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...