Buenos Aires to Brazil

I got to Buenos Aires on a night bus from Cordoba and made straight for the airport. i wasn´t in much shape to make smalltalk with my Uruguayan taxi driver, and the conversation stalled fatally on the topic of Argentine prostitutes, partly due to language difficulties and partly due to my ignorance of a subject which interested the Uruguayan greatly.

I´ve waited for Neasa in a couple of international airports this year, and have enjoyed passing the time watching the other people waiting. Something of a nations character can be seen in the way returning loved ones are met at the airport. The Danes bring their national pride with them, greeting passengers with a flurry of flag waving (the newsagent in the airport sells flags in case you forgot yours, and also stocks flags of other selected nations in a nod to multiculturalism). Argentine arrivals is a different story. Here it´s all raw emotion: the recently landed are hugged and kissed vigorously (men kissing each other freely on the cheeks), tears are shed, and children are frightened by being man-handled by relatives they don´t recognise.

We spent a very pleasant 6 days in Buenos Aires (I´ll come back to that), and have covered some serious territory in the week since. Having travelled more or less south since I left Dublin, I took my first turn north towards the Iguazu falls, where Argentina meets Brazil and Paraguay looks on. We spent one night in the town and an afternoon and morning at the falls, then over the border for the night bus to Sao Paulo, another 16 hours (and not nearly as nice as the Argentine bus, which made the journey surprisingly easy). The land borders I´d crossed up to then had been unremarkable affairs, generally little more than a small building in the middle of barren wasteland. The Argentina-Brazil frontier is a cracker: a short drive along a bridge spanning a river (the natural border) overlooked by forested slopes and then a sign saying "Bemvenidos a Brasil". Yeah!

Sao Paulo was just a stop-off on the way to the seaside, but luckily it coincided with Lynam and Kelly´s passing through in the other direction, so we met up for our dinner, a strange concert by a very eccentric 70 year old Brazilian folk music hero, and beers in a little gay bar in the red light district (Lynam´s idea, and a good one at that). The following day we left for Paraty, where we stayed for three nights, and now we´re in Ilha Grande where we´re staying put for a while to let our brains catch up with us as we lie on the beach. I´m sitting in an internet place sweating so much that I look like I´ve recently done something I really shouldn´t have done, so I´ll fill in some of the blanks some other time and go next door for a Caiprinha with Neasa.

Southwest Bolivia

That bus from La Paz to Uyuni really was horrendous. I knew that only 10% of Bolivia's roads are paved, but I didn't know that in the stoney desert areas the sand and stones can create a surface like a very long draining board. I remember at some stage in the middle of the night, in a half-sleep exhausted daze, thinking that the constant violent rattling couldn't really, in all seriousness, continue for much longer. But it could. And it did. For christ himself only knows how long.

Thankfully negotiations with Alberto, our shady Bolivian tour operator of choice, were led by Charlotte and Christine, two take-no-shit ladies (from england/denmark and germany respectively) who were inventing fake appointments and flights in order to ensure a speedy departure from the dusty little desert town of Uyuni, leaving myself and David (the frenchman) to attempt to recover our mental and physical composure. Once Alberto had scrounged around for a tank of petrol for the 4x4, we were joined by an Austrian couple and took off for a 2 day drive across the deserted wilds of southwest Bolivia.

The first stop was the train cemetery, where the abandoned hulks of Bolivia's first locomotives rest and rust in the desert, though their peace is regularly disturbed by the tourists than run around and climb on them like it's a grown-up's playground.

Pretending to drive a choo-choo train

We arrived at the main event later that day: Salar de Uyuni, 12,000 square kilometres of the largest and highest salt flats in the world, and one of the strangest places I've ever seen (the Bierhaus at 5am not included). The blinding white surface seems to stretch on indefinitely, and it plays tricks with your eyes so that it seems that the mountains at its edge are actually floating just above the ground. It took a few hours to cross it with a couple of stops along the way, including one to climb the Isla de Pescado, a cactus island rising out of the flats, and several attempts at taking goofy pictures of perspective tricks, with varying levels of success.

Our driver wasn't one to disclose information, and decided to keep to himself the reasons for driving around for an hour on the other side of the Salar trying to find someone to whom he had to deliver what seemed to be a bag of meat. He wasn't too forthcoming with an explanation for his two hours of tinkering with the jeep that evening either, and after another couple of hours tinkering the following morning (during which we saw various parts being extracted from the engine), he informed us that there was a "defecto". No shit, sherlocko. This was not a place to be driving around in a dodgy truck. Anyway, Wildur (some strange names around these parts) eventually got the defecto fixed (allegedly), and we were off for another day driving across the wilds. The landscape around here is incredible: the desert is sprinkled with extinct and active volcanoes and lagoons populated with flamingoes. Different mineral concentrations in different areas combine with the glaring high-altitude sun to create amazingly vivid colours and contrasts, while the wind would cut the nose straight off your face.

Flamingoes!

We got to our lodgings just before dusk, a cluster of small buildings at about 4,500m surrounded
by miles and miles of nothing. Another jeep had apparently broken down and there was a hurry on to get another one out to them before it got seriously cold. Having anticipated a night of limb-deadening cold, it was actually fine thanks to a sleeping bag, a pile of blankets, and several layers of clothes. Getting up in the dark at 4.30 wasn't a whole lot of fun, but the early start was necesary to see the geysers at their best (this really is high-altitude endurance tourism).

The geysers were going off like billy-o, and by 7am we were in our swimming togs getting nicely warmed up in the nearby thermal springs, with the sun still low in the sky and the air clouded with misty vapour.By 10am we'd been dropped off at the Chilean border and were on our way to San Pedro de Atacama.

Coyote and bus at the Bolivie/Chile border

The remoteness of the area meant that we had no idea who'd won the big vote in America. At the entrance to a national park we met a Bolivian lady who'd been in La Paz that morning who told us that the "el moreno" (the brown one) had won. Viva el moreno!

Where's Willie? (2: Chile to Argentina)

We seem to be on the move a lot the past week. For a few hours it looked as if we'd be stuck in San Pedro de Atacama (a funny little Chilean desert town that's full of tourists and has an unreal feel about it, not somewhere you'd particularly want to be stuck), because the bus tickets we'd been promised in Uyuni didn't seem to exist. Thankfully it was a false alarm and the following morning (after 24 hours in Chile) we were on the bus for the crossing of the Andes and the Argentinian border via el Paso de Jama to Salta (other people we met ended up hiring a truck to get them over the border). So nice to get to Salta: it's a lovely city, nice and warm due to the much lower altitude, and the food is great. No more high-altitude endurance tourism!

After a few days in Salta, largely spent drinking great wine, coffee and beer and eating steaks and empañadas (little pastries filled with meat, cheese or chicken), we went south to Cafayate for a couple of nights. This is a small town surrounded by mountains and vineyards in the north-western wine producing region of Argentina, and it's highly relaxing. Since then, we've been working our way south-east towards Buenos Aires, with a stop in Córdoba to break up the journey. And that's where I'm at right now. It's a big, busy, modern city and it's hot as hell. Looking forward to staying put for a few days in Buenos Aires and enjoying the sea breeze. I'm heading straight to the airport to meet the Peggie Martinez to my Willie Gonzalez, Neasa, who's joining me for three weeks of 24-carat relaxation.

I seem to be experiencing some luck in dodging transport strikes. In Cusco I happened to see something on the news about road blocks near Puno, and in the space of an hour and a half I'd somehow ended up with a plane ticket to La Paz for the following morning (I later heard stories of people being stuck for days in Cusco and of tourist buses being stoned near Puno). Today my friend Christine had to go to the doctor where she found out that there was a bus strike tonight which we'd heard nothing about and would seriously disrupt our Buenos Aires travel plans. An hour later we'd been able to change our tickets to a different company, getting seats on a nearly full bus, and were back on track. So lucky, we could very easily have been standing in the bus terminal like gobshites tonight. We could be yet, so say nathin'.

Lake Titicaca

Lake Titicaca is one of those places I've always wanted to visit, mainly because it sounds so exotic and far away, like Tierra del Fuego, or Cabra (which, incidentally, has become known as Fabra in certain circles due to its popularity as a residential location for homosexual couples. Apparently). The bus trip from La Paz took an interesting twist at the Straits of Tiquina, where we disembarked and were herded onto a little launch that ferried us across the narrow straits to the other side of the lake, while our bus nosed its way onto a wooden barge for the crossing. The return journey took an even more interesting twist when the motor failed and el capitan had to signal for another launch to come over and tow us.
The last stop, Copacabana, was all I hoped it would be: a relaxed little town on the shores of the lake with a rundown seaside resort feel (Chile robbed Bolivia's coastline in the Pacific war in the 1870's, so in the absence of a seaside of their own Bolivians have to make do with the lake. They could do worse, but they're still a bit touchy with Chile.) The following morning I rented a bike for the 35km round trip to Yampupata, a little village of 80 families at the end of the peninsula beside Copacabana. If i'd realised it would involve long steep ascents (at 4000m altitude don't forget) that would reduce me to trudging along on foot for long periods I may not have been so enthusiastic.
What I found at the end of the road made it worthwhile though. I sat down to recover against a stone wall facing the little harbour and was soon joined by 3 local men of three different generations with whom I shared 30 of the most relaxing minutes I've ever known. We chatted a bit, but mainly we just sat there in the sun listening to the brightly coloured rowing boats bobbing up and down in the water and watching a little girl and a dog bring a small herd of sheep to the water's edge to graze. This tranquil scene was briefly interrupted when a donkey came thundering down the hill all het up about something, but he too was soon overcome by the serenity. As Darryl Kerrigan of The Castle would say: "So much serenity".

Here's a llama I passed on the way home who seemed to be contemplating the nature of his existence.
The next morning me and my saddle-sore arse got the boat to Isla del Sol, the site of one of the main Inca creation myths, 2 hours out into the lake. The morning boat drops you off at the northern end so you can hike for a couple of hours down the spine of the island to the southern harbour for the afternoon boat home. During the walk there are great views over the bright blue waters of the lake to the Bolivian and Peruvian shores and the Uros islands. Plus I got another good donkey photo. I'm also working on a photo series called "Dogs of Latin America".








I was hanging around with an Italian guy in Copacabana who has been travelling around South America speaking Italian with a vaguely Latin American accent and has managed to communicate with a lot of success. More power to him.

Where's Willie?

If not hearing from me for a few days isn't going to cause you to lose sleep, then you probably don't need to read this, as it's just another practicalities post so that anyone who might be concerned will know where I am (you have to do this when you're on your tod, don't ya know).
Got laid up for a couple of days in La Paz with altitude sickness (with a wolfish demeanour), and wasn't feeling particularly bloggy, hence no updates for a little while. Got the bus from La Paz last night to Uyuni (the last three hours of the journey felt like we were driving over an unending cattle grate), and we're getting in a jeep at noon for a three day tour of the salt flats. This will end up in a previously unplanned crossing of the Chilean border to San Pedro de Atacama, then on the following day (Friday) to Salta in Argentina. Thats the plan anyway. So now you know.
I'm not actually on my tod at the moment, a little group has coalesced for this bit of the trip, comprising myself, a french guy, a german girl and a danish/english girl. My hopes for mirth are high.

Normal photo/flowery language service will be resumed presently.

Adios Peru

I accidentally stumbled across a Cusco league basketball game just before I left. The venue was just around the corner from where I was staying, an outdoor natural amphitheatre complete with bleachers, glass backboards, and an electronic scoreboard. All it was missing was a roof. The team benches and official's table were the kind of shelters used in soccer. Strange to see official outdoor basketball, and it was a little nippy at night, but the standard was still pretty good, and all the teams had really fancy gear (though one team had some problems warming up since they didn't have a ball).



Was delighted to encounter another street parade the day before I left, with a brass band playing the same tune that so caught my ear they day I arrived (though they weren't always in tune). Turns out it's a regional variation of a Huayla, a kind of big band tune originating from the central highlands. It really is a barn-burner (check out the video clip I posted a while ago and see if it doesn't get stuck in your head). Saw a number of other street marches during my short time in Cusco, many of them made up of primary school kids in their fancy dress outfits (lots of Spidermen) carrying little placards with slogans like "Look after me" and "I have the right to eat/learn/be happy". It would break your heart to see these little tots out on the street demanding the most basic things.



I'm ashamed to admit that it took me a couple of days to realise why so many of the little mud-brick buildings on the road south from Lima through the province of Ica were either partially or entirely in ruins. An earthquake of magnitude 7.9 devastated Ica in August 2007, and its legacy is still plain to see.

On a lighter note, I had the misfortune to encounter an Israeli guy with ridiculous pants and an even more riduculous head playing medleys on his guitar in Cusco airport on Sunday. He managed to combine "La Bamba" and "An Englishman in New York", among others, into a single amorphous dirge. You have to admire the ingenuity with which the world can conjure up annoyances.

The flight from Cusco to La Paz was supposed to leave at 8.45 am, and it eventually took off around noon, without a hint of explanation, which caused the Dutch and Scandinavian passengers to get all hot under the collar. I had my book (Truman Capote's "In Cold Blood", which I was lucky enough to get as a present from two different people), and by this time I was well out of earshot of Ritchie Goldberg and his guitar of misery, so I wasn't too bothered.

Great two weeks in Peru, though the ever-present push to get as much money out of tourists as possible can get irritating. Met some very nice Peruvians, especially the travel agency and hostal I stayed with in Cusco (Wayki), really nice people who were really helpful, and were well up for helping me practice my Spanish. Nice to stay somewhere where you know everyone´s name and they know yours (oh-oh, I'm heading into Cheers territory, time to wrap this up and go swallow a couple of crispy cold ones.)

Ruckus in Puno

I had planned to get the bus to Puno, a Peruvian town on the shores of Lake Titticaca, from Cusco, and then to travel across the border to Bolivia and on to La Paz. But a chance look at the local TV news revealed that the Cusco-Puno road has been closed for a few days due to protests and roadblocks. It's unclear what the protests are about. There have been numerous strikes and protests in Peru over the past couple of years over the expansion of the Free Trade Agreement that Peru has with the US, which forces neo-liberal economic policies on the Peruvian people that many of them, particularly the poorer indigenous peoples who make up the majority of the population, don't want (one example of steps that the government has tried to take is the sale to private investors of communally-held land that has traditionally belonged to campesino communities and formed the backbone of their way of life). There has also been miner's strikes, and I think there is also a heated dispute over a proposed hydroelectric plant in the Puno region. It's hard to get concrete information, but apparently a couple of people have been killed (according to my taxi driver this morning), including a policeman. In a protest in another part of the country recently, the town's mayor was held hostage and the townspeople threatened to lynch him. These people don't mess around.

Anyway, in light of these ructions, I seized the opportunity of an affordable flight from Cusco to the Bolivian capital La Paz, where I arrived this afternoon. I just bought a bus ticket from a wonderfully pleasant and wonderfully deranged Bolivian lady, so tomorrow I'll be hightailing it to Copacabana, a small town on the Bolivian shores of Lake Titticaca. We flew over the lake this morning, it's pretty damn big.

So, that's where I'm at. I'm lining up a final post on Peru, and one on the spicy sausage that is the current political situation in Bolivia. Que caliente!

Trekking days 4 & 5: Train Tracks, Hot Springs, and Machu Picchu

Ok, time to wrap up this trekking yarn. If there ever was anyone other than myself that found it interesting, surely there isn't now. So, we had another early start on day 4 in order to get a good chunk of the morning's ascent behind us before the sun came round the mountain to roast our hides. Breakfast had an unusual twist: an orange cake that the cook had baken in the shed the previous evening. I kid you not. We left La Playa about 7am, for a "gradual up", along an old Inca trail, according to our guide Edwin. The lying bolloux. It was a steep 700m ascent followed by the corresponding descent that took 6 hours all told and knocked the hell out of us. We did get to stop at the ruins of an old Inca rest house from which we could see Machu Picchu on the other side of the valley. The scenery would knock the head off you, it was hard to take it all in sometimes, but it was great to get a glimpse of the goal. Here´s Edwin, a more pleasant, easy-going, and happy chap you'd be hard-pressed to find.

Once we hit the valley floor and crossed the Urubamba river, we slogged along for another while in the hammering sun until we reached an odd little place called Hidroelectrica. Beside a Hydroelectric plant, a collection of shacks selling snacks and drinks and a little restaurant are all huddled around the tail end of a railway line. Here we lunched, and bid adios to our cook Elias and his assistant Wilbur (we'd invited them to eat with us the previous evening, but they were too shy). The plan then was to get the train to Aguas Calientes, the town at the foot of Machu Picchu mountain. But, feeling that this would rob us of some of our sense of achievement, we took off walking along the train tracks for what ended up being a cracking last leg of the trek, with the tracks snaking along at the feet of the densely forested peaks in the evening sun. Pretty bloody idyllic, let me tell you (if you hadn't already guessed from the flowery language).

On our triumphal arrival in Aguas Calientes, we discovered we'd covered over 80km in the 4 days, and 30km on day 4 alone. The only possible response to this news was to head straight to the thermal springs that give the town its name for a good soak with the locals. Sitting there in the steamy sulphurous waters looking up at the stars and the silhouttes of the surrounding peaks, I definitely felt like I was on my holidays.

The following day's visit to Machu Picchu felt like an extra bonus prize after the trek. We got there about 6am, and had a 4 and a half hour tour that felt like an hour. All the while the cloud was rising from the valley and enveloping the ancient city which straddles two mountain peaks (an eerie sight that added more than a hint of magic to the morning), and by 10ish it was lashing rain. Thoroughly satisfied and exhausted, we headed back to Aguas Calientes for the train/car back to Cusco, where a hot shower, a plate of lomo saltado, and a pisco sour was all that could be squeezed in before collapsing into bed for the sleep of kings.

Such a great few days, definitely the highlight of the trip so far. It was really nice that we hardly saw any other groups along the way and didn't have to share campsites with a couple of hundred other people like on the Inca Trail, and we had a good little gang. Along the way we got to pick and eat coffee beans, and also picked a banana (which has yet to ripen). We also got to see two of the three sacred animals of the Quechuans, the condor and the snake. All we were missing in the puma, which they particularly revere, because it can operate in the mountains, jungle, and on the coast. Now that's my kind of big cat. In the only (tiny) mishap, I managed to snag a thorny twig on my ear and rip it clean off (the twig, that is, which had to be pulled off my ear). This event caused me to unintentionally use some choice language which may or may not have offended some members of the group.

One legacy of the trip is an idea for a TV show, a follow-up to the Canadian kids show from the 80's called "Danger Bay". Our mountain lavatory experiences inspired the title "Danger Baño", with the theme tune going something like "oh-oh, necessito el baño". (I'm sure the translation is obvious). I think it could be a winner.

Trekking day 2 & 3: Salkantay and the Cloud Forest

Oates! That's Scott's pal who took one for the team. Couldn't think of it. Anyway, such drastic measures weren't necessary. Just to drive home how bloody cold it was, when I awoke in the morning the puddle of water on the roof of my tent had sheets of ice in it.
On the morning of day 2 we had about an hour of another steep ascent with what felt like the complete absence of oxygen to the highest point of the trek: 4600m at Abra Salkantay, at the base of the mighty Salkantay mountain. Edwin, our guide (who, by the way, is The Man), led us in a little traditional ceremony that Quechuan people do to show respect to the god of the mountain. It involved a few moments of silence and then placing three coca leaves each under a rock. Just as we finished, an avalanche took off down Salkantay, directly in front of us (though at a safe distance). A native Quechuan would say that the mountain answered us, and having been there, I´d be slow to argue with him. It certainly shut us up for a while. One of the people on the trek (a dead sound English guy, who, along with his dead sound Welsh girlfriend, provided much entertainment) has a great photo of us at the highest point, i'll stick it up when I get it. It looks really hardcore.
The rest of the day was spent descending about 2000m through what's known as the Cloud Forest, an area of highland jungle. So strange to be at the foot of a glacier in the morning and then to deal with heat, humidity and mosquitos in a tropical climate in the afternoon. We passed a couple of tiny settlements of wood and thatch huts along the way, and after crossing the river on a well-dodgy bridge, we set up camp at one of them, overlooking the valley. Here´s the view on the campsite the following morning.
Not sure why I like taking scenery photos with mules in them. Maybe deep down I'm pining for my childhood friend, Neddy the Donkey. How I miss him.

We took off down the valley on the morning of day 3, arriving at a substantial little village called LaPlaya at lunch time. Passed this pig in muck along the road. He certainly looks happy to me.

Also passed this cute little chap, who looked just as happy,though in a different way. The kids are great, really friendly.
The afternoon was supposed to be free for resting, but we ended up playing football for a couple of hours with a crowd of kids from the village. They all had silky smooth skills, but weren´t fond of defending. The star of the show was a chubby little 10 year old Maradona lookalike called Clinton who sprayed the ball around from the middle of the park all evening. My spanish extended to asking one chap in particular to stop kicking the ball at my cajones because I was going to need them (there had been several close calls and one bullseye,which left me feeling the same as I'd felt after the steep ascents at altitude). They were great craic though, a very good natured affair with a lot of laughing. My finest moment was when I kicked a 10 year old in the shins and then fell over. Needless to say we got thrashed. Here's both sides taking a breather, and a good one for "spot the ball".

Had my first proper experience of a traditional developing world rural toilet,which consists of a plastic sheets over wooden poles sheltering a hole in the ground. Nothing like it for reminding you that, at the end of the day, we're just fancy mammals. Slept like a lord that night, due to the absence of heart-pounding cold and the 30 degree slope that had me sliding towards the door most of the previous night. The next day was to be our last of serious trekking, and also the longest, but with our first glimpse of the mountain citadel of Machu Picchu from across the valley to ease the pain. Quelle excitemente!

Trekking day 1 & 2

Got back last night from a 5 day/4 night trekking expedition in the Andes. In the absence of availability for the Inca Trail trek, I signed up for an alternative which heads towards Machu Picchu via Salkantay mountain. What a fantastic few days. After a 5am start on Saturday and a drive from Cusco along ever deteriorating roads, our group of 4 tourismos and our guide Edwin were dropped off, along with our cook Elias and his assistant Wilbur, at a spot deep in the mountains, at an altitude of over 3000m, around 52 miles from Machu Picchu. Here we met our caballero Fernando with his 3 mules, who were going to haul most of our stuff up and down mountains for the next few days, leaving us to worry about hauling ourselves up and down, which turned out to be a not insignificant concern let me tell you.

We started off with a trial run, a 2.5 hour hike up to this mountain lake, where I first laid eyes on a glacier. Fine big one too, or so I thought, but what do I know about glaciers? "Not a whole lot" says you, and you´d be right. Steep slopes at that altitude are an absolute killer (for reference, Carrauntoohill is just over 1000m, and the highest point in Britain is around 1300), especially after only 2 days acclimatising to the altitude in Cusco (3600m), so you end up gasping for oxygen after about 5 steps. But like every tough hike during the trek, the payoff at the end makes it worthwhile. Reminded me of our walk to a lake in the mountains in Asturias, on an even bigger scale and with added gut-wrenching, head-spinning, lung-bursting altitude.

After lunch (which was fantastic, even without considering that Elias was cooking up a storm with a gas stove in a tent using only what he could strap to the back of a mule), we hiked practically straight up around 900m to our highest campsite of the trek at 4200m. Let´s just say it wasn´t easy, and the Lord´s name was taken in vain on more than one occasion. The only thing keeping me going during the last hour was the certain knowledge that my options were continuing or doing my own version of Scott´s Welsh companion´s final words on their ill-fated Antarctic expedition: "I´m just stepping out, and I may be gone some time". By the time we got there it was raining and shockingly, mortally cold. Elias saved the day, as he did on more than one occasion, with hot chocolate, a good dinner, and a shot of pisco to warm the bones. Went to bed wearing everything I owned and with a 2 litre bottle full of roasting water tucked in between layers 3 and 4 (of 8), but still felt cold. During the night I heard what I convinced myself was just thunder but was actually a nearby avalanche. It´s a strangely calming feeling knowing that if tons of ice and snow are hurtling down on top of you, you are utterly powerless to do anything about it. Anyway, it transpired that our campsite was safe as houses, and we awoke to a relatively warm, sunny morning and a spectacular vista, 4 times higher up from sea level than any point in Ireland. Above is a shot of our campsite, with one of our mulas having his brekfast. Here´s what I saw when I opened the zips of my tent (successfully, I hasten to add, for anyone who is aware of my recent stormy relationship with zip technology). I believe the Lord´s name may have been taken in vain again.

That´s it for now, I´m getting hungry and there´s two little Peruvian girls beating seven shades of shite out of each other beside me over a computer game. Tune in next time, same Willie-time, same Willie-channel. Will Frenchie make it through the trek with his digestive dignity intact? Will the god of Salkantay mountain let the intrepid adventures through safely? How good are mountain children at football, and why do they always aim for your cajones when they shoot? All will be revealed amigos.......

More Nasca/Cusco

Found out recently that these place names should be spelt with an s, because z is the Spanish (as in Spain) spelling, and they don´t really rock the z´s here. Now for ya. Though the official name of Cusco, in the native language Quechuan, is something like Qosqu. It´s interesting how strong Quechuan culture has remained despite the Spanish attempts to crush it in colonial times. Around here, 80% of people understand the language, and 50% people speak it fluently (though the numbers are less in large urban areas like Lima, which is only to be expected). Quechuan religion has also survived, and is commonly practised alongside Catholicism. The basic tenets of the Quechuan faith are very simple, but also very well thought out. It´s very animistic, with mountains, the sun, and the earth all worshipped as gods in different ways. They´re heavy on the trilogy concept too, with the heavens, earth and underworls represented by the condor, puma, and snake. They also throw in a bit of duality to spice up the mix, but we´ll leave it there for now. (Most of this info is courtesy of our trekking guide, Edwin Cusi, whose brother John will be representing Peru in the 5000m in the London Olympics, barring injury).

Here´s some people knocking around in Plaza de Armas in Nasca around sunset, plus a photo of one of the many symbols the Nasca people etched in the desert around 1200 years ago, taken from a very small plane just before the photographer defied medical science by coming out in hot and cold sweats simultaneously.

Here´s the scene that greeted me on arrival in downtown Cusco. From what I could figure out it was a parade of children from local special schools designed to raise awareness of special needs. The writing on the float at the end says something like "I am a person who wants the same things as you do". It was a pretty joyous affair, the kids were great, dancing up the street dressed up to the nines. And the music was off the hook! Something similar happened when i got to the spectacular Plaza de Armas in Lima, a big colonial square that´s a UNESCO World Heritage site. The changing of the guard at the Palacio de Gobierno (Pizarro´s old gaff, all republicified after independence) was in progress, and a brass section was belting out the kind of number that says " you´re in Latin America now, Paddy". "Don´t I know it", says I.

Cuzco

Night bus from Nazca to Cuzco, 14 hours in a super-comfy seat that turned into a bed. However, the first 5 were still highly unpleasant, due to the terrible roads, the constant twisting and winding of the route as it climbed, and the rapid increase in altitude. Experiencing digestive distress and trying to use the bathroom on a bus that´s being flung up the side of a mountain is a humbling experience. I´ve never felt more human.
Cuzco, the Inca capital, looks amazing, as do the people. Tourism seems to be the only game in town though, and everyone´s playing. Spending a couple of nights here hoping to acclimatise to the altitude before heading off on 5 day trek in the Sacred Valley tomorrow. Sincerely hoping that my body and my relatively meagre camping gear are up to the task ahead.
Forgot the camera and have to go back to the gaff to pack, so no photos till I get back.

Nazca

Took a short bus ride on to the town of Nazca, a grubby little place set in a fertile patch flanked by mountains and desert. Not as intimidating as Ica anyway, and the main square, Plaza de Armas (every town seems to have a Plaza de Armas) is a nice place to sit around and watch all the locals sitting around doing their thing. Took my chances with the flight over the Nazca lines. Was feeling pretty chipper as the four-seater plane took off for a 35 minute flight over the desert, but that all changed when the temperature seemed to suddenly increase rapidly, right after a few very tight turns and some turbulence. Managed to keep the little I´d risked eating inside though. Me, the Brazilian couple on the flight with me, and an aussie sailor sat on a bench for half an hour after, all of us experiencing various forms of discomfort.

The lines are so strange, we could see them really clearly. A German lady called Marie Reich spent decades studying them, most of the time on her own traipsing around the desert. I think she must have lost the run of herself a decade or two into it. Fair play to her anyway, they called the airport after her and built a little planetarium in her honour (where they explain the main theories about the lines, including hers which no one believes anymore).

Discussed South American world cup qualification over a cheese sandwich with the owner of a quiet little cafe while watching Argentina get beat by Chile.

The bodegas of Ica

Spent the early part of the day driving around wine and pisco (grape brandy) bodegas with my guide Walter, who told me over lunch that he got the snip after his wife had their second daughter because that was "sufficiente". Hard to argue with that, in any language. Ran into a group of teenagers from the central highlands in an old artisan bodega run by descendants of the liberator Simon Bolivar. I must have looked odd to them, they were well up for getting their picture taken with me. Here´s me with one of my new friends and a bust of a Peruvian general. After tasting wine and pisco for half day, I was definitely more relaxed as Walter dropped me to the bus station to head to Nazca (not before signing me up for a flight over the Nasca lines with his mate though). I´ve enjoyed every time I´ve been done though, and I´ve never been done for more than a few euros, unlike an aussie guy I just met who confused 15 with 50 and spent a week´s budget on a taxi ride. Oucho! It does have to stop though.

Getting good mileage out of my limited spanish, particularly my one past tense and one future tense. "I have done" and "I am going to do" lots of stuff, but "I did" or "I will do" nothing. Put that in your pipe and smoke it.

Oasis in the desert

Got the bus for about 5 hours south from Lima to Ica. What a shithole. It was intimidating arriving after dark, so I was relieved to quickly get a taxi to Huacachina, a tiny little oasis resort in the desert set amid huge sand dunes. Stayed in a charming but delapidated old place that saw its heyday many years ago. In the morning, I took a trip in a dune buggy around the dunes with a nutcase behind the wheel who threw wild-eyed grins over his shoulder every time he threw the buggy over the edge of another dune to careen down the steep slope on the other side. I said "oh fuck" about 47 times. Amazing scenery, from total desert to fertile valley to mountains all in one eyeful. Then loco Joe pulled out the sandboards, upon which we lay and shot down the slopes of the dunes. Standing up didn´t work out so well.

Spare a thought for the poor fucker whose job it is to sweep up the sand around the hostal all day, while surrounded by huge sand dunes, in the middle of a desert. There´s an exercise in futility of ever there was one.

I really need to toughen up and stop letting these people charm money out of me. They´re just so good at it. Slowly getting used to how hectic this country is.

Lima esta linda, cuidarla

Friday, October 10th - A sign on the motorway south out of Lima, which passes through miles of slums barely distinguishable from rubble, proclaims that "Lima is lovely, take care of it". Must be a different Lima. The one I landed in wasn´t too lovely. So noisy, so hectic. Throngs of battered little Korean import cars rattling around on terrible roads peppered with massive potholes, with everyone conducting a constant dialogue with everyone around them via their car horns. One particular area has all the same kind of shop, with people outside each one trying to hustle passers by in. The strange thing is that they´re all opticians. There´s also lots of places opening out on to the street that look like they might be dentist´s chair repair shops, but worringly, the guy inside is dressed more like a dentist than a dentist´s chair repair man (however they dress). Downtown was so hectic I had to dart into a museum for some peace and quiet. My first meal in Peru, in a tiny little street restaurant, started off with ceviche, a dish of raw white fish marinated in lemon juice and vinegar, served with onions. I could feel the warm breath of The Wolf on the back of my neck, but he failed to make his presence felt. But I´m sure he´ll be back.

Miraflores, the suburb I stayed in, was nice enough. Nice parks by the sea and more relaxed than downtown. I´m talking pidgin spanish to taxi drivers left, right, and centre.

Willie Gonzales says "hola"

Like nearly every other gringo that´s followed this well worn trail before me, I´ve decided to keep a little blog. For this purpose, I´ve adopted the nom de plume (nom de guerre? nom de amor? the choice is yours) of Willie Gonzalez. I heard his name on the radio, but all I know about him is that he exists, nothing more. But I intend to find out more. Vamos!!