Lima, oh Lima.
The capital perhaps but to most, at most, an airport, one night’s stay and a place to pass through on the way to better things.
Not I though. Determined to see another side to this much maligned city I intended to spend a few days seeing the sights yes but also traipsing the back streets, seeking the edge and caressing the seething underbelly.
Deciding to stay in Barranco as opposed to the perennially more popular Miraflores I paid heed to the advice of the PS Guide to South America from which I expect royalties, or at least a passing mention, upon publication.
First impressions seemed positive too - a rare break in the fog - the so called donkey’s breath that encases the city in a damp grey slime for 8 months of the year meant I awoke to sunshine. Time to explore.
Stepping over the drunk who had fallen out of bed (or never quite made it into bed), tracing a wide arc around the rather pungent young man of undetermined origin and dodging in-between the dole queue types waiting for breakfast I emerged from my hostel/flophouse not 50m from Lima’s coast and began my wandering...
All sounds quite promising doesn’t it? Well no, not even close. I wanted to like Lima, I wanted to see the side that others don’t, I really did but I didn’t.
As the fog rolled in things slowly fell apart and thus I have compiled a top 5 mustn’t do’s for anyone visiting Lima:
1 - Spend time in Miraflores. Too busy, too noisy. I have to agree the quiet streets and aging architecture of Barranco are infinitely preferable.
2 - Eat at a restaurant in Barranco on the main square recommended by the Lonely Planet (I should have known better). I won’t go into details but you can keep your Atkins, leave the GI book on the shelf for losing weight has never been so rapid.
3 - Expect to see the sun for more than half a day. Even hoping for half a day displays a misplaced optimism.
4 - Take a taxi at rush hour. The first corner in a grand prix is an orderly procession by comparison.
5 - Go into a rather lovely boutique in Barranco and by one item of clothing you love and one you despise. 1 in 2 just isn’t acceptable on a travelling budget.
Ok, so perhaps I am being a little harsh. I didn’t get to truly experience the cuisine for which Lima is famous (by virtue of the fact of experiencing the type of cuisine for Lima isn’t famous) and no I didn’t sojourn in the evenings to sample the nocturnal delights of the city but honestly, looking back, this doesn’t phase me too greatly.
Earlier than expected time to say a less than fond farewell to Lima and head once more, 5 years after the first time, to Huaraz.
Thursday, 4 September 2008
Wednesday, 3 September 2008
Huacachina (Ica), Peru
Having bravely (¨you didn’t go to ... and ... but they're BEAUTIFUL!!!¨) and sensibly decided to skip a couple of Southern Peru’s more famous attractions on the all too well trodden tourist trail (lack of time provided a rather handy justification) our next stop after Cuzco was to be Ica and nearby Huacachina.
Ica for many travellers, ourselves included, is but a bus stop and thus with a taxi secured we made our way to Huacachina. Leaving the city behind we headed for the towering sand dunes that dominate, surround and threaten to envelop all that stands in their way. Winding our way between the dunes a sign en route proclaimed, rather modestly, that we were about to see - The Oasis of America - and as we rounded the final bend thus it proved. For, revealed in all its quite breathtaking glory, was truly a sight to behold. Nestled deep amongst the dunes was an emerald green lake shimmering in the morning sun, framed by lush tropical vegetation growing with abandon in this otherwise arid landscape. For once the whole scene was complimented rather than insulted by the hotels - luxurious yet rustic their presence was subtle but somehow just right.
Really? This is Peru, of course not.
Rounding the final corner the ´Oasis of America´ was revealed as a dirty puddle (maybe green, maybe brown) surrounded by dying palm trees and ill-planned and badly made hotels which seemed to compete for the title of most inappropriate.
Never judge a book by its cover though (unless the cover is written in ......) and with the promise of sun and fun - in all the various forms offered - spirits were far from dented.
And truth be told (currently my phrase du jour) Huacachina proved to be a rather enjoyable stopping point. Bathed in sun for at least a couple of hours a day many an hour (at least 2 or 3) was wiled away sat around the pool enjoying the antics of others - the rather overweight gentleman who had come to the conclusion that the physical repulsion he induced in others would be negated, not by the losing of some bulk, but rather through platting and then beading his goatee was a highlight. Alas, to my regret the Joey and Glenn semi-Synchronised Diving Team (JGs-SDT for short) made no appearance - after such a successful debut in Mexico this can only be seen as a shame.
Deciding rather unwisely that merely laying in the sun was not the thing to do (far from my decision) we alighted upon the idea of a little tour of the Ica vineyards. Not internationally renowned for its wines the next three hours would prove without any shadow of a doubt why this is the case. Visiting three vineyards the wines (red, white and rose) progressed from a level of sweetness akin to licking the inside of a sugar bowl to somewhere just north of what is safe for human consumption. Forcing smiles and making appreciative noises I can truly say that not one wine that we tasted was fit for anything other than perhaps, er, erm, nope, words fail me. Moving onto Pisco our logic in trying some of Peru’s indigenous spirit was simply that things could get no worse than the wine - and they didn’t - but alas they got no better either. There is a reason that Pisco rarely travels beyond Peru’s borders and that is because it doesn’t taste very nice (yes, despite my hatred I used the word nice - thinking of Pisco and the wine debacle has reduced me to that level).
In addition to the consumption of the sweetest wines known to man the box to tick (there is always one) in Huacachina is a tour of the sand dunes. Blessed with a seemingly jet propelled buggy and a driver who although advancing in years seemed immune to adrenaline and thus became compelled to take ever greater risks to get his fix - this was to be quite an experience. All but one of our number (She had asked the lady at reception if we could go slowly...the driver laughed knowingly) were willing participants in a journey that travelled further vertically than ever it did horizontally.
Flying over bumps, careering down dunes our driver knew and pushed the limits of our aging buggy as far as they would go. Even when occasionally a halt to proceedings was called it was far from time to relax. Rather the sand boards (a plank with Velcro) were unloaded doused liberally in lubricant (focus...) and we were invited to negotiate the steeper dunes quite by ourselves - sometimes on the board, sometimes not - the sand, well, that went everywhere...
To end a rather enjoyable day (the buggying as opposed to the vineyards) we indulged in an all you can eat (not a challenge) and drink BBQ and thus Huacachina provided all that we could ask for - er, in terms of food and drink I mean. After three weeks of travelling together and having conquered a variety of afflictions (some self-inflicted and some, yep, self-inflicted) Joseph and myself spent the night getting quite pleasantly tipsy and, heaven forefend, meeting new people!
- So Joe - looking back on the last three weeks - any regrets? Anything you wouldn’t do again?
- Erm, yes.
- I should co co.
Ica for many travellers, ourselves included, is but a bus stop and thus with a taxi secured we made our way to Huacachina. Leaving the city behind we headed for the towering sand dunes that dominate, surround and threaten to envelop all that stands in their way. Winding our way between the dunes a sign en route proclaimed, rather modestly, that we were about to see - The Oasis of America - and as we rounded the final bend thus it proved. For, revealed in all its quite breathtaking glory, was truly a sight to behold. Nestled deep amongst the dunes was an emerald green lake shimmering in the morning sun, framed by lush tropical vegetation growing with abandon in this otherwise arid landscape. For once the whole scene was complimented rather than insulted by the hotels - luxurious yet rustic their presence was subtle but somehow just right.
Really? This is Peru, of course not.
Rounding the final corner the ´Oasis of America´ was revealed as a dirty puddle (maybe green, maybe brown) surrounded by dying palm trees and ill-planned and badly made hotels which seemed to compete for the title of most inappropriate.
Never judge a book by its cover though (unless the cover is written in ......) and with the promise of sun and fun - in all the various forms offered - spirits were far from dented.
And truth be told (currently my phrase du jour) Huacachina proved to be a rather enjoyable stopping point. Bathed in sun for at least a couple of hours a day many an hour (at least 2 or 3) was wiled away sat around the pool enjoying the antics of others - the rather overweight gentleman who had come to the conclusion that the physical repulsion he induced in others would be negated, not by the losing of some bulk, but rather through platting and then beading his goatee was a highlight. Alas, to my regret the Joey and Glenn semi-Synchronised Diving Team (JGs-SDT for short) made no appearance - after such a successful debut in Mexico this can only be seen as a shame.
Deciding rather unwisely that merely laying in the sun was not the thing to do (far from my decision) we alighted upon the idea of a little tour of the Ica vineyards. Not internationally renowned for its wines the next three hours would prove without any shadow of a doubt why this is the case. Visiting three vineyards the wines (red, white and rose) progressed from a level of sweetness akin to licking the inside of a sugar bowl to somewhere just north of what is safe for human consumption. Forcing smiles and making appreciative noises I can truly say that not one wine that we tasted was fit for anything other than perhaps, er, erm, nope, words fail me. Moving onto Pisco our logic in trying some of Peru’s indigenous spirit was simply that things could get no worse than the wine - and they didn’t - but alas they got no better either. There is a reason that Pisco rarely travels beyond Peru’s borders and that is because it doesn’t taste very nice (yes, despite my hatred I used the word nice - thinking of Pisco and the wine debacle has reduced me to that level).
In addition to the consumption of the sweetest wines known to man the box to tick (there is always one) in Huacachina is a tour of the sand dunes. Blessed with a seemingly jet propelled buggy and a driver who although advancing in years seemed immune to adrenaline and thus became compelled to take ever greater risks to get his fix - this was to be quite an experience. All but one of our number (She had asked the lady at reception if we could go slowly...the driver laughed knowingly) were willing participants in a journey that travelled further vertically than ever it did horizontally.
Flying over bumps, careering down dunes our driver knew and pushed the limits of our aging buggy as far as they would go. Even when occasionally a halt to proceedings was called it was far from time to relax. Rather the sand boards (a plank with Velcro) were unloaded doused liberally in lubricant (focus...) and we were invited to negotiate the steeper dunes quite by ourselves - sometimes on the board, sometimes not - the sand, well, that went everywhere...
To end a rather enjoyable day (the buggying as opposed to the vineyards) we indulged in an all you can eat (not a challenge) and drink BBQ and thus Huacachina provided all that we could ask for - er, in terms of food and drink I mean. After three weeks of travelling together and having conquered a variety of afflictions (some self-inflicted and some, yep, self-inflicted) Joseph and myself spent the night getting quite pleasantly tipsy and, heaven forefend, meeting new people!
- So Joe - looking back on the last three weeks - any regrets? Anything you wouldn’t do again?
- Erm, yes.
- I should co co.
Tuesday, 2 September 2008
Cuzco, Peru
Finding a voice/Giving voice to my frustration.
I want to write a story.
OK.
What do you mean OK?
OK to the concept of you wanting to write a story.
Well that’s not much help is it?
Am I supposed to be helping then?
If you wouldn’t mind.
OK.
Well?
Shall we begin with Lesson 1? First things first do you have an idea for the story, a subject, setting, characters or a message you wish to convey, a moral if you will?
No.
Ok.
Stop saying OK.
Very well. So to be clear you have a desire, a want, maybe a whim to write a story but you lack anything resembling an idea?
Yes.
Indeed. Well let’s try to be logical as illogical precipitation of falls all around us.
What do you mean by that?
Everything, nothing, the world, the worm, totality, normality, who knows, who cares?
What?
Apologies, I think I just had a prosaic fit, much worse are my linguistic seizures.
What do you say then?
Nothing.
Right. Back to my story.
Or lack thereof.
Quite.
We, rather you, need a starting point, a catalyst, a stimulant, a certain something to ignite your, thus far, inert creativity. Can you think of anything you desire to write about, a story you have read that inspired you perhaps or an author of whom you are particularly fond?
No.
I think I need another coffee, a hit of heroin, 5mg of methadone, industrial strength amphetamines and a fully loaded revolver.
But you don’t take drugs.
Or have a propensity towards suicide, so often your first successful attempt tends to be your last, but I am considering taking drugs as a viable alternative.
Alternative to what?
To not taking drugs.
I fear you digress.
I fear you persist.
My story?
Unquestionably. Let’s try another path - what was the last story you read?
Let me think.
For my part a wholly preferable method.
Sorry?
No need, I am quite enjoying myself.
The last story I read was...
¨Can I get you something else sir?¨
¨Another coffee please, strong.¨
¨And a slice of that rather delicious cake if you don’t mind.¨
¨One coffee - strong - and a slice of cake, no problem.¨
It would be surprising if there were.
Were what?
A problem. Pray haste, back to your thinking, heaven forefend we should stall at this vital juncture as the potential butterfly of your creativity emerges from its seemingly dormant chrysalis.
The last story I read was...I don’t know to tell the truth.
And thus the butterfly is but a moth. So not a vociferous reader then?
No, does a desire to write necessitate a history of reading then?
Indeed not and though I am sure quite unintentional your stand against the snobbery of the, at times, sycophantic literary world is admirable.
Writing is art no?
And art is inspiration and thus our problem, our stream to ford, mire to traverse, wall to climb and obstacle to negotiate makes it presence felt once more.
¨Your coffee - strong - and cake sir.¨
¨Why thank you.¨
¨Can I ask you a question sir?¨
¨But of course¨
¨Who are you talking to?¨
¨Alas, as ever, my frustration.¨
For those seeking further information on Cuzco, the nearby former summer retreat of the Incas - Machu Picchu - and a background to the fall of a once great empire please refer to any one of the following titles:
Inka Tinker: A life of pick-pocketing on the streets of Machu Picchu - T Hief
Inka Thinker: Musings on the Sun God - Phil Osophy
The Caring Colonialist - Q Victoria (one owner - F Pizarro, never read, as new)
I want to write a story.
OK.
What do you mean OK?
OK to the concept of you wanting to write a story.
Well that’s not much help is it?
Am I supposed to be helping then?
If you wouldn’t mind.
OK.
Well?
Shall we begin with Lesson 1? First things first do you have an idea for the story, a subject, setting, characters or a message you wish to convey, a moral if you will?
No.
Ok.
Stop saying OK.
Very well. So to be clear you have a desire, a want, maybe a whim to write a story but you lack anything resembling an idea?
Yes.
Indeed. Well let’s try to be logical as illogical precipitation of falls all around us.
What do you mean by that?
Everything, nothing, the world, the worm, totality, normality, who knows, who cares?
What?
Apologies, I think I just had a prosaic fit, much worse are my linguistic seizures.
What do you say then?
Nothing.
Right. Back to my story.
Or lack thereof.
Quite.
We, rather you, need a starting point, a catalyst, a stimulant, a certain something to ignite your, thus far, inert creativity. Can you think of anything you desire to write about, a story you have read that inspired you perhaps or an author of whom you are particularly fond?
No.
I think I need another coffee, a hit of heroin, 5mg of methadone, industrial strength amphetamines and a fully loaded revolver.
But you don’t take drugs.
Or have a propensity towards suicide, so often your first successful attempt tends to be your last, but I am considering taking drugs as a viable alternative.
Alternative to what?
To not taking drugs.
I fear you digress.
I fear you persist.
My story?
Unquestionably. Let’s try another path - what was the last story you read?
Let me think.
For my part a wholly preferable method.
Sorry?
No need, I am quite enjoying myself.
The last story I read was...
¨Can I get you something else sir?¨
¨Another coffee please, strong.¨
¨And a slice of that rather delicious cake if you don’t mind.¨
¨One coffee - strong - and a slice of cake, no problem.¨
It would be surprising if there were.
Were what?
A problem. Pray haste, back to your thinking, heaven forefend we should stall at this vital juncture as the potential butterfly of your creativity emerges from its seemingly dormant chrysalis.
The last story I read was...I don’t know to tell the truth.
And thus the butterfly is but a moth. So not a vociferous reader then?
No, does a desire to write necessitate a history of reading then?
Indeed not and though I am sure quite unintentional your stand against the snobbery of the, at times, sycophantic literary world is admirable.
Writing is art no?
And art is inspiration and thus our problem, our stream to ford, mire to traverse, wall to climb and obstacle to negotiate makes it presence felt once more.
¨Your coffee - strong - and cake sir.¨
¨Why thank you.¨
¨Can I ask you a question sir?¨
¨But of course¨
¨Who are you talking to?¨
¨Alas, as ever, my frustration.¨
For those seeking further information on Cuzco, the nearby former summer retreat of the Incas - Machu Picchu - and a background to the fall of a once great empire please refer to any one of the following titles:
Inka Tinker: A life of pick-pocketing on the streets of Machu Picchu - T Hief
Inka Thinker: Musings on the Sun God - Phil Osophy
The Caring Colonialist - Q Victoria (one owner - F Pizarro, never read, as new)
Monday, 1 September 2008
Puno, Peru
Prostitution of Culture
For I was once proud; I was because I had always been. Not for any reason was I other than because each generation desired to know me; to adhere to that which I had guarded, to follow where I guided.
For alas my lament is that time can not preserve all. The movement of man creates hunger afresh, his appetite whetted but never sated by the new, the different. Once isolated and innocent I have been exposed for all to see. He who courted me came with promises untenable, intentions undefined.
Where once I had nothing to prove, to be myself was enough for all that knew me; now I must parade and promenade myself in a degrading and humiliating cycle of pastiche. He makes me dress in my best clothes whenever his gaze is upon me and when not he forgets me. Offered money and some hope for the future he is willing to call himself by many names to appease those who try to protect me.
My children look upon me with disgust; I am but a tired old family member past their use; an embarrassment to all and a reminder of harder times gone past. I am but now a means to an end, no longer a badge of heritage to be borne with pride.
His clients come armed and ready to capture memories, to enjoy their time in my company but never imbued with any intention to understand. They enjoy the difference but never seek the reason. Their presence is justified as positive for guilt at the destructive process of which they are part would be an uncomfortable truth not desired.
When they are gone I cry myself to sleep. My children leave me in order to make money from that which destroys me – the inevitability forcing their departure. Without the reality of need I am doomed to become a play, no more than a series of well rehearsed scenes with no meaning beyond the denouement.
For I am culture and he is tourism.
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