Peru

Well, after three days and two nights of travelling, here I am. Cusco. From where I was in Cabo Blanco, it was about 2500 km. Isn´t that crazy! Peru is bigger than it looks. And going from Lima to Cusco was 22 hours of winding thru the Andes. But this morning when we woke up... the sun was shining on the hills and there were trees everywhere, and green terraces and the clouds were both above and below us. Like a fairy tale. In my love affair with the sea, I forgot my love for the mountains.

But I got here to the Loki hostal and they´re working on a waiting list. Which means I am just lurking around for a bit until 1;00 pm which is checkout time. Hopefully someone leaves. If not, I´ll go elsewhere. Not a big deal, but some friends were going to meet me here.

What I really want is a long, hot shower. I did two night bus trips back to back, with about 4 hours yesterday to hang out in Lima. I went to the Lima Museum of Art and it was cool even if it really didn´t have much. But I have been in the same clothes for two days and my hair needs a good scrub too. SIgh.

Then I think I want to go see the Incan museum in town today. Then to sleep, in a real bed, super early. Tomorrow is the festival of the sun! The whole of Cusco parties.

Bye for now!

I woke up this morning in Chiclayo, a fairly large city on the Pan American highway. I know that cities are part of South America, but I feel more at home in the rural, indiginous or out of the way places.

It was the first morning in more than a month that I didn´t wake up with the ocean out my window. My habitual morning run instantly became more complicated. I love running along the beach, the sand feels great, the air is cool, and first thing in the morning, there are no people. And I don´t have to wear shoes.

The city changes all that. First, I have to wear shoes. And socks. And its no longer hot, so a long sleeved shirt. The city also adds another dimension. Running along the streets leaves the possibility that I might get lost. So, I draw a basic map and bring some change for a cab if I have to. It jingles in my running shirt´s back pocket as it hits my keys.

I emerge into the bright sunshine and am shocked to see the number of people on the street. Like I said, for the past month I have been on the coast, and in small towns. Towns so small that everyone walks and there are no cars or cabs. I walk a bit from the hostal, trying to escape the clutches of the sidewalk crowds. No luck, I´ll just have to manouever around them.

I run for a bit, on the sidewalk, on the road, dodging obstacles when it hits me. This is really easy. I had forgotten that running on sand is much more difficult, and as a result my legs are stronger than I thought they were. I finally reached a long park, and circled the perimeter before starting back. I love running.

After my (hot! yay...) shower it was time for breakfast and to find a laundrymat. Maybe it´s because Í´ve been in so many super relaxed towns, or what, but all the catcalling hit me hard. It seemed like every car was honking at me. Men walking solo, with friends, with their wives, driving cars or working in shops, hooted, hollered, hissed or whistled at me. They called me lindo, guapa, or other terms meaning beautiful. I can´t remember how many times my butt got grabbed. One guy told me he wanted to make me his wife. God what an honour that would be, right? One little girl, not more than two and half feet tall and probably 4 years old, tapped my arm and tried to sell me some gum. Four hours later, walking along the another street, she appeared again. Her big dark eyes were pleading, and she chattered non stop trying to sell her gum. I wondered where her mother was. She followed me for a full block, I am not kidding you, after I said "No, gracias" a dozen times. I wish I could have helped her, but buying something would only encourage her mother to keep her on the street. What a life.

I decided to head up the street to check out the large market. Apparently it has a huge section catering to witches and shamans, and sells every type of herb and animal part you can imagine. After walking past a million shoes and clothes, I got to the food section. Dozens of grains, fruits, vegetables and meats. By meat I mean hacked apart animals. I saw chunks of a pig´s head, the hairs bristling in the sunshine, sitting on one woman´s table. Here, in restaurants, when you order something like chicken, it doesn´t come in neatly recognizable peice like at home. There´s no drumstick, wing, breast, thigh, etc. Most often you get a chunk of a part of a chicken, like they just chopped a hunk of the bird with an ax. Which is probably not far from the truth. Most of the time I can´t recognize where it actually came from.

I am always wary in markets, as it is crowded, and easy for criminals to get away. I had my camera with me but in my bag, which was securely across my chest and in front of me. But the plethora of fruits and vegetables where glistening in the sunshine. Anyone who´s been with me to an outdoor fruit and vegetable with me knows... I love photographs of the produce. There´s a ton of them in Florida, too. It must be the artist in me.

I glance around, and bring out my camera. I ask the vendors if it alright to take a photograph. I usually ask, to be polite, and have not once yet been refused. A few photographs and a friendly looking middle aged woman comes up to me. She looks concearned. At first I thought I wasn´t supposed to be taking photos. But she goes on and on, and I glean from my meager spanish that it is dangerous here. I thank her and slip it back in my bag. I spy a store selling yarn, and duck inside. I need a crochet hook; I am making some necklaces.

Suddenly two obviously American men, one old and one younger, appear. "Do you speak English?" they ask me. I was standing behind the counter at the time, so I replied "yes, but I don´t work here."
They proceeded to explain to me that the woman across the street had asked them to come and talk to me, since the older gentleman spoke fluent spanish. Apparently there were some men outside who were waiting to rob me of my camera. Great. They told me to be careful, and left. I quickly bought my hook and dashed after them. "Do you mind if I walk with you for a bit?" I´m pretty independant and feel I can fend for myself, but being told there were actually guys outside with the intention of robbing me was a bit unsettling. Better safe than sorry. The older gentleman was an anthropologist working in Bolivia. Dave Holden. I shall read his stuff. Shortly afterwards they had to leave and meet a friend, but okay. I was at the witches market.

It was just like I imagined it. Bunches of herbs hung from every available rafter and lay in piles on the floor and tables. Hunks of animals, skins, and even testicles dangled from the the corrogated steel roofs. Shells, crystals, antiques, cards, candles, feathers, vials of oils, incense, and innumerable odds and ends completed the picture. And I just had to have one. A picture that is. The people here seemed friendly and the "aisles" were smaller. I felt I could safely bring out my camera for a couple shots. I just HAD to!

I wandered up and down the row, looking at everthing. It was pretty facinating, and the vendors were more than willing to show me various things, with very little of the usual pressure to buy. They were just interested in showing stuff to someone so obviously facinated. I was looking at this one vendor, at some of the antique stuff. This younger (28? 30?) man was showing me a few peices. Suddenly he beckoned. To the back room. I knew instantly what was going on. I had showed interest in the archaeological stuff, and he had some in the back. It´s illegal to sell or buy pre-colombian artifacts in South America, but that doesn´t stop the grave robbers. There´s always a buyer.

I thought for a second, and looked him in the eyes. He looked at me right back. I am a pretty good judge of character and I read honesty there. He was not going to rob me. I stepped behind the display and he motioned for me to sit on a stool facing him. And then he drew the curtain leaving us in semi-darkness. He brought out artifacts one by one or in small boxes. They lay jumbled, with no thought of damaging them or preserving their integrity. There was jewelery, whistles, trinkets of every kind. I recognized some things from the Moche and Sikan cultures. Both civilizations were pre-Incan.

We must have spent close to an hour back there, looking at various things. He introduced himself as Alex, and put on an "English" cd, the soundtrack to That 70s Show. It was surreal to be holding a 1000+ year old shawl pin and listening to Gloria Gaynor´s "I will survive". I knew I probably shouldn´t, but even as Wade Davis once wrote, if I didn´t buy it someone else probably would. I settled on three large beads, two with identical etchings. They were made of some sort of very heavy grey stone and had designs carved into them. I recognized the pattern. And surely, it is possible, as my Mom later said, that they were fakes. But the work required to carve such dense stone into that shape and then do the etchings... its not likely. Its much easier for them to rob graves, and thats what they do. There were three bronze pins, for lack of a better term, that I really wanted. They were flat as a peice of paper and each had the figure of a Moche person on them. They were about the size of the palm of your hand and blue-green with age. Alex said they were worn one on the front of each shoulder, and one in the middle of the chest. He didn´t look like the reading type, I was sure they were taken off of a dead body. Turning them over, bits of cream-coloured, loosely woven cloth still clung to them.

I eventually left with my beads and escaped the clutches of the market. I needed to go back to the hostal and pack, then find lunch.

Sorry, JUNIO, to do this again... but TO BE CONTINUED. I have a lot to write but it takes a long time!

to be continued

I left Cabo Blanco, the fishing town today, heading South. I am to be in Cusco for Saturday night. Sunday is the Festival of the Sun, celebrating the solstice. Its one of Peru´s biggest festivals and has been going on since Incan times.

I actually cried a little when I left Cabo Blanco, winding up the desolate, barren slope to El Alto, the fishing ships looking smaller and smaller below me, bobbing in the waves. I loved that place. The dusty streets, the friendly children, even the adults. Once suspicious and ignoring me, they had become friendly, protective, and sometimes mothering.

People kept asking me, "Why Cabo Blanco?" It is so far off the beaten path, and no gringos go there. That´s precisely why. And in the five days I was there, I experienced a myriad of emotions. I showered in public showers. I went fishing, and caught many fish. I partied at an 80th birthday party, and drank chicha, the saliva fermented alcoholic corn drink. I swam in the pacific ocean, under the shadow of a giant oil rig. I participated in the filming of a movie, ate, drank, and sunbathed with cast and crew and got paid for it. I slept in an extra room in an old fisherman´s house, and laughed along with his gap-toothed grin at Simpsons in Spanish. I met the Old Man as written about in Hemmingway´s The Old Man and the Sea, and dranks beers with his grandkids. I ate fish barely an hour out of the sea. I posed with locals for photographs. I sunbathed on a boat moored out at sea. I played soccer in the streets with the children. And every morning, while the air was still cool and sweet, I ran along the beach beside the pounding surf. Life doesn´t get any better than this; this is why I chose a tiny fishing village.
___________

Right now I am in Chiclayo. I travelled 8 hours through the desert to get here. I wish I could describe the desert in a way that did it justice. Near Cabo Blanco, it was hot. The hills were etched with the power of sudden rainstorms. The locals told me it only rains once every 12 or 15 years, when the clouds pile up and come over the mountains. But it comes in torrents, and the loose sand and stone on the hills bear the scars. In town, channels are built under the road for such rare but monumental events. The only vegetation to be seen is te occasional scrubby shrubs, more black than green, that exist only on the flat valleys. Some valleys are giant, dominating the landscape, a thousand meters deep. Surely, at one time, water flowed here. Or maybe, it still does, during the rainstorms.

Soon the hills disappear as does the vegetation. I´ve seen the prairies, and thought it was flat. This is something else entirely. Not even an undulation disturbs the flat, ochre surface. Winds wisp sand and grit in waves along the surface. Tavelling further, the sand organizes into dunes. Real, migrating sand dunes. A whole field of them. For countless miles. I sit high in my seat, mesmerized. I remember from Geomorphology. Slip faces. Rates of movement. Orientation to the wind. They are beautiful, like perfect crescents from the ideal bakery. I want to run my finger along the peak of each one.

Hours have passed, and the desolation continues. Suddenly out my windows, I see green trees, palm trees. Green! Its been too long. I think my eyes actually twitch. I can´t fathom the reason. To my left, green trees. To my right, desert. I think I see a stream but I must be dreaming. It gets greener, and I see grass. GRASS! It´s been more than a month since I´ve seen grass. Montañita, too, was on the coastal desert in Ecuador. Something is going on here.
The explanation arrives, but only brings more questions. A giant river. Wide, wide, much bigger than the Ottonabee at home. A huge river running through the desert. Will wonders never cease?

Soon it´s Puira and time for my transfer. Its 1:30- the bus for Chiclayo leaves at 2 pm. Three more hours of desert, tiny black shrubs breaking up the landscape, but no more dunes. THen its Chiclayo. I knew it was going to be so, but it is now cold. I shiver in my shorts. I´ve gone too far south now. I must don pants and shoes for the first time in a month and a half. Horrors.

Well I am going to go now. Almost 9 pm here. Going to go to the market tomorrow am! Shall be fun.

Love and miss you all!

Sunday I went down to the peir, to see if I could go fishing on one of the boats that ply the coast. The previous day the owner of the local hotel had said I could likely go out with one of the fisherman for 10 soles or so.

I was standing out there, just watching the sea, when a man wearing a red shirt, on a boat full of people, called up to me. "Tu quieres pescada?" (Do you want to go fishing?) I said yes, so down the stairs to the launch I went.

It seems the guy´s job was a water taxi. All the fisherman moor their boats in the harbour, and this guy circles around and picks them up and takes them back to the peir. They all give him a sole, I think. He was so proud of how much money he is making. A grin on his face, he showed me a giant handful of coins.

He asked me if I would like to go out to see the oil rig, or around the point to see the hotel, Fishing Club, now closed, that Hemmingway stayed at 50 years ago. Away we went, skimming across the sea. I love the ocean. There wasn´t a cloud in the sky, and everything was blue, so much sky and so much water... only a strip of sandstone desert with a tiny little town. The waves were gentle and the motor steady, and I just lay back and relaxed. What a life!

The oil rig, off the coast, was fantastic. Taller than you would imagine, and built of solid steel. The bottom 20 feet was covered in rust, seaweeds and random red crabs that scuttled when you got close.

"Mira, Mira!" He was telling me to look at the base of the platform, near the stairs. A sudden splash and I saw. There were a whole group of sea lions on the stairs! Some sleeping, some just sitting. With their cute noses and whiskers, they looked like really fat cats. The live on the platform, he told me. I was glad to hear some wildlife was actually benefitting from the petroleum industry.

to be continued... i need dinner!

As you all may or may not know, I left Ecuador in the middle of some political unrest which delayed my trip somewhat. Its all good.

Leaving Ecuador for Peru was (eventually) no problem. On our way out of Ecuador we passed more protesters. This time there was a tank in the middle of the road and I saw four soldiers with giant guns in their hands. Needless to say, we didn´t stop for a photo-op, which would have been cool but unwise! Crossing the border was easy because we were on a really nice bus and they showed us what to do. We had to stop at one checkpoint and get stamped "out" of Ecuador, then drive 15 minutes through no-mans-land before getting stamped into Peru. It was pretty anti-climactic.

I spent my first night in Mancora, a surf town on the coast very similar to Montañita I just left. I didn´t want to be part of that party hardy atmosphere anymore, I want to see the real Peru, not sit with a bunch of gringos every night and drink beer.

I leaved through my guidebook to find a fishing town on the north coast. I was sitting on the beach one day in Montañita watching the fishing trawlers off the coast, and I struck with the sudden desire to be out on the open ocean. So I made it my goal to find a place where I could go out and fish.

So I left Mancora the next morning, and waited by the side of the road with three fisherman. Up and down the Pan-American highway run these vans and trucks that sort of act as taxi-buses. One pulled up and we all piled in. I had nets and weights and buckets thrown on my bag. They nodded when I said "Cabo Blanco" but soon I was standing in a ridiculously hot and dusty town, again by the side of the road. A car would take me further. A traffic coordinator of sorts told me to wait, one of the white cars would leave soon for Cabo Blanco.

So wait I did. Let me tell you, if you are in any way uptight or not chilled or "tranquillo" -meaning calm or relaxed in South America- this place would drive you nuts. There´s no schedules, and no one is ever in a rush to go anywhere. I was hungry, so I stoped by the roadside vendor for some lunch. A plate of rice was covered with a sort of thin stew, potatoes and some unidentified dark meat in a sort of gravy. It was delicious, although after a few minutes the meat, which was springy and kind of soft, like tofu or something, was making me feel a little ill, so I began avoiding it. It cost me 1.50 soles, which is 50 cents. Peruvians use Soles, and you get a bit over about 3 soles for your American dollar, so it works out to be about one dollar canadian for three soles exactly.

After an hour and a half in the blistering sun, with oodles of dust being blown into my face, even I was getting impatient. When was this car leaving? Several times the traffic conductor moved my stuff towards the car, only to find it wasn´t leaving either. Finally, after two hours of waiting by the side of the road, a red car pulled up on the other side of the street, and off we all ran. I was to sit in the front seat with another Peruvian, with four others in the back. Seven in this tiny, tiny little car.

As we wound our way away from the coast and up a steep hill, it became increasingly more desolate. I thought: this is what it must be like on the surface of the moon. It was so dry, nothing grew. Nothing. Not even cacti, which had grown down by the coast. The hills were all this ochre colour, a sort of sandstone in appearance. It was unbelieably hot. The ocean glittered in the distance like a far away aparition. A thrill went through me as I saw, far below, a group of kiteboarders working their way up the coast. And dozens of oil rigs.

We made several stops, emptying out our load of passengers. Finally we entered the town of "El Alto", literally meaning "the tall". It made sense, as we were on the summit of the hill we had spent 40 minutes winding up. I got out of the truck once again. Cabo Blanco was down the hill. Fortunately, this time a truck was waiting there. My stuff went on the roof and I climbed in the cab. Once again we were waiting, waiting for more passengers. But shorty we were off, winding back down the dusty, ochre hill, back towards the coast. Finally we reached Cabo Blanco, the smallest town I´ve ever seen. It was literally only a row of houses, all attached, facing the sea. The town was actually split into two, separated by a point that rose high, with only enough room for a road. A long peir reached into the sea, where about 50 small fishing vessels were moored. We stopped near the peir, in the second half of town. Everyone out.

There was, according to my research, only one hotel in town, a giant cavernous monstrosity that sat right beside the point, in the second half of town. I knew it charged too much money, but no harm in asking. But there was noone there.

Hoisting my giant bag, I wandered town the main street, the only street. I was, at this point, exhausted, thirsty and unbeliavably hot. Who knew noon in the desert could take so much out of you? reaching the end of town and back, twice, took ten minutes. At the end of town, the strip of houses just ended and the rocky desert once again took over. I slipped off my giant pack and let it drop, sitting down by the edge of town. My shoulders were killing me and there were bright red marks where my straps had been. It is much too heavy to be lugging around town. I decided to ditch my big bag, hide it somewhere until I could find a place to sleep. It really contained nothing valuable save my boots and trekking poles. I had already ascertained there was no hostal in town, and the one hotel had noone in it. There was a giant abandoned boat beside the hotel, sitting behing a fence. If I can´t find somewhere to sleep, I´ll just sleep there, I vowed. It might actually be a bit exciting. I ditched my bag near the boat, out of sight, and once again climbed the steps of the hotel to check and see if anyone was there.

This time, someone answered the bell. The cost for one night was too much, something I knew anyways from my guide book. I asked if there was anywhere else in town. Around the point, he said, there is a guy who rents out rooms. But there´s no sign, he cautioned, just ask for the Casa de Mento. I painfully hoisted my bag, winding down around the point, taking the beach route instead of the road.

I asked a man standing there, and he told me to go to the white house right after the green one. I was in the midst of pounding on the door when he frantically gestured for the next white house after the green house. I was lingering outside, unsure if I should knock, when the door opened and a old man emerged. He showed me a room at the front of the house, overlooking the ocean. It was pretty large and seemed pretty nice. He was very concerned that the room didn´t have a curtain for the door, but that was remedied by taking one from the front window.

I dropped my stuff, introduced myself, and that was that. Now, to find food. It was now about 3 pm and a long time since my roadside snack. I went to every restaurant in town, and no one was serving food. Granted, there is only four small places in town, basically women with bigger houses that cook and have a few tables out front. But no one would feed me, and no one seemed terribly friendly. I had no idea why. It was Saturday afternoon, could you imagine anyone turning away customers at home on Saturday? It shows the mindset of South America.

I decided to hit the only store in town. It didn´t have much, but a bottle of water and some junk food might tide me over until they decided I wasn´t a leper. As I was about to go in, an SUV and some seriously fit blond boys jumped out and went in. A quick glance at the boards on the roof confirmed: they were the kiteboarders I had seen earlier up the coast. They were headed up to Mancora.

I got some chips and chocolate and headed back to the house. My host, the gentleman he was, was quite concearned I hadn´t eaten. He walked down the road and talked to a woman in a green house. It was all arranged. She would prepare now, and I would eat dinner there around six.

I spent the afternoon wandering around town, out on the peir, and just looking. I met up with the hotel proprieter again, and told him I would like to go fishing tomorrow. He said it shouldn´t be difficult, just to go out on the peir tomorrow morning, for about 10 soles (just over $3) someone would likely take me out.

The sun was setting over the sea, lighting up the cliffs with golds and reds, the fishing vessels bobbing in the current, and a cooler breeze was blowing when it was time for dinner.

The lady was very sweet, but it still felt a bit weird eating in someone´s house. The dining area faced the sea, and her baby, a curly haired angel, sat in the doorway. Other kids were gathered outside, kicking a soccer ball in the street. It looked like fun.

Dinner was fish, rice, and half a banana, sliced lengthwise and fried. Seemed typical peruvian and ecuadorian, even. The fish was great but I am still not a huge fan of the fried bananas. A girl of thirteen or fourteen, shyly came up to the table to show me the earrings she had made and was selling. They were so pretty, with bits of shells, some dyed and some plain, in interesting designs. I could imagine her spending hours on the beach, scouring for perfect shells. I told her my ears were no longer peirced, but how much were they? Two soles. About 60 cents a pair. I couldn´t resist... I have sisters and a Mom, right? She looked delighted when I bought three pairs... 6 soles, two dollars was a lot to her.

Dinner cost me 3.5 soles, just over a dollar. I went outside where the sun was still lighting up the clouds. Finally, with a place to sleep and food in my belly, I could relax a little. It had been a hard day. I am not ashamed to admit that after the van, car, truck, the waiting, not finding a place to stay, or food, I had been close to tears. But now I was content.

Outside the kids were still gathered. I picked up the soccer ball and soon me and three boys, 8, 10, and 13, were playing barefoot in the street. Its the simple stuff that makes you happy. Working up a sweat playing soccer in the street in your bare feet with bunch of kids, the sun setting and lighting up the boats and the cliffs... can it get any better than this?

Soon we were all sitting on the curb talking. They asked about my family, and I told them the names and ages of all of them (theres four). The girl I had bought the earrings from was named Lady, and she was 14. She is so pretty. Dark, glossy hair and big dark eyes... the face of girl on the body of a woman. When I asked if she had a boyfriend, she giggled like a little girl, but here, girls get married when they are 16 or 17. Such a paradox.

I asked them about school. One of the boys told me it was three hours away. I wondered how they got there, or how often they went, but my spanish language barrier prevented me from asking. Lady said she was almost done school, that she wanted to go to university next year to study medicine. I hope she can go, that she can have a better life than getting married young and just having babies. This town used to be the best fishing spot in the world- but now the townsfolk make only enough to subsist on, none for export. Its no life for an idealistic young girl.

The ten year old boy asked if I was married. Then asked if my 28 year old brother Mike, was married either. I was surprised. He remembered the names and ages of my siblings, from talking 40 minutes ago. I was put to shame. I couldn´t even remember the three boys´names. Such attention to detail and memory... and again, likely no chance for a real education. We take everything for granted at home. A great (comparatively) education system and every luxury in the world, and yet our kids have ADD from too much TV and sugar and no exercise, while kids halfway across the world have nothing but amazing brains.

Anyways, I still have to write about Sunday! But later. Getting bored of this internet cafe. Which is actually just a lady´s house with some computers in it. She´s mopping the floor as I type this.

OH! And the reason I picked this town is that it is supposedly the inspiration for Hemmingway´s " The Old Man and the Sea". And yesterday I met the old man! Which is another story. Unlike the novel, he was 50 when it was written, and is 80 now. He even has a big box of cuban cigars, given to him by Hemmingway, and photos of him and the author. BUt again, another story!

Bye for now.