats.
We made our way towards Miraflores, the smart part of town, along a duel carriageway that acts as a main vein for traffic to and from the centre of the city. Sloping grass banks mown into advertisements and large billboards lined the roads. Back in a big city...
Lima looks to be one of those cities where growth has taken it by surprise and consequently sprawls outwards in a tumbling chaos of concrete and wiring.
Only when I ventured into the very centre of the city did I find some grand, ornate Spanish architecture.
I arrived yesterday half deaf after the dramatic drop in altitude from around 2,000m to sea level. From rustic, rural calm to fume-filled mania. But I am a city girl and rather enjoy big, noisy, smoky metropolises for some reason. I like the challenge of digging out their treasures.
My hostel, Flying Dog, greeted me warmly and I settled in. Miraflores is an area full of hostels, cafes, bars, restaurants and shopping centres. Smart Lima-dwellers (Limainans?!) strut or sip coffee and it feels safe after dark, thanks to the abundance of out door cafes brightly lit.
Today I taxied it into the centre. We battled through the traffic and finally a building not resembling a concrete shoe box appeared, as we passed a large corrugated-iron construction site which promised to be the new, shiny Estacion Central.
From the PLaza San Martin, banked on all sides by serious, grand stone buildings, I dodged the attentions of a beaming business man and went down the pedestrianised shopping street towards the Plaza de Armas and running the gauntlet of young men offering me tattoos, piercings, grass or charly and, failing that, just trying to talk to me.
Tucan, it turns out, are arriving in Lima early, so I left a note at their hotel arranging to meet them later. Carla is a Lima girl born and bred and I jump at the chance for a nocturnal tour of the city with a local.
I then joined the throngs in the Plaza de Armas and hopped into the Cathedral for some peace and quiet. The decor in the Cathedral was that of a calmer Spanish Catholicism than of that in Cusco. There was, of course, the usual gilt and colour but set in a cooler, high arched modesty. There was also some impressive carved wood to counteract the sparkle.
I composed this blog sitting in a smart cafe in Miraflores, served to me by a very genteel old waiter. It was my 3rd cafe con leche of the day and it has made me jittery. Time for another wander methinks...
In a tinny, clattering chaos, Lima reared its head from the cloud of overcast smog as we trundled towards it in the jostling stream of shabby traffic. I emerged from the bus depot and picked out a yellow taxi (supposedly the legit. ones, although mine was more a shade of home-painted orange) from the throng attempting to get me, and my bag, into their back seats.
We made our way towards Miraflores, the smart part of town, along a duel carriageway that acts as a main vein for traffic to and from the centre of the city. Sloping grass banks mown into advertisements and large billboards lined the roads. Back in a big city...
Lima looks to be one of those cities where growth has taken it by surprise and consequently sprawls outwards in a tumbling chaos of concrete and wiring.
Only when I ventured into the very centre of the city did I find some grand, ornate Spanish architecture.
I arrived yesterday half deaf after the dramatic drop in altitude from around 2,000m to sea level. From rustic, rural calm to fume-filled mania. But I am a city girl and rather enjoy big, noisy, smoky metropolises for some reason. I like the challenge of digging out their treasures.
My hostel, Flying Dog, greeted me warmly and I settled in. Miraflores is an area full of hostels, cafes, bars, restaurants and shopping centres. Smart Lima-dwellers (Limainans?!) strut or sip coffee and it feels safe after dark, thanks to the abundance of out door cafes brightly lit.
Today I taxied it into the centre. We battled through the traffic and finally a building not resembling a concrete shoe box appeared, as we passed a large corrugated-iron construction site which promised to be the new, shiny Estacion Central.
From the PLaza San Martin, banked on all sides by serious, grand stone buildings, I dodged the attentions of a beaming business man and went down the pedestrianised shopping street towards the Plaza de Armas and running the gauntlet of young men offering me tattoos, piercings, grass or charly and, failing that, just trying to talk to me.
Tucan, it turns out, are arriving in Lima early, so I left a note at their hotel arranging to meet them later. Carla is a Lima girl born and bred and I jump at the chance for a nocturnal tour of the city with a local.
I then joined the throngs in the Plaza de Armas and hopped into the Cathedral for some peace and quiet. The decor in the Cathedral was that of a calmer Spanish Catholicism than of that in Cusco. There was, of course, the usual gilt and colour but set in a cooler, high arched modesty. There was also some impressive carved wood to counteract the sparkle.
I composed this blog sitting in a smart cafe in Miraflores, served to me by a very genteel old waiter. It was my 3rd cafe con leche of the day and it has made me jittery. Time for another wander methinks...
Monday, November 05, 2007
PERU, Cusco and into the Highlands, Monday 5th November
Well my last days in Cusco flew by in a blur of dinners, bars, clubs and churches. Yes, in that order. After a dinner of alpaca (yummy and very healthy meat), we took off to th Irish Pub which was an inappropriate but convenient starting point for my farwell jaunt about town. We did the usual tour of clubs, I danced on the bar, again, the owner dressed up, again, I found my GAP friends and a good time was had by all. I finished off the night doing a salsa dance-off with a tour guide called Manuel.
The following day I waved off Carla, John, Daniel, Laurie, Dwain, Christine, Lina and Diana feeling elated to be master once more of my own destiny.
I checked out of the 3 star hotel and into Loki Hostel and went to have a wander about some of the many churches set in and around the many plazas in Cusco.
San Blas is a small church in a quiet plaza in one of the many slippery cobbled streets above the Plaza de Armas, populated with cheesy art shops, a solemn-faced man dressed as an Inca and numerous women and children in traditional garb dragging llamas and lambs into the paths of the tourists offering "Photo? Photo?"
The church is famous because of its magnificently carved pulpit, attributed in local ledged to Juan Tomás Tuyro Tupaq a Quechuan leper who prayed for a cure for his illness. The prayer was answered and the grateful Quechuans donated the pulpit without receiving payment for it. It is very ornate, depicting sombre saints mid-prayer or sermon, around which entwine a fluid mass of foliage. Interestingly, bunches of grapes hang from the chins of faces that resemble Inca Gods, which gives a funny juxtaposition to the pious imagery above.
The dark, heavy wood is a welcome relief from all the fandangle and bling that adorns the churches here. I sat in a pew and was almost blinded by all the shiny silver, gold gilt and clutter of colourful models of deities perched on all surfaces.
The same goes for the main cathedral which is cluttered with little shrines, the figures of some of them sinisterly up-lit, adding a touch of Victorian Gothic nightmare to the scene.
What is worth seeing in the Cathedral, however, and why I went, is the depicment of The Last Supper. Rather subversively, a roasted guinea pig is planted in the middle of their feast, as a nod and a wink to a known Peruvian delicacy.
I passed a quiet night in my hostel enjoying the surrounding buzz of backpackers and the easy chat to be had (the main focus of which being the Inca Trail).
Yesterday morning I was up at 5.00am and on a bus bound for Andahuylas, deep in the Central Highlands of Peru. I had originally planned to stop there for the night but discovered that I had inadvertently bought a ticket right through to Ayacucho, so thought I might as well save on a hostel bill and push through the full 24 hour journey.
The first leg was 11 hours. That took us through endless scenes of rolling hills and valleys patch-worked with dry-looking fields manned by whole families, still wearing traditional dress, tending horses, sheep and cows and struggling to prevent excited dogs from hurling themselves at the buses wheels as we passed.
The road went from being paved to a dirt track that wound its way around the hillsides along, sometimes alarmingly close to the cliff´s edge that was already a loosened avalanche of stone and earth, just waiting to happen pulling half the hill side, and us, down with it. I concentrated hard on keeping the bus on the road (an irrational exercise but unavoidable I find) and tried not to notice the little white crosses, set at the side of the road, marking accidents of those who had not been so lucky.
I was thankfully distracted by my travel companions: A Peruvian woman and her little one-year-old girl who was a gorgeous little bundle of fluffy, grubby, sweetly smelly, big-eyed, chubby-cheeked cuteness, who played contentedly with my bracelets, stole my water, climbed onto my lap as her mother slept and generally entertained herself by entertaining me. She was unfazed by the cliff so so was I.
We stopped for a hour at Andahuylas, a farming town (gathered by the endless shops selling fertiliser) but also in possession of a university. It is the only main(ish) town for some 7 hours so, consequently, holds itself to be rather important.
Whilst loitering in the bus yard (to call it a station would be grossly inaccurate) hunting in vain for something safe other than pork scratchings to eat, I got talking to a woman who´s son is living in Oxford. Well, I think that's what she said, my Spanish ain't great but I am thankful for a chance to practice and kill some time.
At 7.00pm I was on bus bound for Ayacucho, another 11 hour journey. This started pleasantly enough until I was awoken by the lights being switched on as 2 men, in civilian clothes with large semi-automatic shot guns boarded. Oh Goody. I prayed that the Lonely Planet was right when it said that terrorist power within the region was broken in the 1990s. One of the men, a huge guy who spilled over his seat, was put next to me where he presided Buddha-like for the rest of the journey, eyes half close, shot gun firmly in his lap. Of course, for the rest of the journey, in my angst riddled head, every unexplained stop in the middle of no here (and there were several) was some kind of guerrilla hold-up.
We arrived in one piece, however, and I was pleased to see the men depart on the outskirts of Ayacucho, cheerfully waving their revolvers (until then hidden) in salute as they saunter off.
I was much relieved to arrive at the bus terminal and took a taxi to my kitch but friendly hotel, who kindly accepted me at 5.30am in the morning, lead me without question to a clean room with a bathroom, with no mention at having to pay an extra night for checking in so early. Bless them.
I fell asleep, exhausted and arose a few hours later to explore the town. It is a reasonably sized colonial town with plenty of Spanish trade-mark plazas and churches, bells a-jangling. Most of the cheerful colours in which the buildings were painted had chipped off revealing plaster or simply bare brick. Some of the more official-looking buildings looked well maintained but otherwise the streets remain gently scruffy. The Plaza de Armas, of course, was in good nick and still lined with elegant arched arcades. Pretty gardens and shady courtyards could be seen through open doorways, including that of the university, which looked neat, well kept and rather inviting.
Some of the shopping streets have been pedestrianised, saving you having to zig-zag your way through the honking motor taxis (autos/tuk-tuk, depending which country you´re in). There is a large corrugated iron-covered market by the hotel which I am able to watch from my comfy spot on the hotel´s roof-top balcony. The bustle of the town is efficient without being hectic and I have spent a luxurious day in the hot sunshine, battling with my fluey feeling (attributed to over exertion and dampness of the Inca Trail) poking about the streets, shops and plazas and then reclining on my balcony.
I am the only white face around, causing one little child to shout: "Mama! Una Gringa!" After the hordes of tourists in which I have been caugth in the last few weks, I find this satisfactory.
I was going to stop off at Huancayo on the way down to Lima but I am suddenly exhausted and thought 3 nights in one place and a chance to see a bit of the capital is appealing. So Lima it is. Another 8 hours on a bus and I will be able to come to a standstill, for a day or 2...
Well my last days in Cusco flew by in a blur of dinners, bars, clubs and churches. Yes, in that order. After a dinner of alpaca (yummy and very healthy meat), we took off to th Irish Pub which was an inappropriate but convenient starting point for my farwell jaunt about town. We did the usual tour of clubs, I danced on the bar, again, the owner dressed up, again, I found my GAP friends and a good time was had by all. I finished off the night doing a salsa dance-off with a tour guide called Manuel.
The following day I waved off Carla, John, Daniel, Laurie, Dwain, Christine, Lina and Diana feeling elated to be master once more of my own destiny.
I checked out of the 3 star hotel and into Loki Hostel and went to have a wander about some of the many churches set in and around the many plazas in Cusco.
San Blas is a small church in a quiet plaza in one of the many slippery cobbled streets above the Plaza de Armas, populated with cheesy art shops, a solemn-faced man dressed as an Inca and numerous women and children in traditional garb dragging llamas and lambs into the paths of the tourists offering "Photo? Photo?"
The church is famous because of its magnificently carved pulpit, attributed in local ledged to Juan Tomás Tuyro Tupaq a Quechuan leper who prayed for a cure for his illness. The prayer was answered and the grateful Quechuans donated the pulpit without receiving payment for it. It is very ornate, depicting sombre saints mid-prayer or sermon, around which entwine a fluid mass of foliage. Interestingly, bunches of grapes hang from the chins of faces that resemble Inca Gods, which gives a funny juxtaposition to the pious imagery above.
The dark, heavy wood is a welcome relief from all the fandangle and bling that adorns the churches here. I sat in a pew and was almost blinded by all the shiny silver, gold gilt and clutter of colourful models of deities perched on all surfaces.
The same goes for the main cathedral which is cluttered with little shrines, the figures of some of them sinisterly up-lit, adding a touch of Victorian Gothic nightmare to the scene.
What is worth seeing in the Cathedral, however, and why I went, is the depicment of The Last Supper. Rather subversively, a roasted guinea pig is planted in the middle of their feast, as a nod and a wink to a known Peruvian delicacy.
I passed a quiet night in my hostel enjoying the surrounding buzz of backpackers and the easy chat to be had (the main focus of which being the Inca Trail).
Yesterday morning I was up at 5.00am and on a bus bound for Andahuylas, deep in the Central Highlands of Peru. I had originally planned to stop there for the night but discovered that I had inadvertently bought a ticket right through to Ayacucho, so thought I might as well save on a hostel bill and push through the full 24 hour journey.
The first leg was 11 hours. That took us through endless scenes of rolling hills and valleys patch-worked with dry-looking fields manned by whole families, still wearing traditional dress, tending horses, sheep and cows and struggling to prevent excited dogs from hurling themselves at the buses wheels as we passed.
The road went from being paved to a dirt track that wound its way around the hillsides along, sometimes alarmingly close to the cliff´s edge that was already a loosened avalanche of stone and earth, just waiting to happen pulling half the hill side, and us, down with it. I concentrated hard on keeping the bus on the road (an irrational exercise but unavoidable I find) and tried not to notice the little white crosses, set at the side of the road, marking accidents of those who had not been so lucky.
I was thankfully distracted by my travel companions: A Peruvian woman and her little one-year-old girl who was a gorgeous little bundle of fluffy, grubby, sweetly smelly, big-eyed, chubby-cheeked cuteness, who played contentedly with my bracelets, stole my water, climbed onto my lap as her mother slept and generally entertained herself by entertaining me. She was unfazed by the cliff so so was I.
We stopped for a hour at Andahuylas, a farming town (gathered by the endless shops selling fertiliser) but also in possession of a university. It is the only main(ish) town for some 7 hours so, consequently, holds itself to be rather important.
Whilst loitering in the bus yard (to call it a station would be grossly inaccurate) hunting in vain for something safe other than pork scratchings to eat, I got talking to a woman who´s son is living in Oxford. Well, I think that's what she said, my Spanish ain't great but I am thankful for a chance to practice and kill some time.
At 7.00pm I was on bus bound for Ayacucho, another 11 hour journey. This started pleasantly enough until I was awoken by the lights being switched on as 2 men, in civilian clothes with large semi-automatic shot guns boarded. Oh Goody. I prayed that the Lonely Planet was right when it said that terrorist power within the region was broken in the 1990s. One of the men, a huge guy who spilled over his seat, was put next to me where he presided Buddha-like for the rest of the journey, eyes half close, shot gun firmly in his lap. Of course, for the rest of the journey, in my angst riddled head, every unexplained stop in the middle of no here (and there were several) was some kind of guerrilla hold-up.
We arrived in one piece, however, and I was pleased to see the men depart on the outskirts of Ayacucho, cheerfully waving their revolvers (until then hidden) in salute as they saunter off.
I was much relieved to arrive at the bus terminal and took a taxi to my kitch but friendly hotel, who kindly accepted me at 5.30am in the morning, lead me without question to a clean room with a bathroom, with no mention at having to pay an extra night for checking in so early. Bless them.
I fell asleep, exhausted and arose a few hours later to explore the town. It is a reasonably sized colonial town with plenty of Spanish trade-mark plazas and churches, bells a-jangling. Most of the cheerful colours in which the buildings were painted had chipped off revealing plaster or simply bare brick. Some of the more official-looking buildings looked well maintained but otherwise the streets remain gently scruffy. The Plaza de Armas, of course, was in good nick and still lined with elegant arched arcades. Pretty gardens and shady courtyards could be seen through open doorways, including that of the university, which looked neat, well kept and rather inviting.
Some of the shopping streets have been pedestrianised, saving you having to zig-zag your way through the honking motor taxis (autos/tuk-tuk, depending which country you´re in). There is a large corrugated iron-covered market by the hotel which I am able to watch from my comfy spot on the hotel´s roof-top balcony. The bustle of the town is efficient without being hectic and I have spent a luxurious day in the hot sunshine, battling with my fluey feeling (attributed to over exertion and dampness of the Inca Trail) poking about the streets, shops and plazas and then reclining on my balcony.
I am the only white face around, causing one little child to shout: "Mama! Una Gringa!" After the hordes of tourists in which I have been caugth in the last few weks, I find this satisfactory.
I was going to stop off at Huancayo on the way down to Lima but I am suddenly exhausted and thought 3 nights in one place and a chance to see a bit of the capital is appealing. So Lima it is. Another 8 hours on a bus and I will be able to come to a standstill, for a day or 2...
Friday, November 02, 2007
PERU, Machu Picchu, Friday 2nd November
Tummies full of banana pancakes, we set off to the official start of the Inca Trail where we met our 10 porters and one cook. All small, wiry, weather beaten looking Peruvian men with ages ranging from 19 to 40. They use portering as an addition to the merge living they make as farmers. With 25 kilos laden on their backs (they would carry more if the law did not forbid it) they run the Inca Trail bent double by their burdens. How sad and wrong it is that the descendents of the ones who built Machu Picchu should have to trace the foot steps of their ancestors in the service of the White Man. Something is wrong there and their presence was a constant and rather shaming reminder of the tragedy of colonialism.
Our guide, a former porter himself, was Wilfredo, a nice, kind faced man who had endeared himself to me by assuming, due to my Spanish accent that I was, in fact, of Spanish origin. He is an endless fountain of knowledge but also (and this seems to be rare for a guide) is interested in us, our countries and our backgrounds. He, I learned, is from a family of 10 and lives with his parents in Cusco. The porters were of families of similar sizes, this seems to be the norm.
The sun was shining as we set off and the going was easy so, swinging my walking stick, I struck on ahead relishing the chance to walk alone in the landscape.
Our path skirted a mountainside, above a valley populated by a few small farming communities. A river snaked through the valley alongside which chugged the train laden with tourists and bound for Machu Picchu. I didn´t envy them.
A hot, 3 course lunch was served to us in a tent. Melissa was beginning to struggle due to the exertion at altitudes to which she had not yet become accustomed and made her displeasure known loudly. Everyone else, however, was in good spirits, no blisters, no tantrums. So far, so good.
Camp was set up for us in a valley surrounded by fields (this part of the trail being populated still with farmers and their families), and over-shadowed by steep sloped, craggy mountainsides, the tops of which were concealed from us by a drifting blanket of thick white cloud that dribbled rain on us half heartedly.
Melissa announced that there was no way she would be using the toilet, being faced with a porcline-lined hole, and, I suppose, proposed to cross her legs for the next 3 days. Thankfully, I got the single tent and retired relieved to be at a safe distance from the wineing, to which I have a low tolerance.
Day 2 of the Inca Trail is famous for being the hardest thanks to the relentless 1,000m (approx) climb up steep, uneven stone Inca steps to the top of Dead Woman's Pass at 4200m above sea level. You then descend again into the next valley and the campsite.
At 7.00am, after a remarkably luxurious breakfast prepared by our genius cook Christabo, we began the climb. The first leg was relentlessly uphill but mercifully lacking in steps, for which we all came to develop a mortal fear, and I skipped up with relative ease. We soon fell into formation spread along the Trail amidst other groups. I was in front with Laurie and Dwain (aged 45 and 48) hot on my heals, Christine and Diana (both in their 30s) were usually around 10/15 minutes behind, Lina (also 30 something) around 15 minutes behind them and Melissa (26) bringing up the rear, often as much as 40 minutes behind us and egged on by Wilfredo who has a lot of experience at dealing with straggling, mutineers and deserters. Age, it would seem, bares no relation to your success on the Trail and Wilfredo said that his oldest hikers were in their 80s! They made it, but many don´t. Whole groups have been known to turn back declaring that on one mentioned that they´d have to climb to get to Machu Picchu... One woman became hysterical 20 minutes from Machu Picchu´s Sun Gate and refused to take another step, having already hiked for 3 days. People are sick, people collapse and people drop dead. There are no helipads on route and once up those steps on the 2nd day you would have to rely on porters to carry you out. If no steps are involved then horses or donkeys might be employed but basically you can forget a speedy exit. In short, don´t hike the Inca Trail if you have a weak heart and don´t injur yourself on route. Most people, both young and old, do make it. Huffing and puffing, with tears and tantrums but they get there. The porters, it would appear, are super-human.
Ever upwards, higher and higher, we climbed, walking first though jungle and then along a steep path cut into the side of the mountain, following the sharp line of the valley below, and leading up towards the Pass. Once at the Pass, Laurie, Dwain and I joined the ecstatic masses who were rejoicing in their success and cheering along those still climbing. We were lucky, the clouds were low but we still got a spectacular view of the valley, the Trail weaving in and out of sight, dotted with slow-moving, ant-like hikers and porters, the latter being deciferable by their huge packs, often the same size as them, landen with chairs, food, tents and other equipment.
There was then the hour-long desent via endless steps into the next valley and our campsite. I had just got into my tent when the patchy rain took on the form of somthing altogether more serious and bucketed down on Lina, Melissa and Wilfredo, still somewhere on the Trail. Laurie, Dwain, Christine, Diana and I sat huddled in the meal tent sipping hot soup and coca tea wondering sypathetically about the others and, less sympathetically, taking bets on how late they would be.
Day 3 began with feeling of discontent. Laurie and Dwain´s tent had leaked during the night soaking them, their bags and their sleeping bags meaning a restless night and a grumpy morning. When paired with the leaking inflatable sleeping mat it was clear that Tucan ought to spend more time and money... Grrr.
The rain of the night before became a distant memory, however, as we hiked along with ever clearer and clearer weather.
Clouds had an amazing habit at of descending with such speed that the Inca ruins on the mountain opposite could be clearly visible one minute and then vanish in a white-out within seconds. The white-outs were displaced just as quickly and we snapped away with speed at what we could while we could see it. After another steep climb, we passed the remains of Inca settlements and check posts before plunging into jungle that became increasingly more tropical. After lunch was the most beautiful part of the Trail. Relavitely flat, the path wound on up and down, cutting tunnels through the rocks, with a sheer drop on one side and a moutain on the other covered in prehistoric, waterlogged moss and ferns dripping water on us as we passed.
We reached the summit of our last big hill and looked down on the town Aguas Calientes. From another Inca check point we could see Machu Picchu mountain and just about make out the Sun Gate. More terraces could be seen from our vantage point too and with light hearts we started the 2 hour descent down steep, narrow, uneven Inca steps that require the utmost concentration to save you from falling and breaking your neck. Porters run down in order to maintiain balance, or something like that, and passed us cheerfully, happy in the knowledge that the end was in sight.
The final campsite before Machu Picchu is very smart, with a bar and showers (if you care to wait for 3 hours) and so we dumped our stuff and went straight up for a well earned cervesa over looking the valley, thunder clouds gathering and rumbling ominously above.
Ever since the Fetish party I have been accompanied by 2 new friends who belong to a large group who are travlling with GAP. I have bumped into them repeatedly on the Trail and found them again in the bar dressed up in silly wigs for Halloween. They are a young, fun bunch of people and I have semi adopted them as a respite for the more 'sensible' members of my group who don´t like loud music and generally are in bed by 11.00. A few drinks with them and plans made for festivities back in Cusco.
It was our last night with our porters and an extra special meal, if such a thing is possible, was provided accompanied by pisco sours. We bought them a round of beers, which was recieved with much applause, and attempted stilted conversations with them in Spanish, teasing the younger ones who blushed at being in the presence of so many young blonds. We presented their tip envelopes individually and sung them the Birdy Song, much to their amazment. They were silent for a few moments and then attempted to copy it. We twittered around in the drizzling darkness outside our tents flapping our elbows and hopping up and down with much laughter. They then sang us a song and grabbed us up for the Wino (traditional dance of Peru, basically a side step to and fro holding hands with your partner) we all embraced, were swung around a bit more and then departed en masse to the bar.
After all this we were still in bed by 9.30pm. Early early starts the next day...
We were awoken at 3.30am by eager porters keen to get our tents down and be off in time for the 1st train back to Cusco. Christabo still managed to produce scrambled eggs on toast. We felt our way in the darkness to the entrance to Machu Picchu and settled ourselves down, the 1st in line, to await its opening at 5.30.
By 5.35 I was striding through the jugle at top speed totally alone in the early morning and excited, determind not to let anyone over take me. I wanted to get to the Sun Gate 1st. I emmerged out of the jungle at the Sun Gate and got my first glimpse of Machu Picchu appearing in the distance in the morning mist. I was supposed to wait for the others but seeing that path winding along the mountian side nicely deserted, I couldn´t resist it and plunged on ahead past another holy sight where people still make little offerings of coca leaves etc, and on to our destination.
The main gates had been open for some time by the time I rounded a corner and came face to face with Machu Pichu. 2 Argentinian women regarded me with surprise as I huffed out of the jungle appearing, apparently from no where looking desidely dishevelled. I explained I´d hiked for 4 days and they cooed with surprise and congratulations, eyeing my grubby clothes and unkempt appearance from eyes neatly decorated with eye shadow and face framed with gold earrings. I thought I´d better wait for the rest of my group before I started whooping and doing carwheels so I went to pass the time with a llama who was picturesquly grazing on a terrace.
I climbed up to get a proper look at Machu Picchu below and it had vanished in a blanket of thick thick cloud through which you could make out nothing. Groups of tourists sat patiently facing the white-out which just began to clear as the rest of the Inca Trailers arrived cheering and hugging each other. Elated after our pilgramage and Machu Picchu making a dramatic entrance through the clouds as if appearing on a stage set once the dry ice settles, posed for photographs and congratulated each other.
People from Aquas Calientes were already streaming in and it wouldn´t be long before the whole site would be swamped by tourists. We entered from the main entrance, stopping briefly to use proper loos (very exciting) and embarked on a 2 hour tour directed by Wilfredo who showed us the main temple, the ingenious irrigation systems and main house complete with flushing loo. Much has been restored and some of the houses have even been re-roofed with straw to give you a sense of what it would have looked like.
The mountiain of Wynapicchu towers over Machu Picchu and, if climbed, offers the famous ariel view displaying the shape of the condor. Totally exhausted but not to be out done by a mountain I climbed more steep, stone Inca steps that take you straight up, sometimes having to haul myself up on the wire ropes provided. This wasn´t hiking, it was climbing. Plenty of people were doing it, however, including many grey haired folk. Amazing really. I squeezed between rocks and climbed ladders to the very top where I was photographed by one of my GAP friends, perched on a rock hanging over Machu Picchu. Feeling extremely pleased with myself I made my cautoius way back down again with 2 Columbian gentlemen discussing Gabriel Garcia Marquez, what else?
Once back on solid earth I was worn out and people were beginning to stream in off the train from Cusco. Time to go. I ate an ice cream, sipped a coke and then borded the bus to the very comercially minded town of Aguas Calientes, built, it would seem, purly to accomadate the hoards of tourists on route to and from Machu Picchu. We all met in a restaurant and celebrated with beer before making our weary way back to Cusco via bus and train.
Hot showers, a qick dinner and we all passed out exhausted but happy. We did it.
Tonight is my last night with the group before they head off to Arequipa and I head off in the direction of Ayacucho in the Highlands. I have arrangements with my GAP crew too so a jolly night is anticipated. Before that, however, I have to move myself into a hostel. Something I´m rather looking forward to. I've missed being a backpacker and am excited for my final backpacking adventure. Home in 3 weeks!
Tummies full of banana pancakes, we set off to the official start of the Inca Trail where we met our 10 porters and one cook. All small, wiry, weather beaten looking Peruvian men with ages ranging from 19 to 40. They use portering as an addition to the merge living they make as farmers. With 25 kilos laden on their backs (they would carry more if the law did not forbid it) they run the Inca Trail bent double by their burdens. How sad and wrong it is that the descendents of the ones who built Machu Picchu should have to trace the foot steps of their ancestors in the service of the White Man. Something is wrong there and their presence was a constant and rather shaming reminder of the tragedy of colonialism.
Our guide, a former porter himself, was Wilfredo, a nice, kind faced man who had endeared himself to me by assuming, due to my Spanish accent that I was, in fact, of Spanish origin. He is an endless fountain of knowledge but also (and this seems to be rare for a guide) is interested in us, our countries and our backgrounds. He, I learned, is from a family of 10 and lives with his parents in Cusco. The porters were of families of similar sizes, this seems to be the norm.
The sun was shining as we set off and the going was easy so, swinging my walking stick, I struck on ahead relishing the chance to walk alone in the landscape.
Our path skirted a mountainside, above a valley populated by a few small farming communities. A river snaked through the valley alongside which chugged the train laden with tourists and bound for Machu Picchu. I didn´t envy them.
A hot, 3 course lunch was served to us in a tent. Melissa was beginning to struggle due to the exertion at altitudes to which she had not yet become accustomed and made her displeasure known loudly. Everyone else, however, was in good spirits, no blisters, no tantrums. So far, so good.
Camp was set up for us in a valley surrounded by fields (this part of the trail being populated still with farmers and their families), and over-shadowed by steep sloped, craggy mountainsides, the tops of which were concealed from us by a drifting blanket of thick white cloud that dribbled rain on us half heartedly.
Melissa announced that there was no way she would be using the toilet, being faced with a porcline-lined hole, and, I suppose, proposed to cross her legs for the next 3 days. Thankfully, I got the single tent and retired relieved to be at a safe distance from the wineing, to which I have a low tolerance.
Day 2 of the Inca Trail is famous for being the hardest thanks to the relentless 1,000m (approx) climb up steep, uneven stone Inca steps to the top of Dead Woman's Pass at 4200m above sea level. You then descend again into the next valley and the campsite.
At 7.00am, after a remarkably luxurious breakfast prepared by our genius cook Christabo, we began the climb. The first leg was relentlessly uphill but mercifully lacking in steps, for which we all came to develop a mortal fear, and I skipped up with relative ease. We soon fell into formation spread along the Trail amidst other groups. I was in front with Laurie and Dwain (aged 45 and 48) hot on my heals, Christine and Diana (both in their 30s) were usually around 10/15 minutes behind, Lina (also 30 something) around 15 minutes behind them and Melissa (26) bringing up the rear, often as much as 40 minutes behind us and egged on by Wilfredo who has a lot of experience at dealing with straggling, mutineers and deserters. Age, it would seem, bares no relation to your success on the Trail and Wilfredo said that his oldest hikers were in their 80s! They made it, but many don´t. Whole groups have been known to turn back declaring that on one mentioned that they´d have to climb to get to Machu Picchu... One woman became hysterical 20 minutes from Machu Picchu´s Sun Gate and refused to take another step, having already hiked for 3 days. People are sick, people collapse and people drop dead. There are no helipads on route and once up those steps on the 2nd day you would have to rely on porters to carry you out. If no steps are involved then horses or donkeys might be employed but basically you can forget a speedy exit. In short, don´t hike the Inca Trail if you have a weak heart and don´t injur yourself on route. Most people, both young and old, do make it. Huffing and puffing, with tears and tantrums but they get there. The porters, it would appear, are super-human.
Ever upwards, higher and higher, we climbed, walking first though jungle and then along a steep path cut into the side of the mountain, following the sharp line of the valley below, and leading up towards the Pass. Once at the Pass, Laurie, Dwain and I joined the ecstatic masses who were rejoicing in their success and cheering along those still climbing. We were lucky, the clouds were low but we still got a spectacular view of the valley, the Trail weaving in and out of sight, dotted with slow-moving, ant-like hikers and porters, the latter being deciferable by their huge packs, often the same size as them, landen with chairs, food, tents and other equipment.
There was then the hour-long desent via endless steps into the next valley and our campsite. I had just got into my tent when the patchy rain took on the form of somthing altogether more serious and bucketed down on Lina, Melissa and Wilfredo, still somewhere on the Trail. Laurie, Dwain, Christine, Diana and I sat huddled in the meal tent sipping hot soup and coca tea wondering sypathetically about the others and, less sympathetically, taking bets on how late they would be.
Day 3 began with feeling of discontent. Laurie and Dwain´s tent had leaked during the night soaking them, their bags and their sleeping bags meaning a restless night and a grumpy morning. When paired with the leaking inflatable sleeping mat it was clear that Tucan ought to spend more time and money... Grrr.
The rain of the night before became a distant memory, however, as we hiked along with ever clearer and clearer weather.
Clouds had an amazing habit at of descending with such speed that the Inca ruins on the mountain opposite could be clearly visible one minute and then vanish in a white-out within seconds. The white-outs were displaced just as quickly and we snapped away with speed at what we could while we could see it. After another steep climb, we passed the remains of Inca settlements and check posts before plunging into jungle that became increasingly more tropical. After lunch was the most beautiful part of the Trail. Relavitely flat, the path wound on up and down, cutting tunnels through the rocks, with a sheer drop on one side and a moutain on the other covered in prehistoric, waterlogged moss and ferns dripping water on us as we passed.
We reached the summit of our last big hill and looked down on the town Aguas Calientes. From another Inca check point we could see Machu Picchu mountain and just about make out the Sun Gate. More terraces could be seen from our vantage point too and with light hearts we started the 2 hour descent down steep, narrow, uneven Inca steps that require the utmost concentration to save you from falling and breaking your neck. Porters run down in order to maintiain balance, or something like that, and passed us cheerfully, happy in the knowledge that the end was in sight.
The final campsite before Machu Picchu is very smart, with a bar and showers (if you care to wait for 3 hours) and so we dumped our stuff and went straight up for a well earned cervesa over looking the valley, thunder clouds gathering and rumbling ominously above.
Ever since the Fetish party I have been accompanied by 2 new friends who belong to a large group who are travlling with GAP. I have bumped into them repeatedly on the Trail and found them again in the bar dressed up in silly wigs for Halloween. They are a young, fun bunch of people and I have semi adopted them as a respite for the more 'sensible' members of my group who don´t like loud music and generally are in bed by 11.00. A few drinks with them and plans made for festivities back in Cusco.
It was our last night with our porters and an extra special meal, if such a thing is possible, was provided accompanied by pisco sours. We bought them a round of beers, which was recieved with much applause, and attempted stilted conversations with them in Spanish, teasing the younger ones who blushed at being in the presence of so many young blonds. We presented their tip envelopes individually and sung them the Birdy Song, much to their amazment. They were silent for a few moments and then attempted to copy it. We twittered around in the drizzling darkness outside our tents flapping our elbows and hopping up and down with much laughter. They then sang us a song and grabbed us up for the Wino (traditional dance of Peru, basically a side step to and fro holding hands with your partner) we all embraced, were swung around a bit more and then departed en masse to the bar.
After all this we were still in bed by 9.30pm. Early early starts the next day...
We were awoken at 3.30am by eager porters keen to get our tents down and be off in time for the 1st train back to Cusco. Christabo still managed to produce scrambled eggs on toast. We felt our way in the darkness to the entrance to Machu Picchu and settled ourselves down, the 1st in line, to await its opening at 5.30.
By 5.35 I was striding through the jugle at top speed totally alone in the early morning and excited, determind not to let anyone over take me. I wanted to get to the Sun Gate 1st. I emmerged out of the jungle at the Sun Gate and got my first glimpse of Machu Picchu appearing in the distance in the morning mist. I was supposed to wait for the others but seeing that path winding along the mountian side nicely deserted, I couldn´t resist it and plunged on ahead past another holy sight where people still make little offerings of coca leaves etc, and on to our destination.
The main gates had been open for some time by the time I rounded a corner and came face to face with Machu Pichu. 2 Argentinian women regarded me with surprise as I huffed out of the jungle appearing, apparently from no where looking desidely dishevelled. I explained I´d hiked for 4 days and they cooed with surprise and congratulations, eyeing my grubby clothes and unkempt appearance from eyes neatly decorated with eye shadow and face framed with gold earrings. I thought I´d better wait for the rest of my group before I started whooping and doing carwheels so I went to pass the time with a llama who was picturesquly grazing on a terrace.
I climbed up to get a proper look at Machu Picchu below and it had vanished in a blanket of thick thick cloud through which you could make out nothing. Groups of tourists sat patiently facing the white-out which just began to clear as the rest of the Inca Trailers arrived cheering and hugging each other. Elated after our pilgramage and Machu Picchu making a dramatic entrance through the clouds as if appearing on a stage set once the dry ice settles, posed for photographs and congratulated each other.
People from Aquas Calientes were already streaming in and it wouldn´t be long before the whole site would be swamped by tourists. We entered from the main entrance, stopping briefly to use proper loos (very exciting) and embarked on a 2 hour tour directed by Wilfredo who showed us the main temple, the ingenious irrigation systems and main house complete with flushing loo. Much has been restored and some of the houses have even been re-roofed with straw to give you a sense of what it would have looked like.
The mountiain of Wynapicchu towers over Machu Picchu and, if climbed, offers the famous ariel view displaying the shape of the condor. Totally exhausted but not to be out done by a mountain I climbed more steep, stone Inca steps that take you straight up, sometimes having to haul myself up on the wire ropes provided. This wasn´t hiking, it was climbing. Plenty of people were doing it, however, including many grey haired folk. Amazing really. I squeezed between rocks and climbed ladders to the very top where I was photographed by one of my GAP friends, perched on a rock hanging over Machu Picchu. Feeling extremely pleased with myself I made my cautoius way back down again with 2 Columbian gentlemen discussing Gabriel Garcia Marquez, what else?
Once back on solid earth I was worn out and people were beginning to stream in off the train from Cusco. Time to go. I ate an ice cream, sipped a coke and then borded the bus to the very comercially minded town of Aguas Calientes, built, it would seem, purly to accomadate the hoards of tourists on route to and from Machu Picchu. We all met in a restaurant and celebrated with beer before making our weary way back to Cusco via bus and train.
Hot showers, a qick dinner and we all passed out exhausted but happy. We did it.
Tonight is my last night with the group before they head off to Arequipa and I head off in the direction of Ayacucho in the Highlands. I have arrangements with my GAP crew too so a jolly night is anticipated. Before that, however, I have to move myself into a hostel. Something I´m rather looking forward to. I've missed being a backpacker and am excited for my final backpacking adventure. Home in 3 weeks!
PERU, Cusco & Sacred Valley, Friday 2nd November
Machu Picchu - Old Mountain. The only town not to be discovered and destroyed by the Spanish during their destructive ransacking of the Incas and their culture. Set on a mountain at about 2350 it is set high on a mountain and was surrounded and concealed by dense jungle. The Spanish arrived in Peru during a time of Civil War within the Incas. Consequently there were many betrayals and the last Inca strong-hold Cota Coca was destroyed. They never found Machu Picchu, however because it is possible that it had already been deserted. No signs of life were discovered, such as ceramic pottery or other day to day articles so perhaps it had been evacuated.
Hiram Bingham was the lucky guy to stumble upon Machu Picchu in 1911 while looking for other Inca settlements in the jungle. Since then it sprang to world wide fame as a mystical city in the clouds and I dread to think how many flock there per year now.
We were due to start our Inca Trail, following the ancient paths and stone steps built by the Incas for means of travel for (Incas only) to Machu Picchu, on Monday but we warmed up with the Sacred Valley on Sunday to get us in the mood. We visited Sacsay Huaman (pronounced Sexy Woman), a holy sight over looking Cusco. What remains, after the Spanish went to work, is the vast boulders (slotted together using the same means as the Egyptians) that formed the base of the temples. The structure is set on 3 levels representing the 3 tires of existence in which they believed: The middle world (this life and depicted as a Puma), the under world (the after life represented by a snake) and the plane of enlightenment represented by a condor. Animal shapes such as llamas (representing fertility and prosperity) can be found in the shapes of the rocks. People, including the ancestors of the Incas, if such a thing exists, are still baffled by how they managed to move these huge rocks into position from the neighbouring mountain.
From there we stopped off at a llama and alpaca farm to see these curious animals with their long, shaggy dread locks and comical human-like expressions of complacent good-humour. That is until they spit at you... There was, of course, plenty of opportunities to buy the hand woven fabrics dyed using natural dies which for once as apposed to the vibrant synthetic ones of which they are so fond.
Within the Sacred Valley is the little town of Pisac with a large bustling market selling tourist souvenirs and local produce. Before settling there for lunch, we drove up the mountain to the ancient farming terraces that offered a spectacular view of the valley below. The valleys are usually a sharp V-shape, leaving little room for farming and forcing the inhabitants to utilise the steep slopes for extra farm land.
We finished the day at Ollatambo (a small Inca town of mud brick houses, some with straw roofs) where we had a little warm up walk to the remains of the temple set on the mountain above the town. Across from the ruins, a huge human face juts out from the mountainside resembling a bearded white man said to be the protector of the Incas. They worshiped a long time before the Spanish ever set foot on the scene and, needless to say, they took shameless advantage of this fortunate coincidence in their likeness. From our vantage point we could also make out the shape of a llama in which the town was built. The Incas often built towns in the shape of an animal they held to be important. Cusco is built in the shape of a puma and Machu Picchu in the shape of a condor.
Ollatambo was celebrating its anniversary and the main plaza was filled with music and people dancing in traditional costumes. Tempting as it was to partake in the festivities, I was rather tired from the Fetish party the night before and we all went early to bed in anticipation of the start of our Inca Trail the following morning.
Machu Picchu - Old Mountain. The only town not to be discovered and destroyed by the Spanish during their destructive ransacking of the Incas and their culture. Set on a mountain at about 2350 it is set high on a mountain and was surrounded and concealed by dense jungle. The Spanish arrived in Peru during a time of Civil War within the Incas. Consequently there were many betrayals and the last Inca strong-hold Cota Coca was destroyed. They never found Machu Picchu, however because it is possible that it had already been deserted. No signs of life were discovered, such as ceramic pottery or other day to day articles so perhaps it had been evacuated.
Hiram Bingham was the lucky guy to stumble upon Machu Picchu in 1911 while looking for other Inca settlements in the jungle. Since then it sprang to world wide fame as a mystical city in the clouds and I dread to think how many flock there per year now.
We were due to start our Inca Trail, following the ancient paths and stone steps built by the Incas for means of travel for (Incas only) to Machu Picchu, on Monday but we warmed up with the Sacred Valley on Sunday to get us in the mood. We visited Sacsay Huaman (pronounced Sexy Woman), a holy sight over looking Cusco. What remains, after the Spanish went to work, is the vast boulders (slotted together using the same means as the Egyptians) that formed the base of the temples. The structure is set on 3 levels representing the 3 tires of existence in which they believed: The middle world (this life and depicted as a Puma), the under world (the after life represented by a snake) and the plane of enlightenment represented by a condor. Animal shapes such as llamas (representing fertility and prosperity) can be found in the shapes of the rocks. People, including the ancestors of the Incas, if such a thing exists, are still baffled by how they managed to move these huge rocks into position from the neighbouring mountain.
From there we stopped off at a llama and alpaca farm to see these curious animals with their long, shaggy dread locks and comical human-like expressions of complacent good-humour. That is until they spit at you... There was, of course, plenty of opportunities to buy the hand woven fabrics dyed using natural dies which for once as apposed to the vibrant synthetic ones of which they are so fond.
Within the Sacred Valley is the little town of Pisac with a large bustling market selling tourist souvenirs and local produce. Before settling there for lunch, we drove up the mountain to the ancient farming terraces that offered a spectacular view of the valley below. The valleys are usually a sharp V-shape, leaving little room for farming and forcing the inhabitants to utilise the steep slopes for extra farm land.
We finished the day at Ollatambo (a small Inca town of mud brick houses, some with straw roofs) where we had a little warm up walk to the remains of the temple set on the mountain above the town. Across from the ruins, a huge human face juts out from the mountainside resembling a bearded white man said to be the protector of the Incas. They worshiped a long time before the Spanish ever set foot on the scene and, needless to say, they took shameless advantage of this fortunate coincidence in their likeness. From our vantage point we could also make out the shape of a llama in which the town was built. The Incas often built towns in the shape of an animal they held to be important. Cusco is built in the shape of a puma and Machu Picchu in the shape of a condor.
Ollatambo was celebrating its anniversary and the main plaza was filled with music and people dancing in traditional costumes. Tempting as it was to partake in the festivities, I was rather tired from the Fetish party the night before and we all went early to bed in anticipation of the start of our Inca Trail the following morning.
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