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!

New Story - The Little Mutt That Could

Carlie and I recently trekked 4 days in the worlds deepest canyon. And we were joined by a local street mutt for the journey.....
 
Read the story .....<<HERE>>

Cheers
Mark

New Story - Ride the "Kombie"

I have just started a new section of the site called "Stories". Occasionally I like to wax lyrical about the strangeness of travel, the places, the people and my experiences within. Mostly they are true, occasionally they have been airbrushed with artistic license but always entertaining - often in hind-sight for me!
Check them out ...... <HERE>

Cheers
Mark

THE THINGS YOU EAT

Should I be proud of the variety of God’s creatures I have devoured in the name of ‘’experience”? Do I really impress folks at dinner parties regaling tales of consuming the inconsumable? Do I even go to ‘dinner parities’?

So many questions yet so few answers, for I care not. Life is for the living; unless of course you were a guinea pig in Peru last weekend in which case your life was for 32 Peruvian soles (around 10 Aussie bucks). Kebabs in Turkey, fondue in Switzerland, dogs in Vietnam and so it is with small rodents here in Peru. The question is not ‘if’ you want some, but ‘how’. We tried ours the traditional way, whole, fried and complete with all the bits and pieces it was using up until it had its very last bath. There are some photos here on the site that for those of you reading after breakfast might be interested in. I put them up on the facebook site but got very few responses, the wife hinting that my humour would only appeal to a select few, clearly she was referring to the type of people who would be reading this blog!

And it tasted like ……. dare I say it? Chicken. Albeit with a fishy flavour. Take that phrase as you will. It is kind of like eating the quail version of, well, a bigger quail. But the fun part was the, how shall I say, ancillary, bits. Those little buggers have some awesomely grotesque fangs but also the cutest little claws, perfect back scratchers for a leprechaun! However at the end of the day you are what you eat and they did taste like what would have been left on the floor after all the diners had paid and gone home!

But I digress…..

I left you hanging at the end of the last post with us being stranded at the airport here in Arequipa, our host and language school coordinator most unfortunately forgetting about our arrival. And so my first Spanish vocabulary became ‘lo siento’ or ‘I’m sorry’ as I heard this statement several times on the cab ride to her house.

Cut to the present and three weeks later I can happily add to this phrase with more than just ‘uno mas cerveza por favor’. The language learning caper is tougher than it was when I learnt Japanese at the tender age of 15. A few hangovers have passed under the paracetamol bridge since then and it’s not such a situation of flexing the grey matter, but controlling it’s wobble. Last month if you had have said ‘tense’ I might have tried something with my sphincter.

We have 3 more weeks here at the school before its time to cut loose and let more Peruvians witness the murder of their language. We have a date with our bike to keep, the thing now however is that I have the very strong feeling that we are going to be stood up at the altar. Our shipping agent, you might remember his pseudo name was Peter, has just sent me an email, ‘sorry mate, ship was delayed in Singapore, will try to let you know when it arrives’. It might have been a better idea to break it into little bits and put them in bottles!

Cross your fingers for the Gods of shipping, this blog about a motorbike around the world seems to be missing something ………

The view from our room, awesome mountains for a couple of Aussies

Arequipa sights

Books from the 14th C

Arequipa sights

Arequipa sights

WHAT THE SUN LOOKS LIKE FROM THE OTHER SIDE OF THE WORLD

Less than two weeks ago we were kissing cheeks and shaking hands in farewell. I don’t think I can remember what the passage of time should feel like. Sure, about a week of this was spent regaining a mental foothold after the jetlag and overnight flight into Lima but without routine who are we? Apes in trees? Amoeba patiently awaiting subdivision? No, I’ll tell you who we are, incredibly euphoric and contented, safe and secure in the knowledge that we will not have to panic towards a daily deadline that our previous restaurant-owning lives mandated. But I digress.

 The last post was scratched out in Mexico City Airport. As far as airports go then it ticks a few of my boxes. Vast array of time consuming crap in the souvenir store, check! Tempting displays of single malt whiskeys just out of my budget, check! Numerous over perfumed humans talking too loudly on mobile phones to make fun of, check! Bars that take a vast assortment of currency in order to confuse you so you don’t realise how much you are being ripped off, check! But most importantly a quiet, dark corner near your gate that you can just fall asleep in before your flight is called, yes, check! We have travelled through Mexico before and will be through again on this trip so I will save any observations about the Mexicans until we return.

Next stop was Lima, Peru. There are good times to arrive in a new destination, bad times to arrive and real shitty times to arrive anywhere. We landed in Lima at 6am, a bad time. The shitty time would have been the 2am flight. Our hosts and accommodation in LA had been great so we hit the streets of our very first South American city in relatively high spirits. Our room in the hostel wasn’t ready and wouldn’t be for another 4 hours so it was time to work out what meal we should be up to and eat. Turns out it was breakfast followed by a wander through the streets. Before long we found ourselves back at the hostel and the room was ready. Now here I have a great opportunity to make up some really cool story about what happened next, but …. I don’t really recall. I know I slept for around 12 hours and that the shower was hot. Well, I don’t really know about the shower but I’m certain that if it wasn’t then I would have remembered that!

Next day the flight wasn’t until 6pm so we had the day to spend exploring a brand new culture and a brand new city. First up was zumba in the busiest street in Lima. No, not me, but around 100-odd Peruvians shakin’ their thing in response to two blokes up on a portable stage set up in downtown Lima. This activity originated here in South America and damn if they don’t make it look good! Everyone, and I mean everyone, had rhythm. The two fellows up front were fit creatures, unlike many of their audience, and could have just got up on stage after a night of salsa in the local clubs. Next up was a spot of ancient culture and a trip to the local archaeological ruins smack bang in the guts of high-rise buildings, residential apartments and city streets. One of which just happened to tear right through the middle of this site, can’t stop progress I suppose. Our guide for the hour was a middle aged Peruvian lady who had clearly led this tour a few too many times before. The highlight for me was the guinea pigs, yes they are cute and yes I will eat one!

Speaking of eating it was time to head back to the hostel, grab a bite to eat and shoot for the airport, oops, bad turn of phrase.

Tonight we selected a place popular with the locals and tourists alike and went for the cheapest option, a set menu of the day. The next gruelling 35 minutes produced a pasta of distinction, distinct not because of its careful balance of flavours or clearly apparent love in its serving but because I have never before left any pasta on any plate in my entire 37 years of life. The red wine was a thoughtful blend of balsamic vinegar and maple syrup while the pizza would have benefitted by, say, another hour, in the oven. There was garlic bread on the list also, I don’t think we got it, we must have received by mistake someone else’s rock cake smeared with the contents of a yellow highlighter pen.

But we made our flight on time, unfortunately the plane didn’t and if you have ever entertained the idea of writing a book on the highlights of Lima then save yourself the time researching the airport. However 90 minutes later we landed in Arequipa, our home for the next 6 weeks, and were cheerfully disgorged into the happy throng of awaiting Arequipans. One of whom would be our host and language school organiser, or so we thought.

Then we hoped.

Then we made a phone call.

She had forgotten us…..