Various Adventures - Part I
Group Email- 31/07
My Dear Friends,
Since I last wrote you --also from Cuzco, I believe-- I have had an infinite number of excuses as to why I was too busy (etc.) to sit down and write this email. Today, I do not.
I am currently staying at a hostel as sticky as a spider web, where there are far too many parties, not enough hot water, and an endless dizzying rotation of people. Three days ago was Independence Day, last night I sat on a bean bag chair next to a drunk Frenchman, watching a very very pirated copy of Pirates of the Caribbean, and today I walked into a protest and stumbled through a cloud of pepper spray. As these are some of the least interesting anecdotes of the last few weeks, I fear this email will have to be broken up into three parts, in an attempt to fit it all in:
*
The guide leading the group on the Inca Trail was named Freddy. "Not Frederique, not Frederico- Freddy!" He was short and stocky (like most of the people here) and smiled so much my cheeks hurt just looking at him. Even more amusing was his habit of referring to everyone collectively as ¨Family¨, at least once per sentence.
I, however, was not doing the Inca Trail, but the Lares Trek, and ended up with a woman named Noyme, whose mind was just about everywhere but the Sacred Valley. The guides met us at our hostel in Cusco, gave us a pep talk and eleven identical duffel bags; baggage rules were strict, as all our stuff (including tents and portable kitchen) were being carried by mules/short horses, or porters on the Inca Trail.
The next morning we set off for the Sacred Valley, a wonderful washed out landscape filled with corn and quinua (a sandy grain, supposedly the healthiest in the world) fields as far as you can see. On the way we stopped at a village project supported by the tour company, where all the women still weave in the traditional style, including using natural dyes from plants. This was quite fascinating, and I battled for some time with my usual penny-pinching self before deeming it community service and buying a scarf from a woman named Francisca. I swear I have never seen someone so grateful at making a sale. The others took pictures of llamas.
We drove to a really incredible ruin called Pisac. It is difficult to do justice to yet another "ruin", a word frequently applied to anything that is crumbling or has a vine growing on it. Still, what I find striking about these sites in Peru is how they do not seem ruined. The old stone walls seem to be still growing out of the hills, symmetrical and even, and camouflaged so cleverly into the landscape you might miss them, if it weren't for the small boy trailing along behind you playing what sounds like Green Sleeves (badly) on a pan flute, or the old women selling water. The Incas originally lived and built at the top of mountains (which they believed to be sacred), where they were protected from landslides and flooding. It took the Spaniards to bring them down.
We stopped for lunch, which was slightly uncomfortable as three people in the group were suffering some sort of stomach malady, and the rest of us just felt guilty. At this meal the two British Barbies decided they were not well enough for the trek (one of them was not well, the other just went along to keep her company) and there was a great rush to change plans and find a hotel for them back in Cusco.
In the meantime we drove on to a town called Ollantaytambo (say this three times fast) and climbed up another long set of stone stairs in some structure supposedly shaped like a llama. The Incas were great at this apparently, making their settlements into shapes (particularly the Inca trilogy- condor, snake and puma), but as clever as they obviously were I sometimes feel the guides are just trying to make the story more interesting.
We stayed in a hotel that smelled dreadfully of nicotine, and two more people in the group started to feel sick. I spent a very frustrating and overpriced hour in the single internet cafe trying to get my memory card burned to CD, as it had just occurred to me that 30 pictures weren't going to cut it for 3 days of hiking.
On the way back to the hotel I found out that because the Barbies were not doing the hike, R. (our group leader, who was supposed to be coming on the Lares Trek with me) had to go back to Cuzco to make sure they were alright. I was somewhat upset about this, as I was already vastly nervous about the hike, and now would be doing it with only one other person I had never met.
Inca Trail hikers started off at 6 AM the next day, and I wandered around the town (really just a plaza with two arms) until 8, when Noyme arrived, packed T. and I up in a taxi and started off on three hours of incredible, flirting-with-death kind of mountain driving. T. (the other person), it turned out, was not only Canadian but had gone to the same university as me (albeit 10 years ago). She went to school for dance in Toronto, and now is working as a travel agent in Vancouver-- and I feared only I was this random.
We stopped at a market along the way, and the drive bought three large bags of flat Peruvian bread. On we drove, getting higher and higher (my nose started bleeding again), when suddenly we spotted two small children waving to us from the side of the road. I want to say they were in "traditional costume", but in such remote areas the locals are still wearing the same heavy hand-knitted garments they have always worn, unlike in Cusco where such finery is only seen on dolls and pre-pubescent girls posing for photographs. I asked where the children had come from, as we seemed so far from everything, but Noyme said they would live on a farm nearby, and that they spent the day just standing there, waiting for cars to pass by and hand them things. All three bags of bread were empty by the time we reached the highest point (4700 m) and were told to get out of the car and "Take a photo", although the wind was bitter and the light was all wrong for pictures.
The car stopped in the middle of a field by a stone wall, and we were told to have lunch and wait for the horses to get there. Neither T. or I wanted lunch, as we were eager to get started and convince ourselves (okay- convince myself) I was not going to die here, in the middle of a Kodak moment. Meals were a huge undertaking on the trek, as they involved setting up a large tent and table, complete with table cloth and candles, several exhaustive courses, and about a gallon of coca tea.
Not unlike my retelling of the Salt Flats, there is less to say about the hike itself than all the little details that surrounded it. The itinerary we were given went something like this: Day 1 hike to a beautiful lake, hike to two beautiful lake, see llama and alpaca. This we did. The sky was very cloudy and it started to rain for the first time this trip. Then as we climbed higher the rain turned to snow, and yet our temperature stayed the same.
For me the whole time spent going uphill was like forced meditation. All I could do was think about breathing: in and out, in and out, in and-- how deep could I breath, how long could I go between breaths... Every time it seems like too much and I want to call out to Noyme to slow down I open my mouth and can't hold onto enough air; it seems easier just to keep moving and complain later. You have to remind yourself to look up, and wonder how it is you fit into this incredible, bleak, uninviting landscape.
At the time I described it as half wonderful and exhilarating, and half a complete nightmare. Sometimes it was hard to know where to draw the line. For at least the first four hours of that hike I kept on asking myself why anyone in their right mind would sign up for such torture... and then you reach the top, and you know.
*
That's all for now, but wait for more of the journey in the next few days. And I'm sorry if you tried to check my blog (hint hint) and found it not working. It is back online now, and pictures and writing are added frequently. Be well.
Much Love,
N.
-- "He felt that his whole life was some kind of dream, and he sometimes wondered whose it was, and whether they were enjoying it." Douglas Adams
posted by Nel @ 2:01 PM
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Forest hill, forest of Arden... cloud forest, rain forest.
This morning, it is sunny.
Last night there was a "massive" party at the hostel. I would not choose to use this word myself, as my party standards have changed significantly since coming to The Point (quite possibly the party hostel in Cuzco) and I was not convnced yesterday's shenanigans were all that out of the ordinary. Still.
One of the four multi-national, slightly stoned looking owners said earplugs and valium would be provided for those who did not wish to partake, but apparently he was joking. I have made a real effort to take on (and perhaps enjoy?) the party scene here, but last night I was firmly amongst the "not partaking", because...
b) The posters said you had to "dress sexy". At first I was just annoyed at being told how to dress, (stepping neatly around the "what is sexy" debate), then said it was ridiculous anyway, as who carries sexy clothes with them on the road? Apparently, ladies and gentlemen, I am the only one who does not take sexy clothes on the road.
On an unrelated note, I have made a pretty decent study of ba d keyboards around the world, but this one, I do believe, takes the cake. The space bar se ems to have a mind of its own, and will r ace across the page without me doing anything. I want to say "it is on crack", but must watch the amount of drug terminology that has infiltrate d my vocabulary in the last whi l e (especially at customs).
Drugs here are everywhere. Down gringo alley, trying to walk exactly in the middle of the slippery street with your eyes down, so as not to encourage the bored restrauntiers ("typical peruvian food, mexican, lady, alpaca!") or aggressive travel agents. At the hostel, in the bathrooms, at the bar, the secretive and the not-so-secretive. Personally I have had little trouble; that is to say, I have never been offered drugs in public, and I understand I am very much in the minority for it.
All I know is if I hear the expresion "When in Peru..." one more time I cannot be held responsible for my actions. Unfortunately, we are all responsible for our actions, even in Peru. 
Two nights ago I was lying under a mosquito net (with holes in it) listening to ¨jungle noises¨so loud and otherworldly I felt I had stumbled back into my favourite computer game as a child-- The Amazon Trail. I do realize this is along the same lines as life imitating art, (vice versa?), but right now it just doesn´t matter.
There is something unsettling about the end of a trip like this. This morning I woke at the same time and packed my bag at the same pace as C., just for old time´s sake. Strange to be getting 10 second hugs and then watching them all pile into the van and leave me behind. Suddenly I am alone and the day is gaping before me. I don´t know how to fill a day on my own... true I spent the vast majority of my days solo wandering, but it was different, somehow.
I walked and walked and walked, up and down and around the same streets until I had lost all sense of direction. Must kill time until 6, when my laundry is ready. The hostel has lost my reservation, but it´s alright. They put me in a room called VIP. I put down my stuff and go out again.
Go three times to the internet. Look through my contacts list and remind myself that these people are still out there, even though I cannot see them now. I get lost in a market. I write the travel agent and think about making a plan for the coming days. I make excuses.
Cuzco really is a captivating city. It is filled with dentists. And everyone eats ice cream in tiny little cones, even though it is icy in the shade. There is a lot of food in Peru.
I become more and more disgusted with tourists. This word already has a stigma attached to it, but I find myself debating at one point if travel, whatever you call it, does not do more harm than good? The restraunt we went to for our final dinner will not allow Peruvians inside. The street is filled with aggresive children holding postcards and watercolours. Twice today I saw a teenage girl carrying a baby llama in a shawl ¨One sole foto!¨ I wondered what would happen to this llama once it got to big to be carried. Probably the same as the girl carrying it, as the whole culture based on, and dependent on, tourists.
Take for example the iconic South American hat, called a chullo. This is the number 1 gringo accessory, they sell them everywhere ¨Seniorita, alpaca!¨ I can count on one hand the number of times I have seen a local wearing one. Not just this, but the llamas, the andean cross, even the whole Inca fetish starts to seem a little sordid. Of course this is not unique to Peru, but perhaps the poverty you see (provided you can drag yourself away from the truly sickening Gringo Ally) make it more alarming. By sustaining and indeed promoting the images that we already associate with this place are they not backing themselves into a corner? Tourism becomes their culture, everything is aimed at the foreigner, at the dollar. Should any culture be worth only what it can sell for?
Arrived yesterday in Cuzco/Cusco, Peru: the Inca heartland (in its own mind at least). The city is narrow, confusing and especially charming in that it does not remind me of anywhere else in the world, which is unusual. It didn't take me long to realize that all traditional modes of navigation are practically useless in this city: the streets twist and turn and tilt and every surface is coated with brightly coloured alpaca (everything), internet signs, and ads for various treks and tours.
The weather is warmer here than it was in Puno, or last week in Bolivia, but even so I slept last night in my (alpaca) gloves, (alpaca) socks, and (alpaca) hat. Other than the search for a pair of flannel underwear (which I never found), the only real agenda today was preparing --psychologically and otherwise-- for the days ahead. 
Tomorrow we go to Ollantaytambo in the Sacred Valley, and after that the group splits up for three days. Admittedly the split is rather uneven, as seven are doing the Inca Trail, one is returning to Cuzco, and Renate (our new Brazilian leader) and I are doing the Lares Trek. This is a lesser-used trail that I ended up with because the Inca permits were sold out. That said I am quite excited about it, as it is supposed to be much less tourist-y, and we will all meet up at Machu Picchu on the last day..jpg)
When I last wrote you I was in Potosi, Bolivia, a town that is famous for its mine and not much more. Later that day we were all dressed up in big rubber boots, jackets and hardhats and travelled into one of the mines. This was an exceptionally eerie experience, not because of the dark or the smell or the muddy water up to our calves, but because the mine was still very much in operation, and that 6000 men worked in those conditions every day. Every five minutes or so a large overflowing cart was wheeled passed us, making horrible screeching noises as the men pushed it around corners on a broken track. Once the dynamite started going off in the chamber next to us the others had had enough and had to be taken out again, but I was determined to last an hour, since the miners routinely go 10 without a break. We like to think this isn´t still going on, but believe me, it is.
From Potosi we took an overnight bus to La Paz, the highest capital city in the world. We have all grown quite used to these seemingly endless bus journeys, but that morning we arrived at 6 AM, got to our hotel and sat for four hours in the lobby, before the concierge told us they didn´t have our reservations, and the hotel was full.
We found somewhere else to stay, and the rest of our time there was much smoother, including the addition of four new people to our group, and a new leader. La Paz is not a good city to walk around in, as it is set up so steeply on a hill that even the ten minute trek to the fantastical "witch´s market" (no better place to pick up a llama fetus for good luck) left us exhausted. 
After La Paz another bus ride to Puno, a rather grubby town that is the best jumping off place for trips to Lake Titicaca. The next day we spent the afternoon on an ear-splitting boat in the famous lago (I must admit I had no idea why it was famous until the guide said this is supposedly the birth place of the Incas). 
For the people on this island Spanish is not their first language (I will not even try to spell their first), but they know enough to communicate; luckily my roommate could speak it or it would have been a very quiet evening. The remainder of the daylight was spent sitting on stone bleachers watching the nightly local vs. tourist soccer game, and trying to stay warm. 
We spent an hour or so at a party filled with foreigners all looking big and round and silly and no one caring, dancing a dance with no steps in a big circle. A bonfire was hissing outside, and I tried to keep my skirt from going up in flames while staring up at the most incredible orange moon, and fighting with my camera batteries, which had chosen this moment to die. Somehow this was one of the warmest night's sleep I´ve had since being away.
Now I must go, hoping my my homing-pigeon instincts are with me and I remember the name of the hotel (jury is out on this one). Missing you all.
