A Place Called Paracas

The sun creeps along the table-top, threatening to grab hold of my beer and turn that which is room temperature into a thing of impossible consumption. Persistent vigilance to avoid this catastrophe matched only by the trinket and restaurant touts along the sea-side tourist esplanade.

 

But past the bad paving and the dogs rooting on the beach lies my first real maritime view of Peru, and I’m not unhappy about this! The view of the water that is. I'm here in Paracas, a small time tourist town made possible by the twin attributes of abundant fresh seafood and the close proximity of a couple of small islands made up entirely of bird shit. Sound attractive? If the small of dead fish don’t get you the guano will.

 

And there certainly is a population of feathered types. Fishing boats languorously make their way into harbour trailing a black cloud of hopeful birds, thick enough at first glance to be distant storm clouds on an otherwise clear day. So clear in fact that the sun has bleached the colour from the sky.

Meanwhile ungainly pelicans fold their wings and plunge unceremoniously into water so sparkling it hurts. Darters life their snake like heads above the surface more for curiosity as boobies maintain their vigilance around the incoming vessels.

But on shore another tourist boat has disgorged its flabby contents. Their cameras full of shots of seals birds and other creatures they can’t describe muttering obscene frustrations at their so called English-speaking tour.

Now there’s a traffic jam at the jetty entrance as tourists collide with a local school group, the boys jostling while the girls shriek, their tight uniforms attracting another sort of bird watcher.

Soon enough however the scene returns to normal, the groups disperse, the vendors seek shade from the afternoon sun and I finish my beer.

The next day it’s my turn at playing tourist. I have been here a couple of days now, biding my time waiting for the calm seas and skies for my excursion to the Isles de Balletas. My jog that morning was boarded by houses and yards straight out of Architectural Weekly on one side and a sea so flat that a couple of dolphins thought it a jolly idea to join me for a kilometre or two. After a quick breakfast I joined the scrum at the head of the jetty, certainly one of the few not on some sort of package and definitely the only one without a ticket. Rather than buy one from the annoying touts or overpriced hotels I thought to go straight to the boat owners. My reward was a shared secret smile with myself after overhearing how much the others had paid.

The islands were nothing sort of spectacular; the only thing missing was David Attenborough’s gently undulating monologue of enrapt fascination. While sea-lions playfully jostled for prime sun-baking spots, late-comer penguins shuffled up well-worn rocky paths. Their comical gait strangely resembling the over-weight shuffle of the Chinese school kids getting on the first boat to depart that morning. And similar to perceptions of a Chinese megatropolis the whole side of one of the islands was a thick, unbroken, feathery carpet of birds maybe 7 acres in size. A heaving, squawking mass making me think that might have a chicken sandwich for lunch. And then, just to remind us that we were still in a developing country our tour ended with the sight of 4 trawlers raping the sea of the very food these squillions of birds need to survive.

The coastal colours are amazing, where the desert meets the Pacific

maybe one of the famous Nazca Lines

The Sleazy Life of Backpackers

It’s been some time since my last foray into the world of the backpacker and for good reason, I’m 37 years old. The last part of that description, ‘old’, being a relative term. However surrounded by 20 something’s on harsh budgets in foreign lands, it kind of seems a more correct terminology.

 

And that’s exactly where I found myself trying to kill some time before the bike arrives. It’s a place called Huacachina, billed as an oasis in the desert, a former holiday spot for the Peruvian elite. If the Peruvian authorities let me lose with their travel guide then I might make a few modifications to their descriptions. Never one to shy away from the brutal truth in advertising (and I know that two of my former employers read this blog)I might use phrases like past its prime, mildly void of morals and as being the source of demand for the ear-plug market.

 

But I don’t want to come across as too negative. There were some people clearly enjoying themselves, right up until around 3am just outside my room. And you couldn’t say it was expensive, for only $4 you could purchase yourself a very fulfilling portion of marijuana or cocaine from numerous cheerful young chaps on the streets.

 

And friendly! Everywhere I went I was asked to come in for a beer, a meal and even once for a root. Although I’m not sure about this last one, the young lass might have been offering me a flute; she was having some difficulty breathing through her nose.

 

And the setting was special, nestled within towering sand dunes carefully funnelling the towns rubbish into a distant valley. The centre piece however was a lagoon, an almost iridescent green, stagnant puddle quite possibly breeding the next amoeba life forms that will take over the earth once we have eradicated ourselves from it.

 

But I can’t help but think that the sleaze and contempt is nothing more than a reflection of the kind of itinerants that visit. Respect and effort towards host cultures and other travellers seems as thin on the ground as the joints for sale on the streets.

 

Or maybe I was right at the very beginning, I’m just old…….

[End Rant…]

Under Way - Kind Of.

Arequipa, Peru’s second largest city and my former home of 8 weeks. For those of you unfamiliar with the weird and strange nuances of a developing country I would like to indulge in a description.

 

The guide books will often regale the reader with a description of the place as “The White City”. Sounds very ‘Lord of the Rings’. Possible similarities might include the sewage system, feudal tendencies and attitudes towards litter. The actual moniker comes from the white igneous stone used to build the towns historical quarter, now a pleasant streaky grey hue in response to the industrial level pollution churned out by the copious ancient and decrepit vehicles that choke every single potted hole lane that passes for a street.

A walk through the city centre is an assault of the senses. A clackson of car horns belting out decibels of chaos for reasons far and above my level of understanding. The hustle and bustle of the sidewalk more resembles a low level rugby scrimmage as each and every creature refuses to move, some standing only 4 foot off the concrete surface steadfastly holding their line scattering gringos into the oncoming traffic with wanton abandon. The streets themselves a packed with shoppers, workers, families, school kids and beggars in a maelstrom of activity. 

 

The saving grace of this town however  comes in two forms, a picture perfect main square jammed to the park benches with every representative of Peruvian society overlooked by a huge and intricate example of the ‘colonial architecture’ so lovingly described in the guide books. The second also hovers over the square, in fact it hovers over the entire city and that is its ring of volcanic mountains. Three in total standing around 6000 meters above sea level and around 3500 metres above the square. Perfectly capped with snow and able to be seen from almost each of this cities filthy streets. They allow the wayward stranger the chance to gather their directional bearings while being pushed into small yellow taxis by smaller brown women.

 

But somehow I managed to grow fond of this hazy and noisy metropolis. Maybe because it is my first Latin American experience. Maybe because I lived with the locals and saw the city through their eyes, strangely enough it wasn’t at all strange to them!

 

But the time to leave was nigh, I have a date with my bike in Lima for the 10^th of May. I’m flying solo with Carlie still back in Oz and have found my self in a small place called Huacachina, a small slice backpacker purgatory 3 hours south of Lima. I have traded the noise and annoyance of Peruvian life for the noise and annoyance of that segment of humanity known as the budget traveller.

 

 But that’s another story….

Colca Canyon

A Story by Carlie!
Arriving in Peru and flying almost directly to Arequipa, we hadn’t had a chance to see what the country was really like outside of the big city. Five weeks of Spanish school – conjugating verbs, memorising vocabulary and trying to grasp the difference between por and para – our brains were beginning to fry. Each afternoon we watched the sunset on huge snow-capped mountains and volcanoes, so close that it felt like we could reach out over the mish-mash of unfinished residential constructions and touch them. But for five weeks we had to be content to look and wonder what lay beyond.

Nos gustaria tener un receso de estudiando por 1 semana was the phrase I practiced before heading down to breakfast one day. ‘We would like to take a break from studying for one week,’ I announced to Maria, our host mum and the director of Llama Spanish School. We had decided that some fresh air and a week away from the classroom would put us in good stead for our final week of classes where we were going to tackle the elusive subjunctive mood. So we booked our bus tickets and the day after Easter we headed off on our mini adventure to Canon de Colca – the deepest canyon in the world.

Once we had escaped the congested and rather unattractive outskirts of Arequipa, the bus wound its way slowly up to the antiplano – the high barren plains that lay beyond the mountains. Stark, desolate and well above the tree line, the road across the antiplano reached an altitude of over 4800masl, more than twice the height of Arequipa, which sits at a respectable 2300m. Little life is sustained on the antiplano – wild vicunas (rare relatives of the alpaca), sparse vegetation of cacti and spiny grass and the occasional shepherd living in a rustic stone hut tending his hardy sheep and llamas. This environment has the same minimalistic beauty as the Australian outback – nothing for as far as you can see but hard to tear your eyes away.

We had decided to base ourselves at the little known pueblo (village) of Cabanaconde, which perched at 3300m on the rim of the canyon, is the best place to access the trails that lead down to the canyon floor. Cabanaconde is in a stunning location, surrounded by green mountains, with some snow capped giants peaking over the top. As in most cities and towns in Peru, the focal point of life is in the main square, surrounded by small shops, restaurants and a stunning old church on one side. Children played, dogs roamed and wizened old ladies in brightly coloured traditional costumes gossiped. Old men with antique style box radios slung on leather straps around their necks led all manners of animals including laden donkeys and lambs on frayed ropes. It was as if life was the same as it was fifty or a hundred years earlier – rustic but wholesome and happy.

Arriving into Cabanaconde late in the afternoon we decided to stretch our legs by wandering down to the lookout. As we made our way down the cobbled street a big black dog came bounding over wagging his tail He accompanied us all the way to the lookout and back, acting as a guide and showing us the way. We named him Flea and invited him along on our hike the next morning, making plans to meet in the plaza at 7am.

Bright and early in the morning we headed off armed with last night’s leftovers to entice Flea to join us again. Flea however had apparently slept in, as he was nowhere to be seen. But, not to worry, a short legged, long haired mutt who we named Larry (see short stories section) joined us for the adventure. The trail switched-backed its way down down down into the canyon, the fresh, cool morning quickly turning quite toasty, which was ok for us humans, but we could see Larry was beginning to steam under his fur.  Luckily Mark spotted a small pool of water in an otherwise dry creek bed and then he was ‘as happy as Larry!’

Not long later we saw far in the distance, many metres deeper into the canyon and across the river, what we thought was a mirage. An entrepreneurial canyon-dweller had set up an ice cream stand deep in the dry barren canyon. It was the unmistakable bright red of my favourite Peruano brand – Arctika. I know that I would pay whatever was asked for a cool, refreshing icy treat. But as we came closer, it became obvious that it was actually a bright red cement mixer. Hearts sinking and mouths parched, we continued on.

Soon after, we arrived at a collection of ram shackled buildings that looked like unfinished barns, but were actually houses.  A colourfully dressed older lady popped out of a doorway. Buenas Tardes, I greeted her.  Es bastante calor? (is it hot enough), she replied. Si, Si, we readily agreed.  And then she said a word recognisable in almost any language in the world. Coca Cola? She suggested with a knowing look in her eyes. She brought out a bucket of slightly cool river water with a selection of bottled beverages floating in it. We eagerly made our selections and discovered that the price was about 3 times the going rate back in town (which still only puts it about on par with Australian or US prices). But fair play to her, I be she sells at least one to every passing gringo!

Our destination that night was Llahuar (2020m), which is a hot springs lodge, nestled at the fork of two rivers. Included in the princely sum of 15 soles each (about $6) was entry to three pools of varying temperatures set right on the river bed, surrounded by towering red rock cliffs – stunning. As a side note, when we arrived there were discovered Flea curled up snoozing under a table in the restaurant - he had found some others to go hiking with!

The next days’ destination was to be a small village named Fure, part way up the northern rim of the canyon. Again we set off early to avoid the heat of the midday sun. It was only supposed to be a 3-4 hour walk, so we packed a few snacks to keep us going to Fure where we could stop for lunch and drop of our packs before heading further up the canyon to a huge roaring waterfall that we had been able to see in the far distance from the lookout at Cabanaconde. The view from the trail was spectacular, following a narrow side canyon above a white water river. We passed a few rustic settlements, a couple of farmers leading donkeys (that Larry barked at) and even a lonely donkey standing in a cave hewn out of the cliff face.

After a break in the shade under the bridge we continued the climb up an overgrown path to Fure. Coming to a fork in the trail, Mark consulted the trusty GPS, (which surprisingly even has the smallest hiking trail in the canyon detailed) and Garmin advise us to turn left. Up, up, up, hotter, hotter, and hotter. We could see Fure high on a ridge above, with the promise of lunch and something to drink. Almost there Larry, I promised our faithful mutt, as we shared the last of our water. Soon we passed a man, complete with his antique radio blaring, having a siesta under a shady bush. A moment later I heard Mark swear. Then I saw it too. A huge landslide had taken out the path, and only a few hundred metres from Fure.
 
Hearing the commotion, the snoozing canyon-dweller arose from his midday slumber. No Pasar! (You can’t pass) Muy Peligroso! (Very dangerous) Necesitan usar otra camino (You need to use the other path) he insisted.  Cuantas horas a Fure en el otra camino? (How long will it take on the other path?) I queried. Dos o Tres horas (two or three hours), he replied cheerfully. Knowing the speed and fitness levels of these local folk, I know that would translate to 3-4 hours for us. We would have to head back to the river bed, about 500m below and then up and over a mountain another 600m up. After disappointed discussions, we decided to skip Fure and the waterfall and head back to the hot springs, which downhill was only an hour or so away. That hour was used silently practicing explanations in Spanish about why we had returned!

Our final night in the canyon was spent at San Galle aka The Oasis, which is where most people who visit the canyon on overnight tours spend the night. Although in yet another stunning location, a lush green oasis at the bottom of the canyon, after two nights of blissful solitude, booming dance music and hordes of backpackers dampened the experience slightly.

We arose at 5am to begin the 1100m ascent as the sun rose. Many people, after descending on that same path down into the canyon chose to hire a mule for the upward trip. Although surefooted and with many years experience on the narrow rocky trails, I shudder with fear at the thought of perching atop one of those often skittish creatures as the make their way along crumbling paths on the cliff edge. And besides, where’s the challenge in that?

Getting Closer.

There are so many lessons that travelling can teach the willing student. How to sneak into 5 star hotels to use the facilities. How to ‘borrow’ a Wi-Fi connection. What can and can’t be used as toilet paper. The list is endless. At the top of the register however must be patience. Countless people before me have written countless books concerning travel, more than some libraries here in Peru even have on their shelves. But one phrase stands out for me, that travel is a series of amazing experiences interrupted by sustained periods of waiting.

 

It’s how we cope with these interruptions that defines the travel experience we achieve. If we have one hand on the guide book and a well-used watch on the other then you had best pack your meditation mat. No one likes to wait, our western culture of instant gratification has instructed us in the art of suppressed (and not so suppressed) frustration. I talk of this because right now I am waiting!

 

Since hanging up the backpack and selecting an alternative method of travel, by bicycle and now motorbike, I have enjoyed the freedom of not having to wait on the timetables of others. But here’s where my challenge lies ….. I am still waiting for my bloody motorbike!

You may recall from previous posts my shipping agent, let’s call him Peter. At last update he informed me of a delay in Singapore. Well he must have that email set as a template as I received it again only with Korea substituted in the location field. Apparently the crate required fumigation, not surprisingly as the guy hired to crate it originally in Australia wouldn’t exactly have passed a health and hygiene inspection himself.

Originally when I hired Peter to take care of the shipping he quoted me 48 days to get the bike here. It’s now been 56 and yesterday’s email now informs me that I am fortunate enough to have another 3 weeks in which to further hone my patient talents. The good news, I have a date. The bad news, Peter will not release the vessel name or container number to me. Does anyone reading this live in Melbourne and know where to find a couple of bricks?

So my challenge now is how to fill my time before my eagerly anticipated mode of transport arrives. And I’m flying solo here for a while as Carlie has had to head back to Oz for a family emergency. The language school finishes at the end of the week, I’m not sure that ‘graduating’ is the correct term, my professors are less endeared to my grasp of low level profanity than I thought they should be while they attempt to hammer verb conjugations into me with a level of futility better reserved for trying to stop North Korea from obtaining nuclear weapons.

   
But let’s take stock here; 3 weeks, cash in the bank, developing Latin American country, loads of beaches and no wife. Yea, I’ve got patience!