A couple of years back, in 2001, some friends had invited me to join them on a trip to Macchu Picchu, the lost Inca City in the Andes. I enthusiastically agreed, despite the short notice of it all, and petitioned my boss for a week's leave to do it. Unfortunately, Juanito (my boss) declined to spare me at the time, so I had to opt out of the trip; in retrospect, however, his decision was extremely lucky for me, since I had had no plan for the trip whatsoever (other than accompanying my friends), and had planned to walk the trail in my usual walking shoes, without any other preparation. With what I now know about the trail, it's evident that Juanito spared me a most uncomfortable time. So thanks, Juanito !
It's worth noting that the rest of my friends never did make it that time, either, at least in part due to their selection of September 2001 for the trip, and the accompanying disruptions in travel on the East Coast of the USA.
Two years later, Amane and I decided to make the trip on our own, and we decided to put in considerably more planning and preparation into the journey; in part because we had no one else to rely on for planning this time, and in part because I just like the planning process.
After some intense research on the web, I came to the conclusion that September 2003 would probably be the best time for the trip. This would give us enough time to get our bodies in shape for a fifty kilometer hike across the Andes mountains, as well as assemble the necessary paperwork and gear for the trip.
Also, since 2001, the Peruvian Government had cut down the number of trekkers allowed on the Trail on any given day, increasing the price and difficulty of getting a Trail Permit. Now, there were only a certain number of licensed Inca Trail tour operators, and every group had to travel with a licensed guide. Earlier, people could just arrive in Cusco, and make plans for the trek from there; now, it meant we had to make all our plans before we arrived, since it wouldn't be a bright idea to land there first, and then wait in Cusco until we eventually got a Company with an opening. Also, the Trek Permit should be completed at least a week before the actual trek, so the earlier we applied for it, the better.
My preparation was helped to no end by a book I found at the Strand Book Shop: Richard Danbury's "The Inca Trail". Danbury's book was an extremely comprehensive guide to the Trail, and covered it thoroughly, from pre-trip planning to Trail Guide and maps.
The first idea was to hunt down a travel agency for the Inca Trail. There was a profusion of these on the net, all with varying services and prices ranging from as little as $200 to as much as $3000 or more, per person. The cheaper tours only covered the actual hike across the Inca Trail, while the more expensive ones took care of absolutely everything, from the air-tickets out of the US to Peru, and back. However, both Amane and I agreed that the cheaper ones were the way to go, both for reasons of expense as well as the fact that we'd enjoy our tour more if we had more control over it.
Also, some of the travel agencies offered a package which included an airplane ride from Lima to Cusco, but not one back. I figured it might be easier to book the round trip ourselves, and just focus on agencies that covered the Trek from Cusco to Macchu Picchu and back.
A thorough scan of the net cut our options down to about half a dozen travel agencies. The cheapest, cut-rate agencies were dismissed, since at the rates they charged, they'd offer nothing more than a guide and the trail ticket, with nothing left over for emergencies. Also, if you're paying too little (or too near the edge) for a trek, the company is likely to underpay their guides, which is also undesirable.
We wanted a slightly more professional organization. From testimonials on the net, we were left with SAS Travel, Andean Life, Q'ente Tours and United Mice. United Mice (Amane loved the name) and Q'ente didn't have much information available on the net, so we went with the other two, both of which had extremely good reputations. Unfortunately, Andean Life wasn't very responsive to e-mail inquiries, and we heard nothing from them for a week (time in which we grew anxious, since we had a lot to plan). SAS Travel, on the other hand, was very responsive, and assured us a place on their September trek on the dates we had chosen. They also offered help with arranging a hotel in Cusco. We settled on the recently renovated Marqueses Hotel.
We set up an advance payment to secure the trek reservations, and I wire it to them through Western Union (strangely enough, my first dealing with that company, ever).
For the Lima leg of the trip, we decided on Hostal Mami Panchita, a quiet hostel outside the City center. The decision was helped by the fact that Hostal Mami Panchita was also run by a well-recommended travel agency, Raymi Travels, which would help us book our Lima-Cusco plane tickets. We made arrangements with them for our stay on arrival in Lima, our plane tickets to Cusco and a further stay with them on our return from Cusco (since we planned to spend a couple of days in Lima on our return). Jose Luis from Raymi Travels wrote back, expressing regrets that the Hostal was fully booked on our arrival date, but that they'd arrange alternative accomodation at another hotel, and that they'd set up all the rest of my requests. Jose Luis also waves away any advance payment, telling me that I can settle up when I reach Lima.
Orbitz proves to be the best bet for the New York-Lima tickets. While most prices seem to run between $500 and $600, I luck out one night (as I'm scanning the prices) and find a Continental airfare below $500 (though it travels via Texas). I book the tickets immediately. The detour is hardly a problem, since direct tickets seem to run about $700 just at that time.
After my earlier experience with the Mexican Embassy (who took a month to issue me a visa to Mexico, and who finally issued me a visa for the period of December 10-17 on December 15 (!!!)), I decided to take no chances and apply a month or more in advance. Rushika, a friend at the office, had warned me about the Peruvian Embassy, so I took no chances, and went thoroughly prepared. To my immense surprise, despite the fact that there was only a single person there who spoke English, the Embassy was extremely smooth, and gave me my visa within the hour !
[Interestingly enough, after my warnings to Rushika about the Mexican Embassy, she managed to get her Mexican visa in days. Which proves something about symmetry, though I'm not quite sure exactly what.]
Amane, who's something of an expert in this after her trek through Nepal, insisted on my getting proper shoes and gear for the trip, and took me to Eastern Mountain Sports to select a good pair of hiking boots. After some web research (yes, I love the net), I had a better handle on what to look for in a decent boot, and finally settled on a pair of Merrell Pulse GTX's . We then began the lengthy process of breaking the boots in, by taking long weekend hikes along the Hudson river. The old Croton Aqueduct, which used to be New York's primary source of water from upstate, is now no longer in use, but serves as an excellent route to hikers. We took trains to upstate NY, and walked 8 to 10 miles down the Aqueduct trail each time, the boots settling better on the feet each time. One nice advantage to the Aqueduct trail is that when you're tired, and feel you've walked enough, you can walk along to the next rail station and catch the next train home.
Until, to my horror, one month down the way, when the boots began to pinch. Despite all the padding I tried, the boots pinched the back of my feet far too painfully for me to continue, and I eventually limped, bootless, to the next train station and caught the train home. EMS, to their credit, were extremely pleasant about the situation, recommending a slightly wider-heeled boot to me, and taking back the old ones with no problem. I settled on a pair of Salomons, which had a much wider heel, and were still water-proof (something I had wanted for the hike). Unfortunately, I was less than two weeks away from the actual Inca Trail, and this meant I would have no time to break these boots in thoroughly. Still, there was no other option, so I decided to take my old sneakers as well, in case of a recurrence of the pinching problem.
I was also told that the glare up in the mountains would be very intense, and that sunglasses were recommended. I don't usually wear sunglasses, but I've learnt to take care of new environments (after some hill-climbing in Arizona with my aunt), so I walked down to Canal Street, Chinatown, and picked up a $5 pair of wraparounds. Amane hated them intensely.
In our last week before our departure, I took Amane to a Peruvian restaurant in New York, Rinconcito Peruano, that I'd dined at (and liked) before. Amane was quite surprised, since she'd no idea that New York had any Peruvian cuisine, but it turned out quite a happy surprise.
I have very little success trying to get any Peruvian Soles, which bothers me a bit, since I usually like having some of the local currency on me, in preparedness for the trip. But none of the money-changers I check out seems to have any Soles available, so I eventually give up the attempt
Our plane takes off from Newark Airport, and we're well in time. We have our first encounter with the airlines' new heightened sense of worry, when Continental requests us to leave the baggage open and unlocked (to spare them the trouble of breaking the locks !). It appears rather strange to me, but the locks stay off, all the way till Peru. While we await departure, we stop at a diner (!) in the airport for breakfast.
We're in a tremendously squeaky plane. It rustles, groans and whines, making for a tremendously noisy flight. And aside from that piece of strangeness, I'll skip the rest of the flight until our arrival in Peru.
Immigration is a snap to clear; while the people are surprised by the arrival of an Indian (not too usual, apparently), they're very well-geared to processing tourists quickly, and we move through fast. The Customs Channel is chosen by random luck, it seems. Each passenger has to press a button themselves, which will randomly switch them to either the Green or Red channels. Amane pushes the switch, and is sent peacefully through the Green Channel. I push the switch, and with my legendary luck, get shunted to the Red Channel. Ah, joy.
I'm stuck behind a woman who's having her suitcase checked; to make matters worse, the customs official vanishes, and we're both stuck there for ten minutes without the option. Since there seems to be no sign of the official returning, I spend my time making woeful eyes at the nearest official, who resists for a while, but then succumbs, sweeping her poncho around her and commanding another official to take over our queue. Or rather, just inspect me. The woman in front of me protests, but is ignored. I step out and join Amane.
We're met by Jesus, from Raymi Travels, and taken outside the terminal, under a long, pedestrian overpass, and through to the parking lot, and his car. The place reminds me of a cross between Delhi and Jakarta. The streets are fairly empty, as we've arrived quite late at night. We drive through winding streets, and finally through a road next to the sea (with a huge cliff to the left of us) and arrive at our lodgings, the Hostal Torreblanca in Miraflores.
We walk up through a winding staircase, into the hotel, and are ushered into a small room. We drop our bags and settle down; it's not particularly large, but since we have only about eight hours to kill here, it's unimportant. Jose Luis hands me my tickets, and I settle up with him for them.
I check out the shower before I sleep. Aaaaaggghhh !!! Agua muy frio ! In short, it's freezing, and I give up. It's bed.
The Hostal has a tall columnar space in the center, containing a garden that's dominated by a large cactus. But it's dark, and we have little time to explore, so I head off to sleep.
I wake up early in the morning, thanks to my watch alarm. Reassuring to know that I can count on it to wake me.
I wake up early, and wander around the Hostal, and the Circle outside; it's a peaceful, beautiful morning, but we have to hurry to the airport, toget to Cusco. A friendly taxi-driver stops for us (I note a used condom inside the car-door, as I step in) and hustles us to the airport, talking merrily away as he drives. He stops outside the airport, and drops us off there; I suspect he's trying to avoid an airport parking fee.
The ticket counter clerk is very friendly, and upon my requesting him for a window seat, beckons me over. He offers me the emergency seat, but makes it clear that I will have to sit in the window seat, and not Amane, because she's a girl (and therefore, presumably, not to be trusted in an emergency). This has the makings of some excellent material for teasing Amane.
We have breakfast in the Lima airport cafeteria. The food takes a dismayingly long time to come, and we finally extract the bill from the reluctant waiter with some difficulty.
We stroll out onto the tarmac, and walk up the airstairs to the plane, Flight 237 to Cusco. Amane revels in the extra leg room of the emergency seats; I just peer out of the window.
And we're off ! I have a beautiful view, as we move up through the clouds. There are mountains spread out below us, which are themselves looming above the clouds. There are clear green mountain pools, and snow-capped mountains spread out below us, and every so often, a small road shows itself, far below. It's a gorgeous view, and I'm completely absorbed.
The air hostess hands me a bag of potato chips, which I put away, untouched, continuing to stare out the window. We approach the end of the hour-long flight, and begin to swing around the mountain near Cusco; there seem to be huge signs carved into the mountains. I read the first: VIVA ANCAHUASI. We roll around and make our final descent into Cusco airport.
Cusco is a beautiful city, sprawling across the hillsides around. Rows and rows of little house sweep out below us, as the plane descends. The airstrip is a long, beautiful thing, cutting across the landscape, and the Plaza de Armas is clearly visible, at the city center, looking much like its map representation. I notice the shadow of the plane on the land below me; this may be the first time I've seen that. I follow the shadow for a few more minutes, as we move into a landing position. And we finally land ! Amane and I are the first off the plane.
As we're walking to the arrival lounge, I suffer a mild loss of breath; I assume this is because of the rarefied atmosphere, and the fact that I'm excitedly moving at a fairly fast pace, something that I should probably avoid for a while.
I notice a bunch of (Andean) Indian musicians gathering around the luggage belt; they burst into song, and attempt to sell CD's of their performances to the passengers. Suddenly, I realize that the potato chip bag in my hand is extremely full; it's positively bulging at the seams. Evidently, the bag must have been filled at a high-pressure location (probably the coast), and now that it's reached Cusco's rarefied heights (3.3 km above sea level), its pressure-differential with the thinner air here causes it to swell alarmingly.
There's a crowd of people come to receive the plane, and Amane and I scan the crowd for our SAS Travel contact. To no avail. After five to ten minutes, it becomes plain that there is no one there to receive us. I head over to Airport Information, and am assisted by the very helpful tourist clerk to call SAS. The guy at SAS seems surprised by our arrival, but swings into action, calling another (associated ?) tourist guide, who helps us get a taxi to the SAS offices.
We lucked out, obtaining an amusing, friendly driver, who talked to us all the way, pointing out the sights along the way to Plaza de Armas. He chats with us in Spanish, pointing out the sights along the way, like the magnificent statue of Pachacutec, the ninth Inca, and a gorgeous mural of Peru's history. I desperately try to keep up with his stream of Spanish, managing about half of it all. I suddenly recognize Avenue de La Sol, to his happy surprise; since it's one of the two main avenues, I'd had it memorized during my trip preparations.
The most direct way to the Plaza is blocked, so the driver takes us around by a side way, to SAS Travel, where they pay him off. I notice a large parade of schoolchildren outside in the Plaza, presumably the reason for the blockage of traffic; they're marching around the square in a solemn procession. The line seems endless.
The SAS Travel man explains to me that they're marching for an important festival, La Natividad.
After making initial preparations, and handling the necessary paperwork and fees for the trip, we're ready to head on to our hotel. Unfortunately, the SAS man explains, La Marquesas, the hotel that we were supposed to be staying at, is currently undergoing massive renovations, and is unavailable for the trip ! However, he'll make arrangements for us to stay at La Casona Real, a nearby hotel. We concur, and head over there; it's extremely near to the SAS Travel Offices, just around the corner from their offices, and fortuitously, just half a block away from Plaza de Armas, the city center.
It's a beautiful old house, with a large courtyard in the center. We walk up old stone staircases, to our room on the second floor, and I involuntarily think that Mani would have approved (Mani's a friend of mine who holds strong views on the flimsiness of modern fiberboard construction, and yearns for a return to the good old days of solid construction.). We're shown to room 206; there's a heater in the room (albeit a weak one) and we're assured that there's a 24-hour supply of hot water in the bathroom.
We settle down on the beds; Amane thirstily pulls out a bottle of water from her pack, and jerks back in surprise as a jet of foam spurts out of the bottle towards the ceiling. After the moment's surprise, we laugh; we're going to get very used to such pressure-differential effects in the weeks to come. I pull out my own water to check, and get the same effect. The potato chips package is drum-head-tight now, and I haven't the heart to open it.
Heading over to the bathroom, I turn the "H" faucet, only to be met with a gush of ice-cold water. I wait patiently for a few minutes, only to meet the same response, so I give up; evidently, I'm not going to get any hot water here. Hopefully, it'll be better in the morning. Half an hour later, I return to the tap, turn the "C" faucet, and nearly scald my hand off. Evidently, the labels have been reversed.
Amane sleeps; I continue to sort papers, and unpack my stuff.
We step outside, into dazzling sunlight. Against my will (and much more against Amane's), I slip my sunglasses on to mute the glare. The light's very strong at this altitude.
Our hotel's half a block from the Plaza de Armas, and very conveniently situated on Procuradores, one of the two main streets of food-sellers (the other being the adjacent and parallel Plateros). We're playing it nice and easy, to adjust our bodies, so we stroll down to the square. Two large churches confront us, the first immediately to our left (the main Basilica) and the second directly opposite to us, across the square (the Jesuit church). Each of them has two massive belltowers. There are several people ambling desultorily around the Plaza, and we join them, lazily inspecting the layout, and hunting for a decent place to eat. Finally, we stumble upon the Inka Grill, one of the restaurants that I had planned to try out, and decide to head in.
The waiter settles us down at the table with a large bowl of chips (both potato and sweet potato) and a bowl of aji sauce, while he gets us our orders. Amane has excellent luck, choosing an incredibly good Quinoa risotto (Quinoa is an Andean grain, that has slowly started to regain its popularity in recent years); the quinoa grains are soft, with a distinct crunch at the center. I get a decent aji de gallina, chicken in a cream sauce with a very mild aji flavour; good, but not the equal of the risotto.
Since we're slightly low on soles just now, we walk down Avenue el Sol, to the money-changers. It's a lazy walk, as we're purposely not going fast, both due to the food and the atmosphere. It's also a beautiful city, and we spend time just looking around; Cusco takes my breath away, in more ways than one.
We walk past the Qorikancha, which seems to be full of tourists, settling down on a pair of benches to admire the view. Walking a bit further down, we come across the large mural that we had seen on the way in, pausing to take it in. It's quite gorgeous, presenting a very colourful look at Peru's history, from early Inca mythology to modern days. I take a few photos of segments of the mural (it's several dozen meters long, so I can't fit it all into the camera at once), focusing on Tupac Amaru and Pachacutec.
A little kid walks up to me, then, and informs me that it will cost me to take that photo.
A mild digression on touts, now: they swarm Cusco in epidemic numbers, and do seem to see the tourist as nothing more than a money-dispensing machine. Push this button, and the tourist will give you money. Several of them are quite polite, and will take a "No, gracias" well, but a large number of them are considerably more resistant, and take any response as an invitation to tag on to their target for several blocks, importuning them. It's much safer to ignore these; the kids, unfortunately, tend to fall into the latter category, more often than not. One little girl pursued us for about fifty metres, offering me several different things for sale in decent, though broken, English, finally attempting to sell me a hatband, before giving it up as a lost cause. Given that our residence is on Procuradores, and that every restaurant there has touts standing outside to draw the passers-by in, we quickly got very used to their presence around us, and managed to largely ignore them.
But back to the kid. I chuckled, dismissively, and the kid abandoned the idea of extorting money for photos. He then started asking me questions about where I was from, and how long I'd been in the city. I gave him some answers, chatting with him for a bit, while Amane pointedly glared at me in the background. (She was of the opinion (and not incorrectly) that I encouraged such touts too much, and that I had a soft spot for kids in particular.) The kid proceeded to explain to me that he was my guide for the day, and that he had no fixed fee, and that I could give him whatever I pleased at the end of the day. I hastily (and immediately) declined the offer. He pressed it again. I utilized Amane's advice, and began pointedly ignoring him. After several attempts, he reluctantly took the hint, and drifted away. A particularly persistent, and unsubtly money-hungry example of the touts that continued to pursue us through our stat in Cusco.
We continued our lazy saunter through the streets, wandering this way and that at Amane's whim through the cobblestoned streets, exploring the area as we walked. We passed a few cambios (money exchange places) and traded some dollars for soles, taking care to accept no torn or soiled notes, as we had been advised. We then headed back to the room to recuperate for a while, and to our great surprise, both of us fell asleep, waking only a couple of hours later.
It's about eight o'clock when we both arise and get out of our room, stepping out for dinner. We head over to Chez Maggy's, a local (and recommended) pizza chain. The room is filled with long, narrow tables, with several small cushion-topped stools next to each one. An array of old hunting/farming implements decorate the walls and ceiling. We place our orders, receiving a decent pizza, and munch quietly on it a while.
Then a young girl, perhaps ten years old, gets up and starts singing a Peruvian song at the piano. There's a slight buzz at the table closest to the door, where a bunch of other musicians have been quietly strumming their instruments, but it dies down. The girl's a fairly decent singer, and there's a quick round of applause; she moves into a second song. We've just finished our meal, and call for our bill. Which doesn't come. After ten minutes of waiting, I ask a second waiter, and then a third, but with no luck. They seem to be much more eager to feed us than to accept money for the food. I'm getting impatient now; the last two waiters, who heard my request and went back for a bill, have returned, and are now ignoring me. A faint thought enters my mind, that they might just be holding back all their customers, so that the singer can go around with a collection bowl, something that seems even more likely as I notice several others who have finished their meals, and have not been given a bill (despite their asking). Not a good idea, since we've been waiting over twenty minutes now, and I finally decide to walk into the back of the restaurant and demand the bill. The head waiter sheepishly hands it over, I pay, and leave. This is definitely a place I'm going to avoid from now on.
Back to the hotel, and sleep.
We wake up lazily (the idea to go easy on our bodies, to allow them to acclimatize, is a marvellous one for a lazy person). Amane expresses a desire to check out the market at San Pedro (supposed to be extremely full of weird (and normal) things on sale, but also dangerous from a petty thievery, pickpocketing and bag-slashing point of view), so we leave our passports in the hotel (a standard safety precaution) and head out. The morning light in Cusco is extremely bright, presumably due to the altitude, and it's a cool, beautiful morning, perfect for a gentle dawdle. Amane takes my broad-brimmed hat; it certainly looks far better on her. We head down Mantas, through Santa Clara. Amane's running a little hungry, so we cast our eyes around for somewhere to have breakfast, and settle on a small bakery, where we stop for a fruit tart and a pain au chocolat. Munching, we carry on. We head on down, passing some railway tracks. Amane expresses a desire to see what's beyond them, so we move on a trifle further, until the general stench (and a minor aura of unsafeness) prevail, and we return.
We're a trifle puzzled now, since we haven't really seen anything that might translate to a large market; a desultory few street-side vendors is all. We take one more right, and are suddenly plunged into a huge, noisy, colourful market. There's an explosively lively mix of people, running around at manic speeds, and selling practically everything under the sun. I have a sudden flashback to my mother walking into a large vegetable market in a hill-station back home; she'd revel in a place like this.
We plunge in to the market center. Mounds of grains, piles of various fruit at a sole a kilo, toys, children running about, food stalls with intriguing smells drifting from them ... I catch Amane in time, as she longingly sniffs the air.
"We're not eating here."
"You don't have to, if you don't want to."
"Amane, it's not safe !"
"...."
"We're going on the trek in two days, remember ?! We can't risk
stomach problems before then !"
"...."
It's a trifle difficult to argue against Amane when she passionately wants something. And her curiosity levels in these matters can prove quite high. But she finally recognized the truth in this matter, and gave up her pursuit of it. Wistfully ...
We curve through the market, drawing not a few eyes in our wake. Apparently, tourists don't reach these areas too often; or we're just an irresistibly curious sight. Moving through the outer walls of the market, we come across a woman sitting in front of a pile of meat which she's hawking. She's using a large machete to split the long skull of some animal (a goat ?), and is surrounded by several other meaty skulls. We hastily pass on.
We step out of the main market, still surrounded by busy shops which line the streets on either side of us. We take the side road (still a busy one, but slightly off the beaten track, since it's parallel to El Sol, the main avenue); there aren't too many non-Cusquenos visible here. We come to a quiet road, a grassy, cobble-stoned avenue, lined with statues of Peruvian heroes all down the street. This is Avenue Pardo, Paseo de los Heroes. The heroes range all the way from Spanish times to the current century. I stop before the statue of a Peruvian pilot, a hero of the war against Ecuador (I think this is the person on the 10 soles bill). We walk slowly onwards, taking occasional photos as we go. Then the road curves a bit more, and deposits us back on El Sol.
We walk on a little more, passing a small gas station. About now, I get a trifle concerned about the sun. I'm not particularly warm as yet, but my head's tingling a trifle, and I'm sneezing a lot, something that happened before a sun-induced headache a few months back. Evidently, it may not have been a bright idea to walk in the bright Cusco sun without a hat. I'm still in play-it-safe-before-the-trek mode, and it's close to lunch, so we abandon the walk and summon a cab to Granja Heidi's, on San Blas, reputed to have the best hot chocolate in the city. The Cusco taxis normally charge about two soles to take you practically anywhere in the City center. I note with some regret that we're passing the Artesanal, which is precisely where I had wanted to go this morning; unfortunately, it seems pointless to stop the taxi at this stage, to return. The road to Cuesta San Blas takes us up incredibly steep, extremely narrow cobble-stoned streets, bumping merrily along the way. These are strictly one-way streets, since only a single car (and a narrow one at that) can fit in the street at any given time. We top a rise and head down-hill, until we slowly roll to a stop in front of the place. It's been an interesting ride.
Granja Heidi's is a small restaurant, accessible through a wooden staircase off a small courtyard, just off the main road. It's a quiet restaurant; bookshelves line two of the walls, and a couple of the clients read as they await their meal. We sit down at one of the wooden tables, and a young girl comes over with the menus.
We order, and shortly after, the girl returns with two plates of ceviche.
[A mild digression, while I explain this; when the Spanish forbade their Peruvian slaves fire (even for cooking), the Peruvians created a new method of cooking their meat (fish, rather) by soaking the raw meat in either lemon or orange juice. Ceviche, the outcome of the careful soaking of whitefish in citric juice, is a Peruvian specialty.]
Amane looks at it hungrily, but also at me pleadingly, but I shake my head, sorrowfully. We can't risk it. Ceviche is still raw meat, and despite the allure of authentic Peruvian ceviche, it isn't advisable to take chances before the trek; the last thing we need is a stomach upset, right before the trek that we've carefully planned over the last two months. Amane reluctantly agrees, but casts a mournful glance after the fish.
I've ordered a quinoa soup, and it proves to be crunchily tasty. Amane goes one better, with the papa dorada, golden sauteed potatoes. The potatoes have a considerably different consistency from the ones back home, and make for a very good taste. I also try the hot chocolate, which lives up to its (considerable) reputation.
Sated, we wander back through the alleys of San Blas to our hotel; rejuvenated, we make another attempt at reaching the Artesanal. This is a Handicrafts center established by the city, quite a distance down Avenue el Sol, to relocate the mobs of hawkers from the Plaza de Armas. Unfortunately for the sellers, not too many tourists make it all the way down el Sol, and as a result, they have far too few customers (as we soon realized).
It starts to rain, as we enter the Artesanal. The place is nearly devoid of shoppers, and we wander through the shops of that massive structure. Several shops seem to have no attendant; they seem to wander away at times of low shopper levels (which is a lot of the time), leaving their stock in the care of an adjacent shop-keeper. We see barely half-a-dozen other shoppers through our time there. Some women knit away in the back of their shops, to pass the time. They react with sudden shock to our appearance, calling us in to their shops to see their wares, and we barely manage to resist several importunate appeals.
Since we're expecting it to be a trifle more cold, up in the mountains, I'm interested in buying a sweater, woollen hat and gloves. I try on a few chompas (warm, alpaca sweaters) in one of the shops, and finally find one I like. The lady, overjoyed at getting a customer, also insists on me trying on several Inca hats (woollen hats with long ear-flaps). Amane laughs at my appearance with the dangling ear-flaps, and I give up and leave, taking the chompa alone. We continue our wanderings through the caverns of the Artesanal. Amane sees a doll, which she'd like to pick up for a friend at her office, but we see no one at that stall or any of the adjacent ones. We walk about, figuring they're bound to return sometime. In the process, we pick up two pairs of woollen hats and gloves for the trek. Still no one at the doll stall, so we finally give up and depart. The rain has finished, so we decide to walk back to the Plaza.
Since we have some time on our hands, Amane decides to go shopping, and I accompany her to several curio and jewellery shops. The Plaza is a shopper's paradise, and we check out several of the more interesting places. While Amane mulls over the contents of a jewellery store, I find myself attracted to a bunch of small red-and-black beads, enclosed in a silver casing. They look incredibly similar to some forest seeds called kunikurus that I've only encountered in my home state, Kerala, and I'm quite surprised at seeing them there. The shop assistant comes over, and explains to me that these are forest seeds called wayalluru, that are found in Peru. They seem to be quite frequently used in jewellery, judging by the samples I see in the shop-window.
As astonishing as I find this particular vegetation replicated, I'm not going to spend any money on a silver casing, just so I can get some wayalluru samples. But I'd like some ...
I'm running a mild headache, possibly due to the altitude, so Amane and I take a walk around the Plaza to locate some aspirin. We find some in a small supermarket in Mantas (though I later notice that the general store twenty paces from our hotel also stocks aspirin). Amane and I both pause to look through the various foods available in the supermarket. She teases me on my sudden affection for quinoa products. We pick up some minor groceries, electing to just eat in our room tonight.
I wake at 6 a.m.. I notice, shortly afterwards, that my right index finger is exceptionally sensitive, and seems to be a trifle swollen. The guidebook does mention that this is a possibility at high altitudes, so I'm not overly concerned, though the heightened sensitivity is strange.
We head out at 8 a.m. to Granja Heidi's for breakfast, having been enthralled by their breakfast menu of the day before. We both go for the same combination platter, and pounce on the papa doradas as they arrive; they're excellent, and have that great texture / flavour combination. The bacon, alas proves an unfortunate shock: my first bite freezes me in shock. It's incredibly thick and insanely salty, like trying to consume a stick of salt ... I sadly give it up as a lost cause. Their bread is irresistible, and Amane takes some for later in the day.
We move up San Blas, passing el Buon Pastor, supposed to be one of the best bakeries around. Not something that we can enjoy right now, being far too full, but "maybe later". ("Maybe later ?" is one of the favourite English phrases of the innumerable touts who try to lure you into restaurants, used when you decline their first invitation. It's fast becoming a catch-phrase with us.)
San Blas is an extremely steep and narrow road, and we find ourselves dodging taxis as they pass. The road's steepness makes it quite troublesome to pass wet (slippery) zones. There aren't too many people around, as we make our way up.
We stop at a small square, where an arch is filled with fountains of water. Two large and handsome dogs are running around the square, chasing each other.
"Aren't there any small dogs ?!" wondered Amane ... and she has a point. We haven't really seen any small dogs, just large ones, and I wonder if the altitude has something to do with it. Or maybe we're just not looking in the right places.
It's a quiet cloudy morning, with no sun, and still very quiet. We're walking through sections of the city which are off the main path, and certainly off the map that I have. Knowing my personal tendency to get lost with a surprising ease, I move towards familiar streets, but Amane taunts me into taking an unknown route. It certainly doesn't look particularly much frequented by gringos, since most of the people around seem surprised to see us there.
We wander down the side of the mountain, through winding hairpin bends, passing a small taxi. Amane pauses to watch some small flowers growing just off the road. We're passed by a taxi or two, and some people hurrying to work. I amuse myself by noting that the shops along the way sell much more un-touristy fare, and at prices much lower than the Plaza (main tourist concentration). There's an increasing number of people on the road now, and we find ourselves back on el Sol.
Amane asks me what I want to do, and I vote for going to see the large statue of Pachacutec that we had glimpsed on the way into town. We head down el Sol (Pachacutec stands near the end of the road), pass some more railway tracks and finally reach the statue. No one's here just now, not even the statue caretaker, but she suddenly emerges out of a back room and sells us tickets in. (I hadn't realized that we could walk up to the top, but am quite happy about it).
We walk up winding stairs, finding strange decorations at each floor level. The first floor landing has a small handicrafts shop, while one shortly above has an Inca mummy carved out of wood, and one yet further up has a bar, and seems available for parties. Finally, we arrive at the top, and step out through a small door to the statue top. It's a little dizzying; a small wall keeps us from the sharp drop off the top. We're the only persons on the roof (or even in the statue) and have plenty of time to inspect the gorgeous view. We wander around the statue rim, spellbound.
It's a clear day, and we have a view for miles. The houses on the mountainside, the principal avenues, the statues on the mountain ... heck, even the Inka Cola advertising signs hold our attention. It's quite a while before we make our sad descent.
The lady at the counter on the ground floor explains some of the statue's history to me, and discusses India (it's a tough conversation with my broken Spanish and her non-existent English, but she's extremely friendly, and we manage a 15 minute discussion about our respective countries before I depart).
It's a long walk back, and Amane and I discuss Manco Capac, the legendary forefather of the Incas, and the inadvisability of putting up a Peruvian history production in Japan.
Occasional raindrops pelt us along the way back, but nothing to warrant shelter. We pause along the way to convert more dollars into soles, since our supply's dwindling again. I'm tempted to catch a cab back, but Amane insists that we need the exercise, so we stick to walking.
We return through the plaza, where we pause for a bit. Several people are feeding the doves, and a few old women are visible, selling long polythene tubes of grains for this purpose. The square is covered in scuttling, exploding masses of wings, as the birds dash about, seeking grain.
We sit down on a park bench, and I notice a pigeon scuttling wildly under the seat beneath Amane. Amane crumbles some bread from her breakfast to feed the birds, and is surrounded, in an amazingly short time by the entire bunch. The birds are extremely reactive, moving smoothly to any new source of food, and as Amane sadly learns, away when they can get no more.
There seem to be parades passing through the Plaza on a daily basis. Admittedly, nothing matches the sight of the horde of schoolchildren celebrating La Natividad that greeted us on arrival in Cusco, but it does seem to be a frequent occurence. Another small one circles the square as we watch.
It's beginning to rain, so we head back to the hotel. We stop in the courtyard for a cup of mate, and quietly sip our drinks, watching the rain batter down against the skylight of the hotel.
Back to our room, for a small nap before the City Tour in the evening.
The SAS Travel guy seems surprised at our wanting to go on the City Tour, but accedes quickly and sells us tickets. It's due to begin shortly, so we head out to the street, where the bus picks us up, and we're introduced to our tour guide, Boris. We continue to roll around the city for another twenty to thirty minutes, picking up more clients for the tour.
The first stop on the tour is the Cathedral, where we buy a Visitor's Ticket; the Boleta Touristico will allow us access to over a dozen museums and sites over the next 10 days (though only one entrance to each site, which seems a shame). The Cathedral was built over a century (between 1556 and 1669).
Boris takes us around the cavernous halls of the Cathedral. This is incredibly huge, and filled with an amazing amount of ornate gold and silver work, not to mention the large number of paintings covering the walls. Boris explains to us that a great deal of these are from the Cusco School of Art, created around
There's also an extremely blackened crucifix, which Boris explains is Los Senor de los Tremblores, the Lord of the Earthquakes.
Back in 1650, a very strong earthquake terrified the Cusquenas, until the priest finally succumbed to their imploring, and brought the crucifix out in parade around the town square. Shortly after this happened, the earthquake stopped. As Boris said, "The earthquake had been going on for a while, and it had to stop sometime, but the connection with the crucifix's being paraded immediately brought great fame and power to it, resulting in its becoming the object of great worship, and acquiring the name of Los Senor de las Temblores.
The constant offerings of candles by devout Cusquenas, burnt in front of the crucifix, has resulted in its surface being blackened; the Church fathers have now moved the crucifix back to protect it from further harm.
There are several gorgeous paintings done by the local Indians who had converted to the Church; however, they were rarely directly familiar with the objects of their paintings, resulting in several local objects being represented in the paintings. For example, one painting depicts llamas in Moorish Spain, because the painter was not very familiar with horses (which would have been more appropriate).
One rather famous painting of the Last Supper had a dark-skinned Judas painted in; Boris explained that this was actually the painter himself, though no one knew what he had meant by the inclusion: whether it was a joke, or whether he was proclaiming himself unworthy. Another locational alteration is seen in that the meal that Jesus and the Apostles are consuming also consists of local dishes: they're drinking chicha, the Andean maize beer, and eating roast cuy (guinea pig).
As we step out of the cathedral, I notice a man running about, quickly taking photos of each one of the people on the tour. I have no clue as to why he's doing this, but I'm not fast enough to step out of his way, either; it seems extremely peculiar.
Outside the Cathedral, and next to it along the square, is the Compania, the Jesuits' church. This was intended to rival and exceed the Cathedral, though the Pope intervened, and stopped them before they exceeded it.
We next head over to the Qorikancha (currently, the Monastery de Santo Domingo). This used to be the center of Inca religion in Cusco, and was elaborately decorated in gold and silver. It's divided into several different temples, each dedicated to one of the gods. Boris takes us into the Temple of the Sun, the Temple of the Moon and the Temple of the Stars. He points out the central courtyard's two wells, one filled with chicha (the native Incan liquor) and the other with llama fat, both dedicated to the Sun God's pleasure. The courtyard's incredibly beautiful decorations included a number of precious stones (emeralds and turquises) studding solid gold and silver moldings. The Spanish Conquistadors who arrived over here were dumbstruck by the immense wealth of this single structure alone. Naturally, they stole the lot and melted it down for easier transport.
These structures were built without the use of any metal tools (the Incas did not have any of the harder metals, like iron; only the softer ones like gold and silver, which were no use for this). An array of fine stone hammers are lined up on one of the walls. The masonry is phenomenal; each stone is set above the next without any mortar between, fitting perfectly into the other. They hold together by their shape alone, without any adhesive assistance.
The Qorikancha's upper structures were torn down, and the Monastery of Santo Domingo built over it, to emphasize the superiority of Christianity over the native religion. The earthquake of 1950, however, shattered the later structure, leaving only the Inca stonework unmoved.
Leaving the Qorikancha, we get onto the tour bus, driving up into the hills above Cusco. Our next destination is Sacsayhuaman, a massive structure whose purpose isn't definitely known. Current belief has it more of a temple than an Inca fortress. Massive stones are set in place above each other (as before, with no mortar holding them together). Each of these stones would take many men to move. Cutting them into perfect shape was usually done with fine threads (either textile or soft metal) dipped in a caustic solution, and rubbed in a precise pattern to wear down a groove. Later, fine stone hammers were used to finish the shape. Each stone fits into its neighbour with an exquisite geometric precision.
Manco Inca used this as a fort when he attacked the Spanish, and it's certainly well-built enough to host a large army. We step through solid Inca stone doors as we move inside and above the structure. The view from above Sacsayhuaman is beautiful. In the distance, you can see a crucifix above the hills of Cusco, not unlike Rio's far more famous statue of Christ the Redeemer. Amane and I can clearly see the Pachacutec statue, and the straight roads surrounding it.
We walk down through a stone stairway which looks not unlike a small amphitheater. The tour bus is waiting for us in a small parking area beyond. This area is full of souvenir sellers, including a set of six women dressed up in native Peruvian dresses, and holding llamas (both baby and adult) and posing for photos (for pay). We narrowly escape the onslaught of the souvenir sellers and clamber on board the bus. Still, the sellers do all right; several of the others pause and buy souvenirs from them.
The bus moves onward, to Tambo Machay, a place of water worship further up in the hills. Along the way, we pass Puca Pucara (Red Fort). This was supposed to be a checkpoint (presumably military) along the Inca road, but is now believed to have been a hunting lodge.
We finally reach Tambo Machay. This also serves as a rough test of how well we've acclimatized, since Tambo Machay is at an altitude of 3700 metres, only 500 metres less than the highest point we'll reach on the Inca trail. (Sacsayhuaman is itself at an altitude of 3500 metres.) This place has a lot more tourists, or at least, seems to; since it's so much smaller than the immensity of Sacsayhuaman, a small group of people are much more visible. There appears to be a bunch of school girls out on a tour of the site.
A huge rock face at Tambo Machay encloses a waterfall, which pours down the mountainside in a huge cascade, being collected into a series of ceremonial baths at the base of the cliff. Amane and I follow a small group which crosses a small stream (a couple of logs serves as a bridge) and clamber up the other side to get a better view of the entire mountainside. One of the girls asks Amane to take a photo of her group, and Amane struggles valiantly with the camera before she gives up in defeat. The girl quickly takes the camera back, only to find that it's not working at all, anyway.
It's growing dark now, so Boris gathers all the tourists back. Some of them are still bargaining with the souvenir-sellers (oh, yes, if I've failed to mention it, please take for granted that every single point of potential tourist attraction is quite thoroughly covered with a bunch of souvenir-sellers, each one anxious to ensure that you have not, inadvertently, forgotten to pick up any particular handicraft). The bus chugs back down to the valley.
On the way back, we stop at Qenqo. Qenqo is a huaca, a sacred site, of the Incas. Boris explains how the Incas stored their mummified ancestors here, and brought them out once a year for ritual feeding and discussion. One of the intriguing aspects of Inca society is the idea that an Inca's possessions continue to be his, even after death, and his successors need to go out and conquer their own. This, among other reasons, led to the Incas' need to conquer neighbouring kingdoms, to have something of their own.
The Photon micro-lights come in handy here, as Amane uses hers to illuminate the way through the tunnels.
The bus pulls to a stop outside a small building, which we learn is a wholesale outlet for alpaca and vicuna fleeces. The ladies show us around, demonstrating a great range of finenesses (and prices) to the wool. One small particularly fine vicuna shawl is priced at $650. Amane laughingly ponders a very soft alpaca mat for her pet cat, but resists the temptation.
As we step out of the outlet, a man comes up to us, offering decorative postcards commemorating our presence in Cusco. At last, I understand the reason for the photos snapped outside the Cathedral, earlier today; some extremely enterprising person has arranged to get photographs of all the tourists in a particular group, near the start of their tour, rush off to bind them into postcard/mini-album shells, and hurry back to sell them to the tourists near the end of their journey. Distinctly innovative. I decline to buy the photo of me; I wonder what they'll do with it, but I assume they have enough of a mark-up on the cards to allow for the occasional failure to sell.
The little boy notes a tourist eyeing the llamas as a potential photograph, and hastily takes up his position next to the llama, tossing on native gear to complete the uniform, ready to charge for the photo. He looks around suspiciously, as the expected photo fails to materialize ...
Finally, we tumble into the bus and return to Cusco. The city proves to be a beautiful sight with a sea of lights covering the hillside. The bus snakes through the city, dropping off tourists one by one, and we finally get off near the Square.
We head over to Los Perros on Tecsecocha, a short distance from our hotel; Danbury's book recommends their wontons, and proclaims it a good place to just hang out. We concur, on both counts. It's a little early, so the usual clubbers don't seem to have reached it yet. Several tables have reservation placards on them, but since we're early, the hostess asks us to just sit anywhere. We settle on a pair of large sofas, and lazily sprawl out on them. The menu's filled with a number of interesting tapas, and it's difficult to choose, but we finally settle on three plates: the wontons, papa dorada sticks (the Peruvian potato having swiftly become a favourite) and a crunchy, cheesy dish. While waiting, we leaf through a few of the ancient magazines scattered across the room. The tapas come swiftly (probably due to the low number of diners), accompanied by a variety of dipping sauces that keep us very happily satisfied. Amane settles for a mate de coca, which is served with a number of leaves on the side, to strengthen the mix. The mate's warmth is extremely comfortable tonight. We stagger out, quite thoroughly full.
There are a large number of Internet cafes throughout Cusco (communication no longer seems to be as much of a problem as it might have been a decade ago) and I quickly check my mail at the next door cafe on Tecsecocha (the fastest and friendliest one I've found so far) before calling it a night and heading back to the hotel.