Ollanta - Day 3

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.