Peru II

We traded another of our nine lives for a bus ride to Cuzco to check out what the Spaniards had left of the Incan civilisation.  Cuzco is the one time Incan capital, transformed by the Spaniards into a charming Colonial centre and by the Peruvians into a centre for tourist agencies and touts.  Our short stay was extended when Rick and I awoke to find our stomachs rejecting their contents through both the point of entry, and the usual point of exit (thankfully in that order).  The cause is a moot point; however, I'm sure I sensed evil in the motherly smile of the old lady at the soup kitchen.  After a day’s rest we were well empathise with Dad when he followed suit as we travelled through the impressive Sacred Valley en route to Machu Picchu.

Machu Picchu is one of those beautifully rare locations that will always exceed the hype.  It seems that every picture could be a postcard but none fully convey the essence of the place - The primal juices are excited by majestic mountains, forest, war, indigenous cultures, religion and cannibalism (or did that Uruguayan Rugby team get stranded elsewhere?).  Heading up at 4am, we watched the scene appear with the sun and then, new SLRs in hand, Rick and I proceeded to ironically punish Dad for years of wanting to capture the moment while we wanted to run free.  Dad's hesitancy to pose for "just one more photo" was only matched by his reluctance to climb even further to the top of the sentinel Wayna Picchu.  Without the benefit of the dual walking sticks protruding from the hands of European tourists, Dad never the less set a pace that forced younger men off the track, arriving at the top buggered but not quite willing to pass on the inheritance.

Having skipped the long hikes around Machu Picchu we headed to the Huaraz (via Lima) to check out the Cordilleras Blanca – the highest mountain range outside the Himalayas.  What we found was something equally rare, and more welcome – doonas.  It seems most Peruvian hostels are joined in a Hans Christian Andersonesque search for a Prince by testing capacity to breath under the weight of 20 thick llama blankets.  Obviously not Peruvian princes we enjoyed the light quilt and would have happily stayed under them all day had not Dad insisted we do a walk up to 4500m in the sleet to look at a pond. Well, it wasn’t quite a pond, It was a pretty impressive crater lake, set amongst pretty impressive mountains and atop a pretty impressive waterfall flowing into pretty impressive lagoons ... but it was damn cold and we were glad to get back to the doonas before moving on to the Moche remains of Chan Chan and cool toy museum in Trujillo.

Peru is famously the land of the left hand point breaks - perfect for a goofy footed surfer, so we couldn’t miss the opportunity to take the short taxi ride to coastal Huanchaco.  I am goofy footed, but not a surfer, and lying on a board in the cold Huanchacho water watching your younger brother grab all the waves isn’t as fun as it may sound so we negotiated a different craft from the guy renting out the boards. The following day we dragged out four of the traditional fisherman’s reed boats. - with sticks for paddles and craft seemingly less hydrodynamic than a parachute it was a joy and surprise to see Scott, a friend from the hostel, catch the first wave. We spent the next few hours catching the diminishing waves and wondering if the boats could be repaired after being rearranged.  Meanwhile the frustrated locals wondered when we would return their boats - it was possibly the only occasion when our sense of time was slower than that of the South Americans.

After checking out the lord of Sipan archeological site and sleek museum near Chiclaya, we ate enough food for a week and left Peru for Equador via a series of long bus trips and reputedly the dodgiest border crossing in South America - we may have noticed if I hadn’t been busy playing doodlejump, Rick hadn’t been contemplating a Peruvian modelling carrer, and Dad hadn’t been looking out for the next Bano.  I was surprised to have survived the countless pan pipe renditions of "sounds of silence", and, in hindsight we were lucky to have survived Peru: a gang was recently captured by police for killing people for their fat to be turned into cosmetics and slapped on the faces of rich Europeans.  Even at $15000 per litre (!), Rick and I still may not have been worth a bullet, but I can only imagine there were greedy eyes looking at Dad (and I thought they just liked the beard).  He was possibly saved by a few dodgy dinners and the raw steak served up for breakfast in Huanchaco.

Peru I

Dad, having completed his research for his upcoming book: 1001 and one Bolivian Banos, was keen to see what Peru had to offer.  Bano #1 got the nod. Next on the agenda was to check out the floating islands, and with not much else to excite, check out of Puno.  The Islands are fundamentally thick mats of reeds that are periodically topped up to as the lower layers decay.  Originally serving to move the locals away from invading tribes, the islands have now moved closer to land to encourage invasion by tourists.  Needing only fluorescent tubes and waterslides to complete the transition - the islands are, nevertheless, rather interesting.  After rather poor haggling our guide promised to take us to the more traditional islands which happened to be the three closest to the wharf.

From Puno it was a long bus ride to Arequipa - one of the many we would take in Peru.  Local bus rides in South America can be fantastic affairs - the buses kitted up as if in preparation for carnivale - adorned with flashing lights, religious edifices, cartoon characters, Che, frilly curtains, the occasional box or bag of chickens and if your un/lucky a llama or two.  The busses stop intermittently to pick up half a dozen vendors who squeeze past standing passengers handing out samples of their wares and preaching sales sermons in the hope of shifting a couple of DVDs, a bag of peanuts, an ice-cream or a hot lunch.  All this, and the disturbingly violent movie blazing through the background to you and the unperturbed 5yo in front serves to distract while the guy behind lifts your bag from under your legs.  It seems bus rides in South America are one of the most likely places to lose your gear.

The Peruvian tourist busses, on the other hand, are state of the art double deckers with wifi, GPS, speed alerts, bingo and retired air hostesses pushing food trolleys (and that's if you don't opt for the first class, downstairs option).  All of this, and the disturbingly vacuous romantic comedy, serves to desensitise you from the fact that the bus shares similar service history and employs the same half cut, boy racer wannabies as the local busses.  Keen to drag through town and country, they wouldn’t dream of overtaking on a straight when there is a blind corner to be utilised, much less, allow themselves to be overtaken.  The video and fingerprints taken at the start of the trip are ostensibly for security, but more likely used to identify corpses.  It seems bus rides in South America are one of the most likely places to lose your life.

Too comfortable to fear death, much of our bus time was passed on such trivial pursuits as discussing the obvious differences between blackberry and black corn drinks, watching movies, sleeping and playing doodlejump - a juvenile game relying on pure luck that, as it happened, Rick held the record for through much of Peru.

Well, that’s enough of the shipping news.  It was a nice surprise to find ourselves alive and in Arequipa.  Arequipa is a typical colonial city, where the stunning town square is surrounded by aging buildings with lovely courtyards after which the city decays in to a somewhat messy sprawl betraying the concentration of resources in both space and time.  We strolled the city, stepped through the amazing convent, ate guinea pig, viewed the Ice Princess, dropped into a local computer repair stores (yes - THATs why I’m behind in the blog) and organized a trip to Colca canyon - the Buzz Aldrin of the worlds deep canyons and home to some magnificent Andean Condors.

The trip to the Canyon started with an obscene 3am pickup made all the more painful by Dad’s tendency to wake up cheery with 45 minutes to spare and compounded by an unaccounted for time zone change.  1am should only be experienced at the end of a day.  We watching the condors soar and Rick pose for photos on the request of smitten Peruvian schoolgirls, a circumstance that would be repeated throughout the country, then headed down the canyon.  

As Dad would tell any traveler that cared to listen, and countless that didn't, the trip was spectacular and the swimming oasis at the bottom a pleasant reprise.  The only downside being walking out of the world’s second deepest canyon equates to using your legs like a sucker.  Dad wasn’t going to be a sucker so grabbed a mule ride up "for the experience".  His mule certainly made sure it was an experience - fighting with another for the lead along the precipitous and narrow track while dad clung on for his life.  Dad was powerless to dislodge his knee from the other mules rear much less prevent his steed chewing Rick’s bag - a fact that he later tried to convey to a sullen Rick through fits of laughter ... it was a perfect moment.

Bolivia

Dad arrived in Lima for the stopover wearing an "Everest Base Camp" hat and "Hanoi" T shirt that simultaneously conveyed "don't mess with me, I'm well travelled" and "I'll buy any crap you have to sell" ... it was good to see him after six months, and even better when i found out he had thoughtfully booked a hostel owned by Dutchies to remind me of my roots - there was no double zouts on the pillows but the clogs on the wall did the trick.

The next day it was onto La Paz where, after checking out the local landscape, we decided that a round at the worlds highest golf course was a cultural opportunity not to be missed (well, the groundskeepers are Cholitas).  Naturally I won the first hole comfortably, however, after that displayed an unhealthy attraction to the less manicured Bolivian terrain. I was obviously suffering altitude sickness and effected by the tingling side effects of the tablets designed to combat it leaving a scorecard as attractive as a mustachioed mistress. Dad, having secretly trained at altitude, must not have suffered from these side effects.  The result, an upset thrashing, was reminiscent of Bolivia's altitude assisted 6-1 victory over Argentina in the same city.

Not wanting Dad to extend his 32 year year run of golf victories, or risk losing a game of tennis to a 60 year old we flew to Rurrenabaque.  There are a fistful of agencies operating the same 3 day river trips, however, only one was at the airport and ready to go so selection was easy.  The river is a  magnet for dense and diverse birdlife as well as being stuffed with turtles, alligators and caiman - so it was somewhat surprising when we were encouraged to swim with the pink river dolphins.  My entry to the water was hesitant given the alligator eying us off from the bank.  Dad's echoing of the guides assurances that the fish biting me were sardines and the dolphins would protect me from the caimans, alligators and cancer rang as hollow as St Kilda's minor premiership - coming, as it was, from the safety of the boat.  I was thankful that the brown water would mask any excreted fear.  (Dad's excuse that he didn't have bathers on turned out to be true as he swam in similar conditions the following day while the guide thoughtfully tested the temperament of a lurking caiman with pebbles).  The rest of the trip consisted of impressive sounding activities like anaconda hunting and fishing for piranhas

On return to Rurrenabaque we found our plans to meet Rick in La Paz thwarted by a combination of poor service from the tour agency and a plane malfunction halving the fleet of our carrier.  The 36 hr delay was not a great option, but neither was the alternative 20 hr bus ride - a trip with varying reviews: most travellers ticking the "hell on earth" and "safer to hitch hike in Iraq" boxes (one group of guys got off after only 15 minutes).  Resigned to an extended stay in Rurrenabaque we were sitting in a small internet cafe when the tour agent burst though the door and spat out that we had 5 minutes to get to the airport on the awaiting motorcycle taxis - Dad's pressure obviously had the desired effect.  We jumped on the bikes laughing as the air rushed though our hair, stopping only to throw our gear back in bags that had been unpacked 20 minutes earlier.  The drivers ensured we arrived at the airport on time - which is more than can be said for the pilot of the incoming plane - the delay making departure impossible withough lights on the landing strip.  The trip was once more delayed ... it pays to stay casual travelling Bolivia!

We finally caught up with Rick in La Paz and sat down to plan what we would do in the 6 weeks before we parted in Quito.  The first thing penned in was to mountain bike down the "road of death" - the only thing dad had promised mum he wouldn't do (trust - the glue that binds 35 years of marriage!).  We were assured that the 100 deaths per year were during operating as a major thoroughfare from La Paz.  However, with much of the 65km route winding as railess gravel  across sheer mountainsides as it descends 3600m, wearing a helmet and pads felt like bringing a band aid to a brothel.  In reality the road is now lightly utilised and there is a fair margin for error as a bike track - Rick and I could be confident of getting down safely, however, were concerned about Dad's propensity to focus on scenery over safety and his prior warning "you boys be careful ... don't worry about me, my reproductive days are over".  We were impressed with Dad demonstrating that he could keep up with the boys (ahem ... men) but not surprised when he tasted gravel riding for the camera ... more of a surprise was that he performed an accidental endo meters from a cliff - in what we could only assume was an effort to join Che Guevara, butch Cassidy and the Sundance kid in famous Bolivian exits!  The scenery was superb and the ride will remain a highlight of the trip.

The adrenalin in and out of our systems we headed for a place on mums approval list: Lake Titicaca, famous for being damn high and named by a 14yo boy (well, surely it was).  The third claim to fame is Copacabana beach ... the original, but not the best. As Bolivia's only public beach (thanks Chile, greedy coast hogs) the thing to do is paddle on one of the thousand fiberglass swans or find restaurant where trout is on the menu (which is about as hard as securing yourself a swan given that the menu, decor and construction of each of the 30 restaurants lining the short is exactly the same).  The trout was, incidently fantastic - a 1/30 chance perhaps, and Copacabana shone.  Unless your up for being talked into a second plate of trout by a 80yo mumbling through a wad of coca leaves and 4 teeth its best to grab a boat for the beautiful Isle de Sol ... which we did.   Exploring the Island required legwork as the the donkeys on offer were to scrawny to lift Rick's feet from the ground, regardless, our timeline only allowed for one night.

With no boats operating on our schedule we wangled a ride back with a load of schoolgirls who had earlier lined up to have their photo taken with Rick.  By allowing us in the boat the teacher made 50 new friends, as would have Rick if he knew spanish for "face" and "book".  The other option for transport to the island is to rent a sail dinghy - a Kiwi had told us that some friends had undertaken the voyage at 6am .  We passed them around the halfway point at 3pm sail down and rowing on the still lake - surely suffering from a day on the water under the thin clear sky.  The gaggle of girls was the good option and we found ourselves on a bus bound for Puno, Peru.