The day after our first, never-ending day in Peru, Boo woke at 6:10am. As you might remember, she was sleeping with me in a double bed. She was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed; I was bleary-eyed and groggy, even having slept since 7 pm the night before: I am not my best in the morning. Still, she has had 3 years experience with a slow Mama in the morning, so after the initial jumping on the bed, she found her toys and quietly played with them. She had bought crocheted finger puppets at the market on Tuesday, so she dragged those out of her bag and made up all sorts of stories for them to act out. I kept on trying to tuck the covers around her to keep her warm. Her feet and hands were icy. She couldn’t understand the need to keep warm and kept asking, “Why, Mama?” When she became particularly cold, she asked when we were going home.
“Well, dear, we are here on holiday and it has only just begun.”
“Oh. So when are we going home?”
“Really. This will be a fun holiday!”
When she tired of playing, she got up and started bouncing around. I tried to keep her on the bed to avoid her making all those cool banging noises on the wooden floor. I could just imagine the guests below wondering if a herd of elephants lived above. Breakfast wasn’t until 7:30, but I think we were downstairs, dressed, by 7. I wasn’t sure where the boys' room was, but Boo thought she knew. So we knocked on the door she indicated. Fortunately, she was right. They were still in bed sleeping!!! I was so jealous. We skipped downstairs while they dressed, and went outside to watch people setting up their stalls. There was a small band of musicians playing down the street – flute, drums, guitar. It sounded very Peruvian. They played at a door for a while, and then were invited in. After about 10 minutes, they emerged and played at the next door; the pattern repeated. We never did discover exactly what that was all about. Scooter joined us and we had to watch some stray dogs (in a little better condition than in Antigua) playing in the square. We were called in for breakfast – scrambled eggs, fresh bread (wow!), jelly made from a local fruit (???) and papaya juice.
I had to try and take care of the bank card business (remember, I hadn’t been able to take Peruvian soles out of the airport ATM, so we were a bit short of local currency), so Scooter and I walked down the square onto a side street towards the river. At the call centre, I tried all the telephone numbers gathered from the Internet the day before – nothing worked. “There is no such number in Peru.” We went back to the hotel and gathered more numbers from the computer. Second trip to the call centre had no better luck. So I decided to write an email to the bank and be done with it. By the time I was finished with all of this, it was after 10 and the hotel was not happy with our continued use of their facilities or the two fighting children in their lounge. We asked for directions to the bus station, and discovered it was down the same road we had already traversed twice in search of a phone. After some questions, we found our way to the correct side of the road to wait for the bus. A minute later, our bus arrived, the bus money collector threw our backpacks in the lower storage compartment, and we were off before we found a place to sit.
We were the only gringos on the bus. One young man moved over so I could sit with Boo on my lap. E.J. clung to seats in the aisle along with Scooter. Only 5 or 10 minutes later, we stopped at the next place and the man beside me climbed out allowing Scooter to sit next to me. Three or four older women got on, obviously ready to sell something at the market. They were thrilled with Boo. I asked Scooter to give up his seat (that he had only just gained) for one of the women. She was very grateful. She told me that she was going to Urubamba, as were we. Soon, everyone had a seat and we continued on a relatively straight road through the countryside. We were in the Urubamba Valley with the Andes rising steeply about us. We followed the river most of the way. There were small villages and communities every 10 or so minutes. We could see cows, horses, llamas and alpacas in the fields beside the road. Boo fell asleep almost immediately, spread out on my lap in the sun (dripping sweat).
When we arrived in Urubamba, we were unloaded before we could get our bearings, and several men were asking if we wanted to go to Ollantaytambo via collectivo. We did, so we asked, “How much?” I heard “20.” I couldn’t believe my ears. I said, “No, no. I want to take a bus.” They shook their heads and beckoned us to the other side of the station. Boo needed to use the toilet, so I dropped all the bags I had just lifted to my back, and took her. Then I had to return because the toilet, as dingy as it was, cost 0.70 centimes. In return for my coins, we received 2 pieces of toilet paper and access to a broken toilet with no water. When we emerged, the men were still beckoning and telling me, “20.” I still shook my head: I had been told it cost 1 or 2 soles per person. Finally, one of the men held up a sole and 20 centimes and told us this was the fare. I felt like an idiot.
We were hurried onto a minibus as our back packs were hoisted onto the top and tied down. The minibus, or collectivo, was jammed – driver and 2 passengers in front, 2-4 people in each of 4 rows in the back, 3 people on a little bench running up the side by the door (E.J. sat on this), and Boo, Scooter, myself, and another gringo crammed onto the engine cover behind the front seat. Boo didn’t quite know what to make of this, having just woken up and then stuffed into a little corner of a van, facing an old lady with bags piled on her lap. I was sitting facing a young woman with a baby on her lap, our knees interlocked. The baby was very possessive of an apple she was sucking. Every time her mother took the fruit to take a bite, she would give a squeak of indignation and then suck on it greedily when she received it back. After a while, they finished the 2 apples and the baby looked around a bit for more food. When she started fussing, the woman hauled out her breast from the top of her dress and started nursing her. They both looked very content. The old lady, meanwhile, was enjoying Boo – smiling and making little child noises at her. (Boo later thanked God for travelling on the bus with the lady who gave her popcorn. Scooter didn’t believe her, having missed the popcorn. They had a “did” – “did not” argument in the middle of the prayer, ending with Boo screaming and Scooter calling her a cry baby.) Back on the bus, the road to Ollantaytambo was not straight. Every time we went around a bend, I had to put my hand on the ceiling or crush the man next to me. It was quite the workout. E.J. eventually was able to sit on a regular seat, but the rest of us stayed put. At least it was only a 25-minute ride. When we got off, the young woman put the baby on her back and tied her on with a striped, very colourful, traditional wrap – a little higher than the women in Malawi wear their babies. She very kindly showed us the way to our hostal.
The door bell on our hostal door was very high. It brought to mind images of little boys ringing the bell and running off, leading to the hostal proprietor putting it up out of the reach of little fingers. The hostal was on a long, dirt road down to the train station. As we waited to be let in, we turned and looked around us. Alongside the road bubbled a pretty river lined with garbage that would occasionally slip into the river. Rising above the town were mountains. The closest had a great wall that encircled the ruins of an Inca settlement. The wall ran along the ridge lines with occasional “guard” towers and a fortress-like building near the settlement. Terraces stepped down from the wall like a giant staircase. Eventually, a man answered the door bell and let us into the hostal. He gave us a key to a quadruple room on the 2nd floor. Again, wooden floors with 2 sets of little feet all too willing to clump about and test the acoustics of the room. Again, the people below must have had very little peace while we were in residence.
After we were settled, we walked back to town to buy water, fruit, cheese and bread. I took a picture of the woman who sold us bread and she demanded money for having her picture taken. When I gave her some, she laughed because she felt it wasn’t enough. In the main square, they were digging up the cobblestoned street – maybe to repair it – I don’t know. It made manoeuvring a bit hard. In the indoor market, there were stalls with luscious, fresh vegetable and fruits. Every time we bought something, we had to turn to Scooter because he was our keeper of change. His jeans and trousers had numerous pockets perfect for such a function. He was only too glad to keep money.
We made our way back to our hotel, trying to surreptitiously take pictures. On the way, a woman asked if we would like to see her artwork. They were watercolours and rather good. E.J. chose one and she told us the price was 60 soles. We told her 30 and eventually bought it for US$12 – bargaining is a way of life there. She spoke English quite well, the first to do so. We asked her to point out the Inca face in the mountain face. She took us back to the main square where she showed us the profile. She explained that during the summer solstice (June 21) the first light would hit another face further up the hill and outline it clearly. This, they believe, is the face of the creator of everything. E.J. asked her about the little shrine-like figures on the roof of each house. Aliz said they were a blending of the Spanish (Christian) cross and the Inca sign for family (cow and bull). It was a blessing on the house, placed there whenever someone finished building their house. Then for births, deaths, celebrations or festivals, the inhabitants of the home place flowers, beer, or Champaign amongst the pieces of the shrine.
After lunch, we wandered through Old Town, looking at the narrow, cobblestoned streets, the colourful stalls, the canals filled with flowing water running down the occasional street, and the people going about their business. We also hiked down to the train station to ask about left luggage options and see where we would have to take the train the next day. We ate dinner in what Scooter calls a “fancy” restaurant. His favourite part of the holiday was eating in restaurants each day. I don’t know what that says about E.J.’s and my cooking.
Friday, 14 August 2009
Sunday, 2 August 2009
Pisac - Day 2
Immediately after descending the escarpment, we crossed a river, entered the small town of Pisac, drove a few blocks in cobble-stoned alleyways as wide as the car (bumpety-bumpety-bumpety-ahhh!-watch-the-cart-bumpety-bumpety-ahh!-watch-the-pedestrian-bumpetry-bumpety-screech) and then were in the central square in front of our hotel. We exited the taxi into a cacophony of sound and colour and movement – it was market day in the square. I felt stunned, unable to take it all in.
We hurried into the hotel and it was an oasis of calm and quiet-lots of greenery, clean, airy… The walls were all painted and decorated in the typical muted tones of orange, sienna and brown that are predominant in Peru. We lowered our backpacks to the ground and collapsed onto chairs. I think we weren’t exactly the wall ornaments they wanted to have on display for customers, because they quickly roused us and escorted us to a private lounge. We entered a narrow, long courtyard with rustic wooden chairs and tables placed here and there, and bougainvilleas and passion fruit vines crawling up the walls and along the wooden pagoda shading the courtyard. From this area opened the lounge – a cozy, warm room with stuffed chairs, a chess board, a TV and a computer. The staff brought us coco tea – good for fighting altitude sickness according to local people. By this time, I was a little nauseated and had a headache –whether from altitude or exhaustion I know not-so was pleased to sit and drink some tea. I looked up our bank contact information on the computer while my son tried to work the TV. Since we have no TV in Antigua, he was very excited to see a TV and desperately wanted to watch something. No luck. So he played a game of chess with E.J. instead. He was fascinated by the chess set – a lovely, carved set facing the Spaniards against the Incas. After an hour, the receptionist led us up to our rooms – one double (matrimonial) and one with 2 single beds (double). Boo and I would sleep together while the 2 boys opted for the single beds (“I’m not sleeping in the same bed as Daddy!”). It was very cold and the bed looked very inviting. However, it was only 11 am, so we left the hotel to explore the market.
There were, of course, bus loads of tourists – almost more gringos than Peruvians. But that is why there was a huge market – to cater to the tourists. As you walked by, all the vendors called to you (in my case, “Senorita”) and encouraged you to enter their stalls. The stalls lined the plaza in rows, and spread out in all directions down each little side street off the plaza. They were made of wooden or metal frames with a tarpaulin or canvas covering it on 3 sides and the roof. Merchandise hung from every surface and spread out on material-covered boxes spilling out of each stall. There were hats, scarves, belts, ponchos, sweaters, blankets and mittens knitted in a riot of colours. There were masks, stone figures, musical instruments, dolls, chess sets and display plates. There were paintings, drawings, knickknacks, tapestries and wall hangings. The vendors were mostly dressed in traditional costume – bright shirts and skirts woven and embroidered for the women, or similarly decorated ponchos for the men – and had their children in similar dress. After Antigua, we were amazed by the artwork; it was lovely to see such life-like, varied and well, good, paintings and drawings. We did end up buying one wall hanging – not a big one, but colourful, and a good example of its kind.
After a while, we were tired and hungry, so we went into a neat-looking bakery next to our hotel. While there were chairs and tables inside, the huge, round, clay oven dominated the courtyard. The owner’s brother explained that it had been there for hundreds of years. To the left of the oven was an elaborately-designed guinea pig enclosure. It looked like the pigs were scurrying about in a little mud-walled town. Scooter & Boo loved them and watched their antics while we sat down at one of the tables. We didn’t have the heart to tell them one of those cute little rodents was lunch. In the end though, we didn’t eat a guinea pig, but had fresh meat and cheese pies instead. E.J. ordered a full meal, and it turned out to be huge. So I left with the children in order to rescue the restaurant from the pent-up energy of our children. We wandered up a side of the market we had missed and discovered the fresh produce. The guide book warned us not to buy vegetables that you couldn’t peel, and never to eat a salad unless you knew it had been washed in bottled water or iodine: the tap water contains all sorts of parasites and is not potable. I felt quite daunted by the warning, so didn’t buy anything, though the papaya, corn, oranges and apples all looked very tempting.
Nearby was a shop filled with musical instruments. The young man inside played the harp for us and told us a little about the various traditional pipes and guitars. All of them were made by his father. He showed Scooter how to play one of the traditional flutes, how to place his fingers on the harp, and how to blow on a conch shell. It was a delightful, if unexpected experience. However, Boo also wanted to “play” the instruments, and I had to chase her around the various displays in the little store, removing ceramic and other fragile-looking instruments from her clutches. So Scooter and I chose a small bird instrument that makes a sweet chirping whistle when filled with water and blown, watched the store while the young man ran off to find change, thanked him, and then left to find E.J.
At 3 pm, we arranged for a taxi to take us out of town and up into the hills above the village to visit the Pisac Inca ruins. We had to purchase a ticket that would allow us entry into all the ruins in the area, as well as various attractions in Cusco. Boo was asleep on my lap in the back of the taxi, otherwise I would have gone to buy the tickets – E.J. speaks even less Spanish than do I. When he ran in to the ticket office to buy them, he discovered by pantomime that one has to pay in Soles, cash. We didn’t have nearly enough. So he trotted across the road to a little corner store whose owner had a money exchange business on the side. Given her location in the middle of no-where, she could charge whatever rate she wanted (not good for us). By this time, the taxi driver decided this was going to take a while, and switched off the engine. Sure enough, E.J. trotted back across the road to the ticket office, only to discover he still didn’t have enough money. Back to the money changer. It was a little like watching a tennis match. It was 4 pm before we were on our way again, having spent twice as much money for the tickets as recorded in the guide book.
The ruins are built on several levels, each a little lower and closer to Pisac. So we started at the top and walked down through each level. What struck us immediately were the rock terraces stepping down the hillsides in curved lines. There were so many and they covered entire hillsides. And most of them were still intact. Of course, that could partly be due to the repair work of the Peruvian govt… Still, the Inca stone work is incredible. The top-most level had a fine example of a temple, according to the guide book, but it was closed due to vandalism. Lower levels had more mundane buildings, but they were our first Inca ruins, so we were duly impressed by the big stone cubes fitted together with such precision that no mortar shows. Beyond this, though, location is crucial, and very evident as we strolled through each successive level – built among soaring mountains, the ruins clung to steep mountain sides. The view was great, but one could not help considering what it took to build these towns and temples in such inaccessible places before they had horses or wheels.
Boo was tired and refused to walk. She just sat on the path and cried. UNTIL we waved the trail mix (with m&ms) under her nose. That made her stand up and open her mouth! So we walked together, hand in hand, I admiring the views and enjoying the ruins, Boo alternating between walking/munching and stopping/opening her mouth for more trail mix. Eventually, the system failed, because we had to speed up to catch the last of the light. We were at the end of the ruins, but still had to take the 30-minute trail (30-minute if you don’t have an obdurate 3-year old) down to Pisac. The trail switch-backed down to a stream, and then gradually descended to the outskirts of Pisac. E.J. carried Boo half-way down the switch-backs, but then slipped on some scree and banged his knee trying to keep her from falling too. After that, he couldn’t carry her, so she either walked or I carried her. Scooter was a trooper and did the whole descent very well. In fact, we had to keep reminding him to stay in sight and be careful where he put his feet so he didn’t slip on a rock and sprain his ankle. The last 15 minutes, we could see the lights of the village below us and maybe a few metres of the trail in front of us. It was such a relief to see the “Welcome to Pisac” sign and feel cobblestones under our feet.
We hurried into the hotel and it was an oasis of calm and quiet-lots of greenery, clean, airy… The walls were all painted and decorated in the typical muted tones of orange, sienna and brown that are predominant in Peru. We lowered our backpacks to the ground and collapsed onto chairs. I think we weren’t exactly the wall ornaments they wanted to have on display for customers, because they quickly roused us and escorted us to a private lounge. We entered a narrow, long courtyard with rustic wooden chairs and tables placed here and there, and bougainvilleas and passion fruit vines crawling up the walls and along the wooden pagoda shading the courtyard. From this area opened the lounge – a cozy, warm room with stuffed chairs, a chess board, a TV and a computer. The staff brought us coco tea – good for fighting altitude sickness according to local people. By this time, I was a little nauseated and had a headache –whether from altitude or exhaustion I know not-so was pleased to sit and drink some tea. I looked up our bank contact information on the computer while my son tried to work the TV. Since we have no TV in Antigua, he was very excited to see a TV and desperately wanted to watch something. No luck. So he played a game of chess with E.J. instead. He was fascinated by the chess set – a lovely, carved set facing the Spaniards against the Incas. After an hour, the receptionist led us up to our rooms – one double (matrimonial) and one with 2 single beds (double). Boo and I would sleep together while the 2 boys opted for the single beds (“I’m not sleeping in the same bed as Daddy!”). It was very cold and the bed looked very inviting. However, it was only 11 am, so we left the hotel to explore the market.
There were, of course, bus loads of tourists – almost more gringos than Peruvians. But that is why there was a huge market – to cater to the tourists. As you walked by, all the vendors called to you (in my case, “Senorita”) and encouraged you to enter their stalls. The stalls lined the plaza in rows, and spread out in all directions down each little side street off the plaza. They were made of wooden or metal frames with a tarpaulin or canvas covering it on 3 sides and the roof. Merchandise hung from every surface and spread out on material-covered boxes spilling out of each stall. There were hats, scarves, belts, ponchos, sweaters, blankets and mittens knitted in a riot of colours. There were masks, stone figures, musical instruments, dolls, chess sets and display plates. There were paintings, drawings, knickknacks, tapestries and wall hangings. The vendors were mostly dressed in traditional costume – bright shirts and skirts woven and embroidered for the women, or similarly decorated ponchos for the men – and had their children in similar dress. After Antigua, we were amazed by the artwork; it was lovely to see such life-like, varied and well, good, paintings and drawings. We did end up buying one wall hanging – not a big one, but colourful, and a good example of its kind.
After a while, we were tired and hungry, so we went into a neat-looking bakery next to our hotel. While there were chairs and tables inside, the huge, round, clay oven dominated the courtyard. The owner’s brother explained that it had been there for hundreds of years. To the left of the oven was an elaborately-designed guinea pig enclosure. It looked like the pigs were scurrying about in a little mud-walled town. Scooter & Boo loved them and watched their antics while we sat down at one of the tables. We didn’t have the heart to tell them one of those cute little rodents was lunch. In the end though, we didn’t eat a guinea pig, but had fresh meat and cheese pies instead. E.J. ordered a full meal, and it turned out to be huge. So I left with the children in order to rescue the restaurant from the pent-up energy of our children. We wandered up a side of the market we had missed and discovered the fresh produce. The guide book warned us not to buy vegetables that you couldn’t peel, and never to eat a salad unless you knew it had been washed in bottled water or iodine: the tap water contains all sorts of parasites and is not potable. I felt quite daunted by the warning, so didn’t buy anything, though the papaya, corn, oranges and apples all looked very tempting.
Nearby was a shop filled with musical instruments. The young man inside played the harp for us and told us a little about the various traditional pipes and guitars. All of them were made by his father. He showed Scooter how to play one of the traditional flutes, how to place his fingers on the harp, and how to blow on a conch shell. It was a delightful, if unexpected experience. However, Boo also wanted to “play” the instruments, and I had to chase her around the various displays in the little store, removing ceramic and other fragile-looking instruments from her clutches. So Scooter and I chose a small bird instrument that makes a sweet chirping whistle when filled with water and blown, watched the store while the young man ran off to find change, thanked him, and then left to find E.J.
At 3 pm, we arranged for a taxi to take us out of town and up into the hills above the village to visit the Pisac Inca ruins. We had to purchase a ticket that would allow us entry into all the ruins in the area, as well as various attractions in Cusco. Boo was asleep on my lap in the back of the taxi, otherwise I would have gone to buy the tickets – E.J. speaks even less Spanish than do I. When he ran in to the ticket office to buy them, he discovered by pantomime that one has to pay in Soles, cash. We didn’t have nearly enough. So he trotted across the road to a little corner store whose owner had a money exchange business on the side. Given her location in the middle of no-where, she could charge whatever rate she wanted (not good for us). By this time, the taxi driver decided this was going to take a while, and switched off the engine. Sure enough, E.J. trotted back across the road to the ticket office, only to discover he still didn’t have enough money. Back to the money changer. It was a little like watching a tennis match. It was 4 pm before we were on our way again, having spent twice as much money for the tickets as recorded in the guide book.
The ruins are built on several levels, each a little lower and closer to Pisac. So we started at the top and walked down through each level. What struck us immediately were the rock terraces stepping down the hillsides in curved lines. There were so many and they covered entire hillsides. And most of them were still intact. Of course, that could partly be due to the repair work of the Peruvian govt… Still, the Inca stone work is incredible. The top-most level had a fine example of a temple, according to the guide book, but it was closed due to vandalism. Lower levels had more mundane buildings, but they were our first Inca ruins, so we were duly impressed by the big stone cubes fitted together with such precision that no mortar shows. Beyond this, though, location is crucial, and very evident as we strolled through each successive level – built among soaring mountains, the ruins clung to steep mountain sides. The view was great, but one could not help considering what it took to build these towns and temples in such inaccessible places before they had horses or wheels.
Boo was tired and refused to walk. She just sat on the path and cried. UNTIL we waved the trail mix (with m&ms) under her nose. That made her stand up and open her mouth! So we walked together, hand in hand, I admiring the views and enjoying the ruins, Boo alternating between walking/munching and stopping/opening her mouth for more trail mix. Eventually, the system failed, because we had to speed up to catch the last of the light. We were at the end of the ruins, but still had to take the 30-minute trail (30-minute if you don’t have an obdurate 3-year old) down to Pisac. The trail switch-backed down to a stream, and then gradually descended to the outskirts of Pisac. E.J. carried Boo half-way down the switch-backs, but then slipped on some scree and banged his knee trying to keep her from falling too. After that, he couldn’t carry her, so she either walked or I carried her. Scooter was a trooper and did the whole descent very well. In fact, we had to keep reminding him to stay in sight and be careful where he put his feet so he didn’t slip on a rock and sprain his ankle. The last 15 minutes, we could see the lights of the village below us and maybe a few metres of the trail in front of us. It was such a relief to see the “Welcome to Pisac” sign and feel cobblestones under our feet.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)