Tuesday, November 15, 2011

Arequipa & Colca Canyon (10/3-10/9)

Pankekes with bananas
Mexican food!
As opens Joseph Heller´s Catch-22 (bet you can´t guess what I just read for the second time), ¨It was love at first sight.¨ Reflecting on our time in Arequipa, it´s hard to articulate exactly what we did, although I could certainly tell you what we ate, who was there, and how wonderful it felt to have a relaxed, safe-feeling city to veg out in for a time. We made pancakes every morning in the ¨kitchen.¨ We found delicious burritos. We sampled ice creams all over town at least once a day. We befriended everyone in our hostel - the sophisticated, chess-playing employee who observed us bemusedly; the rambunctious Mexican who played music on streetcorners and drank beers throughout the day, while spontaneously breaking into serenades in the tight hallways; the mysterious older businessman who seemed to have nothing more pressing to do but watch the younger guests´ antics; the Corsican mafia man who´d just quit smoking for his 40th birthday; the Frenchman who was unimpressed with everything but who I suspect secretly admired us; the San Diegan motor sports afficionado whose girlfriend left us to keep him entertained for his 29th birthday 20 minuts after meeting him; and the lovely receptionist who tried (futilely) to keep everyone in check.
Rocoto relleno (top) y pastel de papas (bottom)
Last year, traveling in Morocco, Scott and I met an interesting girl named Sarah from South Carolina, known for her love of surf photography and hiking, craftsmaking, and wild animal research projects. Thanks to Facebook, we knew Sarah had been working in Brazil and then traveling in Peru, and we convinced her to use her last few Soles to take a bus from Lima (where she needed to be for her international flight home in just a few days) to Arequipa. Since you can never count on anything working in Peru, we weren´t sure when to expect her, or if we should expect her at all, and instead went on a journey to visit a picanteria, which - although the name implies would feature spicy foods - carried Arequipeñan specialties. There, I had one of the best meals I´ve had on this trip; it was an appetizer dish with a pastel de papas (potato pastry - something like potatoes au gratin in lasagna form) and a rocoto relleno (cooked red pepper stuffed with cheese, rice, and meat).
Hanging with the riot police - note the wine bottle
When we got back to the hostel, we were thrilled to find Sarah asleep in the sunshine in the common room! We spent the afternoon catching up, eating pizza and ice cream, drinking wine on the cathedral steps, and taking pictures with the riot police (who were engaged in the pressing task of managing a peaceful rally for the rights of the handicapped). We also went out for beers later in the evening, and sat next to two very drunk Arequipeñan businessman who wanted to make us understand that being born feet-first means that you were born under a star, like Jesus (??).

Cañon de Colca
The next morning we left for Cañon de Colca, at 4160 meters (13650 ft), the second (first?) deepest canyon in the world. Before we left, Sarah had bequeathed to us a Costco jar of peanut butter, which featured prominently in our diets for the next few days. The bus ride, in particular, was fairly entertaining, as we tried to make PB&Js with the driest bread of all time, which crumbled everywhere as we tried to stick the sandwiches together.
Scott and Sarah in the Oasis
At 3:00pm, after a 6-hour drive, we arrived at the canyon´s edge. Wanting to make it to the town at the bottom, aptly named Oasis, before dark, we set out immediately. The trail took no prisoners - it was a fairly straight shot several thousand feet down the dusty, rocky canyon walls to the river floor below. A mere two hours later, just as night fell, we arrived at Oasis, which was actually just a cluster of five fixed-price hostels with food and tiny, quaint, thatched huts.
Sarah and Scott braving the climb
The next morning, after consulting the maps on the backs of hostel brochures we´d received the day before, we decided to hike up the other side of the canyon to a small (30 tiny, tin-roofed buildings) town called Malata. Scott and I planned then to spend another night at the other end of the canyon, and Sarah would make the devastatingly steep ascent back to the canyon´s rim, so that she could get back to Lima in time for her flight.
The hike was steep, but manageable, and we enjoyed a beautiful lunch of cheesy sweet potato latkes, avocado salad, and soup at the town´s museum, then parted ways with Sarah, promising to see her again back in the U.S.
Trail wildlife - I almost ate this guy accidentally
Scott and I, consulting the ¨map¨ again, took off on what looked to be a roughly flat trail along the canyon´s far wall. It was supposed to take four hours or so, and we started out in high spirits under the scorching sun. The trail immediately began weaving through a complex  network of agricultural terraces, and we noted with growing dismay that our ¨trail¨ looked suspiciously like these terraces in width and general appearance. After hiking for perhaps an hour, the trail ended abruptly in a deep side canyon. In perfect form, we decided to abandon that trail and climb directly up the steep hillside - the nearby donkeys raised their eyebrows. Minutes later, we were scrambling through side gulleys and up near-vertical, crumbling hillsides with nothing but cacti for handholds. We reached a ridge and surveyed the surrounding canyon sides. There appeared to be another trail near us, which extended at least until the next ridge. We thought we could descry the actual trail winding gently along the slope about 500 feet above us, but decided to take the lower one and forgo the climb.
Sunset in the Canyon
Our trail served us well, although it was absolutely not the intended one, and we weren´t sure what we´d find after each towering ridge. We fought off cacti, scraped our knees, elbows, and hands, stumbled through spiderwebs, and took panoramic videos of the breathtakingly dry, scrubby canyon. At one point, near the end of the trail, I slipped and almost fell to my death. Harrowing.
Cactus CFLs - so cool
We finally arrived in Llahuar (pronounced ¨Jaguar¨) just as the sun set, affording us canyon vistas that can be described as no less than divine. We filtered some much-needed water at the river, then let ourselves into a beautiful, incredibly cheap little hostel with an intimate garden and delicious tortillas de verduras. In the morning, we found our hostel overlooked the river, replete with a cactus garden (which, incidentally, functioned as hanging points for the compact fluorescent lightbulbs in the yard, powered by a modest solar panel on the roof) and an adorable boy playing with a puppy.
Wishing we could stay longer in this Eden, but hoping to make the 2pm bus out of Cabanaconde (the village on the rim), and with several thousand vertical feet to climb, we set out around 8:30am.
The first part of the hike led us along the river, and we stopped to explore some geysers and mudpots before crossing the river. From there, the trail led directly up the canyon walls in steep switchbacks. It was impossible to tell where the trail led above us, and each ascent revealed further vertical height. The heat in the canyon increased as the sun grew higher, and we stopped often for sunscreen and water. Halfway up, we ran into Xavier, the Frenchman from our hostel in Arequipa, although none of us was particularly surprised, as Colca Canyon is definitely on the Gringo Trail.
Breakfast in paradise
Hours in, the trail leveled out, and I hoped the hardest part was over. We only had one banana and the jar of peanut butter, and we ate most of that before starting the next ascent. Which appeared never to end. I think overall we climbed something like 6,000 vertical feet to get out, and then hurried along the rim of the canyon, riding the tails of our peanut-energy and striving to make it to the main square by 2pm.
We made it with about 45 seconds to spare, which we used to buy bananas, breads, and sodas, then settled in to let the sweat dry on us and cause us to shiver. I was a bit disappointed we hadn´t stopped at the famous Cruz del Condor, where the magnificent, endangered birds can sometimes be spotted. However, as the bus rambled around the canyon´s curves, I glanced up in time to see an enormous, dark, predator bird pull out of a careening dive directly next to the front of our bus! As it wheeled away, I realized that I´d just gotten very lucky...

The ¨Hustle¨
the hustle
Back in Arequipa, our hostel friends were thrilled to see us (they were drunk). We passed out almost immediately, but awoke fresh the next morning with a plan to finally put our long-talked about ¨hustle¨ into action. We still had some peanut butter left from Sarah´s generous jar, and - recognizing the appeal of such an exciting foreign commodity - we bought 12 bananas, cut them in half, then cut them lengthwise and filled them with peanut butter. Our investment in the bananas was 3 Soles, or about $1 USD.
Then we wandered the Plaza de Armas, me shouting in my best Ecuadorian-ice-cream-saleslady voice, ¨Bananaaaaas! Bananas con mantequilla de maniiiiii! Muy ricooooo!¨

Within 10 minutes, all the bananas were gone, and my pockets were full of plata.

Wednesday, November 2, 2011

Cuy & the Peruvian Coast (9/26-10/3)

You may remember from my Baños post (approximately 10,000 years ago) that Scott and I did NOT try guinea pig, or cuy, there, although we had the opportunity. This decision haunted us for about two months, as we found out that cuy elsewhere, instead of costing $3 for a plate, requires that you purchase an entire cuy for around 60 soles ($24 USD, aka outrageous!). So it was that with heavy hearts, we resigned ourselves to not trying cuy the way we didn´t try alpaca (Juancito told us that sometimes restaurants sell papaya-infused beef as ¨alpaca¨ - which I chalk up to the enzymes in papaya breaking down the meat and making it more tender, or more alpaca-y). However, word reached us of another place to try cuy - the nearby town of Tipon, famous for having water in its Incan ruins and for roasting guinea pigs. We wanted so much to try cuy that we skipped out on the cheap massages in Cusco and instead took an hour-long colectivo to a woman´s backyard in Tipon, where we finally gorged on this Andean delicacy.
Cuy! Cuy! Cuy! ...pick your own
Side note: on a tour at Mitad del Mundo, our guide explained that families ¨grow¨ cuy in the house because the little buggers are experts at detecting earthquakes, and make an adorable little cooing or ¨cuy-ing¨ sound that lulls them to sleep. Hence, why they are called cuy. This explanation, of course, has led me to squeak ¨cuy cuy cuy cuy cuy¨ at the backs of tourists´ heads whenever I pass a menu with guinea pig listed.
Back to the story: before leaving for Tipon, Scott and I spent a half hour in the bus station, waiting to see if the Commonwealth Crew would meet us for cuy, and also to decide where we were going next. I advocated Arequipa, Scott wanted to go to the coast so we could go sandboarding. Now, it is a rare thing that Scott wants to spend extra money on something, so I left the decision up to him. Which took another half hour...
Cuy-face eating Scott-face

Upon returning from Tipon, we were attacked with water balloons by the crew from the hostel, which I took to mean they were sad we were leaving. They also threatened to try and block buses to Ica (on the coast), which I also interpreted as ¨missing us already.¨
In the end, we boarded our bus with a discount (we´ve found discounts are easy to receive with a smile and a simple request), and 16 hours and several films later, we found ourselves among the giant sand dunes of the desertified Peruvian coast.
Ica & Huacachina

On our way to Ica, we passed through Nazca, which some enlightened readers may have heard of, since it´s the location of the famous Nazca lines (you´ll hear a little more about these later). Anyway, buses will often  make one 10- to 15-minute stop way too late in the trip so that the people who needed something more than an orinario can take care of their needs.On this particular bus, we stopped in Nazca. I asked the bus driver how long we´d be stopped, and passed on the ¨10 minutes¨ to Scott, who bolted for the restroom. Only about a minute later, as I was waiting patiently in my seat, I felt the bus begin to move. I rushed down to the exit - Scott was nowhere to be seen, and we were already pulling out onto the main road. The bus attendant - the one who´d lied to me - was standing nonchalantly at the exit, smiling faintly. Naturally, I screamed at him: ¨Mi hermano no esta aqui!¨ Fortunately for me, my shouting was sufficiently exciting for much of the bus to take up the cry, ¨Falta un tourista! Falta un tourista!¨ (¨We´re missing a tourist!¨). As though this happened all the time (which it probably did), the attendant calmly alerted the driver, and we stopped. As it turned out, faltaba dos touristas - another frantic, sweating man jumped on with Scott, who was angry at me for having told him the stop was 10 minutes.
My cool picture: riding the dunes at sunset

We arrived in Ica positively starving; we'd gotten on the bus at 8pm and had only had one package of soda crackers each before we fell asleep. Which was okay, since we'd been promised desayuno (breakfast). However, it was nearing 1pm, we weren't in Ica yet, and for breakfast we'd eaten the few packages of saltines that hadn't been eaten, but had slid to the back of the bus at our feet. It all changed when we got to Ica. Every passenger on the bus disembarked, hurried into a restaurant, and fed a real, sit-down meal. We endured the obnoxious conversation of a few other passengers, ate our lunch, then caught a taxi (we bargained, again) to Huacachina, a small town of 200, surrounded by enormous sand dunes and filled with expensive restaurants.

Huacachina, besides being known for having cheap hostels with swimming pools and incredibly slow internet, is the main location for sandboarding in Peru. Sandboarding is exactly what it sounds like: using either a snowboard or a piece of wood with stirrups, you navigate your way down heaving sand dunes in sweltering heat. Scott tried this on his own the first day, renting a terrible piece of wood for a few soles, then hiking to the top of a nearby dune. I tried as well, though with less success.
Scott´s cool picture: riding the dunes at sunset

We realized early on that the food was exorbitantly expensive in this tiny town, so we took a nearby taxi into Ica for supplies, thinking that we could stock up for a few days. We asked the driver to take us to a "supermercado," and were rewarded with the largest, most Costco-like invention we'd seen in the country. The aptly-named Tottus (kind of like "titan," no?) took about half the day to walk through, even though we only bought bread, cheese, avocado, and bananas, because we were sidetracked by the in-house bakery. Prior to this, I'd been quite fond of a dessert called a "trufa," which is essentially a Ping Pong ball-sized chocolate ball, infused with rum, and doused in chocolate sauce. It is incredibly rich, dense, and satisfying, and costs about the equivalent of $0.20. In Tottus, however, the trufas were the size of tennis balls, but still only cost about $0.50...I inhaled one.
We did the sandboarding tour one of our days in Huacachina, which involved taking real snowboards (tablas professionales) out into the dunes via a wildly-driven dune buggy, then slip-sliding down the slope. Or, if you didn't know how to snowboard, you were always welcome to slide down on your stomach, which somehow seemed way more terrifying. Scott and I were the best in our group, and everyone was impressed with his 360s and ollies.



Nazca

To get from Nazca to Ica, we took our favorite bus company, Flores, which specializes in relatively comfortable buses at low prices, and seems to be the preferred company for Peruvians. We always feel smug when other tourists inform us they´ve taken Cruz del Sur, the exorbitantly expensive and (we suspect) not that much better bus company. We were full of Chifa (a strange food phenomenon where Chinese food is made with lots of MSG and makes you ill without fail) when we arrived in Nazca, and annoyed that the Flores attendant  hadn´t dropped us off at the mirador (lookout point) - we were too cheap to buy plane rides over the lines. For those of you unfamiliar with the Nazca lines, some ancient civilization spent some undisclosed amount of time creating giant images in the desert. It´s fairly mysterious, since they wouldn´t have been able to see the figures in totality (since we assume they didn´t have planes), and it´s unclear why they did this in the first place. There are something like 36 figures - everything from frogs to snakes to a hand.

We caught a bus the next day back to the mirador, which was a 30-foot-tall rickety basket, from which it was possible to see the ¨hand¨ and ¨frog¨ images. Scott bought a key chain. We also walked down the incredibly hot highway in the desert to the natural ¨mirador¨ (hill), from which it was possible to see the other mirador in the distance.

The town of Nazca was fairly pleasant, and I was able to satisfy my Ring Lust by buying an incredibly cool, tiny, hand-made wire ring from a street vendor. We also discovered pollo dorado, which is tender, delicious chicken with a rather teriyaki-type glaze. We got a discount to stay at a very nice hotel called ¨Las Tinajas,¨ in exchange for mentioning it to anyone who might stay in Nazca (it´s located at Calle Bolivar 400, telf: 056-523675, www.hotellastinijas.com). Bet Luis, the proprietor, didn´t even dream his hotel would make it into my blog...deal fulfilled.

Chala
one of these heads is not like the others
Scott was absolutely ecstatic about working our way down the Peruvian coast, so confident was he that we´d find surfboards. Visions of perfect curling waves and 30-second-long surfing videos danced in his head as we took a colectivo the two hours south of Nazca to Chala, which we´d picked because it was one of two towns marked between Nazca and Arequipa on our Lonely Planet map (the other was Camana, where we stayed the next day).

We arrived in the evening to begin our exhausting search for a place to stay, and were shocked to encounter unfriendly faces and discrimination in the dusty town. Several hostels claimed they had no rooms available - between dark and furtive looks - though the many keys hanging unused behind the reception desk suggested otherwise. One woman with a harsh laugh told Scott he looked like leche (milk), then refused to speak to us further. We finally found a hotel, bought some wine and bananas, and locked ourselves in our room to hide our strange white skin from the locals.
Chalans enthralled by the sight of an empty highway

Our most viable theory is that we´d finally gotten off the Gringo Trail, of which we should have been excited and proud. Essentially, being off the Gringo Trail (a name for all towns recognized by Lonely Planet, and therefore automatically inundated with gringos) means that the local people have not yet come to comprehend you as a potential source of monies. It should have meant respite that not every Peruvian started salivating when we ambled past their choclo/banana/headband stand, hands clenched protectively on our (unbeknownst to them, incredibly light) wallets.


The main purpose of heading to the coast, of course, was for surfing, and so we awoke the next morning in Chala with high hopes, which were soon dashed. The Panamericana highway runs directly through the center of town, and in the morning, we were a bit nonplussed to find every one of the few thousand inhabitants lined up along both sides of the highway, their eyes trained upon the broiling asphalt. No one answered our questions as to the strange arrangement of spectators until a policeman blew a whistle several times, shooing the few people in the highway towards the edges. Not more than thirty seconds later, a race car zoomed through the town, its engine revving and wheels screaming.
Chala beach: mounds of trash not pictured

There was some scattered applause, and a few appreciative ¨que rico¨s, but then the town settled back into comfortable silence. Five minutes later, another car rushed through. It turned out that the entire Panamericana was shut until a race - whose course led cars from Lima, through the mountains, and back up the coast in a several-hundred km speedway - finished that afternoon. We later met some Americans who´d just arrived in Lima, and their first bus ride - to Arequipa - was interrupted for four hours on a deserted stretch of mountain highway to let the race cars pass. It was just another perfect example of how we aren´t in America anymore...

The beach was gorgeous (once you got past the impossible amounts of trash piled on the slope between the city and the beach), but no one in town had ever seen a surfboard, and Scott was disappointed in his quest for wave time. We bathed languidly, then caught a bus South to Camana.

Camana

We arrived in Camana late that evening, and were dropped at an intersection we quickly deemed, ¨The Everything Corner,¨ since it featured cheap menus, a cake shop, bus companies, an internet cafe, and a fruit shop. We visited about eight hostels before deciding on one, delighted as we were by the amiable hotelkeepers, who not only did not insult Scott´s skin color, but also were perfectly jovial when we told them we would continue looking. At the cake shop that night, the cake girl (who was, for whatever reason, unduly impressed with our Spanish) broke the news to Scott that there were no surfboards in this town either, and his best bet would be to travel to Arequipa (4 hours from the coast), find a board there (for the people who don´t need water to surf....you know the type), and return to some other coastal town, since she was unsure about the quality of Camana´s waves.


Eyeless pelican and tomato, after we chased buzzards away
The next morning, undaunted, we set out for the beach, after a quick visit to the Everything Corner. We walked perpedicular to the Panamericana for a while, then were told we´d need to backtrack. Strangely, people seemed to have trouble answering the rather simple question of where to find the beach.
About 45 minutes, three packs of oreos, and one Kola Real later, we finally found ourselves on a narrow, rocky, steep, secluded beach at the end of a cow track. Apparently, Camana does not value easy beach access. The beach cover, too, was not sandy, and instead featured onion-sized stones intermixed with thousands of actual onions. We took the opportunity to play Onion Home Run Derby, and hit a few of the fragrant ¨baseballs¨ with gusto.
Meet the only resident of Puntas
Wandering South down the beach, we encountered more meal fare - a pair of fisherman with a thick rope winding its way out to sea squatted amidst tomatoes, crabs, and a huge dead pelican. Scott put a tomato in the dead pelican´s eyeless socket.
We made our way finally to the pueblito of Puntas, a ghost-town that was ravaged by a tsunami in 2007, and which has never been reinhabited, it would appear, except by one exceptionally forlorn penguin (!), trapped on a wooden board over a gas barrel filled with water. Odd, certainly.
Hot, tired, sunburnt, and exhausted from the aimlessness of our wandering, we were glad of the respite on the bus we caught to Arequipa, munching delicious Camana finger-breads the whole way.