Twist, Turn and Tilt

Group Email- 14/07

My Dear Friends,

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.
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).

We ended up on a small island, where we were met by a gaggle of women dressed in stunning traditional "costumes", spilt up into twos, and lead through several stony fields to the homes where we would spend the night.

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 had dinner in a small clay room, sitting on a half-sized benches, by the light of a candle stuck in a rock. I wish I could describe how everything about this meal seemed to be from another age. After dinner our host brought out a giant itchy-armful of these "traditional" clothes which we put on over our jeans, and stumbled back up the hill in the pitch dark, laughing at ourselves and the intrinsic oddness of the whole evening.

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.

Much Love,

N.

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"She was conscious that the things she did were the things she had always wanted to do." Zelda Fitzgerald