odysseyone

Danger, danger, danger was the general theme as we did our last minute research before landing in Peru. We had read up on all the possible ways we could be fleeced of our belongings from the garden variety pickpocketing to choke-and-grabs and ATM kidnappings. What we hadn’t factored in was the most dangerous threat of all to our trip- traveller’s diarrhoea.

We had been travelling for more than six months when we arrived in South America and had been well almost the entire time, so I think I was a little overconfident that we wouldn’t fall sick in Latin America. When Justin came down with the Mexican two-step within days of arriving I was secretly relieved. Half of all traveller’s get the runs while on the run so if out of our small party of two Justin fell ill, that means I’m in the clear right? My punishment was yet to come. We had a break of about two days between Justin recovering and me getting sick and without going into details, lets just say that my traveller’s diarrhoea went on for days and coincided with a few lengthy bus trips. All I can say is thank goodness for poorly regulated medicines in the third world. I resorted to over-the-counter antibiotics, which worked a treat. Unfortunately we were both sick on-and-off the entire time so we couldn’t try the local dishes like llama and guinea pig… what a shame.

All the ominous cautions of theft, criminal taxi drivers, kidnappings and violent demonstrations had us on guard when we landed in Lima. This wasn’t helped by the fact we landed at 1am and had been warned not to carry any belongings in the taxi when we left the airport as there are cases of thieves smashing in the windows and grabbing your bag off your lap. So we resorted to the hidden money belts again and I hid money and my engagement ring down my bra – when in Rome – and we bravely walked into the darkness and took our first steps onto ‘dangerous’ South American soil. All our fears were allayed in about 30 seconds when our taxi driver turned out to be Lima’s version of Ronnie Wood from the Rolling Stones. He casually escorted us to his beaten up van and entertained us with his broken English on our journey from the airport to our hotel in the middle of the night.

Our time in Lima quickly became boring as we walked the same stretch of road to the beach and back again, biding our time in the wealthy, safe suburb of Miraflores for a few days while waiting for our visit with our sponsor child. We ventured beyond Miraflores on our own just once when we caught a taxi to a museum and drove right past a political protest and saw the smoke from tear gas coming from among the demonstrators. We continued to hear tear gas being fired while we were in the museum but everyone was behaving as usual so we figured this must be pretty normal. It was a march ahead of the local and provincial elections, which occurred while we were in Arequipa. It was a very busy weekend when we arrived in Arequipa because postal votes aren’t used in Peru yet and people were travelling all around the country on buses to their town of origin to vote, which is compulsory. Our guidebook had warned that demonstrations can quickly turn violent so when we saw protesters blocking the square in the evening after the election we hurried to stand near a police officer; we weren’t sure if this was a safe move or made us a target. The demonstrators were fairly harmless though and it was interesting to watch.

We decided to fly to Cuzco to visit Machu Picchu rather than brave a 27 hour bus ride from Lima for our first long-distance journey in South America. Both were frightening options- brave a hair-raising short flight or the torture of an overnight bus ride on hair pins roads, which can be prone to accidents and also hold-ups at night time. We chose the flight and it was the closest thing I have ever come to going on a joy flight, both because of the ridiculous cost and the experience. It’s the first time either of us has been on a flight where the pilot reaches altitude but is still flying below the height of the mountain range we are to land in. I looked to the cabin crew for their reaction when we flew right between two mountains – which you could almost reach out and touch on either side – and because they were behaving normally it allayed my fear a little bit. Even so, coming around a mountain with the plane feeling like it is on its side and starring straight at a mountain out the window was enough for me to almost tear a hole through Justin’s arm with my fingernails in fear. Any of the apparent tourist dangers awaiting us on the ground seemed like child’s play compared to the flight.

Cuzco was only the second time we have ever been at 3400m.a.s.l. and the first time we have stayed overnight at this altitude. It is a very strange feeling when you’re not used to it and it’s hard to tell if it’s a complete lack of fitness or altitude that leaves you short of breath. I had a mild headache our first evening and would occasionally find myself waking up in the middle of the night needing to take a big gulp of air. It is frustrating as the smallest of activities can leave you short of breath. But we were surprised how quickly we got used to it and were able to go higher and higher over the next couple of weeks.

Cuzco was our first major tourist town but mercifully the locals don’t seem to have learned any the tricks of the trade from annoying touts in South East Asia. Instead of screaming at us, “You want massage, you want restaurant, you want tour…” most of the touts would almost whisper to you and often had an apologetic look on their face like they were sorry for wasting your time. We would say the usual ‘no thankyou’ and walk off expecting them to follow us down the street but we were left alone. We made ourselves targets when we sat at a park bench in Cuzco but ended up almost feeling sorry for street sellers who would come and stand silently in front of you with their wares. When we ignored them, they just stood there silently for a few minutes with a sad look on their face and then eventually walked off quietly. The situation in artesian markets has been similar and stall owners seem so laid back I wonder if they are really interested in making money or just stand at their stall each day for something to do.

Outside of ‘sterile’ Miraflores in Lima, Cuzco was our first taste of rural life in Peru. What I loved was that despite the poverty, there is still a lot of pride in maintaining their old buildings and life seems more colourful, both metaphorically and literally. 80s fluoro still has a stronghold in Peru, with blindingly bright fabrics used to transport a wide variety of things on women’s backs, from babies to back-breaking loads of vegetables. The indigenous Quechua and Aymara women wear gravity-defying bowler hats that seem to sit precariously on their heads and add inches to their height, complemented by thick plain-coloured stockings, black shoes, wool skirt and a cardigan. On really cold days I wondered how they coped with just a skirt for warmth but they have a solution- they either wear a poncho or shuffle around with a thick blanket wrapped around their waist. Some of the indigenous women in the Andes also wore bright coloured, embroided dresses and white hats with embroidery, although I suspect this outfit is worn only when they have a chance to entertain tourists.

We thought we were joining old people who had opted for the train ride to Machu Picchu town but we were pleasantly surprised to find there were plenty of younger travellers who decided not to slug it out on the Inka Trail to reach the ruins. The train was incredibly overpriced and was like a rudimentary massage chair, jolting us from side to side for four hours, but still a preferable option to chocking on diesel on the local bus. The rural scenery was great and the train tracks ran very close to the small towns we went past as it rolled deeper and deeper into the mountains. I have seen a lot of poverty around the world but this is right up there with the worst I have ever seen and it is no surprise to me that around half of Peru’s population lives in poverty. These small towns were filthy, with plastic bags strewn around the streets and in the river and their mud-brick homes could be mistaken for animal shelters. Most of the homes in Peru look unfinished and a German tourist told us it is because home owners aren’t taxed on an incomplete home. The idea is that they use the money to finish their homes but because a finished home means being taxed, most people don’t complete their homes. In Machu Picchu town, which gets the summer rains and floods, most buildings looked presentable from street level until you looked up. At the top the locals were living on an open floor that was little more than a tent, with a tin roof, no internal or external walls or windows so you could see straight into their ‘lounge room’. The worst town we saw was Juliaca, which was in such a bad way I wanted the bus to drive through the town as fast as possible so I didn’t have to look at the poverty a moment longer than I had to. It was just so overwhelming I have no idea how anyone would begin to help in this city. The only sealed road was the main one running through town; every other street was dirt and pot-holed, with huge piles of dirt along the sides of the streets, sheep grazing in suburban roads, broken down cars, decrepit homes, market stalls and street restaurants that looked like they would induce immediate diarrhoea and rubbish piles everywhere.

The tourism around Machu Picchu town and the ruins is off-putting and the prices are criminal, prompting us to see the site and get out of there. It was impossible to figure out how the pricing as our room was cheaper than the price of one meal. The rooms looked like they had been renovated and everything looked quite new until you looked upwards in the stairwell and saw a gaping hole in the wall and could see into the neighbouring building. It seemed like the owner was a little ‘green’ at running such an establishment and we came back one night to find her and another guest throwing rocks at our window. She had managed to lock herself out of her own hotel and thought we were in our room. We had to wait out on the street and became increasingly concerned she had no idea how she was going to get back in when she returned with a chair, then a broom… we were saved when we noticed another guest walking around inside who let us in.

Despite being the continent’s biggest tourist trap, Machu Picchu is pretty impressive and looks just like the pictures we’d seen before we got there. But what photos can’t truly portray is its location, which is the main reason it is so impressive. The Inca ruins are built on a plateau surrounding by imposing Andes mountains that tower over the site. Particularly when viewed in overcast weather, the site has a mystic feel, surrounded by deep green jungle that is still relatively untouched. We did our usual trick, following behind other tour groups so we could get free information without having to trudge around in a tour all day. But we quickly noticed conflicting stories coming from all the guides, which isn’t surprising as the whole site is a mystery. I thought Machu Picchu might have been the last thing I would see alive as I almost tore another hole in Justin’s arm as I held on for dear life on our bus trip down the mountain. The driver had confused the bus for a Formula 1 car and took the switchbacks aggressively, driving around 70 kilometres an hour on an unsealed, one lane road and multiple times he narrowly missed colliding with a bus coming up the mountain.

It was quite a journey leaving Machu Picchu and heading south as it required multiple bus rides, the favoured form of transport here. Our long journey was softened a little with a first class bus ride from Cuzco to Puno on Lake Titicaca. We had no tickets and ran around the Cuzco bus terminal, trying to find a ticket for the next bus. With about five minutes to spare before the bus left, a woman talked us into first class seats for around $2 more each than the regular upstairs seats. By the end we were almost seeking out another chance to take a bus ride after relaxing in oversized faux leather seats that reclined almost into beds and had calf rests. It was like a glimpse into the world of a first class plane passenger, minus the service and clean toilets. Our mission from then on was to buy cama (bed) seats as often as we could in South America. We have refused to take an overnight bus ride unless there are cama seats available.

From Puno we had to slum it in regular bus seats – but for around $5 each for a full day’s ride we couldn’t complain – to Arequipa. We have almost no complaints about bus travel in South America; the people don’t smell, they are very quiet and they never steal your seat. We have only two complaints- you should be able to use the toilet on the bus when you need it and the movies could be a little more family friendly. When we’ve bought each bus ticket we’ve made sure there is a bano (toilet) onboard but it’s a bit pointless as some conductors have been pretty precious about it and don’t want to unlock the toilet. On one trip the bus driver pointed out into a field next to a police checkpoint when Justin asked for the bano. As for the movies, blood, gore and guns is the general theme. Because they are dubbed, we just get to see people being shot, limbs flying around and not a clue as to what is being said.

Arequipa is a really nice city with a big European square and buildings around the plaza have the grandeur of colonial times. We used Arequipa as a base to travel to the Colca Canyon, the deepest canyon in the world at 4100 m.a.s.l. Just two weeks ago we had seen the Grand Canyon, the longest in the world, so we figured we had to see the deepest as well. Our bus had an oxygen bottle on it as we travelled on one of the highest roads in the world, getting out at the highest point at just under 4900 m.a.s. We had adjusted to altitude well by this point but it seemed that almost daily we were breaking our record for the highest we had ever been and this stop left us a little dizzy. One Peruvian tourist on our bus fell over on the road because his legs cramped up from the altitude. We met a group of Australians from a Melbourne cycle club who were cycling downhill through the pass. We also drove up behind a local guy who seemed to have a death wish, skateboarding behind a truck down the mountain range. He overtook the truck then we overtook him but never saw him at the bottom so I hope it didn’t end badly. Anything can happen on these roads and we saw lots of roadside shrines reminding us we were on a hair raising road. I noticed a group of six white crosses on a hairpin bend where roadworks were being done. The crosses all had the same death date which didn’t fill me with a lot of confidence.

The scenery is so desolate and wouldn’t be out of place in the Middle East. I wasn’t expecting the Andes to be so dry and was surprised there is any life there; the altiplano is home to llamas, alpacas and the protected vicunas. We saw some vicunas drinking from a small waterhole with an Andean fox drinking at the other end, possibly eyeing off his lunch.

We stayed the night in a tiny town of just 2000 people at the beginning of the canyon. A local guy – one of only three people in his town who can speak English – took us on an afternoon walk around the farmland in the canyon and then to a natural hot springs; it was a highlight for us to spend an afternoon with a local. He told us his favourite band was Australian and asked us if we knew Hillsong. It turned out our guide was one of only a few dozen Christians in Yanque. His church meets in a house in the village and he is the worship leader. He said the Spanish version of one Hillsong album reached the top of the charts in Peru.

From Yanque we travelled to visit a deeper part of the canyon the next day. The road only got worse and there was a couple of times I thought my life was over. Our guide was proud to tell us the crude dirt tunnel we drove through was over 300 metres long and I had visions of it collapsing on us, which didn’t help when we had to return via the same tunnel. There was also the moment when the bus driver pulled over to the side of the road – which has no shoulder – to show us the drop straight to the valley floor. I got a little nervous when the people sitting on the opposite side of the bus all got up to have a look and the bus rocked a little. The hairy road was worth it though as it led to a lookout where we were able to see the Andean condor up close, the biggest flying bird in the world. One of them kept flying very low over our heads, close enough he could have had a good shot at pooing directly in my eye. I’m not a bird lover but I was impressed by the size and beauty of these birds gliding around the canyon.

Our last bus ride in Peru turned out to be a bit of a circus, with travelling salesmen and people walking up and down the aisles at every stop with food straight from the oven. The health standards bodies in Western countries would be throwing their arms up in the air if they saw these women, who come running down a dirty street with a warm oven dish covered with a tea towel, using their fingers to serve out the warm, sweaty snacks in plastic bags.

I was surprised the travelling salesmen had any success but people seemed interested in buying encyclopaedias on CD or the special bag of Christmas nut mix. The encyclopaedia guy began his speech as soon as the bus took off and as we travelled further into the desert I wasn’t exactly sure how he would get home. He got off at a toll booth and another guy jumped on and spent the next half hour selling Christmas nuts – who knew there was so much to say about festive food – getting off the bus in the middle of nowhere in the desert.

Our exit from Peru wasn’t as smooth as we had hoped. We thought we would just get into the collectivo (shared taxi), show our passport at the border and enter Chile. Instead we had a leathered old Peruvian cabbie yelling at us for our passport and the whole thing became so ridiculous it was comical. I wasn’t about to hand my passport over so I followed him huffing into the terminal so I could do the Chile paperwork- no one could tell me why I couldn’t just do it when I arrived at the border. When I came back to the taxi, Justin had managed to lose both his departure ticket and another passenger’s pen- both of which mattered apparently. The taxi driver went back in to buy another departure ticket and in the meantime we found the original but still couldn’t find the pen. We had to loan another pen to fill in more paperwork while bumping along in the cab and even with a language barrier, I could tell the lady next to me was pretty anxious about her pen. She kept reminding us and I eventually gave her a good one of mine to shut her up and she gave us this innocent look and I’m sure she was saying in Spanish, “For me? Really? You shouldn’t have.” She seemed very chuffed with her new pen and hid it away in her bum bag quickly.

Our taxi driver was a menace and tried to push in front of everyone else to get to the front of the line at immigration but was sent back to the end. We kept clear of him because we didn’t want to be associated with the impatient, pushy cabbie. We noticed he didn’t try the same stunt on the Chilean immigration officials.

My last image of Peru is again of the poverty, driving through what felt like a sandy wasteland with ocean just visible to my east, past tiny adobe huts in the desert. I was confused as it didn’t seem possible they could be homes, they were so small and had no obvious water supply- they looked more like small dog kennels than homes. But when I asked the lady next to me in broken Spanish if these were homes she said yes and then crossed her chest, saying a little Catholic prayer I suppose. Situations like that make you feel very helpless to do anything but I have seen in South America that even the poorest aren’t without hope and we could learn a lot from their positive, simple approach to life, even when it is difficult.