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.