I last left you in Cochabamba which was a mixture of highs and lows for me and really emphasised how bittersweet travelling can be. My main reason for heading there was in search of volunteer work as I'd got chatting to a Bolivian guy called Marcelo on my flight up to the jungle and he'd given me his sister in laws email address as a contact there. So despite the incident with the pubic hairs and electrocution I entered the city with high hopes. Unfortunately after a week of searching Mariana didn't manage to find me anything. She did however prove to be excellent company for a few days and helped me get to know a side of Bolivia I'd have never have seen if I hadn't have met her. She introduced me to all her family who were just as warm and welcoming as she was and took me out to eat empanadas, humintas and masaco, all local foods involving cheese in some way or another which made me happy!
Mariana and her family lived in a beautiful house in the countryside just outside of town which her father had built soon after she was born. One afternoon I sat with Mariana in her perfectly groomed garden in the low afternoon sun, the sort of sun that blinds you if you sit the wrong way but warms you perfectly if you position yourself with your back to it. The focus of the afternoon was a baby chick which was living out its last few hours of its short life in Marianas palm after falling from its nest. While Mariana tried to revive the poor creature by feeding it drops of water, her younger brother of 9 and two friends gallivanted around the garden in search of worms, clearly thrilled by the concept of saving something from the perils of death, a valiant, but rather hopeless cause. It reminded me of a time when my brother and I were very young and we created a snail hospital, whereby we'd find snails with slightly damaged shells and proceed to peel them off entirely so that a new one could grow in its place in a genuine effort to save them! Amidst the commotion that surrounded the baby bird, Mariana's grandmother sat adjacent to us. The majority of her face was covered by a large sun hat protecting her delicate skin from the sun’s powerful rays. Occasionally she'd enquire who the child was in the red t-shirt, only to find it was her grand son! Next to her sat her nurse, busy preparing guavas for jam that would be made later that day, while inside the mother of the family was busy preparing coffee and freshly baked bread. As wonderful as it was to be invited into this hub of family life with such open arms I'm afraid I felt quite green with envy. It made me so acutely aware of the absence of my own family, and if I'm honest, it crossed my mind that perhaps I've had enough of watching other people live their lives and its about time I started living my own once more.
This feeling was only enhanced over the following few days when I met up with a couple of couch surfers and didn't strike it quite as lucky as I had done with Mariana. The first evening I met Rudy, another Bolivian, we had a really great time together. He took me to a little bar which was celebrating the indigenous New Year. We drank chicha and gave a bit to Pachamama (mother earth) which you will often see people doing throughout Peru and Bolivia, and we listened to the only all female live indigenous band in the country. I liked Rudy, he was easy company and at this stage I foresaw myself volunteering in the city for a few weeks with at least two Bolivian friends to keep me company, unfortunately it wasn't to be. The following evening I took a trip to Rudy's lakeside holiday house, which I naively assumed was for a quiet afternoon BBQ with a few of his friends, as it turns out it was a house party and I found myself completely out of my depth.
How often do we really take ourselves out of our comfort zones socially I wonder? I love meeting people, it was one of the reasons I came on this trip, but on this occasion I found it hard, really hard. It wasn't so much the language barrier that made getting to know Rudy's friends difficult, although I could hardly blame them for not having the patience to speak broken Spanish with me all night in their highly inebriated states. Nor could I blame them for not caring to take time to exercise their English, it was after all, a party not an inter-cambio session. However, regardless of these facts I believe the real barrier was cultural. I was the only non Bolivian at the party which I foolishly thought would make me exotic and therefore my company would be in demand, it was not. This group of friends were particularly insular and although they didn't all know each other, I had to work hard for them to care to know me. I have always held the belief that experiencing being a minority or being a peripheral person in a group setting, although uncomfortable, is a very important experience to go through, but good lessons are not always pleasant ones.
Ironically that evening I spent the night listening to a variety of British artists, including many a Beatles song, of which the other guests knew every word, eating Pringles and drinking various spirits mixed with 7 Up. Perhaps my portrayal of the isolation I felt is an exageration, as a couple of people did take the time out to talk to me, but when you start to feel insecure your emotions easily become magnified. Actually in truth one of the things I found hardest was that despite the fact that the majority of people were between 20 and 23 for some reason I felt incredibly old, and dare I say it, a little past it! I fear that my love for all-nighter university style partying may be a thing of the past, and waking up on a sheet less bed next to someone who's first words to you are 'I'm sorry I'm just too high right now' at 8am is far from appealing. I quickly found refuge in the bathroom, splashed my face with some cold water only to be met by my reflection staring back at me in the mirror, at which point it confronted me with the following 'I'm 25, give me pyjamas, freshly clean sheets, and a morning cup of tea, I'm done with being a teenage dirt bag!'. I'd have loved to have obeyed but thats kind of difficult when you are half way around the world!
So after coming to the realisation that I am no longer as down with the kids as I'd like to be, I met up with a French 35 year old couch surfer who I'd arranged to visit a rural farm with. Unfortunately Geronimo and his friend Chris were living, breathing national stereotypes, and by this I don't mean they were donning berets, onions and stripy t-shirts. I have a couple of French friends who are wonderful, so in no way am I suggesting this is true of all French people, but these particular two were rude, arrogant and incredibly opinionated, and quite frankly I didn't like them one bit. Unfortunately I ended up being stuck on a rural farm with them for several days with the idea that we would be doing a bit of work around the place including making fruit flavoured alcohol from guavas. Independencia itself had amazing potential and was a fascinating place to visit as after a 7 hour bus ride through the countryside with nothing but the occasional llama munching on some strawberry blonde grass we then had to walk for an hour to get to the farm itself. The neighbours could only speak Qetchua, and in other circumstances I probably would have loved the experience, but instead I spent most of my time muttering insults under my breath, not confrontational enough to say them aloud. Whilst we waited for the bus on the way home I watched a loose chicken roam the street in front of me, which I suppose had escaped from some body’s back yard. It appeared twitchy and unnerved by its new found freedom, as if now it had independence it wasn't quite sure what to do with it, as if it was no longer sure of its purpose, the parallel between us was alarming! I realised that one of the only reasons I was spending time with these two buffoons was because I was reluctant to be alone, which was ridiculous because I'd have had more fun with a bunch of finger puppets!
I realise that throughout the last few paragraphs I have been painting a picture which may portray me as home sick and lonely, which I can assure you, for the large part is not the case, I'm just learning as I go. There are so many positives that I'm experiencing, juxtapositional to all the challenging ones, its just that often the positives are so much more subtle. For example simply walking down the street can be a total pleasure, it is not unusual to come across a gym filled with men flexing their guns while listening to salsa, or an old fashioned barbers which looks like something out of Sweeny Todd. Street vendors are guaranteed to be at every corner with a strict unwritten rule of only selling things that will lead to an early death, and there is a never ending supply of chicken and popcorn in every city I've visited. The distinction between rich and poor can not go unnoticed in Bolivia, and although these people inhabit the same space they are worlds apart in the lives they lead. One thing that can be said for all though, from the smallest wrinkliest old lady you can imagine, to the fashion conscious teenage girls who are only ever seen in gaggles, they all make time to socialise. While Latin American culture is still clearly traditionally catholic in many of its ideologies, there is a certain attitude towards public behaviour that differs drastically from ours. For example, a day doesn't go by where I don't pass a couple passionately embracing on the street, and it is a regular occurrence to be sat next to a girl or guy singing away to themselves in an internet cafe as if they were auditioning to be the next Ricky Martin. Also if shop assistants have nothing to do, they do nothing. There is no pretence about size ordering clothes in an attempt to appear busy, and often you will enter a shop to find the assistant chatting to a friend or texting on their phone, which those of use who have worked in retail well know, is a cardinal sin in British stores.
Another aspect of Latin American culture I will never tire of is 'park life'. Now I know I've commented many a time on the central squares that virtually all colonial towns are set around, indeed they are the bread and butter to pretty much every place I've visited, but to fully appreciate their charm I need to dedicate a little more ink to them. I wrote this when it was 2pm on a Sunday afternoon...
It must be around 25 degrees and there isn't a cloud in the sky. To my right sits lady of around 80 years dozing peacefully by herself. To my left a woman is busy selling freshly squeezed orange and grapefruit juice from a small cart full to the brim with fruit. Next to her is another woman with a similar cart selling ice creams and a man busy shining shoes. In front of me is a fountain, around which children play, quite transfixed by their imaginary worlds. The square is filled with people of all different generations, enjoying each others company; paying homage to the simple things in life, and for that reason time seems to have slowed a little here. It has to be said that occasionally when I visit these places I'm not as fortunate and I find myself on a bench that smells of pigeon poo, or perhaps a homeless person comes and urinates against the tree next to me, but largely these parks are my little piece of heaven and something I will miss dearly.
So there you have it, despite all the hours stuck on buses, despite the occasional crazy or damn right unpleasant person I encounter, for the countless rooms I stayed in that at home would class as a healthy and safety officer’s wet dream, I wouldn't give this experience up for the world and the thought that soon it will all be over is something I can't bare to consider.
Thursday 23 July 2009
Bolivia... Jungle Jaz
It has to be said that Bolivia is right up there with Mexico and Colombia for me in fact I've fallen head over heals, although this is probably because I've dedicated more time to the place, but regardless, this is one love affair I won't be forgetting in a hurry. Bolivia is South America's poorest country, but it is undeniably rich in culture and has the highest percent of people with indigenous heritage which is apparent by the abundance of folk wearing traditional dress. It is also one of the most diverse countries I've ever been to and is host to just about every different type of landscape imaginable. After bidding farewell to Mumma G in Peru my first stop was La Paz. Coming into La Paz via bus you can't help but get a bolt of excitement run through you as your first glimpse of the city is from above. Looking down on what feels like the centre of the world, you see a gigantic valley with houses sprawling up the sides of the surrounding mountains, one edge unexpectedly hosting a Plato, giving the impression that the city has been carved out with a giant wooden spoon. La Paz is without doubt on 'The Gringo Trail' but although a lot of us backpackers (including me) end up subscribing to the concept that there are grades of authenticity when travelling (always adhered to with competitive undertones), a lot of places are on 'The Gringo Trail' for a reason.
So whilst in La Paz I took a trip to the Witches Market, which is actually filled with a variety of beautiful things to fill your home with as opposed to voodoo dolls and potions as one may expect. Having said that there is a section of the market dedicated to more hocus pocus based goods including an extensive array of Llama foetuses sold as good luck charms. As tempting as it was, after much consideration, I opted not to purchase one and stick to kissing my St Chris pendant occasionally that has hung from my neck since the very first day of this adventure, and although a little grimy by now, seems to be doing the trick. I'm going to be honest now and say that other than the Witches Market and the odd excursion to the central square I largely spent my time in La Paz fully living up to the backpacker stereotype of getting far too drunk with other gringos, and spending most mornings in a hung-over state in which I was capable of ordering food from the hostel bar and little else! Much like indulging in too much chocolate, while I know this lifestyle was bad for me, temporarily, it felt so good, and I really do believe that occasionally it is necessary to lose yourself in reckless fun!
Needless to say La Paz was the sort of city I needed to escape after a while before it sucked me in completely. With that in mind I headed north bound to a town called Ruenbeque which borders the Madidi National park which is right at the Amazon Basin and my main incentive for the visit. To get to the park itself we needed to take a three hour boat ride which is enough to make you feel like you are right in the heart of the jungle (even though in reality you're not even scratching the surface), and after three days there I'm surprised we didn't come away picking each others fleas, we were so well adapted! During the course of our time there a local guide took us on daily treks where we were fortunate enough to encounter a family of over 100 monkeys, an ant eater, several tarantulas, macore parrots, soldier ants, a jungle turtle, a baby alligator and most impressively a family of over 300 wild pigs, and let me tell you, Disney most certainly did their research when it comes to Pumba because these dudes stink! Actually they sound exactly like you'd expect them to, like wild beasts that want to rip your flesh off which is why when our guide signalled for us to follow them, I was a little surprised! In fact our guide was so overcome with excitement whilst chasing after the beasts that he managed to get us lost and it took us an hour to find our track again! My whole jungle experience was wonderfully authentically wild, including swinging from giant vines, along with drinking from them, falling asleep to the sound of tree frogs and making warrior face paints out of the sap of strange jungle leaves. However, anyone who has travelled will tell you that what often makes a trip is the people you meet along the way. Unfortunately I was stuck with a less than inspiring group, including one incredibly obnoxious American girl whom I would have happily of fed to the crocs!
As much as I loved playing the part of Jungle Jaz for a few days, I paid a high price for it on my return trip to La Paz when I embarked on a 22 hour bus from 80's classics hell. I may have found myself secretly tapping my knee to 'In the navy' the first time it was played, but by the tenth time the only thing that was moving was my right eye with the nervous twitch it had developed. Think back to when you were 8 and you owned a little battery powered key board, and the really cool ones had buttons at the top which played tunes which you'd then pretend to play along to and insist to your parents that you where in fact composing. Now imagine hearing those same tunes at full volume from 8 in the evening until 8am accompanied by little red and blue flashing lights in the isles, this was my bus. Still I got there in one piece and managed to restrain my urge to butcher the driver.
After a brief second and equally as messy stop in La Paz I headed south to a town called Cochabamba. When you backpack you learn to tolerate a lot. One of the down sides to this way of life is often the accommodation. I arrived at Cochabamba and checked in to Hostel Colonial at 5.45 in the morning. Three of my English pounds in such an establishment gets me a private room with a shared bathroom. That’s not so bad I hear you say, let me elaborate... a private room with paint flaking off the walls worse than the dandruff that has sought permanent residency on my granddads shoulders for as long as I've known him. A shared room with a table with only three legs. A shared bathroom with an electric shower which, despite the duck tape protecting you from the metal tap, still manages to give you a shock every time you turn it on. Yes it is a classy existence I live right now, but all this I can tolerate, even learn to ignore, it was only when I lifted back the cover of my bed in search of sanctuary for an hour or two before it got light, only to discover my sheets were not only dirty but decorated with little black public hairs, that I felt enough was enough and paid a visit to reception. In response to my request that they change my sheets they replied 'what now?' To which I shan't repeat my response.
The second main exhaustion I've faced while travelling, particularly in the Americas is the constant underlying feeling of fearing for my safety. I like to consider myself a fairly rational person when it comes to fear (except for of course in relation to wasps) but I have honestly met more people with horror stories of being robbed in these countries than without. Recently I have been travelling with a girl called Sarah who is the same age as me and is also travelling on her own. One night we got talking as to why she doesn't have any jewellery and she told me one of the worst stories of kidnapping I've heard first hand. When she was in Nicaragua she got chatting to a local guy on a bus on her way to a market and he told her he was heading the same way as her so they decided to share a taxi at the other end. He flagged down a taxi with two women in it which reassured her and therefore she got in. Two minutes down the road it transpired that the entire thing was a set up and they demanded her bank card. The problem was she didn't have her bank card with her, only cash. This was an extremely nasty group of robbers and when they discovered she didn't have what they wanted they got violent. They proceeded to strip her of everything she owned, to the extent of using her lip balm to lubricate her finger to remove her ring. They mocked her when she cried mimicking shooting her with their gun and even took pictures of her on her camera. After two hours of driving around in these conditions they took her to a deserted land fill sight, dragged her to the back of the car, opened the boot, loaded a bullet in their gun, and then for some unknown reason threw her to the floor and drove off. Amazingly Sarah decided to continue travelling, and she has got to be one of the bravest people I know. I know a lot of you will probably think to yourselves that she was just unlucky, or perhaps even silly for getting into the taxi but you have no idea how often this type of mugging occurs and how cunning people can be. The problem is that sometimes getting a taxi is unavoidable, and it’s something I certainly won't miss about this trip.
On a lighter note it has to be said that for every horror story you hear whilst travelling, there’s guaranteed to be a tale that is sure to send you into a full belly rumble! While in La Paz I met a guy whose story topped them all. He had been held up by knife point in Rio, by a man... wearing Speedos! Apparently he was nursing a rather severe hang over on the beach, when a man jogged past in nothing but a little pair of briefs, when all of a sudden he whipped a knife from his Nether regions, proceeded to demand all the guys money and phone, which he then stuffed back into the said zone, before continuing to jog on. This is a lesson I will certainly bare in mind when checking out the eye candy in Rio... large packages are not necessarily a good thing!
So whilst in La Paz I took a trip to the Witches Market, which is actually filled with a variety of beautiful things to fill your home with as opposed to voodoo dolls and potions as one may expect. Having said that there is a section of the market dedicated to more hocus pocus based goods including an extensive array of Llama foetuses sold as good luck charms. As tempting as it was, after much consideration, I opted not to purchase one and stick to kissing my St Chris pendant occasionally that has hung from my neck since the very first day of this adventure, and although a little grimy by now, seems to be doing the trick. I'm going to be honest now and say that other than the Witches Market and the odd excursion to the central square I largely spent my time in La Paz fully living up to the backpacker stereotype of getting far too drunk with other gringos, and spending most mornings in a hung-over state in which I was capable of ordering food from the hostel bar and little else! Much like indulging in too much chocolate, while I know this lifestyle was bad for me, temporarily, it felt so good, and I really do believe that occasionally it is necessary to lose yourself in reckless fun!
Needless to say La Paz was the sort of city I needed to escape after a while before it sucked me in completely. With that in mind I headed north bound to a town called Ruenbeque which borders the Madidi National park which is right at the Amazon Basin and my main incentive for the visit. To get to the park itself we needed to take a three hour boat ride which is enough to make you feel like you are right in the heart of the jungle (even though in reality you're not even scratching the surface), and after three days there I'm surprised we didn't come away picking each others fleas, we were so well adapted! During the course of our time there a local guide took us on daily treks where we were fortunate enough to encounter a family of over 100 monkeys, an ant eater, several tarantulas, macore parrots, soldier ants, a jungle turtle, a baby alligator and most impressively a family of over 300 wild pigs, and let me tell you, Disney most certainly did their research when it comes to Pumba because these dudes stink! Actually they sound exactly like you'd expect them to, like wild beasts that want to rip your flesh off which is why when our guide signalled for us to follow them, I was a little surprised! In fact our guide was so overcome with excitement whilst chasing after the beasts that he managed to get us lost and it took us an hour to find our track again! My whole jungle experience was wonderfully authentically wild, including swinging from giant vines, along with drinking from them, falling asleep to the sound of tree frogs and making warrior face paints out of the sap of strange jungle leaves. However, anyone who has travelled will tell you that what often makes a trip is the people you meet along the way. Unfortunately I was stuck with a less than inspiring group, including one incredibly obnoxious American girl whom I would have happily of fed to the crocs!
As much as I loved playing the part of Jungle Jaz for a few days, I paid a high price for it on my return trip to La Paz when I embarked on a 22 hour bus from 80's classics hell. I may have found myself secretly tapping my knee to 'In the navy' the first time it was played, but by the tenth time the only thing that was moving was my right eye with the nervous twitch it had developed. Think back to when you were 8 and you owned a little battery powered key board, and the really cool ones had buttons at the top which played tunes which you'd then pretend to play along to and insist to your parents that you where in fact composing. Now imagine hearing those same tunes at full volume from 8 in the evening until 8am accompanied by little red and blue flashing lights in the isles, this was my bus. Still I got there in one piece and managed to restrain my urge to butcher the driver.
After a brief second and equally as messy stop in La Paz I headed south to a town called Cochabamba. When you backpack you learn to tolerate a lot. One of the down sides to this way of life is often the accommodation. I arrived at Cochabamba and checked in to Hostel Colonial at 5.45 in the morning. Three of my English pounds in such an establishment gets me a private room with a shared bathroom. That’s not so bad I hear you say, let me elaborate... a private room with paint flaking off the walls worse than the dandruff that has sought permanent residency on my granddads shoulders for as long as I've known him. A shared room with a table with only three legs. A shared bathroom with an electric shower which, despite the duck tape protecting you from the metal tap, still manages to give you a shock every time you turn it on. Yes it is a classy existence I live right now, but all this I can tolerate, even learn to ignore, it was only when I lifted back the cover of my bed in search of sanctuary for an hour or two before it got light, only to discover my sheets were not only dirty but decorated with little black public hairs, that I felt enough was enough and paid a visit to reception. In response to my request that they change my sheets they replied 'what now?' To which I shan't repeat my response.
The second main exhaustion I've faced while travelling, particularly in the Americas is the constant underlying feeling of fearing for my safety. I like to consider myself a fairly rational person when it comes to fear (except for of course in relation to wasps) but I have honestly met more people with horror stories of being robbed in these countries than without. Recently I have been travelling with a girl called Sarah who is the same age as me and is also travelling on her own. One night we got talking as to why she doesn't have any jewellery and she told me one of the worst stories of kidnapping I've heard first hand. When she was in Nicaragua she got chatting to a local guy on a bus on her way to a market and he told her he was heading the same way as her so they decided to share a taxi at the other end. He flagged down a taxi with two women in it which reassured her and therefore she got in. Two minutes down the road it transpired that the entire thing was a set up and they demanded her bank card. The problem was she didn't have her bank card with her, only cash. This was an extremely nasty group of robbers and when they discovered she didn't have what they wanted they got violent. They proceeded to strip her of everything she owned, to the extent of using her lip balm to lubricate her finger to remove her ring. They mocked her when she cried mimicking shooting her with their gun and even took pictures of her on her camera. After two hours of driving around in these conditions they took her to a deserted land fill sight, dragged her to the back of the car, opened the boot, loaded a bullet in their gun, and then for some unknown reason threw her to the floor and drove off. Amazingly Sarah decided to continue travelling, and she has got to be one of the bravest people I know. I know a lot of you will probably think to yourselves that she was just unlucky, or perhaps even silly for getting into the taxi but you have no idea how often this type of mugging occurs and how cunning people can be. The problem is that sometimes getting a taxi is unavoidable, and it’s something I certainly won't miss about this trip.
On a lighter note it has to be said that for every horror story you hear whilst travelling, there’s guaranteed to be a tale that is sure to send you into a full belly rumble! While in La Paz I met a guy whose story topped them all. He had been held up by knife point in Rio, by a man... wearing Speedos! Apparently he was nursing a rather severe hang over on the beach, when a man jogged past in nothing but a little pair of briefs, when all of a sudden he whipped a knife from his Nether regions, proceeded to demand all the guys money and phone, which he then stuffed back into the said zone, before continuing to jog on. This is a lesson I will certainly bare in mind when checking out the eye candy in Rio... large packages are not necessarily a good thing!
Saturday 4 July 2009
Peru
This entry is going to start with a rant I´m afraid. I hate border crossings, I hated them when I was with Abi and I hate them even more now that I´m on my own! The towns themselves on either side of a border in Latin America tend to be ugly ‘no-mans lands’. More often than not they are confusing, hectic and full of people eager to take advantage of you. Needless to say that after taking an all day bus to the south of Ecuador from Quito, spending a night in a grotty little town, then getting up at 5 the following day to get straight back on the road, I was already in a slightly fragile state of mind when I attempted to cross into Peru. This was made a lot worse when I realised I´d managed to get on the wrong bus and travel north bound for an hour, therefore requiring me to travel right back to my starting point. I eventually managed to get myself on the correct bus heading south-bound and found my way to the immigration office only to find that the place where I needed to get my exit stamp was 8 miles up the road in the direction I´d just come from. Eventually I managed to get my exit and entry stamp for both countries, but by this point I was a wee bit unstable, so when my taxi driver on the Peruvian side attempted to change his price from 1 dollar to 20 I cracked and simply burst into tears. As it turns out this is the most successful bit of bartering I´ve ever done, and with a look of sheer terror in his eyes he immediately dropped his price back down! The problem was that much like a lot of women who have been pushed just that little bit too far, once I´d started I couldn't stop and I remained in a sniffling state right up until I hauled my ass onto the bus for Lima, at which point an elderly Peruvian gent sitting next to me took pity on me and engaged me in idle chit chat about swine flu and other topical conversations, which he then followed up with asking if I needed feeding! Let me assure you, while travelling might be exhilarating and full of discovery most of the time, it can also be trying, testing and rarely glamorous! 29 hours later I arrived in Lima and by that time I’d managed to compose myself!
The following day my mum, Hils G joined me in Peru´s capital and we had a much needed catch up over wine and seafood. Whether it was the wine, the seafood, or the monster journey I’m not entirely sure but the following day I spent most of the afternoon/evening projectile vomiting while Hils G looked after me the way only mothers can. Besides being sick, Lima itself isn’t a terribly attractive city as it’s covered in a thick layer of smog for most of the year, so with that in mind we quickly exited the city and made our way to Cusco.
Cusco itself is tourist central with every second building hosting a tour agency or a restaurant, despite this fact it still has a certain charm and just a few blocks away from the central plaza there remains a much more authentically South American scene. Whilst adapting to the altitude we meandered around the local market, which would have made a great film set for Willy Wonka and the Sausage Factory, with rivers of blood, walls made up of sheep's skulls and waterfalls of entrails cascading from all directions! From the market we took a wrong turn somewhere and managed to find ourselves quite literately on Willy Ally where we were greeted by a river of piss and a small Peruvian penis, a most surreal experience to share with your mother, but a bonding one all the same!
After a few brief days in Cusco our real adventure began when we set off in search of the great Macchu Pichu. We decided to opt for a slightly different trek to The Inca Trail, as due to its fame this option is guaranteed to be filled with people (and therefore sometimes litter) and we wanted a little more isolation, which was exactly what we got! Besides another English couple, Bob and Sandra, our guide, Maralie, and our porters, the only other people we bumped into in the entire 4 days were sheep herders! I cannot rave about this experience enough, the landscape continued to astonish even on our fourth day of hiking, with snow capped mountains imposing from all sides and valleys that seemed to have no end, the company was just grand and the service we received was nothing short of total luxury! When we arrived to camp on our first night, our tents were already set up for us along with a dining tent equipped with a table, chairs and even a table cloth! Trekking usually involves blood, sweat and the odd tear for me, so I was simply blown away by this level of extravagance... a table cloth I tell you! For dinner we were provided with wine, and a three course meal which included flambéed fruit for pudding, all of which was served by a uniform wearing waiter!! The following morning we were awoken with a cup of tea in bed and a bowl of warm water to wash our faces in! This level of service continued each night and included rum and pop corn one evening and a traditional meal cooked in an oven in the ground, I don’t think I’ve eaten so well in the entire 8 months I’ve been travelling.
The trek we opted for started at a little town called Izcuchaca and ended four days later in Ollyantytambo, we reached an altitude of of 4,800 meters so despite being fed like kings each of us suffered with the height a little and when we finally reached our destination it was considered a great accomplishment by all members of the party. Along the trail we came across several children, whom would be sure to make the coldest of hearts melt with their little rosy cheeks and big brown eyes. Despite this being a pleasant encounter it did provoke an unspoken conflict within our group. Before we left our guide suggested we buy sweets to give to the kids along the way, according to her this is not permitted on The Inca Trail, as the kids have grown to expect this treat and spend their days waiting by the side of the trail for westerners to provide them with candy, but because our trail was relatively new it would be acceptable in this case. This didn’t really sit well with me as firstly, surely within time the same will happen on this alternative trail, and secondly these kids have no access to dental care, and you see more people with gold teeth in this country than you do real ones. In my opinion there are far more productive ways to relieve your guilt about being a wealthy gringo than to give a stranger’s child something that they do not actually need. I feel it can only be detrimental to a society to create a such an unmitigated relationship of giver and receiver, and already you see far too many children in South America begging because their mothers have tapped into the pull it has on our heart strings. On the other hand these children are incredibly cute and to see the look of glee on their faces when receiving a gift is something anybody would naturally want to be part of. But at what cost? The other issue I found a little difficult at times was the attitude of pity towards the local people our group seemed to have, and often remarks were made along the lines of “oh what a poor dear, what a horrible life she must lead”. To feel compassion when faced with these images is natural instinct but surely a better approach to seeing a women loaded down with goods to sell would be to respect her for being able to endure such a physically demanding life, to acknowledge these women's strength and honor them with some dignity?
Anyway enough of the moral dilemma. The following day we caught a bus up to Maccu Picchu at around 6am and proceeded to explore every nook and cranny of this Inca paradise. We climbed right up to Sun Gate to get the grand overview, hung out with a llama or two (employed to mow the grass) and even came across a squabbit, I say Squabbit because I’m not entirely sure what the creature was but I’m pretty sure his naughty squirrel mother may have been having relations with the rabbit milkman at the time of his conception! So now here's the lo down on Maccu Picchu itself, firstly it’s an absolute masterpiece of architecture, and far bigger and grander than I had ever imagined. The Incas started building it around AD 1430, which isn’t that old when you think the Tudors were around from about 1485! Only a hundred years later it was abandoned at the time of the Spanish conquest of the Inca Empire, however, unlike most Inca sights Maccu Picchu was never actually found by the Spanish and consequently not plundered and destroyed. Over the centuries, the surrounding jungle grew over much of the site, and few knew of its existence. However in 1911, Machu Picchu was brought to the attention of scholars by Hiram Bingham, an American historian who proceeded to do his own bit of pillaging, sending most of its contents back to the US. This is still an on going dispute as nearly 100 years later Peru still hasn’t got any of these artefacts back!
I have to be honest and say I didn’t have terribly high hopes for the actual site itself as it’s Peru´s number one tourist attraction, but I was blown away by its beauty. Just to give you an idea of the scale of its popularity, in 2008 The World Monuments Fund placed Machu Picchu on its Watch List of the 100 Most Endangered Sites in the world because of environmental degradation resulting from the impact of tourism.... oops! Although now there are strict limits to how many people are allowed to do the Inca Trail and how many people are allowed into the site per day, it seems only 30 years previously, revenue made from tourism was Peru´s primary concern as opposed to preserving the site. For example during the 1980s a large rock from Macchu Picchu's central plaza was moved out of its alignment to a different location in order to create a helicopter landing zone, helicopter landings were forbidden in the 1990s but still can you imagine us doing something like that to Stone Henge!
We finished our epic adventure with a cocktail in the local hot springs (not exactly backpacker behaviour but I took full advantage of my company’s more refined tastes!) Which we then followed up by sampling the local cuisine, Guinea pig! Now I know most of you will be questioning my dedication to vegetarianism right now, but I can assure you he was very small, and I only had a nibble on his arm... it was the cocktails I tell you, the cocktails! We also sampled coca leaf tea, and a drink made from distilled maize which is called chicha and in my opinion should only be drunk in desperate circumstances, second to the option of ones own urine!
The following day we moved swiftly on to Puno. We took this journey via a tour bus that Mum had booked from home, which we both agreed turned out to be a mistake. The tour bus took us to several sites of ´special interest´ along the way, none of which were particularly remarkable. This journey made me realise that as exhausting as public transport can be, it is also an essential way of really getting a feel for a country. I make no claims of understanding the cultures I’m exposed to fully, but if Peruvian culture was a book, then as a backpacker I’d have picked it up, felt its cover, and attempted to read its text even if I couldn’t quite decipher the language, as a tourist I felt as if I was allowed to peer at the book from behind a glass cabinet, press my palms against the cold glass, but ultimately get no closer. On reflection I suppose this is a silly analogy as in my opinion culture is fluid and ever changing, but the point I am trying to get across is how inaccessible Peru felt as your archetypal tourist.
While in Puno mum and I went on a tour of the various Islands, which surround Lake Titicaca, which left us with a similar taste in our mouths. Uros, aka The Floating Islands of Lake Titicaca have long been famed for their unique existence as a group of 42 or so artificial islands made of floating reeds, on which a population of people actually live. While these islands are fascinating, the detrimental effects of tourism are opaquely apparent. This industry is now clearly the island’s number one income with tour boats toing and froing each and every day, which is followed by the hard sell of products made on the islands, such as wall hangings and children’s toys. However despite my cynicism it has to be said that tourism is a much less labour intensive way to make a living than fishing, and so perhaps our curiosity isn’t solely detrimental. On the second Island we visited, Taquile we were met with a similar problem, when we were bombarded with children in traditional dress begging to have their picture taken with us for a small fee, something that would no doubt cause great alarm if it were to take place within our own country. Indeed there where many tourists posing with these children, as if they were some kind of exotic creature. If children learn that they can sell themselves at such a young age what happens to thier self worth when they get older and they are no longer considered cute, surely this can’t be a healthy way for a child to grow up. Still there lies the age old debate, does travelling and tourism do more harm than good? I’m not sure I’ll ever know the answer to that one.
God, looking back on this entry I realise its weighed down heavily with moral issues, and perhaps lacks a light hearted tail of buffoonery! Still I believe these issues need to be raised, because, as backpackers, we all have a certain amount of social responsibility to the countries we invade, on mass each year, that is too often over looked.
The following day my mum, Hils G joined me in Peru´s capital and we had a much needed catch up over wine and seafood. Whether it was the wine, the seafood, or the monster journey I’m not entirely sure but the following day I spent most of the afternoon/evening projectile vomiting while Hils G looked after me the way only mothers can. Besides being sick, Lima itself isn’t a terribly attractive city as it’s covered in a thick layer of smog for most of the year, so with that in mind we quickly exited the city and made our way to Cusco.
Cusco itself is tourist central with every second building hosting a tour agency or a restaurant, despite this fact it still has a certain charm and just a few blocks away from the central plaza there remains a much more authentically South American scene. Whilst adapting to the altitude we meandered around the local market, which would have made a great film set for Willy Wonka and the Sausage Factory, with rivers of blood, walls made up of sheep's skulls and waterfalls of entrails cascading from all directions! From the market we took a wrong turn somewhere and managed to find ourselves quite literately on Willy Ally where we were greeted by a river of piss and a small Peruvian penis, a most surreal experience to share with your mother, but a bonding one all the same!
After a few brief days in Cusco our real adventure began when we set off in search of the great Macchu Pichu. We decided to opt for a slightly different trek to The Inca Trail, as due to its fame this option is guaranteed to be filled with people (and therefore sometimes litter) and we wanted a little more isolation, which was exactly what we got! Besides another English couple, Bob and Sandra, our guide, Maralie, and our porters, the only other people we bumped into in the entire 4 days were sheep herders! I cannot rave about this experience enough, the landscape continued to astonish even on our fourth day of hiking, with snow capped mountains imposing from all sides and valleys that seemed to have no end, the company was just grand and the service we received was nothing short of total luxury! When we arrived to camp on our first night, our tents were already set up for us along with a dining tent equipped with a table, chairs and even a table cloth! Trekking usually involves blood, sweat and the odd tear for me, so I was simply blown away by this level of extravagance... a table cloth I tell you! For dinner we were provided with wine, and a three course meal which included flambéed fruit for pudding, all of which was served by a uniform wearing waiter!! The following morning we were awoken with a cup of tea in bed and a bowl of warm water to wash our faces in! This level of service continued each night and included rum and pop corn one evening and a traditional meal cooked in an oven in the ground, I don’t think I’ve eaten so well in the entire 8 months I’ve been travelling.
The trek we opted for started at a little town called Izcuchaca and ended four days later in Ollyantytambo, we reached an altitude of of 4,800 meters so despite being fed like kings each of us suffered with the height a little and when we finally reached our destination it was considered a great accomplishment by all members of the party. Along the trail we came across several children, whom would be sure to make the coldest of hearts melt with their little rosy cheeks and big brown eyes. Despite this being a pleasant encounter it did provoke an unspoken conflict within our group. Before we left our guide suggested we buy sweets to give to the kids along the way, according to her this is not permitted on The Inca Trail, as the kids have grown to expect this treat and spend their days waiting by the side of the trail for westerners to provide them with candy, but because our trail was relatively new it would be acceptable in this case. This didn’t really sit well with me as firstly, surely within time the same will happen on this alternative trail, and secondly these kids have no access to dental care, and you see more people with gold teeth in this country than you do real ones. In my opinion there are far more productive ways to relieve your guilt about being a wealthy gringo than to give a stranger’s child something that they do not actually need. I feel it can only be detrimental to a society to create a such an unmitigated relationship of giver and receiver, and already you see far too many children in South America begging because their mothers have tapped into the pull it has on our heart strings. On the other hand these children are incredibly cute and to see the look of glee on their faces when receiving a gift is something anybody would naturally want to be part of. But at what cost? The other issue I found a little difficult at times was the attitude of pity towards the local people our group seemed to have, and often remarks were made along the lines of “oh what a poor dear, what a horrible life she must lead”. To feel compassion when faced with these images is natural instinct but surely a better approach to seeing a women loaded down with goods to sell would be to respect her for being able to endure such a physically demanding life, to acknowledge these women's strength and honor them with some dignity?
Anyway enough of the moral dilemma. The following day we caught a bus up to Maccu Picchu at around 6am and proceeded to explore every nook and cranny of this Inca paradise. We climbed right up to Sun Gate to get the grand overview, hung out with a llama or two (employed to mow the grass) and even came across a squabbit, I say Squabbit because I’m not entirely sure what the creature was but I’m pretty sure his naughty squirrel mother may have been having relations with the rabbit milkman at the time of his conception! So now here's the lo down on Maccu Picchu itself, firstly it’s an absolute masterpiece of architecture, and far bigger and grander than I had ever imagined. The Incas started building it around AD 1430, which isn’t that old when you think the Tudors were around from about 1485! Only a hundred years later it was abandoned at the time of the Spanish conquest of the Inca Empire, however, unlike most Inca sights Maccu Picchu was never actually found by the Spanish and consequently not plundered and destroyed. Over the centuries, the surrounding jungle grew over much of the site, and few knew of its existence. However in 1911, Machu Picchu was brought to the attention of scholars by Hiram Bingham, an American historian who proceeded to do his own bit of pillaging, sending most of its contents back to the US. This is still an on going dispute as nearly 100 years later Peru still hasn’t got any of these artefacts back!
I have to be honest and say I didn’t have terribly high hopes for the actual site itself as it’s Peru´s number one tourist attraction, but I was blown away by its beauty. Just to give you an idea of the scale of its popularity, in 2008 The World Monuments Fund placed Machu Picchu on its Watch List of the 100 Most Endangered Sites in the world because of environmental degradation resulting from the impact of tourism.... oops! Although now there are strict limits to how many people are allowed to do the Inca Trail and how many people are allowed into the site per day, it seems only 30 years previously, revenue made from tourism was Peru´s primary concern as opposed to preserving the site. For example during the 1980s a large rock from Macchu Picchu's central plaza was moved out of its alignment to a different location in order to create a helicopter landing zone, helicopter landings were forbidden in the 1990s but still can you imagine us doing something like that to Stone Henge!
We finished our epic adventure with a cocktail in the local hot springs (not exactly backpacker behaviour but I took full advantage of my company’s more refined tastes!) Which we then followed up by sampling the local cuisine, Guinea pig! Now I know most of you will be questioning my dedication to vegetarianism right now, but I can assure you he was very small, and I only had a nibble on his arm... it was the cocktails I tell you, the cocktails! We also sampled coca leaf tea, and a drink made from distilled maize which is called chicha and in my opinion should only be drunk in desperate circumstances, second to the option of ones own urine!
The following day we moved swiftly on to Puno. We took this journey via a tour bus that Mum had booked from home, which we both agreed turned out to be a mistake. The tour bus took us to several sites of ´special interest´ along the way, none of which were particularly remarkable. This journey made me realise that as exhausting as public transport can be, it is also an essential way of really getting a feel for a country. I make no claims of understanding the cultures I’m exposed to fully, but if Peruvian culture was a book, then as a backpacker I’d have picked it up, felt its cover, and attempted to read its text even if I couldn’t quite decipher the language, as a tourist I felt as if I was allowed to peer at the book from behind a glass cabinet, press my palms against the cold glass, but ultimately get no closer. On reflection I suppose this is a silly analogy as in my opinion culture is fluid and ever changing, but the point I am trying to get across is how inaccessible Peru felt as your archetypal tourist.
While in Puno mum and I went on a tour of the various Islands, which surround Lake Titicaca, which left us with a similar taste in our mouths. Uros, aka The Floating Islands of Lake Titicaca have long been famed for their unique existence as a group of 42 or so artificial islands made of floating reeds, on which a population of people actually live. While these islands are fascinating, the detrimental effects of tourism are opaquely apparent. This industry is now clearly the island’s number one income with tour boats toing and froing each and every day, which is followed by the hard sell of products made on the islands, such as wall hangings and children’s toys. However despite my cynicism it has to be said that tourism is a much less labour intensive way to make a living than fishing, and so perhaps our curiosity isn’t solely detrimental. On the second Island we visited, Taquile we were met with a similar problem, when we were bombarded with children in traditional dress begging to have their picture taken with us for a small fee, something that would no doubt cause great alarm if it were to take place within our own country. Indeed there where many tourists posing with these children, as if they were some kind of exotic creature. If children learn that they can sell themselves at such a young age what happens to thier self worth when they get older and they are no longer considered cute, surely this can’t be a healthy way for a child to grow up. Still there lies the age old debate, does travelling and tourism do more harm than good? I’m not sure I’ll ever know the answer to that one.
God, looking back on this entry I realise its weighed down heavily with moral issues, and perhaps lacks a light hearted tail of buffoonery! Still I believe these issues need to be raised, because, as backpackers, we all have a certain amount of social responsibility to the countries we invade, on mass each year, that is too often over looked.
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