Goodbye to Peru

13th September

A stream of consciousness about Peru as we leave for Chilean climes…..

·         Lessons from the cuy – even if you are going to wrench the fur from its back, shove a pole up its bum and roast it over an open flame before devouring it, you can still give your meat a little thatched house and make sure it is happy before you do.

·         Chile and Peru aesthetics & customs: I’ve gone deaf. No incessantly beeping car horn in ear shot, road rage does not seem to register here. Things are more finished – buildings generally have doors, a second storey that is weatherproof and a roof which doesn’t have ironwork sticking out the top.

·         Ethno man; we’ve escaped him!  – a 45 year old Englishman with the hairline of a 2,000 year old mummy, garbed in full ethno tat regalia – including garish stripy suede shoes, is nowhere to be seen in Chile. Excellent.

·         Remember – the most coveted commodity in a Peruvian hotel is not the cosmetics or towels (because you’re lucky to get any, never mind a bathrobe!) – the key is to always nick the loo paper to avoid the 1 sole payment for two pieces of paper in public loos, or being caught short in the bar/restaurant that doesn’t have any!…..

·         Goodbye beer, hello red wine – how I’ve missed you:)

·         Clothes: Goodbye lovely traditional and colourful Peruvian dress; hello baggy jogging bottoms and Chilean teenagers that look like D list rappers from Essex.

Crossing borders & contravening customs

Tuesday 13th (Happy Birthday Dad)

We left Tacna after a cheeky morning ice cream in the sunshine of the square. At the bus station, we managed to get ourselves in a ‘collectivo’ taxi for 5 people which was apparently the quickest and easiest way to cross the border into Chile. The other occupants seemed a little snooty, apart from a cute old man who just read the same page of the local paper for the entire way. I had the usual dilemma of ‘to declare or not to declare’ and decided – as always – its best to fess up, so I declared the seed pod ornament we’d bought from the Uros islanders. Thankfully, the Chilean customs men were chilled out, and basically took the opinion that ‘it’s just dried fruit’, and let me keep it. Yey!

The ride was quick, the process made easy by the obliging taxi driver who made we crossed our t’s and dotted our i’s and queued in the right places. At the ATM on the other side though, we faced a new dilemma – what on earth is a thousand pesos worth?! It cost us 3 thousand for a taxi ride which made me giggle as it sounded so ridiculous, but that gives you a clue how mental the process are here.

Hostel Raissa was a little run down, but clean and nice enough, with another massive room again – three beds! There was a large en suite – but the mirror was a massive shock – it had been ages since I’d actually seen myself! No wi fi though L After the taxi ride and a little wander, Arica seemed so Western compared to Tacna: finished buildings with sturdy walls and rooves, John Freida & St Ives products in the pharmacies, Activia and even Nectar points in the supermarket!! We chose to have dinner in Café del Mar –my Italian burger was filled with parma ham, cheese, peppers, basil and mushrooms. Great fries. We finished with ‘Hot cake’ and a cappuccino. I resolved to stop eating pudding as it was becoming too much of a habit!! Until the next day anyway….

A bad day for first impressions

Monday 12th

A crazy man shouting at no one in particular as he ranted down the street, a protest at the train station, and an hour and a half at the post office trying to send two small packages, set the tone for the day and our opinion of Tacna. Described by the LP as heroic, to us Tacna seemed more like horrific, and we both spent the day a little depressed. I mean really, are fingerprints, a copy of my passport and having to sell my soul for a pen in the Post Office really pre requisites for sending a scarf and a postcard? An hour and a half?! Coffee (I say coffee; it was actually Nescafé) and coconut biscuits at a little shop on a random side street were a highlight, which says it all really.

A lovely helpful woman at iPeru helped us plan how to avoid the train station debacle and get to Chile, so things started to look up somewhat, and managing to upload photos at the hotel restored my mood. We ventured out into the freezing cold for dinner at Da Vinci café – and on the way got a better view of Tacna; with its little gardened streets and fountain; we also saw the church which was built by Eiffel (of Paris tower fame) and an arch dedicated to Bolognesi and Grau. The olive pasta and cheesy garlic bread at Da Vinci were phenomenal and the cake we shared for pudding fantastic – gooey and with crunchy shards of toffee on top. By the time we left for home, Tacna didn’t seem quite so horrific after all.

Dirty food, Lovely George and WiFi at last!

Sunday 11^th

Walking round Arequipa for final time, I was feeling sad to go! We ate juicy tangerines in sunshine of the square, and bought the hallowed Almond Snickers that I’d hankered after since I saw it in the supermarket on our first day… we don’t have them in the UK as far as I know, and I was excited to try, hoping it would be the equivalent of the Lemon Fanta treats on holiday when I was little. I am ashamed to say we succumbed to fast food at lunchtime to see us through our bus journey – I had a zinger wrap from KFC and David went for the new ‘double down’. Don’t judge us!

Our bus to our final Peruvian stop, Tacna, left at 4.15, and I fully enjoyed the poshness of the Cruz del Sur waiting room with its water fountain, etched mirrors and flat screen TVs. There were two things I didn’t enjoy though: 1) The sign for the female toilets ‘Ladie’s Room’ – (well done translators!) And 2) a girl in impossibly tight jeans who stood on our side of the waiting room door, said goodbye to her boyfriend and then called him back, demanding he bring her back fried chicken and a drink before the bus left in 10 mins. There she stood, tapping her feet and muttering at her phone, and then just as the bus was boarding, her face lit up as the poor sap returned and handed over the polystyrene box of meat and a Gatorade. He was rewarded with a telling off for cutting it so fine and then a kiss. Mug.

The highlight of the journey for me was waking up to George Clooney on the small screen in front of us as Cruz del Sur aired ‘The American’. Crap film for subtitles. Great scenery. Wonderful George. The obligatory cheese sandwich and little biscuit arrived like clockwork, and I succumbed to the Almond Snickers (totally amazing).

We arrived late at night to the ambitiously named Hotel Copacobana and although the hotel was a little faded and lacking in character, the best thing was that we finally had a wifi connection that worked!! Not to mention the cable TV – rugby and Man vs Food became a staple for the next few days…. How that man managed to eat 5 bowls of the hottest chilli in America is completely beyond me – nappies, sour cream and a tongue transplant anyone?!

Zig Zag

Saturday 10^th

Unsurprisingly, we slept in. Of course we tired, and probably a little hungover, but there were no windows in our room – save for the door shutters – so no light crept in to wake me up as it had before. Casa de Melgar breakfast revisited was just as good as I remembered – now with olives and cheese welcome additions to the menu! This time round, we took a photo of our laundry before submission(!) and hoped fervently that the laundry people wouldn’t be offended by the state of our trekking clothes!!

We undertook more ecclesiastical sight-seeing, and I was excited about a visit to a Church where apparently, if you rocked up just before noon you could hear the nuns singing! This turned out not to be the case – but as I was sitting on a bench looking out over the courtyard garden, straining to get a waft of a Sound of Music moment, I realised how beautiful the place actually was. In fact, it was so lovely, we just sat there for a while, taking in the sunshine, the flowers, the shady trees and the harmonious sound of trickling water from the central fountain.

In the afternoon, we went present shopping near the church in the artisan quarter; an old woman was selling handmade alpaca scarves and I succumbed to a few for presents. Owing to the non-existent WiFi in the hostel, we went to an internet café and I managed to Skype with Rodney; Mum was having PC issues, and couldn’t log on, so I was really sad to miss speaking to her – especially when she was on the phone to Rodney at the same time as I was Skyping!! I phoned her instead from a payphone in the square and managed about 5 mins to say hello.

We decided that for our last night in Arequipa we’d splash out and have cocktails in the square as the sun went down; they did great Pisco Sours, terrible Mojitos, and we got totally ripped off – paying about £20 for four drinks!! However, it was wonderful to watch the sun set over the square and the stunning white Cathedral.

The icing on the cake was our dinner at Zig Zag – an expensive restaurant recommended by the LP as a splurge option. We got all dressed up: well, I was still in jeans, but I’d put on a pair of wedges and it was hilarious walking around. I towered above everyone, including the men who are all about 5 and a half feet anyway – and finally understood what it must be like to be a supermodel (in height, if not looks!!)We then had a moment of horror because we never thought to book, so when we tottered up to the door at 7.30pm, they informed us quite cheerfully that there was no room! Luckily, we could book for 8.30, so just went to Fez for a beer and another attempt to befriend the surly waitress, before rocking back up at Zig Zag.

We were seated in a romantic window casement, in an alcove away from the hubbub of the rest of the restaurant, with a view of the wisteria and the Church opposite, and ate the best meal we’d had on our trip to date.  Andean antipasto – with different slivers of cheeses, salad, olives, potato, sun dried tomato and cured meats; followed by a slab of very rare steak on a sizzling platter with three different types of butter to try on it, salad, creamy baked potato with crispy skins and sour cream, fruity red wine; and a rich but light three-chocolate mousse to finish it all off. AMAZING!! The whole episode was really cosy and the food was on a par with any top restaurant in the UK; delicious food and great service. Quite tipsy, I managed to totter back to the hotel without breaking my ankle on the smooth paving stones, and best of all, the Colca Canyon felt like a lifetime away!!

Back to civilisation

Friday 9^th

Our final breakfast at Pachamama included a freshly squeezed orange juice which was so sweet I swear it came from tangerines, and I thought it wonderful, until the guy charged me 5 soles for it (The rest of the breakfast only cost 4!) 9am saw our bus to Arequipa arrive. Again, it was a VERY local one, and the highlight of this journey which had me and the people in the aisle wetting ourselves with laughter, was the old old man in front of David reclining his chair into David’s lap. He wasn’t impressed, but it looked so funny – and almost indecent somehow!! We encountered a couple practically having sex at the front – feeding each other food, and fondling each other unashamedly,;women came on selling everything from chicharron of pork to jelly; and one old woman appeared to be carrying half a field of mint on her back.

It felt good to arrive back in Arequipa and the creature comforts and grandeur of Casa de Melgar. We had a different room – I noticed wryly it was Room 101 – but it was lovely, with a third bed hidden in an alcove in the corner, gorgeous sofas and chairs, an antique bureau and chest, and the bathroom in what was once a glass-fronted cupboard! It was wonderful to walk down Av. San Francisco and be back in civilisation; we were happy to be near water, shade, beers and fruit – where we could sit down and be secure in the knowledge that the hostel was only 15mins walk away! To celebrate our safety – and our new emaciated figures (every cloud!) we had drinks, hummous, mezze and salad at Fez – the Istanbul bar. The food was heavenly, and the waitress was still surly.

Escape from the canyon

Thursday 8^th

6am dawned and although neither of us was feeling especially fit or healthy, we paid our dues, ate a Snickers each, and armed with more Coke and water started for the top. There were MANY stops on the way, and the heat began to really kick in around 9am. I was so worried about David, and kept insisting we sit in the shade and rest. He wasn’t arguing thank God. Every time a guy cam past us with mules – up or down – I thought about asking how much it would be to take David up, but he’d made it clear that he wasn’t getting on a mule unless he was half dead. Great. Each time a group passed us on their way down, I asked how long it was for the top, and it was interesting how the Peruvians and tourists gave differing times… I had to actually lie to David at times, as a Peruvian said 2 hours and the next tourist would say two and a half!! I knew it would demoralise him terribly, so with every enquiry, the time always became less. Every turn, I hoped and prayed that the edge I could see above me would be the top, but with the path so steep, it was impossible to see whether it levelled off or not. My white lies about the time worked though; motivated, he made it to the shade of some trees, which I figured must be near the top. We rested in the shade of the waving branches and felt relief at the cool breeze, and sure enough, 10mins after we left the trees, we had made it!

We still had to negotiate our way through rocky troughs which wound through the terraces towards Cabanconde, but I was so elated that the climb was over and David still in one piece, that I didn’t care! We reached civilisation at last – had an ice cream in shade on the way to the hostel, and eventually arrived at Pachamama at around 1pm. We were given a different, but nicer room, and as David collapsed on the bed, I went out for vital supplies of shampoo, water, and orange juice! It was hilarious, me trying to ask in a mixture of Spanglish and sign language for these things – especially the orange juice, but after about 5 shops, I finally found some Gloria orange juice, and couldn’t pay because the shop owner had left! I considered my first shoplifting offence considering I had a sick boyfriend waiting on the juice, but after a few shouted Hola’s, the woman eventually shuffled out – I stuffed some coins in her hand and ran back.

The best shower in the world and a blissful nap later, we were ready to face the world again, and ventured out for dinner. What a debacle. I had been salivating over the thought of good old pasta pesto and cheese, but when it came, the pesto was GROSS. I was so disappointed, and so hungry, I did something I’ve never done before, and that was to apologise, and ask to order something else. At that point, after two days of only 2 chocolate biscuits, a couple of mouthfuls of spaghetti, and a Snickers bar, I needed to have some food! Alpaca kebabs and rice later, I was full and ready for the longest sleep. Just before we put the light out, David made me promise we’d never go trekking again. And we slept.

Bad to worse

Wednesday 7^th

So the alarm went off at 5.30am, after what felt like 2mins since I finally managed to close my eyes, but was actually about 40mins. I knew there was no way I could drag my sorry proverbial out of bed – even if someone was waving a block of cheese and an invitation to have dinner with George Clooney – so I told David we’d have to either stay here all day, or just set off later, even though it would mean walking in the heat.

We decided that there was no way that in my state – especially with a delayed start – that I could make it to the oasis at the bottom and up again in one day as we had planned. So we concluded that the two-day ‘easy trek’ would have to become a three-day battle to make it out alive, and that the best we could hope for today was to make it to the oasis, Sangalle. Our plans changed, we armed ourselves with water, coke and leftover chocolate biscuits and set off about 10am for the oasis.

Oh my God, was it steep. Narrow and full of shale, shaky from dehydration and fear, I was terrified and glad there was nothing left in my stomach or I would have risked more than just metaphorically sh*tting myself. David – as always, patient and positive – encouraged me to take small steps and keep going no matter what.

I was rewarded at the next gully. A condor silently drifted by us on a thermal, so close I could see its eyes and glossy feathers. I was so taken aback by the unexpected beauty of it that I fumbled for my camera too late, and it soared back out again, up into the sky before I could capture it on film. When I was little, every night I would have the same dream – so vividly and regularly that I could conjour it and manipulate it at will – that I could fly. I loved going to sleep for the feeling of liberation, energy and excitement that the dream gave me, and I remember always replying ‘A bird’ – to my Primary School teachers’ amusement – when asked the question ‘What do you want to be?’. I think if I’d known they’d even existed when I was five, I would have said instead: ‘A Condor’.

Spurred on by the elation of seeing such an elegant, powerful and effortless bird, and reminded of the positive dream-feelings of my youth, I clambered on, and after crossing the boulders of the dried river bed, we carefully picked our way along the narrow edge of a water trough to arrive at two villages. The disparity between the two was marked – one was very underdeveloped; all dusty streets and shacks with wandering animals, the other much more wealthy, with solar panels and even the odd satellite dish adorning the tin rooves of the inhabitants. We rested, indulging in a Coke under the shade of a wall in the square, and I managed to eat and keep down the first morsel of the day – a chocolate oreo-esque biscuit – as I watched the sweet old ladies of the village trudge, steadfastly and on swollen feet, the paths I feared.

A flat stretch, between the villages and just after them, was most welcome for my nerves and food-deprived muscles, and we descended to a plateau of terraces and random religious icons, such as a huge flower-adorned cross. The path began to descend steeply again, and near the bottom, my head began to feel light, my vision began to get brighter until I couldn’t see, and  – scared out of my wits, ‘blind’ and reeling – I lay down in the dirt, afraid I would pass out. Thank God, I regained myself, and David assured me it was only 15 mins to the Oasis. Another dizzy spell, but finally we made it! El Eden was the first place we came across, and David insisted we stop so I could lie down; we braved our way past a very scary Doberman, and claimed a hut from the manager.

Admittedly, it was basic – the stone base for the bed, a dusty floor, a piece of wood as a table, a door with no lock, and bamboo with 3cm gaps between each rod for the walls. With the wind whistling through it would be like sleeping outside, but I was beyond caring. It had shade and through the open door I could see an invitingly blue pool, with a crashing waterfall and surrounded by lush tropical trees and ferns. Paradise as promised. David immediately went to buy more supplies of Coke and water from the hostel, and came back with the last bottle of Coke for me, and Inca Cola for himself – which actually turned out not to be Cola at all, but a yellow Irn Bru and Vimto hybrid.

Unfortunately, the toilets were even further than in Tapay, and my rush to vomit again was almost in vain. Gutted that I still wasn’t recovered, I lay down for a while, then put on my hat and braved the cool waters of the pool. It was blissful; feeling the calming waves on my skin and dunking my hair, I felt my brain regain some kind of clarity. Refreshed, I wobbled back to the hut to lie down and take a nap. David joined me, but to our dismay, about half an hour later, he was sick too. We awoke later to the call for dinner, and in the darkness wandered down to a candlelit tea of vegetable soup and pasta. I found myself feeling better and actually a bit hungry, David still felt dodgy and as we each negotiated our food, I eavesdropped on the chat at the other table between some haughty French and English wide-boys about ethical tourism and Autocolca – it actually proved enlightening when they involved the woman from the hostel who was serving the food, as she relayed the fact that none of the park fee charged to enter the Canyon and its environs actually goes to the locals or the upkeep of the area. So where does it all go?

We couldn’t dwell on the possible corruption of the Peruvian environmental authorities, as my worst fear ensued: about 3 minutes after dinner, David hurled it all into the toilet bowl. Another fitful night followed, and as I tried to soothe him to sleep, I wondered how on earth we would make it out of there the next day – both of us unfit for a hard climb; uphill all the way, in the heat of the day…. And if we couldn’t, would he be able to take a mule like the Québécoise woman? Would I be able to brave one or would I have to walk separately? Did we have enough money on us to hire one anyway? Or would we have to stay another day, and cancel our bus, and our onward bookings in Arequipa? Most of all, I worried about his notorious stubbornness and male pride – I worried that he would pretend to be perfectly fine just so we could make it out, and that in the end, with a more arduous journey than today, he might faint like I almost had, and we would be stranded half way up the mountain…

Eynon & I: we’ve come trekking by mistake

Tuesday 6^th

If only we’d known the error we were making as we sat down that morning to a breakfast of bread and jam, happy with our coffee and no milk, and set off – bright eyed, bushy tailed, and armed with water, day packs, and biscuits for our trek.

We wandered out of the village and marvelled at the view over the terraces, before finding our first landmark, the Mirador over the canyon. The map was sketchy, but our spirits high, and we saw our first condor from that lookout – soaring just below us on a thermal from the depths of the canyon below. Even at that point, we were oblivious to the naivety we were carrying round with us.

We set off down the path to the bottom of the canyon; a few squiggles on the map did not prepare me for the narrow, rubble-based path that wound steeply down the 1,300m to the river below. All of a sudden, Ludwig’s ‘easy’ became much more of an understatement than William’s ‘Inca flat’. The Inca Trail turned out to be an absolute walk in the park compared to the Colca Canyon trek. If I had known then what I know now, when David asked with concern about 30 mins in if I wanted to turn back, I would have said yes – and it’s very rare that I ever admit defeat!

So, in my usual stubborn way, I refused to give in, said no, I wouldn’t let my crazy fear ruin the trip  – and on we ploughed, committed now to our two day trek. We reached the gorge at the bottom and celebrated with an over-priced Coke from the entrepreneurial woman selling drinks out of a bucket of cold water. I was proud, and pleased to make it down. However, the amazement at how far we’d come down, and the lovely sight of the boulder-strewn, gushing water were short-lived. Just as we had come down, so we now had to go back up the other side to reach lodgings for the night. Only the 900m this time, though – not the full 1,200m. So, in the heat of the midday sun, off we set, and began the climb. It was hot, incredibly steep, and unrelenting. Past huts, water trenches, through overhanging trees, scrambling up rubble-filled steps, on we trudged. I rarely managed to look down as the view was vertiginous, but when I managed to cling onto a rock and brave a glance, there was no denying it was stunning. Something about the steep angle of the valley, the clean and deep slice the river had carved out of the rock over millions of years, meant that the other side seemed almost at arms’ length, yet the gulf massive; as I clung to the side of the rock face, the canyon was so deep the bottom almost seemed under my feet.

The heat, the angle of the climb and the aching muscles started to get the better of us as the afternoon sun beat down; I could tell David had reached the edge of his patience with the endless ‘up’ as he began spouting hyperbolic vitriol that made me – despite my fear-heightened state – crack up with laughter. I believe it went something like this:

DAVID:(stopping and turning to face me, red-faced with anger and exertion as we rounded another steep zig zag to face yet more vertical, rubble steps) “Why do these f***ing Peruvians build everything at the top of a f***ing mountain that no one except mules and condors can f***ing get to? No wonder they never get anything f***ing done and are still living in the f***ing Dark Ages…”

And so it went on for about 3 minutes until he had powered up the steps with the sheer force of his frustration, and I almost fell off the cliff with giggles.

We made it though, and arrived in Tapay, after a false celebration at the sign which was still a 20m climb away from the actual village. Damn the lying park rangers. In Tapay, we encountered the local men digging up the entire drainage system and had to walk to our hostel on thin planks across deep trenches in the steep hillside up the main street. Despite the major roadworks, we found the town charming and quaint, and the hostel friendly – with old folk sitting on llama-fur-lined benches and chatting in the sun.

Alfredo welcomed us in and installed us in a cute thatched hut with a very fetching llama bedspread which I wanted to steal and send home. David was feeling the heat, a bit knackered, and still quite p*ssed off so I went to explore and take photos, and found – just over the planks and behind the mounds of earth – a beautiful Plaza, church and a breathtaking view over the canyon. Back at the hut, post-nap and in better spirits, I convinced David to come out and sit with me to watch the sun set; it was so beautiful and I felt so proud and excited about what we had achieved that day. Sitting there in what felt like a mountainside village, breathing clean, cool air, and watching the sun illuminate the craggy stone and powder coloured paths, it was all worth it.

Back at hostel, other walkers had shown up – two Danish girls and a couple from Belguim. We had some good chat over dinner; chicken and rice for us, with double carbs for David, a veggie feast for the girls, and alpaca steak for the couple – her first! We drank tea and keenly felt the absence of our usual beer(!), and it was over the tea that the girl from Belgium let slip about a 15min stretch that we would encounter tomorrow, where it was so steep, unstable and perilous, that the guide book recommended you get on all fours to negotiate it! Aargh!! Nonetheless, the others assured me it would all be fine, and I tried not to let the words ring in my ears as I went off to bed. However, it wasn’t nightmares of deadly paths that kept me awake all night, but stomach cramps, repeated vomiting and an upset stomach. Just as I thought there was nothing left, and tried to settle to sleep, another wave of nausea would overtake me, and there I was outside, unable to make the 5min walk to the loo, retching next to the sheep pen. Nice. And so our descent into the stuff of nightmares began…..

A bit of background….

Tuesday 6th

The 100km-long Cañón del Colca is set among high volcanoes (6613m Coropuna and 6310m Ampato – of Juanita fame – are the tallest) and ranges from 1000m to more than 3000m in depth. For years there was raging controversy over whether or not this was the world’s deepest canyon at 3191m, but recently it ranked a close second to neighboring Cañón del Cotahuasi, which is just over 150m deeper. Both canyons are more than twice as deep as the Grand Canyon in the USA, and it amazed me that the fame the GC garners has eluded its Southern neighbours.

Despite its depth, the Colca Canyon is geologically young. The Rio Colca – the Colca River – has cut into beds of mainly volcanic rocks, which were deposited less than 100million years ago along the line of a major fault in the Earth’s crust. Despite the generally sunny but cool weather of the plains high above the Rio Colca, in the depths of the canyon it can be almost tropical; with palm trees, ferns and even orchids in some isolated areas.

Tropical AND the world’s second deepest canyon…. An ‘easy’ trek? Really?…..