Salta to Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA - 18 march 2003
Gilles had asked me the other day, if I was flying from Salta to Buenos Aires. “Fly??? No, I am going by bus, of course. It’s only 20, 22 hours… Flying is too fast.”
Besides the toddler who wailed and screamed as if there was no tomorrow every 2 hours or so, it was a pleasant ride, through very flat grounds, on excellent highways with the full moon in the sky. Beyond the Andes, Argentina is just flat all the way to the coastline.
Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA - 19 march 2003
The movie-selector actually did not do a bad job, choosing movies with recognisable actors and coincidentally, all had a word beginning with the letter ‘P’ (the stupid things I noticed!): Payback, Patroit Games, Clear and Present Danger, The Perfect Storm. The 22-hour bus-ride did not appear to pass by that slowly.
When the bus pulled into the bus terminal in Retiro, it crawled so slowly around it as if it was an air-plane cruising on the taxi-way, waiting for instructions on which platform to pull in. Wait, I believed they were indeed waiting for instructions for there was a tiny phone which the driver had to pick up, before he could drive to the platform. Gosh, the bus terminal was THAT big.
Hola, Retiro. Hola, English clock tower. Hola, Buenos Aires.
Oh… really great to arrive at a city and know exactly where to go to take a bus to my hostel, how much to pay, where to get off, etc… all without a glance at any map or looking sky-wards for street-signs or asking someone for directions. I just walked to my hostel from pure memory of the streets. It felt just like coming home, my second home. I would be staying in a hostel this time because Pablo’s cousin had moved in with him in his apartment and there was not enough room for me.
I eagerly skipped out to town after I got settled. Oh, Buenos Aires… I had really missed you!! What were different? What were the same? There were many new graffiti on the ground and on the doors of banks, in English too, BANKS + GOVERNMENT MURDERERS, THIEVES. There were many new posters for President Candidates for the upcoming Argentinian election which would be in April. At one point, I observed a guy walk up to a series of MENEM’s posters and rip them off one by one. My sentiments too. The street-vendors on Calle Florida were gone again. There were also posters against the upcoming Iraqi war, ¡QUÉ HIJO DE BUSH! [instead of ‘son-of-a-bitch’, it was ‘son-of-Bush’] and NO SANGRE POR PETROLEO [No blood for oil].
The past few months, my entire world had consisted of canyons, glaciers, mountains, altiplano, ruins, museums, mummies, muddy roads… and frankly, I was a little taken aback when I met up with Pablo later that evening and he gravely told me the Iraq War might start tonight.
Oh, great to see Pablo again. He had gone skinnier and fairer. Sigh, he had lost the traveller’s tan. I guess I would too, soon… He wanted to know every single thing that happened to me during my three-month trip around South America. He refused to look at my latino souvenirs. He was afraid he might die laughing.
Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA - 20 march 2003
I was told that the price of my hostel included breakfast. I found nothing in the kitchen and made inquires at the Reception. I was given an triple-layered, dunk in white chocolate, spread with dulce de leche alfajor. What the…??? I recalled the bygone days in Brazil where, for breakfast, I had a whole basket of fruits, a buffet selection of cakes, tarts and pies and three flasks - one for coffee, one for milk, one for hot water for tea, to feast on. Heaven on Earth. Those were the days. Here in Buenos Aires… one alfajor. I would be staying eight nights here. I wonder if I would be ‘alfajored’ to death.
The main reason for returning to Buenos Aires was to catch up with my friends, of course. The other was to try and apply for my visa to Guatemala, my next destination.
When I arrived at the Embassy of Guatemala, the lady gave me a list of items I needed to produce and they must all be present before they would consider my application. Three photos, photocopy of DNI (Argentina’s Identity Card), photocopy of every page of the passport, air-tickets in and out of Guatemala and employment documentation. I pointed out that I did not have a DNI and employment documentation for I am not from Argentina, I am a tourist and I was not working here in Argentina. My air-tickets are in and out of Mexico, not Guatemala. She stopped short but told me to produce whatever I could and she would check with the Ambassador later.
I photocopied every page of my passport (gosh!!!) and returned to the Embassy. She made me wait for 1 hour before asking me to fill out the form. Just then, the Ambassador passed by and she explained to him my situation. To my utter surprise, the Ambassador said, without the DNI and the employment documentation, he could not process for me. What? I politely inquired if they had another set of requirements for tourists. No.
Argh. Now I had to go to Mexico City to get my visa done there. But the problem was - I fly to Cancún but transit in Mexico City. I do not have a few days there in Mexico City to sort out this visa issue. There is no Guatemala Embassy in Cancún, they told me.
I tracked down Mexicana and explained my situation. Could I change my transit in Mexico City, into two separate flights… Buenos Aires to Mexico City, stay a few days in Mexico City and then, Mexico City to Cancún, please? Sergio said maybe not, but he needed to check with his supervisor and his supervisor was not around. I should return tomorrow to get my answer.
Administration days! Pooh!!
Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA - 21 march 2003
Guess what I had for breakfast… alfajor.
I returned to Mexicana and to my surprise, my dear Sergio had consulted his supervisor and they could make my tickets separate at no extra charges. Acknowledging my delighted gratitude, he added, “¿Argentina bueno, huh? [Argentina good, huh?]” I totally agreed.
I went to my language centre to collect my long overdue certificate for completing my Spanish Level 3 and chatted with the admin guy Carlos and my teacher Ariel. There, I also ran into one of my ex-classmates, Per, from Denmark, now in Level 4. We caught up with each other and he invited me to visit the new house he and his girlfriend were living now. His girlfriend Maria had just inherited it. Great idea! I would go there tomorrow.
Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA - 22 march 2003
I refused to eat the alfajor today and bought some other lovely pastries.
During my two months here in Buenos Aires, I had visited the weekend fair at Plaza Francia, near Recoleta, and had spotted some things that I might like to get for my friends. I was there rather early and the stall-owners had not arrived yet. I waited and waited for that particular stall-owner to come but by 1pm, I still could not find it.
Oh, forget it… I took a bus to Per’s house at Villa Elisa, in a southern suburb of Buenos Aires. It had a very nice, tranquil small-town feel to it. The inherited property was huge and lovely. There was underground water beneath the house and they could just draw water from there to drink! I live in a high-rise apartment all my life. To me, water means coming from the tap. Drinking from the ground and right from below your house too, was really interesting. I spent a lovely afternoon with them, asado included, of course.
Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA - 23 march 2003
I had taken some black-and-white photographs at San Telmo with my Australian friends Carolyn and Lydia, way back on a December Sunday before my camera was stolen from me that fateful day. So, with it, gone too were the captured images.
Today was my last Sunday in Buenos Aires. Pablo and I returned to San Telmo for a second chance at it. We continued to be thoroughly amused by the kitsch antiques, ancient toys, ridiculous wares up for sale. We were giggling and giggling non-stop. Who would buy this? Oh, look at that, look at that… My goodness!
My incredulous facial expression, according to him, was priceless. San Telmo was kitsch wonderland.
The funny thing was, in Chile, I had spotted a common practice of putting little things, grossly kitsch stuff, on their window panes… things like little plastic tiger or dinosaur, porcelain dolls holding parasols, cheap mass-produced figurines holding signs saying ‘TE AMO’, souvenirs from sea-side resorts made from tiny shells, faded plush toys, ARGH… I told Pablo, maybe he could buy them from San Telmo and export them to Chile.
That evening, I had an appointment with Claudio, whom I met in Mendoza. Yes, Claudio of the 1938 Chevrolet fame. I told him I would give him a call around 9pm and we would arrange where to meet. But I tried and tried and tried his cell phone and I kept getting no reception.
Frankly, I was a little frustrated. Disappointed, I plodded back to my hostel. To my surprise, I spied a 1938 Chevrolet parked in front of my hostel. I felt the boot, still warm. Claudio was coming down the hostel just as I was hurrying up to look for him. It was also great to meet up with him again.
Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA - 24 march 2003
I was really sewing up all my loose ends here in Buenos Aires. The other friend I had to meet… Francisca, yes, la chica loca.
She was now learning circus acrobats and juggling so that she could go and perform them in front of stopped traffic, she explained. Yeah, that sort of busking was rather common here in South America. She was also making candles and tie-dye skirts to sell.
She would dye one skirt for me today. Great, I get to choose the colour too. The skirt had to be worn from head-down. The skirt she had selected for me was a little small. No Argentinians would be able to fit into it, she told me. Maybe I could. Well, it got stuck at my breast level and I had to deflate them slightly to yank it down. I must never put on any weight in the future. But, it was really nice, especially as it was made by a wonderful friend. How I would miss her when I leave.
When we parted ways late that night, she kept saying she still could not believe that I would really, really be gone from Buenos Aires soon. Somehow, we had the feeling that we would see each other again. Yeah, I felt that way too.
I would definitely return to Argentina one day. The warm affection not just from her, but from her friends… and from precious Pablo and his family members were uncomparable. I tried to imagine introducing them to my family and friends if they ever come to Singapore. And I seriously doubt my family and friends would be able to give them the same level of warmth, affection and hospitality I got from them. It is not that my family and friends are not nice. It is just a different culture. Asians are really a lot more reserved, distant, restrained and they tend to keep a respectful distance until some time later. Here, Argentinians are just overflowing with affection.
Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA - 25 march 2003
As I had barely eaten anything yesterday at Francisca’s house, I was famished this morning. OK, one alfajor please.
Gosh, I had just a few days left in Argentina. I counted my remaining pesos and my Argentinian assets stood at 40 pesos.
Remember the bunch of souvenirs I bought and which Pablo refused to look at? I had to send those back. I feared the worst, heading to the Post Office. To my supreme astonishment, it was a breeze. The Customs Officer barely glanced at my souvenirs and gave it an OK at once. I had brought along brown paper and tape, but those were not required. The guy who did the weighing, helpfully taped up my box without fuss. Now, this is what I call - happy postal workers. It was grossly expensive but I had no choice, I could not carry everything. Surprisingly, I could pay with MasterCard too.
So, now, without withdrawing any more pesos, I really only had 40 pesos for the next three days. I wanted to go to Tigre tomorrow and I needed to save some pesos for my taxi ride to the airport the day after. I deducted those from my 40 pesos, and budgeted some for my trip to Tigre tomorrow and realised I would be left with 3 pesos today.
3 pesos??? That's US$1. I was still hungry now. I had a packet of rice in my bag. Alright, I decided to cook rice and eat it plain for sustenance. After the first plate, I was still hungry and weak. So, I cooked another plate. Plain rice was actually quite disgusting to Latin Americans. Well, I survived them. What can I say? I am Chinese afterall.
Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA - 26 march 2003
Tigre is in the northern end of Buenos Aires. It felt a little strange to emerge from the bustling, polluted Buenos Aires centre and arrive at the clean, tranquil, modern suburb of Tigre.
Tigre is a delta region and is criss-crossed by rivers and made up of islands everywhere. Some called it the ‘Venice of South America’. No, it did not feel quite like that to me. I took a boat-ride and we passed by houses with, instead of garages, their personal docks in front, for here, the only means of transportation was by boats. It was a lovely place and a lovely day. I spent a quiet time on one of those islands, reading, taking in the sun and supplying blood to the mosquitoes.
I was to meet Pablo today at Plaza de Mayo… my final farewell to my favourite Argentinian, my wonderful, best friend from my trip. He really made a difference to how I saw things around me and how I travelled.
I had met his niece and nephews for a few days around Christmas last year, just before I left Buenos Aires. I had thought they would not remember much about me but Pablo told me that they asked about me often and even invented a song for me, something like ‘Trisha Trisha…’. My jaws dropped when I heard this. I had never, never, never ever been so honoured and touched in my entire life! Such ANGELS!! I really did not understand how I deserved this.
Well, Pablo did not remember the lyrics. He said he would ask his nephews to write to me. How sweet they are all to me.
I made them a present. I used the photographs I took of them during the Christmas celebration and made a montage on a poster. The montage had the shape of Argentina. My angel Nicolás grins from Iguazú. Pablo’s parents, Virgilio and Ana Maria, are at Missiones. Sweet Natalia looks up from Salta and Jujuy. Shy Matias shows off his football at Mendoza. Cheeky Emiliano sticks his tongue out at Córdoba. Pablo’s sister Gabriela, brother Sergi and in-laws Raúl and Fabiana ham it up at Bariloche. Little Tomás poses at Puerto Madryn. Pablo is located at Calafate, Chaltén. And the very handsome Santiago swings his tennis racket at the other side of the wind-swept southern Patagonia, around Comodora Rivadavia, I supposed. A group photo at Ushuaia and Tierra del Fuego and a picture of Pablo and I at Islas Malvinas (or Falkland Islands, the Argentinians still maintain they are theirs, I agree with them).
I asked Pablo how he felt when his 8-month trip was coming to an end, how he felt right after it ended, and how he felt now. He tried to share as much as possible. He said I might plunge into a state of depression one day, just as he had. He said I should write to him when I felt that way and he promised to try and console and help me to get over it. I really had cold feet now. My one-year trip… now, just one month left. I could not believe it!
Parting with Pablo was a difficult. But, somehow, we also had the feelings that we would see each other again. Such is life. Everything is a cycle. Something must end, in order for something else to begin. Sometimes, certain thing comes back in a circle. Other times, they branch off into other paths.
Returning to Buenos Aires was a very personal thing to me. (I am sorry if I had bored readers to tears with these last days in Buenos Aires.) Returning to Buenos Aires was like completing a smaller circle, inside my wider circle of my round-the-world trip. What would returning home be like? Gosh, what is home? Home can be anywhere now.
I had seen and done so many things, I had previously thought not possible. Breathing in the sprays of Iguaçu Falls, trekking on the Perito Moreno glacier, naïvely doing the Torres del Paine hike by myself and not dying, hiking up that Villarrica volcano in horrible weather and not dying again, twisting my way in and out of altiplanos and seeing vicuñas, visiting the sarcophagi in Chachapoyas… I recall the words a friend once told me, “You can do anything you want as long as you set your mind to it.” There.
Wednesday, March 26, 2003
Monday, March 17, 2003
26 - Farewell, My Amigos (Humahuaca, Iruya, Tilcara)
Arica to Calama, CHILE - 11 march 2003
I cannot stand the last days in a country when you want to have enough money to last until you are REALLY out of the country but do not want to have TOO MUCH left. And if you have a little extra and you decide to stay one day longer or visit yet another sight during the last day, you just might run out and then, you have to withdraw MORE.
So, I was struggling with counting my Chilean Pesos all morning today. Do I do some more shopping to get rid of these pesos? Or do I change them back to dollars? Do I have enough money for an ice-cream now? I wonder what’s for dinner?
I decided to restrict myself to an X-amount and change 12,000 pesos back. To my surprise, the Chilean Pesos had slid down against the US Dollar by quite a bit since my withdrawal and I was left with a pathetic amount of dollars.
Coming into Chile, from Peru, the first question the Customs Officer had asked me was if I had fruits with me. Now, leaving Arica, at the bus terminal, inexplicably, I also had to go through Customs. Again, the Officer asked if I had any fruits with me. They checked my big backpack thoroughly but left my hand-luggage alone.
I was comfortably asleep on the bus when at around midnight or so, in the middle of nowhere, we were hauled out of the bus… this time, to have our hand-luggage X-rayed. Now, why couldn’t the Customs Officers have checked them back at Arica’s bus terminal?
Calama, CHILE to San Salvador de Jujuy, ARGENTINA - 12 march 2003
Again, I was comfortably asleep on the bus (which was rather rare) when at around 5am or so, in the middle of another nowhere, we were hauled out of the bus… this time, to have our hand-luggage manually checked. What the…???? Three times?? Just for leaving Arica?
It reminded me of the time when I was returning from a business trip in Manila, Philippines. Only ticket-holders could enter the Manila airport. Then, our hand-luggage had to go through FIVE X-ray machines and finally, manually checked before boarding the plane.
OK, that was Manila. When my Filipino colleagues took me to the shopping centre, as a form of a ‘tour’, they had dutifully informed me, “Over here, there was a bomb attack in May last year. And there… the cinema, there was another bomb explosion just in December… And…”
But what were the Chilean Customs after? F-R-U-I-T-S???? Did the last Customs Officer hope to find the one grape missed out by the X-ray machine? Here, you can have my banana… go ahead, take it.
At Calama, we stopped to change buses. I managed to finish up all my Chilean pesos on breakfast and toilet and boarded another bus to Argentina later.
This was the same altiplano route coming into Chile about three weeks ago. Well, Bolivia was right smack in the middle of South America and since I could not cut across it, I had to double-back the same way, skirting around Bolivia.
Strangely, this time, I found it terribly difficult to cope with the altitude. I suffered from a bad headache from the Argentinian border onwards. I could not sleep. I could not get comfortable in any position. I felt marginally better after they stopped at that same restuarant-in-the-middle-of-nowhere and fed us some bread and tea. Then, I started to smell the horrible odour of exposed shoes. Oh yucks. I thought it was just me and my super-sensitive nose and tried to tolerate it as best as I could. I was ready to puke any moment.
Then, the bus driver stopped and he stood up and announced something about ‘zapatos’ [shoes]. Oh no, he had smelled it too and actually refused to drive on until the person who took off his shoes put them on again. Well, this is the altiplano. Fresh air is precious.
The driver assistant then walked down the aisle to check who was the culprit. Several snapped open their Rexona and sprayed the disgusting air around them. He stopped in front of the Japanese tourist and spoke to him sternly.
Shoeless Ninja, however, could not understand a word beyond ‘zapatos’. He looked a little puzzled, reached down, picked up his shoe and held it in front of the driver assistant. “¿Zapatos?” he queried. The driver assistant was not amused. We were.
Finally, another tourist half-yelled, half-giggled in English, “Put them on!!” Shoeless Ninja never struck again. And so, we breathed.
I was tremendously relieved to arrive in Jujuy after the tortuous 24-hour bus-journey. During my near-midnight dinner of a ‘SuperPancho’ (fancy name for long hot-dog), the lady rejected my 1 Argentinian Peso as ‘falso’. Here in Argentina too? I was here three months and did not notice anything.
Now, I studied all my pesos and indeed, trained from Peru, I spotted two types of ‘falsos’. One had the wrong font for ‘UN PESO’ (I told you…) and the smiley sun had an outline around its face. The other, the fraudster did a better job, was the same in every sense, except the colour of the ‘gold’ centre was a bit more ‘yellow’ and the coin felt lighter.
San Salvador de Jujuy to Humahuaca, ARGENTINA - 13 march 2003
I was awakened by a morning-call knock on a neighbouring door. “Son las 8.” the receptionist had announced. I groggily glanced at my clock, it read ‘7:00am’.
Hmmm… I opened my door, shocking the receptionist with my hair in the meantime, to confirm if it was indeed 8am.
Oh, I guess, life was fair. The 2 hours I had gained in Peru, I had given 1 back in Chile a few days ago and apparently, I had to give back the remaining 1 to Argentina now. Chile changed their time but Argentina did not.
Good thing to find out about it now, for I had a morning bus to catch to Humahuaca.
Humahuaca is an Andean town, full of Bolivian flavour, further north of Jujuy. The route to get here was along another amazing Quebrada de la Humahuaca. Argentina can only outdo itself in amazing quebradas [canyons].
I spent the day, relaxing around the charming little town and buying souvenirs. I was feeling a tinge of sadness now. I had been in South America for nearly six months and it was coming to an end soon.
South America is truly at the other end of the world from my country. It is extremely expensive to fly here. And perhaps, it might be a long time before I can afford another visit here. To my friends and family, South America is like MAGIC, impossible to imagine. And so, I was now buying up souvenirs as if I was not returning for a long time.
Way back in June, when Pablo and I had gone shopping for souvenirs in China, I had only bought three snuff bottles for my friends but he had gone crazy snapping up the Oriental souvenirs, the more Oriental-looking, the better. Several looked really kitsch to me, although I had helped him pick the least kitsch-looking of them all. I had cringed, snickered at some of them and had gone ‘eewww’ secretly.
Now, when I show Pablo my latino souvenirs when I reach Buenos Aires, I suspect he would also cringe, snicker at them and go ‘eewww’ secretly.
Ah, cultural differences. How wonderful they exist!
Humahuaca, Iruya to Tilcara ARGENTINA - 14 march 2003
I took the only daily bus to another tiny town, called Iruya, 3 hours away from Humahuaca. I had not known what to expect in Iruya. I heard it was really pretty but I was not sure what I could do there. I decided to check out of my hostel, leave my backpack there, catch the bus to Iruya, stay a few hours and catch the same bus back to Humahuaca later.
The road to Iruya was paved for about 1 hour before turning into dirt tracks that rounded mountains after mountains and crossed river beds occasionally. While the road was not that great, it was WONDERFUL compared to Peru and I suspect, Bolivia, and so one knew that one was still in Argentina.
We stopped at a huge Pachamama shrine of rocks, with abandoned bottles of alcohol and tetra-packs of wine, a scattering of coca-leaves. I learnt later this spot was at 4000+m.
Later, we headed downhill for 1220m in about 20km. There were many hair-pin turns and the view was terrific! The gorges, the river-bed, the sheer drops, the hidden valleys, the slopes spotted with rocks… Sometimes, one could spot a few horses or even a few children walking on the huge river-bed, seemingly in the middle of nowhere. Naturally, there would be peasants who would get on or off the bus, leaving you to wonder… Where did they come from? Where in the world are they going?
From this point onwards, my eyes were glued to the window to absorb the fantastic scenery and so I could not understand why Elena, from Belguim, sitting next to me, fell asleep on the bus.
Finally, Iruya came into view and the best view of Iruya was actually quite a distance from it. It looked like a magical tiny town set amongst brilliantly-coloured towering triangular mountains, perched at a cliff, above the river-bed. My jaws remained open for a good minute.
Elena and I walked around the hilly little town and stopped for a bit of food to fill our stomach. I really liked it here. It was so tranquil, so hidden. It really felt like a town at the end of the road. For the road ended in front of the church and beyond that, around the town, one could only walk. So, I suspect, there were really no roads BEHIND or AROUND Iruya. I regretted my decision to take the same bus out today but it was already made.
Elena had travelled from Tilcara, about 1 hour south of Humahuaca. I intended to go there later today.
When we arrived back at Humahuaca, we tried to find out the next bus to Tilcara and just then, a bus with ‘TILCARA’ written in front pulled up. It looked like a hop-on-and-pay-later bus but my backpack was still back at the hostel. I left my small bag with Elena and hurried back to grab my backpack.
Running at 3000+m altitude, on wet cobbled-stoned streets (it had rained in Humahuaca) is never a good idea but thankfully, I returned without a broken bone or tooth and not that out-of-breath to a bus that was very kind to wait for me.
Elena took me to Malka Hostel which was quite a hike away from the centre of Tilcara. I made friends with the rest of my house-mates, Gilles from France, Olga, Sebastian and Javier from Buenos Aires and we had a sumptuous dinner together.
Gilles is a very interesting Zen-like person. For the past four years, he had come to Tilcara and stayed here for one month each time. He would spend his days, walking around the mountains, visiting schools in the tiniest village bringing along chalks, pens and talking to the locals in other obscure valleys… To him, Tilcara is the most perfect place in the world.
Tilcara, ARGENTINA - 15 march 2003
Elena was sitting near the window of the dining room, having breakfast, when I walked over to chat with her. I had barely completed my first line when I stopped short suddenly and stared out of the window. I staggered a little too.
“Oh my god… Oh my god…” I gasped, stupefied, totally blown away. The view was INCREDIBLE! Malka Hostel, being such a hike away, was sitting at the top of a hill and from here, one could see right across Tilcara to the range of colourful mountains with its swirls of paints and now, they were gloriously basking in the morning sun.
“Now, I understand why Gilles stay here for one month every year. Oh, I want to get married here in Tilcara.” I said.
Later, at the centre, Olga, Sebastian and I went looking for a guide to take us hiking and we passed by café after café, playing cumbia, and I changed my mind right away. “Nope, I do not want to get married here in Tilcara.”
We were unable to find the guide. He was probably drunk from last night’s party of Carnaval. Apparently, Carnaval had not really ended in Tilcara.
We decided to head out hiking by ourselves. There appeared to be yet another 'La Garganta del Diablo' (The Devil's Throat) to check out. If we find it, we find it. If not, we would still have a nice day hiking in the mountains.
We asked several locals along the way and soon, had to start climbing up the side of a mountain. The view behind us was truly fantastic. We could see the meandering river in the wide river valley, with the red, ochre, purplish mountains by the side.
A few German tourists passed by and two explained in English how exactly to get to the 'Garganta', which I translated for Olga and Sebastian. It was a waterfall, as it turned out. We had not been sure. Could be a cave, could be whatever. And then, it dawned on me, hmmm… if my Spanish would get better, with English, Mandarin and Spanish, I could potentially talk to quite a lot of people around the world. Cool…
We walked along the canyon for a while, hopping across the tiny river here and there and finally, arrived at the waterfall. No one else was here. It was great.
Tilcara to Salta, ARGENTINA - 16 march 2003
Today, the weather was cloudy and rainy which left me really appreciating the excellent weather we had yesterday for hiking.
I walked out to Pukara, a pre-Incas fortress on top of a hill not far from Tilcara. Although it was a fortress, being on an inaccessible hill, it actually had no high walls around it. Several stone-houses had been reconstructed, with the mud-and-straw roofs too.
However, stupidly, the authorities had gone and constructed a ‘monument’ to pay tribute to the archaeologists at the top of the hill. Gosh, this ‘monument’ had absolutely no relation to the ruins around it. It was not even done in the style of the ruins. It was just an ugly pyramid. But some tourists asked me to take a picture of them in front of this stupid ‘monument’. Err…
I made my way to Salta that afternoon. Well, I had to go to a bigger town to catch a good bus to Buenos Aires. I did not know San Salvador de Jujuy well but I had stayed in Salta for a few days and had really liked my hostel. So, I decided to go there.
Great to be in a city where you know exactly where to walk to your hostel.
Salta, ARGENTINA - 17 march 2003
Nothing earth-shattering happened. Just another day to do nothing. Poked my nose into furniture stores, browsed through trashy discount shops, checked out the geese swimming at the lake, observed some plants in the plaza, listened to CDs without buying, you know, the usual suspects.
I cannot stand the last days in a country when you want to have enough money to last until you are REALLY out of the country but do not want to have TOO MUCH left. And if you have a little extra and you decide to stay one day longer or visit yet another sight during the last day, you just might run out and then, you have to withdraw MORE.
So, I was struggling with counting my Chilean Pesos all morning today. Do I do some more shopping to get rid of these pesos? Or do I change them back to dollars? Do I have enough money for an ice-cream now? I wonder what’s for dinner?
I decided to restrict myself to an X-amount and change 12,000 pesos back. To my surprise, the Chilean Pesos had slid down against the US Dollar by quite a bit since my withdrawal and I was left with a pathetic amount of dollars.
Coming into Chile, from Peru, the first question the Customs Officer had asked me was if I had fruits with me. Now, leaving Arica, at the bus terminal, inexplicably, I also had to go through Customs. Again, the Officer asked if I had any fruits with me. They checked my big backpack thoroughly but left my hand-luggage alone.
I was comfortably asleep on the bus when at around midnight or so, in the middle of nowhere, we were hauled out of the bus… this time, to have our hand-luggage X-rayed. Now, why couldn’t the Customs Officers have checked them back at Arica’s bus terminal?
Calama, CHILE to San Salvador de Jujuy, ARGENTINA - 12 march 2003
Again, I was comfortably asleep on the bus (which was rather rare) when at around 5am or so, in the middle of another nowhere, we were hauled out of the bus… this time, to have our hand-luggage manually checked. What the…???? Three times?? Just for leaving Arica?
It reminded me of the time when I was returning from a business trip in Manila, Philippines. Only ticket-holders could enter the Manila airport. Then, our hand-luggage had to go through FIVE X-ray machines and finally, manually checked before boarding the plane.
OK, that was Manila. When my Filipino colleagues took me to the shopping centre, as a form of a ‘tour’, they had dutifully informed me, “Over here, there was a bomb attack in May last year. And there… the cinema, there was another bomb explosion just in December… And…”
But what were the Chilean Customs after? F-R-U-I-T-S???? Did the last Customs Officer hope to find the one grape missed out by the X-ray machine? Here, you can have my banana… go ahead, take it.
At Calama, we stopped to change buses. I managed to finish up all my Chilean pesos on breakfast and toilet and boarded another bus to Argentina later.
This was the same altiplano route coming into Chile about three weeks ago. Well, Bolivia was right smack in the middle of South America and since I could not cut across it, I had to double-back the same way, skirting around Bolivia.
Strangely, this time, I found it terribly difficult to cope with the altitude. I suffered from a bad headache from the Argentinian border onwards. I could not sleep. I could not get comfortable in any position. I felt marginally better after they stopped at that same restuarant-in-the-middle-of-nowhere and fed us some bread and tea. Then, I started to smell the horrible odour of exposed shoes. Oh yucks. I thought it was just me and my super-sensitive nose and tried to tolerate it as best as I could. I was ready to puke any moment.
Then, the bus driver stopped and he stood up and announced something about ‘zapatos’ [shoes]. Oh no, he had smelled it too and actually refused to drive on until the person who took off his shoes put them on again. Well, this is the altiplano. Fresh air is precious.
The driver assistant then walked down the aisle to check who was the culprit. Several snapped open their Rexona and sprayed the disgusting air around them. He stopped in front of the Japanese tourist and spoke to him sternly.
Shoeless Ninja, however, could not understand a word beyond ‘zapatos’. He looked a little puzzled, reached down, picked up his shoe and held it in front of the driver assistant. “¿Zapatos?” he queried. The driver assistant was not amused. We were.
Finally, another tourist half-yelled, half-giggled in English, “Put them on!!” Shoeless Ninja never struck again. And so, we breathed.
I was tremendously relieved to arrive in Jujuy after the tortuous 24-hour bus-journey. During my near-midnight dinner of a ‘SuperPancho’ (fancy name for long hot-dog), the lady rejected my 1 Argentinian Peso as ‘falso’. Here in Argentina too? I was here three months and did not notice anything.
Now, I studied all my pesos and indeed, trained from Peru, I spotted two types of ‘falsos’. One had the wrong font for ‘UN PESO’ (I told you…) and the smiley sun had an outline around its face. The other, the fraudster did a better job, was the same in every sense, except the colour of the ‘gold’ centre was a bit more ‘yellow’ and the coin felt lighter.
San Salvador de Jujuy to Humahuaca, ARGENTINA - 13 march 2003
I was awakened by a morning-call knock on a neighbouring door. “Son las 8.” the receptionist had announced. I groggily glanced at my clock, it read ‘7:00am’.
Hmmm… I opened my door, shocking the receptionist with my hair in the meantime, to confirm if it was indeed 8am.
Oh, I guess, life was fair. The 2 hours I had gained in Peru, I had given 1 back in Chile a few days ago and apparently, I had to give back the remaining 1 to Argentina now. Chile changed their time but Argentina did not.
Good thing to find out about it now, for I had a morning bus to catch to Humahuaca.
Humahuaca is an Andean town, full of Bolivian flavour, further north of Jujuy. The route to get here was along another amazing Quebrada de la Humahuaca. Argentina can only outdo itself in amazing quebradas [canyons].
I spent the day, relaxing around the charming little town and buying souvenirs. I was feeling a tinge of sadness now. I had been in South America for nearly six months and it was coming to an end soon.
South America is truly at the other end of the world from my country. It is extremely expensive to fly here. And perhaps, it might be a long time before I can afford another visit here. To my friends and family, South America is like MAGIC, impossible to imagine. And so, I was now buying up souvenirs as if I was not returning for a long time.
Way back in June, when Pablo and I had gone shopping for souvenirs in China, I had only bought three snuff bottles for my friends but he had gone crazy snapping up the Oriental souvenirs, the more Oriental-looking, the better. Several looked really kitsch to me, although I had helped him pick the least kitsch-looking of them all. I had cringed, snickered at some of them and had gone ‘eewww’ secretly.
Now, when I show Pablo my latino souvenirs when I reach Buenos Aires, I suspect he would also cringe, snicker at them and go ‘eewww’ secretly.
Ah, cultural differences. How wonderful they exist!
Humahuaca, Iruya to Tilcara ARGENTINA - 14 march 2003
I took the only daily bus to another tiny town, called Iruya, 3 hours away from Humahuaca. I had not known what to expect in Iruya. I heard it was really pretty but I was not sure what I could do there. I decided to check out of my hostel, leave my backpack there, catch the bus to Iruya, stay a few hours and catch the same bus back to Humahuaca later.
The road to Iruya was paved for about 1 hour before turning into dirt tracks that rounded mountains after mountains and crossed river beds occasionally. While the road was not that great, it was WONDERFUL compared to Peru and I suspect, Bolivia, and so one knew that one was still in Argentina.
We stopped at a huge Pachamama shrine of rocks, with abandoned bottles of alcohol and tetra-packs of wine, a scattering of coca-leaves. I learnt later this spot was at 4000+m.
Later, we headed downhill for 1220m in about 20km. There were many hair-pin turns and the view was terrific! The gorges, the river-bed, the sheer drops, the hidden valleys, the slopes spotted with rocks… Sometimes, one could spot a few horses or even a few children walking on the huge river-bed, seemingly in the middle of nowhere. Naturally, there would be peasants who would get on or off the bus, leaving you to wonder… Where did they come from? Where in the world are they going?
From this point onwards, my eyes were glued to the window to absorb the fantastic scenery and so I could not understand why Elena, from Belguim, sitting next to me, fell asleep on the bus.
Finally, Iruya came into view and the best view of Iruya was actually quite a distance from it. It looked like a magical tiny town set amongst brilliantly-coloured towering triangular mountains, perched at a cliff, above the river-bed. My jaws remained open for a good minute.
Elena and I walked around the hilly little town and stopped for a bit of food to fill our stomach. I really liked it here. It was so tranquil, so hidden. It really felt like a town at the end of the road. For the road ended in front of the church and beyond that, around the town, one could only walk. So, I suspect, there were really no roads BEHIND or AROUND Iruya. I regretted my decision to take the same bus out today but it was already made.
Elena had travelled from Tilcara, about 1 hour south of Humahuaca. I intended to go there later today.
When we arrived back at Humahuaca, we tried to find out the next bus to Tilcara and just then, a bus with ‘TILCARA’ written in front pulled up. It looked like a hop-on-and-pay-later bus but my backpack was still back at the hostel. I left my small bag with Elena and hurried back to grab my backpack.
Running at 3000+m altitude, on wet cobbled-stoned streets (it had rained in Humahuaca) is never a good idea but thankfully, I returned without a broken bone or tooth and not that out-of-breath to a bus that was very kind to wait for me.
Elena took me to Malka Hostel which was quite a hike away from the centre of Tilcara. I made friends with the rest of my house-mates, Gilles from France, Olga, Sebastian and Javier from Buenos Aires and we had a sumptuous dinner together.
Gilles is a very interesting Zen-like person. For the past four years, he had come to Tilcara and stayed here for one month each time. He would spend his days, walking around the mountains, visiting schools in the tiniest village bringing along chalks, pens and talking to the locals in other obscure valleys… To him, Tilcara is the most perfect place in the world.
Tilcara, ARGENTINA - 15 march 2003
Elena was sitting near the window of the dining room, having breakfast, when I walked over to chat with her. I had barely completed my first line when I stopped short suddenly and stared out of the window. I staggered a little too.
“Oh my god… Oh my god…” I gasped, stupefied, totally blown away. The view was INCREDIBLE! Malka Hostel, being such a hike away, was sitting at the top of a hill and from here, one could see right across Tilcara to the range of colourful mountains with its swirls of paints and now, they were gloriously basking in the morning sun.
“Now, I understand why Gilles stay here for one month every year. Oh, I want to get married here in Tilcara.” I said.
Later, at the centre, Olga, Sebastian and I went looking for a guide to take us hiking and we passed by café after café, playing cumbia, and I changed my mind right away. “Nope, I do not want to get married here in Tilcara.”
We were unable to find the guide. He was probably drunk from last night’s party of Carnaval. Apparently, Carnaval had not really ended in Tilcara.
We decided to head out hiking by ourselves. There appeared to be yet another 'La Garganta del Diablo' (The Devil's Throat) to check out. If we find it, we find it. If not, we would still have a nice day hiking in the mountains.
We asked several locals along the way and soon, had to start climbing up the side of a mountain. The view behind us was truly fantastic. We could see the meandering river in the wide river valley, with the red, ochre, purplish mountains by the side.
A few German tourists passed by and two explained in English how exactly to get to the 'Garganta', which I translated for Olga and Sebastian. It was a waterfall, as it turned out. We had not been sure. Could be a cave, could be whatever. And then, it dawned on me, hmmm… if my Spanish would get better, with English, Mandarin and Spanish, I could potentially talk to quite a lot of people around the world. Cool…
We walked along the canyon for a while, hopping across the tiny river here and there and finally, arrived at the waterfall. No one else was here. It was great.
Tilcara to Salta, ARGENTINA - 16 march 2003
Today, the weather was cloudy and rainy which left me really appreciating the excellent weather we had yesterday for hiking.
I walked out to Pukara, a pre-Incas fortress on top of a hill not far from Tilcara. Although it was a fortress, being on an inaccessible hill, it actually had no high walls around it. Several stone-houses had been reconstructed, with the mud-and-straw roofs too.
However, stupidly, the authorities had gone and constructed a ‘monument’ to pay tribute to the archaeologists at the top of the hill. Gosh, this ‘monument’ had absolutely no relation to the ruins around it. It was not even done in the style of the ruins. It was just an ugly pyramid. But some tourists asked me to take a picture of them in front of this stupid ‘monument’. Err…
I made my way to Salta that afternoon. Well, I had to go to a bigger town to catch a good bus to Buenos Aires. I did not know San Salvador de Jujuy well but I had stayed in Salta for a few days and had really liked my hostel. So, I decided to go there.
Great to be in a city where you know exactly where to walk to your hostel.
Salta, ARGENTINA - 17 march 2003
Nothing earth-shattering happened. Just another day to do nothing. Poked my nose into furniture stores, browsed through trashy discount shops, checked out the geese swimming at the lake, observed some plants in the plaza, listened to CDs without buying, you know, the usual suspects.
Monday, March 10, 2003
25 - Mission Inca-Kola (Chachapoyas)
Chiclayo to Chachapoyas, PERU - 03 march 2003
I headed to Pimental, the coastal town near Chiclayo. There was a very long wooden jetty that cut across the beach and stretched way into the ocean. It provided good shade and I rested under it for a while, studying all the happy Peruvian families out to enjoy the sun, the sea and the sand.
I did not bring my swim-wear. I was catching the night-bus out and had checked out of my hotel. I did not fancy sleeping on the bus with a sticky body. I had forgotten public bathrooms might exist for me to shower. So, later when I felt like some sun, I lay fully-clothed on the sand. Unlike in Brazil, no one stared at me.
Later, I crossed the beach and walked towards a hive of activity. Upon nearing it, I realised the same sort of totora-reed caballitos were parked all over the beach and there was a fish sale going on. The fish were laid out on the reed-boats. The crabs were squirming inside the hollowed-out ends. Locals were everywhere, buying the fish, washing the fish, gutting the fish. There were shouts here and there. Sea-gulls dived down to make a grab for the discarded guts. It had such a wonderful energy here.
Food in Peru offered a lot more varieties than in Chile and Argentina. Cerviche was raw fish or seafood, served in lime, onions and chilli. On my last trip, I had been surprised by it for I had had no idea what it was before ordering. This time, I relished it.
I grabbed the night-bus to Chachapoyas that evening. The first 5 hours or so were on rather smooth roads but the latter 5, from 12 midnight onwards, were on terribly bumpy roads. It was impossible to sleep.
Chachapoyas, PERU - 04 march 2003
It was 5am or so when I lumbered into town. I blindly followed a hostel tout to his hostel. Argh, I was issued a prison-cell with no ventilation. There was a musty smell. It was awful. But it was now raining and I had already paid up so I decided to sleep for a while and hunt for another one later.
Usually after night-buses, I would have some difficulty peeling myself off the bed before 12 noon but I was up and about by 10am, swearing I would not enter my room until bed-time tonight.
It was raining and raining in Chachapoyas and all the streets transformed themselves into rivers. I waded to another hotel nearby and had the presence of mind to inspect the room first. It was perfect. Yes, I would change to this one tomorrow.
I usually could not be bothered to change my hotel, even if I found the mattress too hard, too soft or had killed two cockroaches already (but the third one got away, darn!). I usually would have made friends with the receptionist, the man with the mop at the lobby, the guy manning the counter at the adjoining bar, whatever, and it would be like a betrayal to them to abandon them for someone else.
But, well, some people ascertain the prices, the quality of the bed-sheets, the colour of the carpet of the hotel… they are, as we know, the Famas… but I go for the smell of the room.
The receptionist of this hotel tried to hook me up with a few other tourists for a shared taxi to Karajia tomorrow. I told her I would think about it.
I spent the rest of the afternoon, gathering information from the tourist office and various combi (van) providers to try and find out how I could reach the various sights around Chachapoyas.
In Trujillo and Chiclayo, the sights were also around and NOT IN these towns, but they were merely 10 to 30 minutes away on colectivos. But, the sights in Chachapoyas were 2½ hours to 3½ hours one-way on very harsh road conditions. It was quite difficult to go on public transportations. In the end, I agreed to the Karajia trip in shared taxi with the two other tourists, just to make my life less complicated.
Later that evening, there was a crowd gathered at a road junction where two trees of the type ‘yunsa’ or ‘umisha’ had been moved there. On these two tall trees, the locals had hung clothes, toys and balloons. This was part of the celebration for the end of Carnaval. Passing this spot earlier today, I had been attacked by a water-balloon. Now, amongst the crowd, one could see flying water-balloons everywhere, some even hitting poor, little old wrinkled ladies.
OK, it had been raining. We were wet anyway. Water-ballons just contained water. But, the nastier ones were smearing other people with black motor-oil and coloured paints that appeared to be impossible to remove. This did not appeal to me, not when I was living out of a backpack. I kept watching my back for possible attackers.
A group of people around the trees took turns to chop the trees down. When the first one fell, people pounced forward to grab the clothes and toys. The second one fell after a while, this time amidst an even crazier mob with flying flour and bursting water-balloons.
Hey, readers, Carnaval in Chachapoyas, Amazonas Province, Peru is strictly NOT to be confused with Carnaval in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. There are no jiggly breasts here. Repeat: there are no jiggly breasts here. Do not show up with your sequined and translucent costume and that feathery thing on your head.
I later learnt that the one who managed the last chop that fell the tree would be the boss for next year’s Carnaval, paying for party, food and drinks.
A parade went around the square later with a coffin and an effigy on it, representing Carnavalon or ‘Mr Carnaval’. After a long but apparently funny speech in front of the Municipal, made by Mr Carnaval (to much puzzlement amongst the toddlers who veered near to check out where the voice could possibly come from), they set fire to the coffin and Mr Carnaval. Well, until next year, Mr Carnaval.
Chachapoyas, PERU - 05 march 2003
The other two tourists sharing the taxi to Karajia were Femke from The Netherlands and Glenn from Australia. They had previously engaged Edwin, the taxi-driver, to Kuelap two days ago. And apparently, Edwin was now ‘in love’ with Femke.
Poor Femke, she was just into her first week in Peru when she had her bag and camera stolen in a café in Trujillo. I had thought Trujillo was safe but one really had to be careful everywhere. Glenn mentioned that he had been to Latin America (including Mexico and Central America) six times and had been robbed eight times. Hmm… when you are able to hold conversations, saying, “And… my eighth robbery happened in…” you are SURELY NOT doing so well in the department of travelling. Still, he persevered. You go, Glenn.
The drive to Karajia was about 2½ hours, through very windy, treacherous mountainous road. The road was sometimes just wide enough for one vehicle. One had to be careful to avoid a head-on collision as there were numerous blind and very sharp bends. Whenever another vehicle in the opposite direction was spotted, the one closer to a ‘spare’ area would stop and let the other pass. The road was also full of pot-holes and with the rain, utterly muddy and wet. It was very terrible and dangerous road conditions.
During the ride, I asked Edwin if it would be safe to go to Kuelap by myself tomorrow, on public colectivo and then trek to a tiny town, Tingo, for 3 hours, as suggested by the tourist office.
He did not find it wise to do this alone but agreed that there were no robbers in Chachapoyas, only robbers of your heart, turning to glance at Femke. “Oh, mi corazon roto…” [Oh, my broken heart]
Edwin really resembled the amorous Pepe Le Pew, of Warner Brothers cartoon.
We finally arrived at a tiny town Cochane and I tumbled out of the taxi in relief. My lower back was very sore from all the bumps we had gone through. This was the furthest we could go by car. The rest would be on foot to Karajia. Edwin Le Pew would go with us and he offered to carry ‘mi amor Femke’ [my love Femke] on his back.
Three smiley old men sitting in front of an adobe house assured us Karajia was very near. Sure, with their evolved campo (country) feet and iron-lungs, it would be near to them.
We descended and climbed up undulating hills for the next 2½ hours, squelching in the terrible mud, balancing ourselves on slippery rocks. There were green farm-lands everywhere, amidst the clouds. It looked really peaceful. We passed by even tinier villages. Oh, it was so great. There were many locals dressed in their traditional ponchos, riding donkeys, spinning yarns, whatever… They were rather reserved however. They were not so smiley, unlike the old men in Cochane. But there would be the few who would greet us and some bolder children would smile and wave.
We stopped by a church which was having a mass for Ash Wednesday, which was today. Children came running out to check us out. Some had an ash-cross drawn on their foreheads. Peruvian children were really beautiful.
After a lot of huffing and puffing, with me and Edwin Le Pew, surprisingly, way WAY ahead of Glenn and Femke, we arrived at Karajia.
Karajia is the place where several sarcophagi from the Chachapoyas culture (which was in the north-eastern region of Peru in the mountains, before the Incas culture) were found standing on the side of the cliff. Just twenty years ago, there had been rows and rows of these sarcophagi. But now, only a set of three and another of six were left. The rest had been plundered and destroyed.
The sarcophagi were made of cane for the outer structure and mud to mould it into the shape of a man with a head. Some of them were painted with red, white and ochre colours. Inside the cane structure were mummies, laid in foetal position and wrapped in bamboo or cloth. The natural roof of the cliff had protected them from rain all these years. The Chachapoyas selected this inaccessible cliff to preserve the peace of the dead, until, of course, it was discovered by ‘modern men’.
I had seen these sarcophagi in a magazine once and I had read that it was very difficult to reach. Indeed, it was a supreme honour for me to be here at last and have a glimpse of these unmeasurable treasures, these remaining Chachapoyas sarcophagi.
Chachapoyas, PERU - 06 march 2003
Last night, my receptionist and Edwin Le Pew had scurried around town to help me find more tourists to share his taxi to Kuelap today. But they were unsuccessful.
I was walking along the market in the morning when I heard, “Kuelap! Kuelap!”. I made inquiries and a guy driving a combi, was taking three tourists to Kuelap today and they would be leaving in half an hour’s time. Price was also much cheaper than a taxi. Just perfect. Things always have a way of falling into place for me.
Soon, we were off, on more bumpy, windy, muddy roads to Kuelap… a whopping 3½ hours away. My spine was badly rattled, my lower back bruised. We passed by many little villages, some I would even hesitate to call them villages. For example, at a very sharp hair-pin turn, there were perhaps three or four houses on the outer curve and two houses on the INNER curve of the hair-pin turn. Imagine that!
Many of the villages had houses made from mud. A good number of them were painted with election campaigns from the past. ‘FUJIMORI PRESIDENTE’ was spotted. There were many pictorial representation of the parties’ logos painted three times and marked with an ‘X’ across to try and educate the campesinos [country-folks] which to select. One political logo apparently had the side profile of a rooster! Pictorial representations were essential, I supposed, due to the lack of literacy in this region.
Kuelap is at 3000m. The other tourists, three Colombians, had stopped to buy coca leaves. I felt fine then. But, during the 20-minute climb up to Kuelap, I felt rather out-of-breath.
I engaged a guide and he was also excellent in explaining everything to me, very slowly and clearly. Kuelap was a fortress built by the Chachapoyans and later, it was briefly conquered and used by the Incas. The 420 houses in this fortress were mainly round, stone huts with conical straw roofs (the straw-roofs were no longer existing, of course). A few rectangular houses were attributed to the Incas. There was a burial site and a ‘hospital’ where skulls had been found with holes cut out, a form of ancient brain surgery, performed in Central and South America by several cultures, including the Mayans in Central America, the Paracas and Nazca in southern Peru. He showed me various adornments that represented the eyes of jaguar, puma, serpent and condor, the four animals worshipped by the Chachapoyas. There were some astrological and calendar structures too. It was very interesting and thoroughly worth the bumpy ride here.
That evening, I decided to try the other typical dish of Peru - the cuy or guinea pig. Three years ago, I did not get the chance to try it, feeling that it was too expensive. But this was my second time in Peru… what were the odds there might be a third time soon?
Glenn had been grossed out the other day when I told him I would be ordering a cuy one of these days. “ARRRGH… it’s so small, full of bones. It looks so gross… it’s like eating a rat!”
OK, he got me. Unlike him, I had never eaten a rat before. And so I ordered one tonight and took a picture of it before wrecking its tiny little bones as I devoured it. It was suprisingly meatier than I thought. The taste was not too bad but the skin, although deep-fried, remained very tough and after chewing it for a long time unsuccessfully, I had to spit it out. I then felt a tad grossed-out when I examined the chewed skin closely later.
Chachapoyas to Lemeybamba, PERU - 07 march 2003
Lemeybamba had a museum that contained the wonderful finds from another site down south of Chachapoyas, the Laguna de los Condores. It was also from the Chachapoya culture, but of a different region, compared to Karajia.
Again, Lemeybamba was not merely 30 minutes away. It was 3 hours away. I bought a bus-ticket out of Chachapoyas tonight, leaving at 8pm for Trujillo with the intention to change to another bus to Cajamarca upon arrival at Trujillo.
I thought I could catch a early shared taxi to Lemeybamba, visit the museum, catch another shared taxi back to Chachapoyas, in time for my night bus.
We needed four to go on the shared taxi. But I waited for more than 1 hour and still, no one showed up. People in the campo had time. On the shared taxi, it was 12 Soles. On the combi, 8 Soles. They would rather take the combi.
Jorge, a guy who passed by the shared-taxi stop, stopped to chat with me. He insisted that even if I found a ride to Lemeybamba earlier than the combi, it would be impossible to find enough people to return to Chachapoyas later. “¿En serio? [Really?]” I asked, in doubt. Immediately, he proffered his hand and said, “Soy de Lemeybamba. Soy policia. [I am from Lemeybamba. I am a police.]”
A little too suave. A little too packaged. I asked the taxi-driver. If he could not find four to return to Chachapoyas this afternoon, would he spend the night in Lemeybamba? Or would he finally ‘give up’ and drive back here? He said he would stay the night in Lemeybamba.
OK, indeed I did not feel secure about being able to return in time for my bus tonight. I decided to change my bus-ticket to Trujillo to leave tomorrow.
I would take the combi instead. The problems with the combis were that they leave rather late from Chachapoyas, noon and later. And the next morning, they left Lemeybamba really early, like 3am to 5am.
Jorge followed me to pick up my backpack and he suggested the 1pm combi, as he was returning to Lemeybamba too.
There was a 12 noon combi which would place me in Lemeybamba at 3pm, which would give me about 1½ hours to visit the museum before it closed. The 1pm combi would be too late. But he was insistent. I told him he was free to take the other one. I signed up for the noon combi, meaning to ignore him. He then decided to take the same one with me. He wanted to hang around with me until noon too but I told him I would rather be alone. Somehow, I did not trust him.
Naturally, by 12:30pm, the driver and the assistant were still struggling to pack the baggages at the top of the combi. Campesinos do not travel light. If they travel, sacks of potatoes, fruits, sand-bags, gigantic bags of clothes for sale, the occasional live-stock and that wheel-barrow go along too.
By 12:45pm, I started to regret my decision. I felt a very negative feeling around me. Was it really worth the trouble to travel 3 hours just to see a museum for barely 1 hour?
By 1pm, they finally got that wheel-barrow secure and we left Chachapoyas. I tried to evoke the Zen in me to remain in peace, for there was no use getting impatient and trying to force the situation. Whatever will be, will be… Qué sera, sera. Then, the driver popped in his cumbia cassette and ‘ping!’, Zen vapourised.
We pulled in at Lemeybamba at 4:30pm. Jorge told me his aunt worked at the museum, he would go with me to explain to her to open it up a little longer for me. Darn, we needed to take another taxi to reach the museum which was way, way off the village too.
Indeed, Jorge’s aunt was the sweet, matronly sort and she was very kind and patient and explained the museum very clearly and thoroughly for me and some late-comers.
While the Chachapoyas up north, for example, from Karajia buried their dead individually in sarcophagi, the ones from Laguna de los Condores buried them in groups of ‘houses’ built on the side of cliffs.
In this museum, were 219 mummies, some still wrapped up in their original material, some with the picture of a face (rather cartoonish) painted on them.
It was a fantastic museum. I learnt a lot from her, even about those mummies in Karajia. Edwin Le Pew was a driver, not a guide after all. While I was in a foul mood upon arrival in Lemeybamba, walking around the beautiful museum with the wonderful guide put me at peace once again.
On the way down, the taxi-driver packed the other late-comers, two ladies and two children, Jorge’s aunt, Jorge and I, into his taxi and we returned to Lemeybamba.
I saw Jorge’s aunt give him 1 Sol and the driver smiled, “Suficiente. [Sufficient]” Plus whatever the other two ladies had given him and my 1 Sol, I reckoned it would make up the right price, if not more. But when I got off, he wanted 3 Soles.
I: “¿Por que? [Why?]”
Driver: “Porque xxxxxxxxx [Because xxxxxxxxx]”
I: “¿POR QUE?”
D: “Porque xxxxxxxxx”
I: “¿POR QUE?? Somos muchos. (WHY?? We were many.] ”
D: “Porque xxxxxxxxx”
I: “¿POR QUE?? ¡SOMOS MUCHOS!”
I did not look but I was sure the bored aunties, the deaf old men and the shrunken grannies sitting along the streets must have all turned to stare at us.
D: “OK, OK… 2 Soles.”
I was mad. I hated it when they wanted more from foreigners. It was the principle behind it. I slammed 2 Soles in his palm and walked off. By the time I got to the other side, he had handed 1 Sol back to Jorge to return to me.
Sorry, I was sssooo NOT Miss Congeniality today. Might be the cumbia talking.
That evening, another guy from the combi, Manuel, started chatting with me at the plaza. From the questions he was asking, I sort of knew where it was heading. So, when it came to “How can someone as beautiful as you still be single… Oh, when you leave tomorrow, I will feel very sad… You don’t believe me?? Why don’t you believe me??”, I knew it was time to roll my eye balls, shut down, pack up and leave. Bye, Manuel.
Gosh, do such guys really think this sort of crap would work? Have they ever worked? Gimme a break. I liked to talk to locals and learn more about their cultures and stuff but I could not stand this sort of talk.
Me? Beautiful? When I find myself a facial and unclog my pores of 10½ months’ worth of grime, then I show you beautiful!
FOUL MOOD: DO NOT CROSS
Lemeybamba to Lima, PERU - 08 march 2003
The combi back to Chachapoyas was rumoured to leave at 3am, 4am and finally, a guy who seemed to know what he was talking about, confirmed it would leave at 5am. He would come round to the hotel and blast his horn.
You know how it is like when you know that you have to get up at an ungodly hour and you really need to sleep as much as possible now, but because you are waiting for that ungodly hour to come, you cannot sleep properly?
So, when someone from the hospedaje said, “Habitación 8”, I stirred and woke up at once. That was my room.
Someone knocked on the door and said he was Jorge and that it was time to go. It was 3:30am. Now?? I was puzzled. For a moment, I thought maybe the combi was leaving earlier. I thanked him and started to pack my backpack.
There was a window with frosted glass next to the door. I saw Jorge trying to peer in. He also tried the door-knob a few times.
I: “Un momentito. Estoy haciendo la maleta. [In a minute. I am packing my bag.]”
Jorge continued to jiggle the door-knob.
I: “¡Por favor! ¡Un momento! [Please! In a minute!]”
He stopped but pressed his face to the window. I did not like him waiting outside and looking in. I opened the door to tell him to knock it off, give me a minute.
The smell of alcohol hit me like a boxing glove and I slammed the door and locked it even before I knew what I was doing. I saw his hands reach for the door. So, he had the intention to push his way in but was not fast enough.
Shit!!! Shit!! SHIT!!! S-H-I-T!!!!!
I then realised… he was FROM Lemeybamba. Why was he the one waking me up to tell me about the combi? Yesterday, he did not indicate that he was going back to Chachapoyas today. Also, NOBODY would arrive so late in Lemeybamba yesterday and then, immediately take the early-morning bus out of Lemeybamba today. NOBODY except me.
I: “No me esperes, por favor. ¿Por que me esperas? [Don’t wait for me, please. Why are you waiting for me?]”
J: “Voy contigo. [I go with you.]”
I: “¿Por que?? ¿Por que vas conmigo? No, por favor. ¡No me esperes! [Why?? Why are you going with me? No, please. Don't wait for me.]”
J: “…”
I (at the top of my voice): “¡SAL!!!!! [L-E-A-V-E!!!!!]”
He finally slithered away.
The señora from the hospedaje then came knocking at my door furtively. She informed me the combi was still leaving at 5am. Then, why did Jorge wake me up now?
Señora: “Quiere ir contigo en un taxi. [He wanted to go with you in taxi.]”
I: “¡Por favor!!! ¡Está loco!! ¡Mucho alcohol!!! [Please!!! He is crazy!! So much alcohol!!!]”
S: “Sí… sí… [Yes… yes…]”
I: “¡Señora, por favor… protegeme por favor! Gracias. [Madam, please… protect me please! Thank you.]”
S: “Sí… sí…”
The señora also needed her neck wrung. How could she let a man who showed up at 3:30am, reeking of alcohol, into the hospedaje and tell him my room number? She herself knew I was taking the combi at 5am.
I was really mad.
Later, on the ride back to Chachapoyas, I suddenly made up my mind to leave Peru. I did not think this morning’s incident was the main reason. Although nothing happened, it frightened me a little, thinking of what could have happened. But, for a few days now in Chachapoyas, when I mentally decided to include a short visit to Cajamarca, I had felt uncomfortable. Something felt wrong. My instinct seemed to be telling me, “It’s time to leave Peru. You have been lucky so far. Do not prolong it.”
I wanted to see as much of Peru as possible. So, I had tried to ignore the odd feeling. But now, I told myself to listen to it. My gut feelings had, after all, been right about Jorge.
Instinct, sixth-sense… call it what you want. I want to learn to recognise it and follow it. For I do not want something to happen to me and then, it regrettably becomes HINDSIGHT.
The first time I was robbed in Peru, I felt something strange that morning. I had taken more money out to change and I remember telling myself, “So much money? Bound to be robbed today.” And?
The second time in Buenos Aires, just before reaching that robbery spot, I had warned Lydia and Carolyn that this was a poor neighbourhood, we had to be careful here for robberies could happen. They had looked at me with a skeptical look. I advised Lydia against carrying her camera outside her bag, thinking more of the slash-and-grab robbery. Indeed we were robbed later, but instead, from another kind of robbery.
So, I made up my mind. I would leave Peru now. Immediately after that, my heart felt so much lighter. Hmmm… to simplify Jorge Luis Borges (and I mean to r-e-a-l-l-y simplify Borges), there are so many forking paths in one’s life where one decision leads down one path and another leads down a separate path, forever forking into more and more paths, perhaps into an infinite number of paths; sometimes, there is the off chance that some paths might meet back again to the same situation, creating some sort of complicated labyrinths. Life is a labyrinth. (OK, I apologise… Borges sound WAY more intellectual than this.)
What would happen if I go to Cajamarca? I will never know. Have you ever wondered what if there are many little ‘yous’ each taking a different path as it forks, how would each of the ‘yous’ have turned out?
And so, when I arrived at Chachapoyas, I changed my ticket to leave for Lima at 1pm today.
The road was as usual, terribly bumpy and winding. We finally reached paved roads after 5 hours. Still, winding and winding around the mountains but on PAVED ROADS! From this point onwards, the stewardess strangely issued us with plastic bags to puke in.
Indeed, the Chachapoyan locals could not cope well on paved roads and many were throwing up into their plastic bags for the rest of the ride. Eeeww…
Lima, PERU to Arica, CHILE - 09 march 2003
Surprisingly, I slept rather well last night. It might be the straight Pan-American highway that was working for me.
I arrived in Lima at around 11am, after the 22-hour bus-ride. One did not go ‘wow’ upon arrival at Lima. One goes ‘uh-huh’ upon arrival at Lima.
Uh-huh uh-huh uh-huh.
Half an hour later, I had made my way to another bus-company and coincidentally, the bus going to Tacna was leaving at noon and so I was barely on steady ground for 30 minutes before embarking on another 20-hour bus ride to Tacna.
Arica, CHILE - 10 march 2003
Now, this night-bus did not work well for me. I was on the Economy bus and there were people who climbed on the bus even though there were no seats left. The poor things would rather stand.
I was sitting right in front of the on-board toilet, so it was rather stinky already and quite annoying with the constant usage throughout the night. Those people without seats were all gathered at the back, standing around me. A few held onto my head-rest, trapping my hair under their grasps throughout the night, their plastic bags hitting my face.
There was no air-con on this bus. All the windows were shut (because opening it a little would be noisy) and I could feel myself dying of lack of oxygen right there and then. I felt really claustrophobic. I had to ask the guy next to me to open the window a crack to survive the night. I think I sprained my neck too.
Amazingly, the bus arrived 2 hours earlier than planned in Tacna, ending my 40-hour bus marathon and beginning my 2-hour border-crossing procedure. I felt a sense of relief when I crossed the border.
I had gained 2 hours entering Peru two weeks ago. But back to Chile now, I only had to return 1 hour for they had just advanced the clocks two days ago.
I had more Argentinian Pesos with me and so I decided to try and go to Argentina as soon as possible. The first bus company said they would leave tonight.
TONIGHT! No, ¡no puedo! [I can’t!]. I cannot take another bus-ride tonight! I had not seen my toes for… let me count… since 5am in Lemeybamba, that’s what? 51, 52 hours??? I needed to be horizontal for at least 8 hours before I could embark on another overnight bus.
Thank goodness, another company would leave tomorrow. Hello, toes.
I headed to Pimental, the coastal town near Chiclayo. There was a very long wooden jetty that cut across the beach and stretched way into the ocean. It provided good shade and I rested under it for a while, studying all the happy Peruvian families out to enjoy the sun, the sea and the sand.
I did not bring my swim-wear. I was catching the night-bus out and had checked out of my hotel. I did not fancy sleeping on the bus with a sticky body. I had forgotten public bathrooms might exist for me to shower. So, later when I felt like some sun, I lay fully-clothed on the sand. Unlike in Brazil, no one stared at me.
Later, I crossed the beach and walked towards a hive of activity. Upon nearing it, I realised the same sort of totora-reed caballitos were parked all over the beach and there was a fish sale going on. The fish were laid out on the reed-boats. The crabs were squirming inside the hollowed-out ends. Locals were everywhere, buying the fish, washing the fish, gutting the fish. There were shouts here and there. Sea-gulls dived down to make a grab for the discarded guts. It had such a wonderful energy here.
Food in Peru offered a lot more varieties than in Chile and Argentina. Cerviche was raw fish or seafood, served in lime, onions and chilli. On my last trip, I had been surprised by it for I had had no idea what it was before ordering. This time, I relished it.
I grabbed the night-bus to Chachapoyas that evening. The first 5 hours or so were on rather smooth roads but the latter 5, from 12 midnight onwards, were on terribly bumpy roads. It was impossible to sleep.
Chachapoyas, PERU - 04 march 2003
It was 5am or so when I lumbered into town. I blindly followed a hostel tout to his hostel. Argh, I was issued a prison-cell with no ventilation. There was a musty smell. It was awful. But it was now raining and I had already paid up so I decided to sleep for a while and hunt for another one later.
Usually after night-buses, I would have some difficulty peeling myself off the bed before 12 noon but I was up and about by 10am, swearing I would not enter my room until bed-time tonight.
It was raining and raining in Chachapoyas and all the streets transformed themselves into rivers. I waded to another hotel nearby and had the presence of mind to inspect the room first. It was perfect. Yes, I would change to this one tomorrow.
I usually could not be bothered to change my hotel, even if I found the mattress too hard, too soft or had killed two cockroaches already (but the third one got away, darn!). I usually would have made friends with the receptionist, the man with the mop at the lobby, the guy manning the counter at the adjoining bar, whatever, and it would be like a betrayal to them to abandon them for someone else.
But, well, some people ascertain the prices, the quality of the bed-sheets, the colour of the carpet of the hotel… they are, as we know, the Famas… but I go for the smell of the room.
The receptionist of this hotel tried to hook me up with a few other tourists for a shared taxi to Karajia tomorrow. I told her I would think about it.
I spent the rest of the afternoon, gathering information from the tourist office and various combi (van) providers to try and find out how I could reach the various sights around Chachapoyas.
In Trujillo and Chiclayo, the sights were also around and NOT IN these towns, but they were merely 10 to 30 minutes away on colectivos. But, the sights in Chachapoyas were 2½ hours to 3½ hours one-way on very harsh road conditions. It was quite difficult to go on public transportations. In the end, I agreed to the Karajia trip in shared taxi with the two other tourists, just to make my life less complicated.
Later that evening, there was a crowd gathered at a road junction where two trees of the type ‘yunsa’ or ‘umisha’ had been moved there. On these two tall trees, the locals had hung clothes, toys and balloons. This was part of the celebration for the end of Carnaval. Passing this spot earlier today, I had been attacked by a water-balloon. Now, amongst the crowd, one could see flying water-balloons everywhere, some even hitting poor, little old wrinkled ladies.
OK, it had been raining. We were wet anyway. Water-ballons just contained water. But, the nastier ones were smearing other people with black motor-oil and coloured paints that appeared to be impossible to remove. This did not appeal to me, not when I was living out of a backpack. I kept watching my back for possible attackers.
A group of people around the trees took turns to chop the trees down. When the first one fell, people pounced forward to grab the clothes and toys. The second one fell after a while, this time amidst an even crazier mob with flying flour and bursting water-balloons.
Hey, readers, Carnaval in Chachapoyas, Amazonas Province, Peru is strictly NOT to be confused with Carnaval in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. There are no jiggly breasts here. Repeat: there are no jiggly breasts here. Do not show up with your sequined and translucent costume and that feathery thing on your head.
I later learnt that the one who managed the last chop that fell the tree would be the boss for next year’s Carnaval, paying for party, food and drinks.
A parade went around the square later with a coffin and an effigy on it, representing Carnavalon or ‘Mr Carnaval’. After a long but apparently funny speech in front of the Municipal, made by Mr Carnaval (to much puzzlement amongst the toddlers who veered near to check out where the voice could possibly come from), they set fire to the coffin and Mr Carnaval. Well, until next year, Mr Carnaval.
Chachapoyas, PERU - 05 march 2003
The other two tourists sharing the taxi to Karajia were Femke from The Netherlands and Glenn from Australia. They had previously engaged Edwin, the taxi-driver, to Kuelap two days ago. And apparently, Edwin was now ‘in love’ with Femke.
Poor Femke, she was just into her first week in Peru when she had her bag and camera stolen in a café in Trujillo. I had thought Trujillo was safe but one really had to be careful everywhere. Glenn mentioned that he had been to Latin America (including Mexico and Central America) six times and had been robbed eight times. Hmm… when you are able to hold conversations, saying, “And… my eighth robbery happened in…” you are SURELY NOT doing so well in the department of travelling. Still, he persevered. You go, Glenn.
The drive to Karajia was about 2½ hours, through very windy, treacherous mountainous road. The road was sometimes just wide enough for one vehicle. One had to be careful to avoid a head-on collision as there were numerous blind and very sharp bends. Whenever another vehicle in the opposite direction was spotted, the one closer to a ‘spare’ area would stop and let the other pass. The road was also full of pot-holes and with the rain, utterly muddy and wet. It was very terrible and dangerous road conditions.
During the ride, I asked Edwin if it would be safe to go to Kuelap by myself tomorrow, on public colectivo and then trek to a tiny town, Tingo, for 3 hours, as suggested by the tourist office.
He did not find it wise to do this alone but agreed that there were no robbers in Chachapoyas, only robbers of your heart, turning to glance at Femke. “Oh, mi corazon roto…” [Oh, my broken heart]
Edwin really resembled the amorous Pepe Le Pew, of Warner Brothers cartoon.
We finally arrived at a tiny town Cochane and I tumbled out of the taxi in relief. My lower back was very sore from all the bumps we had gone through. This was the furthest we could go by car. The rest would be on foot to Karajia. Edwin Le Pew would go with us and he offered to carry ‘mi amor Femke’ [my love Femke] on his back.
Three smiley old men sitting in front of an adobe house assured us Karajia was very near. Sure, with their evolved campo (country) feet and iron-lungs, it would be near to them.
We descended and climbed up undulating hills for the next 2½ hours, squelching in the terrible mud, balancing ourselves on slippery rocks. There were green farm-lands everywhere, amidst the clouds. It looked really peaceful. We passed by even tinier villages. Oh, it was so great. There were many locals dressed in their traditional ponchos, riding donkeys, spinning yarns, whatever… They were rather reserved however. They were not so smiley, unlike the old men in Cochane. But there would be the few who would greet us and some bolder children would smile and wave.
We stopped by a church which was having a mass for Ash Wednesday, which was today. Children came running out to check us out. Some had an ash-cross drawn on their foreheads. Peruvian children were really beautiful.
After a lot of huffing and puffing, with me and Edwin Le Pew, surprisingly, way WAY ahead of Glenn and Femke, we arrived at Karajia.
Karajia is the place where several sarcophagi from the Chachapoyas culture (which was in the north-eastern region of Peru in the mountains, before the Incas culture) were found standing on the side of the cliff. Just twenty years ago, there had been rows and rows of these sarcophagi. But now, only a set of three and another of six were left. The rest had been plundered and destroyed.
The sarcophagi were made of cane for the outer structure and mud to mould it into the shape of a man with a head. Some of them were painted with red, white and ochre colours. Inside the cane structure were mummies, laid in foetal position and wrapped in bamboo or cloth. The natural roof of the cliff had protected them from rain all these years. The Chachapoyas selected this inaccessible cliff to preserve the peace of the dead, until, of course, it was discovered by ‘modern men’.
I had seen these sarcophagi in a magazine once and I had read that it was very difficult to reach. Indeed, it was a supreme honour for me to be here at last and have a glimpse of these unmeasurable treasures, these remaining Chachapoyas sarcophagi.
Chachapoyas, PERU - 06 march 2003
Last night, my receptionist and Edwin Le Pew had scurried around town to help me find more tourists to share his taxi to Kuelap today. But they were unsuccessful.
I was walking along the market in the morning when I heard, “Kuelap! Kuelap!”. I made inquiries and a guy driving a combi, was taking three tourists to Kuelap today and they would be leaving in half an hour’s time. Price was also much cheaper than a taxi. Just perfect. Things always have a way of falling into place for me.
Soon, we were off, on more bumpy, windy, muddy roads to Kuelap… a whopping 3½ hours away. My spine was badly rattled, my lower back bruised. We passed by many little villages, some I would even hesitate to call them villages. For example, at a very sharp hair-pin turn, there were perhaps three or four houses on the outer curve and two houses on the INNER curve of the hair-pin turn. Imagine that!
Many of the villages had houses made from mud. A good number of them were painted with election campaigns from the past. ‘FUJIMORI PRESIDENTE’ was spotted. There were many pictorial representation of the parties’ logos painted three times and marked with an ‘X’ across to try and educate the campesinos [country-folks] which to select. One political logo apparently had the side profile of a rooster! Pictorial representations were essential, I supposed, due to the lack of literacy in this region.
Kuelap is at 3000m. The other tourists, three Colombians, had stopped to buy coca leaves. I felt fine then. But, during the 20-minute climb up to Kuelap, I felt rather out-of-breath.
I engaged a guide and he was also excellent in explaining everything to me, very slowly and clearly. Kuelap was a fortress built by the Chachapoyans and later, it was briefly conquered and used by the Incas. The 420 houses in this fortress were mainly round, stone huts with conical straw roofs (the straw-roofs were no longer existing, of course). A few rectangular houses were attributed to the Incas. There was a burial site and a ‘hospital’ where skulls had been found with holes cut out, a form of ancient brain surgery, performed in Central and South America by several cultures, including the Mayans in Central America, the Paracas and Nazca in southern Peru. He showed me various adornments that represented the eyes of jaguar, puma, serpent and condor, the four animals worshipped by the Chachapoyas. There were some astrological and calendar structures too. It was very interesting and thoroughly worth the bumpy ride here.
That evening, I decided to try the other typical dish of Peru - the cuy or guinea pig. Three years ago, I did not get the chance to try it, feeling that it was too expensive. But this was my second time in Peru… what were the odds there might be a third time soon?
Glenn had been grossed out the other day when I told him I would be ordering a cuy one of these days. “ARRRGH… it’s so small, full of bones. It looks so gross… it’s like eating a rat!”
OK, he got me. Unlike him, I had never eaten a rat before. And so I ordered one tonight and took a picture of it before wrecking its tiny little bones as I devoured it. It was suprisingly meatier than I thought. The taste was not too bad but the skin, although deep-fried, remained very tough and after chewing it for a long time unsuccessfully, I had to spit it out. I then felt a tad grossed-out when I examined the chewed skin closely later.
Chachapoyas to Lemeybamba, PERU - 07 march 2003
Lemeybamba had a museum that contained the wonderful finds from another site down south of Chachapoyas, the Laguna de los Condores. It was also from the Chachapoya culture, but of a different region, compared to Karajia.
Again, Lemeybamba was not merely 30 minutes away. It was 3 hours away. I bought a bus-ticket out of Chachapoyas tonight, leaving at 8pm for Trujillo with the intention to change to another bus to Cajamarca upon arrival at Trujillo.
I thought I could catch a early shared taxi to Lemeybamba, visit the museum, catch another shared taxi back to Chachapoyas, in time for my night bus.
We needed four to go on the shared taxi. But I waited for more than 1 hour and still, no one showed up. People in the campo had time. On the shared taxi, it was 12 Soles. On the combi, 8 Soles. They would rather take the combi.
Jorge, a guy who passed by the shared-taxi stop, stopped to chat with me. He insisted that even if I found a ride to Lemeybamba earlier than the combi, it would be impossible to find enough people to return to Chachapoyas later. “¿En serio? [Really?]” I asked, in doubt. Immediately, he proffered his hand and said, “Soy de Lemeybamba. Soy policia. [I am from Lemeybamba. I am a police.]”
A little too suave. A little too packaged. I asked the taxi-driver. If he could not find four to return to Chachapoyas this afternoon, would he spend the night in Lemeybamba? Or would he finally ‘give up’ and drive back here? He said he would stay the night in Lemeybamba.
OK, indeed I did not feel secure about being able to return in time for my bus tonight. I decided to change my bus-ticket to Trujillo to leave tomorrow.
I would take the combi instead. The problems with the combis were that they leave rather late from Chachapoyas, noon and later. And the next morning, they left Lemeybamba really early, like 3am to 5am.
Jorge followed me to pick up my backpack and he suggested the 1pm combi, as he was returning to Lemeybamba too.
There was a 12 noon combi which would place me in Lemeybamba at 3pm, which would give me about 1½ hours to visit the museum before it closed. The 1pm combi would be too late. But he was insistent. I told him he was free to take the other one. I signed up for the noon combi, meaning to ignore him. He then decided to take the same one with me. He wanted to hang around with me until noon too but I told him I would rather be alone. Somehow, I did not trust him.
Naturally, by 12:30pm, the driver and the assistant were still struggling to pack the baggages at the top of the combi. Campesinos do not travel light. If they travel, sacks of potatoes, fruits, sand-bags, gigantic bags of clothes for sale, the occasional live-stock and that wheel-barrow go along too.
By 12:45pm, I started to regret my decision. I felt a very negative feeling around me. Was it really worth the trouble to travel 3 hours just to see a museum for barely 1 hour?
By 1pm, they finally got that wheel-barrow secure and we left Chachapoyas. I tried to evoke the Zen in me to remain in peace, for there was no use getting impatient and trying to force the situation. Whatever will be, will be… Qué sera, sera. Then, the driver popped in his cumbia cassette and ‘ping!’, Zen vapourised.
We pulled in at Lemeybamba at 4:30pm. Jorge told me his aunt worked at the museum, he would go with me to explain to her to open it up a little longer for me. Darn, we needed to take another taxi to reach the museum which was way, way off the village too.
Indeed, Jorge’s aunt was the sweet, matronly sort and she was very kind and patient and explained the museum very clearly and thoroughly for me and some late-comers.
While the Chachapoyas up north, for example, from Karajia buried their dead individually in sarcophagi, the ones from Laguna de los Condores buried them in groups of ‘houses’ built on the side of cliffs.
In this museum, were 219 mummies, some still wrapped up in their original material, some with the picture of a face (rather cartoonish) painted on them.
It was a fantastic museum. I learnt a lot from her, even about those mummies in Karajia. Edwin Le Pew was a driver, not a guide after all. While I was in a foul mood upon arrival in Lemeybamba, walking around the beautiful museum with the wonderful guide put me at peace once again.
On the way down, the taxi-driver packed the other late-comers, two ladies and two children, Jorge’s aunt, Jorge and I, into his taxi and we returned to Lemeybamba.
I saw Jorge’s aunt give him 1 Sol and the driver smiled, “Suficiente. [Sufficient]” Plus whatever the other two ladies had given him and my 1 Sol, I reckoned it would make up the right price, if not more. But when I got off, he wanted 3 Soles.
I: “¿Por que? [Why?]”
Driver: “Porque xxxxxxxxx [Because xxxxxxxxx]”
I: “¿POR QUE?”
D: “Porque xxxxxxxxx”
I: “¿POR QUE?? Somos muchos. (WHY?? We were many.] ”
D: “Porque xxxxxxxxx”
I: “¿POR QUE?? ¡SOMOS MUCHOS!”
I did not look but I was sure the bored aunties, the deaf old men and the shrunken grannies sitting along the streets must have all turned to stare at us.
D: “OK, OK… 2 Soles.”
I was mad. I hated it when they wanted more from foreigners. It was the principle behind it. I slammed 2 Soles in his palm and walked off. By the time I got to the other side, he had handed 1 Sol back to Jorge to return to me.
Sorry, I was sssooo NOT Miss Congeniality today. Might be the cumbia talking.
That evening, another guy from the combi, Manuel, started chatting with me at the plaza. From the questions he was asking, I sort of knew where it was heading. So, when it came to “How can someone as beautiful as you still be single… Oh, when you leave tomorrow, I will feel very sad… You don’t believe me?? Why don’t you believe me??”, I knew it was time to roll my eye balls, shut down, pack up and leave. Bye, Manuel.
Gosh, do such guys really think this sort of crap would work? Have they ever worked? Gimme a break. I liked to talk to locals and learn more about their cultures and stuff but I could not stand this sort of talk.
Me? Beautiful? When I find myself a facial and unclog my pores of 10½ months’ worth of grime, then I show you beautiful!
FOUL MOOD: DO NOT CROSS
Lemeybamba to Lima, PERU - 08 march 2003
The combi back to Chachapoyas was rumoured to leave at 3am, 4am and finally, a guy who seemed to know what he was talking about, confirmed it would leave at 5am. He would come round to the hotel and blast his horn.
You know how it is like when you know that you have to get up at an ungodly hour and you really need to sleep as much as possible now, but because you are waiting for that ungodly hour to come, you cannot sleep properly?
So, when someone from the hospedaje said, “Habitación 8”, I stirred and woke up at once. That was my room.
Someone knocked on the door and said he was Jorge and that it was time to go. It was 3:30am. Now?? I was puzzled. For a moment, I thought maybe the combi was leaving earlier. I thanked him and started to pack my backpack.
There was a window with frosted glass next to the door. I saw Jorge trying to peer in. He also tried the door-knob a few times.
I: “Un momentito. Estoy haciendo la maleta. [In a minute. I am packing my bag.]”
Jorge continued to jiggle the door-knob.
I: “¡Por favor! ¡Un momento! [Please! In a minute!]”
He stopped but pressed his face to the window. I did not like him waiting outside and looking in. I opened the door to tell him to knock it off, give me a minute.
The smell of alcohol hit me like a boxing glove and I slammed the door and locked it even before I knew what I was doing. I saw his hands reach for the door. So, he had the intention to push his way in but was not fast enough.
Shit!!! Shit!! SHIT!!! S-H-I-T!!!!!
I then realised… he was FROM Lemeybamba. Why was he the one waking me up to tell me about the combi? Yesterday, he did not indicate that he was going back to Chachapoyas today. Also, NOBODY would arrive so late in Lemeybamba yesterday and then, immediately take the early-morning bus out of Lemeybamba today. NOBODY except me.
I: “No me esperes, por favor. ¿Por que me esperas? [Don’t wait for me, please. Why are you waiting for me?]”
J: “Voy contigo. [I go with you.]”
I: “¿Por que?? ¿Por que vas conmigo? No, por favor. ¡No me esperes! [Why?? Why are you going with me? No, please. Don't wait for me.]”
J: “…”
I (at the top of my voice): “¡SAL!!!!! [L-E-A-V-E!!!!!]”
He finally slithered away.
The señora from the hospedaje then came knocking at my door furtively. She informed me the combi was still leaving at 5am. Then, why did Jorge wake me up now?
Señora: “Quiere ir contigo en un taxi. [He wanted to go with you in taxi.]”
I: “¡Por favor!!! ¡Está loco!! ¡Mucho alcohol!!! [Please!!! He is crazy!! So much alcohol!!!]”
S: “Sí… sí… [Yes… yes…]”
I: “¡Señora, por favor… protegeme por favor! Gracias. [Madam, please… protect me please! Thank you.]”
S: “Sí… sí…”
The señora also needed her neck wrung. How could she let a man who showed up at 3:30am, reeking of alcohol, into the hospedaje and tell him my room number? She herself knew I was taking the combi at 5am.
I was really mad.
Later, on the ride back to Chachapoyas, I suddenly made up my mind to leave Peru. I did not think this morning’s incident was the main reason. Although nothing happened, it frightened me a little, thinking of what could have happened. But, for a few days now in Chachapoyas, when I mentally decided to include a short visit to Cajamarca, I had felt uncomfortable. Something felt wrong. My instinct seemed to be telling me, “It’s time to leave Peru. You have been lucky so far. Do not prolong it.”
I wanted to see as much of Peru as possible. So, I had tried to ignore the odd feeling. But now, I told myself to listen to it. My gut feelings had, after all, been right about Jorge.
Instinct, sixth-sense… call it what you want. I want to learn to recognise it and follow it. For I do not want something to happen to me and then, it regrettably becomes HINDSIGHT.
The first time I was robbed in Peru, I felt something strange that morning. I had taken more money out to change and I remember telling myself, “So much money? Bound to be robbed today.” And?
The second time in Buenos Aires, just before reaching that robbery spot, I had warned Lydia and Carolyn that this was a poor neighbourhood, we had to be careful here for robberies could happen. They had looked at me with a skeptical look. I advised Lydia against carrying her camera outside her bag, thinking more of the slash-and-grab robbery. Indeed we were robbed later, but instead, from another kind of robbery.
So, I made up my mind. I would leave Peru now. Immediately after that, my heart felt so much lighter. Hmmm… to simplify Jorge Luis Borges (and I mean to r-e-a-l-l-y simplify Borges), there are so many forking paths in one’s life where one decision leads down one path and another leads down a separate path, forever forking into more and more paths, perhaps into an infinite number of paths; sometimes, there is the off chance that some paths might meet back again to the same situation, creating some sort of complicated labyrinths. Life is a labyrinth. (OK, I apologise… Borges sound WAY more intellectual than this.)
What would happen if I go to Cajamarca? I will never know. Have you ever wondered what if there are many little ‘yous’ each taking a different path as it forks, how would each of the ‘yous’ have turned out?
And so, when I arrived at Chachapoyas, I changed my ticket to leave for Lima at 1pm today.
The road was as usual, terribly bumpy and winding. We finally reached paved roads after 5 hours. Still, winding and winding around the mountains but on PAVED ROADS! From this point onwards, the stewardess strangely issued us with plastic bags to puke in.
Indeed, the Chachapoyan locals could not cope well on paved roads and many were throwing up into their plastic bags for the rest of the ride. Eeeww…
Lima, PERU to Arica, CHILE - 09 march 2003
Surprisingly, I slept rather well last night. It might be the straight Pan-American highway that was working for me.
I arrived in Lima at around 11am, after the 22-hour bus-ride. One did not go ‘wow’ upon arrival at Lima. One goes ‘uh-huh’ upon arrival at Lima.
Uh-huh uh-huh uh-huh.
Half an hour later, I had made my way to another bus-company and coincidentally, the bus going to Tacna was leaving at noon and so I was barely on steady ground for 30 minutes before embarking on another 20-hour bus ride to Tacna.
Arica, CHILE - 10 march 2003
Now, this night-bus did not work well for me. I was on the Economy bus and there were people who climbed on the bus even though there were no seats left. The poor things would rather stand.
I was sitting right in front of the on-board toilet, so it was rather stinky already and quite annoying with the constant usage throughout the night. Those people without seats were all gathered at the back, standing around me. A few held onto my head-rest, trapping my hair under their grasps throughout the night, their plastic bags hitting my face.
There was no air-con on this bus. All the windows were shut (because opening it a little would be noisy) and I could feel myself dying of lack of oxygen right there and then. I felt really claustrophobic. I had to ask the guy next to me to open the window a crack to survive the night. I think I sprained my neck too.
Amazingly, the bus arrived 2 hours earlier than planned in Tacna, ending my 40-hour bus marathon and beginning my 2-hour border-crossing procedure. I felt a sense of relief when I crossed the border.
I had gained 2 hours entering Peru two weeks ago. But back to Chile now, I only had to return 1 hour for they had just advanced the clocks two days ago.
I had more Argentinian Pesos with me and so I decided to try and go to Argentina as soon as possible. The first bus company said they would leave tonight.
TONIGHT! No, ¡no puedo! [I can’t!]. I cannot take another bus-ride tonight! I had not seen my toes for… let me count… since 5am in Lemeybamba, that’s what? 51, 52 hours??? I needed to be horizontal for at least 8 hours before I could embark on another overnight bus.
Thank goodness, another company would leave tomorrow. Hello, toes.
Sunday, March 2, 2003
25 - Mission Inca-Kola (Trujillo, Chiclayo)
Arica, CHILE to Lima, PERU - 26 february 2003
For the past two days in Arica, I had been considering if I should cross over to Peru as this was probably the closest I would get to Peru in a long time. I was there three years ago and had visited the southern bits of Peru.
Yesterday, I received an email from Fanny from France. She and her friends, Nathalie and Nadege, were with me in China on the 4-day horse-trek in Songpan way back in May last year. They had just completed their 1-year trip. However, during the last few weeks of their trip, in Ecuador and Peru, they all separately had their bags and cameras stolen.
It was so sad. Both countries have amazing cultures and tremendously interesting history. But security is always a problem. I had heard many, many, many stories from various travellers who either had bad things happened to them or knew someone who had bad things happened to them in Ecuador or Peru.
Three years ago in Peru, I was violently robbed as well, knocked unconscious and left lying on the pavement. It was horrible.
Sigh… when you are able to hold conversations, stating, “My first robbery happened in… And my second robbery happened in…”, you should really consider switching your interest from travelling to cross-stitching.
Well, tempting as it is, I am struggling now but… I think I will stick to travelling. You go, girl.
And so, I crossed over to Peru with a heavy heart.
Various Peruvians at the International Terminal in Arica harrassed me to take their colectivos [shared car]. After filling out the Immigration Form, I could not locate the driver whom I had originally agreed to, for the Peruvians still looked alike to me. So, I went with another who already had two passengers in his car.
At the Peru customs, the Customs Officer asked me how long I wanted to stay in Peru. Two weeks. He gave me two months, muttering that he did not want to see me married in Peru.
Hey, don’t worry. My betrothed is in Cafayate, Argentina, busy turning five.
And so, I was soon placed at the bus terminal in Tacna, Peru’s border town with Chile and I had scarcely filled my lungs with Peruvian air before I was harrassed by a tout who wanted to bring me to buy a bus-ticket although it was a task I could very well manage myself. ‘1:15pm’ means bus would leave at 1:15pm. ‘Arequipa’ means bus would leave for Arequipa.
He refused to leave me alone and remained unnecessarily earnest and helpful until I tipped him. Well, he performed one useful task – he informed me Peru was 2 hours behind Chile. Hence, I left my hotel in Chile at 12:30pm and arrived in Peru at 12:15pm.
With the robbery stories nagging in my head (all happened in bus terminals and buses), I paid for a relatively expensive bus to Lima. The price was comparable to those in Chile and Argentina.
The bus terminal was full of Peruvians with really, really huge bags of goods, stuffed with shoes, electronic products, toys, etc… These items were obviously bought in Arica, the duty-free port and consumer-goods heaven.
I did not think double-decker comfortable semi-cama [semi-bed] buses existed in Peru three years ago. Now, they do. The bus indeed felt secure and was very comfortable, with dinner, continuous movies on working TV sets and even a game of bingo. Didn’t win though.
Lima to Trujillo, PERU - 27 february 2003
Unbelievably, I actually slept very well on the bus last night.
Upon reaching Lima, I stayed put at the bus terminal to wait for my connection to Trujillo. I did not remember much about Lima from my last trip but, Lima is Lima. Hardly anyone I know who had been here liked it. I did not then and I do not particularly now. The sky was very Lima too, entirely and depressingly shrouded with clouds.
Really long day on the bus yesterday and today. Gosh, this was such a last minute decision. In Tacna, I had actually bought a ticket to Arequipa, a city at the southern end of Peru but half an hour before my bus left, I changed it to Trujillo, at the northern end of Peru. Up til the last minute, I was still unsure where I wanted to go. But I was CRAZY! For the further north I go in Peru, the longer the distance I would need to cover to back-track to Buenos Aires for my flight out of the continent.
Trujillo, PERU - 28 february 2003
Chan Chan ruin is the famous ruin near Trujillo which I set off to visit early in the morning. We were only able to visit Palacio [Palace] Tschudi for the rest were pretty much left in crumbles.
It is a fascinating Chimu ruin, rather well-restored. There are motifs artistically representing sea-lions, fish, pelicans, etc… The diamond-shaped adobe structures represent nets used for fishing, which was very important to the Chimu culture. Everything was related to some aspect of their lives. A better understanding can be attained when one employs a guide and is able to UNDERSTAND the guide. My guide was very kind to speak slowly for my benefit.
Chan Chan was the most important city from the Chimu culture which existed around 1200 to 1400 AD, before the Incas conquered them. Unlike the Incas where the sun was the most important god, the Chimus worshipped the god of the moon, the sea, the land and the stars.
I later caught the colectivo to Huanchaco, a nearby fishing village where the locals used totora reeds to mould and tie into boats with one pointy end and a hollowed-end at the other side for a person to sit in. They paddled the tiny boats in the sea in the early morning to fish. They are called caballitos [little horses].
The totora reed boats in Lago Titicaca way down south, on the other hand, are shaped differently, very much bigger with two pointy ends and with a hollow-centre for a whole family to sit in.
During my forays around the centre of Trujillo, I spotted many rather well-preserved colonial houses. The Plaza de Armas of Trujillo is truly one of the most beautiful I had seen in a while. The houses surrounding it were all colourfully painted. The windows had white-painted grilles with the top bit shaped like the top half of a tear-drop. Very charming. Many houses had wooden balcony boxes hanging out of the sides. Some of these colonial houses were open to the public for visit for free.
Trujillo to Chiclayo, PERU - 01 march 2003
I caught a bus to Chiclayo, a few hours north of Trujillo.
Gosh, Peru is so different. Really, every country has its own little distinctive flavours. Here in Peru, there were many more unfinished buildings, with bricks exposed, with the metal rods sticking out of beams on the top storey as the families ran out of money after constructing the bottom stories; there was a lot more rubbish on the streets; there were many more chifas; there was a lot more cumbia music, a personal ‘favourite’; there were many more street-vendors hawking sweets on trays, fly-swatters, cotton-buds, whatever; there were a lot more ‘¡China!!’, ‘¡Chinita!’, ‘¡Japonésa!’ hissed at me when I walked past people (which were alright until it came to ‘¡Jackie Chan!’); there were many more shoe-shiners and these were mainly young boys; there were many more money-changers-on-stools with huge stacks of cash clasped in one hand and a calculator on the other, sitting along the streets, calling out ‘Cambio Cambio’ [Money Changer]; there were many more taxis.
On the streets of Trujillo and Chiclayo, at one glance, it seemed 80% of the vehicles were yellow taxis and perhaps, 80% of these taxis were empty.
I remembered from my last trip here, that in Lima, Arequipa, Cuzco, anyone who owned a car and could print out ‘TAXI’ on fluorescent stickers could be a taxi driver. From what I saw out of the bus-window in Lima, it apparently was still like this. But in Trujillo and Chiclayo, there seemed to be more control: anyone who owned a car and could print out ‘TAXI’ on fluorescent stickers and PAINT their cars yellow could be a taxi driver.
They were tooting their horns all the time, whistling at you, beckoning you, enticing you. I was browsing in a shop and I kept hearing a insistent tooting and whistling amongst the mêlée of tootings and I happened to look up. Indeed, through the shop’s door, on the road, a taxi driver was gesturing to me and giving me the ‘you-want-taxi?’ look. What the…? I was shopping!
And not to forget, the Peruvian’s own brand of cola - the Inca-Kola, the sickly yellowish, urine-coloured, chemically-flavoured cola that they are so proud of. Adverts everywhere. Bottles on sale everywhere.
Ah, Peru… how I had missed you.
Chiclayo, PERU - 02 march 2003
The tourist office of Chiclayo had been closed yesterday for it was Saturday. The tourist police were right next door and I had popped in to ask when the tourist office would be opened.
Instead, a guy, I was not even sure if he was a tourist police as he was not in uniform, very earnestly helped me with all my inquiries, even took the trouble to go out on the street to photocopy a map of Chiclayo for me. He pointed out all the places where I could take colectivos [shared taxis, a car or a van] to visit the museums and ruins around Chiclayo. Peruvians were really helpful.
I got into a colectivo and headed to Lambayeque, a small town near Chiclayo which had two reputable archaeological museums.
The first one I visited was Museo Arqueologico Nacional Bruning de Lambayeque. It was alright, not super impressive.
But the next one was amazing! Museo Tumbas Reales de Sipan is the museum that housed the entire collection of the treasures discovered in the tombs of a ‘Lord of Sipan’ from the Moche culture (around 100 BC to about 700 AD). The items uncovered were incredible. There were tiny, intricate, gold figurines that needed to be assembled (with dangling ear-rings and minuscule ornaments); many gold and turquoise round ear-rings; necklaces made from micro-sized shells; other gold and silver chunky jewellery shaped like peanuts, heads of men, spiders, etc; enough pottery to cook and feed Calcutta; many, many more. It held a stupendous collection!
Besides the treasure on display, the museum had very good representation of the tomb of the lord, buried with eight people, a few llamas and dog, and lots of pottery and treasures. There were wonderful replicas everywhere to present to us how life was like in that epoch.
This was truly one of the most impressive museums I had been to. Personally, I felt the treasures here were comparable to those unearthed in Tutankhamen’s tomb in Egypt. This made coming to northern Peru all worthwhile already. The rest would just be bonus.
After lunch, I went further north on another colectivo to Túcume. Here were 26 adobe pyramids from the Lambayeque culture (which was before the Chimu culture).
As these pyramids were made from adobe, or mud, unlike stone-pyramids in Egypt or Mexico, these did not last very long. It apparently did not rain that often in this region at that time, but occasionally, the El Niño phenomenon would arrive to wreck havoc with the weather. And so, these pyramids basically looked like muddy mountains, with signs of erosion caused by rivulets running off at the base.
I was perhaps the only tourist there and I was totally alone when I walked up to the mirador for a view around the pyramids. That was nice. Later, I saw many broken ceramics amongst the ruins too. No, I guess it was not possible to pick up everything and try and piece them together.
To go to these little towns, there were no set schedules for buses whatsoever. Anyone with a vehicle could supply the transportation. Usually, there would be an assistant hanging at the door, shouting out the locations they were heading. This was required because, while there were signs in front of the car or van, many people were illiterate or some, so old and blind, they could not read anything.
Usually, I did not know where to catch the colectivo-vans but people on the streets would point me to the place where the colectivo-cars waited. They would wait until five people show up and then, they were off.
The colectivo-vans were easier to catch back to the main town, like Chiclayo and they usually tried to pile as many people in as possible. I was standing with my back bowed for a good distance before someone got off and I could snuggle my butt between two locals.
The 1 Sol and 50 centavos coins I handed over were declared ‘falsos’ [counterfeits] and I had to fish out other coins for payment.
OK, I was warned about counterfeit coins on my first day in Peru. Every time I received change, I studied them closely. But I had no idea what to look out for. I was just pretending. Sometimes, I would mutter something and return a nearly smoothened-out coin to the shop-owners and they usually changed it without a word. Now, with a few days into Peru, I might have accumulated a handful of these falsies and it was time to study the differences.
I spread all my coins at the reception of my hotel for my receptionist to analyse. However, he passed the ‘rejected’ 1 Sol and 50 centavos. I pointed out the different fonts. He said, yeah, but these were the new ones issued from 2000 onwards. Some folks still had not caught on. Well, he detected a false 2 Soles coin. The font-size for the two ‘S’ in SOLES were larger than the other letters.
Hmmmm… I had worked in a credit-card centre for six years and I had seen MASTERCARD printed as MASTECARD on some counterfeit cards and seen a fax of a passport once, with PASSPORT spelled as PASPORT. What was wrong with these fraudsters with their mis-spellings and font-size mistakes? Were they not afraid of counterfeit laws but of copyright laws?
I spent my fake 2 Soles on a bus-ticket later.
For the past two days in Arica, I had been considering if I should cross over to Peru as this was probably the closest I would get to Peru in a long time. I was there three years ago and had visited the southern bits of Peru.
Yesterday, I received an email from Fanny from France. She and her friends, Nathalie and Nadege, were with me in China on the 4-day horse-trek in Songpan way back in May last year. They had just completed their 1-year trip. However, during the last few weeks of their trip, in Ecuador and Peru, they all separately had their bags and cameras stolen.
It was so sad. Both countries have amazing cultures and tremendously interesting history. But security is always a problem. I had heard many, many, many stories from various travellers who either had bad things happened to them or knew someone who had bad things happened to them in Ecuador or Peru.
Three years ago in Peru, I was violently robbed as well, knocked unconscious and left lying on the pavement. It was horrible.
Sigh… when you are able to hold conversations, stating, “My first robbery happened in… And my second robbery happened in…”, you should really consider switching your interest from travelling to cross-stitching.
Well, tempting as it is, I am struggling now but… I think I will stick to travelling. You go, girl.
And so, I crossed over to Peru with a heavy heart.
Various Peruvians at the International Terminal in Arica harrassed me to take their colectivos [shared car]. After filling out the Immigration Form, I could not locate the driver whom I had originally agreed to, for the Peruvians still looked alike to me. So, I went with another who already had two passengers in his car.
At the Peru customs, the Customs Officer asked me how long I wanted to stay in Peru. Two weeks. He gave me two months, muttering that he did not want to see me married in Peru.
Hey, don’t worry. My betrothed is in Cafayate, Argentina, busy turning five.
And so, I was soon placed at the bus terminal in Tacna, Peru’s border town with Chile and I had scarcely filled my lungs with Peruvian air before I was harrassed by a tout who wanted to bring me to buy a bus-ticket although it was a task I could very well manage myself. ‘1:15pm’ means bus would leave at 1:15pm. ‘Arequipa’ means bus would leave for Arequipa.
He refused to leave me alone and remained unnecessarily earnest and helpful until I tipped him. Well, he performed one useful task – he informed me Peru was 2 hours behind Chile. Hence, I left my hotel in Chile at 12:30pm and arrived in Peru at 12:15pm.
With the robbery stories nagging in my head (all happened in bus terminals and buses), I paid for a relatively expensive bus to Lima. The price was comparable to those in Chile and Argentina.
The bus terminal was full of Peruvians with really, really huge bags of goods, stuffed with shoes, electronic products, toys, etc… These items were obviously bought in Arica, the duty-free port and consumer-goods heaven.
I did not think double-decker comfortable semi-cama [semi-bed] buses existed in Peru three years ago. Now, they do. The bus indeed felt secure and was very comfortable, with dinner, continuous movies on working TV sets and even a game of bingo. Didn’t win though.
Lima to Trujillo, PERU - 27 february 2003
Unbelievably, I actually slept very well on the bus last night.
Upon reaching Lima, I stayed put at the bus terminal to wait for my connection to Trujillo. I did not remember much about Lima from my last trip but, Lima is Lima. Hardly anyone I know who had been here liked it. I did not then and I do not particularly now. The sky was very Lima too, entirely and depressingly shrouded with clouds.
Really long day on the bus yesterday and today. Gosh, this was such a last minute decision. In Tacna, I had actually bought a ticket to Arequipa, a city at the southern end of Peru but half an hour before my bus left, I changed it to Trujillo, at the northern end of Peru. Up til the last minute, I was still unsure where I wanted to go. But I was CRAZY! For the further north I go in Peru, the longer the distance I would need to cover to back-track to Buenos Aires for my flight out of the continent.
Trujillo, PERU - 28 february 2003
Chan Chan ruin is the famous ruin near Trujillo which I set off to visit early in the morning. We were only able to visit Palacio [Palace] Tschudi for the rest were pretty much left in crumbles.
It is a fascinating Chimu ruin, rather well-restored. There are motifs artistically representing sea-lions, fish, pelicans, etc… The diamond-shaped adobe structures represent nets used for fishing, which was very important to the Chimu culture. Everything was related to some aspect of their lives. A better understanding can be attained when one employs a guide and is able to UNDERSTAND the guide. My guide was very kind to speak slowly for my benefit.
Chan Chan was the most important city from the Chimu culture which existed around 1200 to 1400 AD, before the Incas conquered them. Unlike the Incas where the sun was the most important god, the Chimus worshipped the god of the moon, the sea, the land and the stars.
I later caught the colectivo to Huanchaco, a nearby fishing village where the locals used totora reeds to mould and tie into boats with one pointy end and a hollowed-end at the other side for a person to sit in. They paddled the tiny boats in the sea in the early morning to fish. They are called caballitos [little horses].
The totora reed boats in Lago Titicaca way down south, on the other hand, are shaped differently, very much bigger with two pointy ends and with a hollow-centre for a whole family to sit in.
During my forays around the centre of Trujillo, I spotted many rather well-preserved colonial houses. The Plaza de Armas of Trujillo is truly one of the most beautiful I had seen in a while. The houses surrounding it were all colourfully painted. The windows had white-painted grilles with the top bit shaped like the top half of a tear-drop. Very charming. Many houses had wooden balcony boxes hanging out of the sides. Some of these colonial houses were open to the public for visit for free.
Trujillo to Chiclayo, PERU - 01 march 2003
I caught a bus to Chiclayo, a few hours north of Trujillo.
Gosh, Peru is so different. Really, every country has its own little distinctive flavours. Here in Peru, there were many more unfinished buildings, with bricks exposed, with the metal rods sticking out of beams on the top storey as the families ran out of money after constructing the bottom stories; there was a lot more rubbish on the streets; there were many more chifas; there was a lot more cumbia music, a personal ‘favourite’; there were many more street-vendors hawking sweets on trays, fly-swatters, cotton-buds, whatever; there were a lot more ‘¡China!!’, ‘¡Chinita!’, ‘¡Japonésa!’ hissed at me when I walked past people (which were alright until it came to ‘¡Jackie Chan!’); there were many more shoe-shiners and these were mainly young boys; there were many more money-changers-on-stools with huge stacks of cash clasped in one hand and a calculator on the other, sitting along the streets, calling out ‘Cambio Cambio’ [Money Changer]; there were many more taxis.
On the streets of Trujillo and Chiclayo, at one glance, it seemed 80% of the vehicles were yellow taxis and perhaps, 80% of these taxis were empty.
I remembered from my last trip here, that in Lima, Arequipa, Cuzco, anyone who owned a car and could print out ‘TAXI’ on fluorescent stickers could be a taxi driver. From what I saw out of the bus-window in Lima, it apparently was still like this. But in Trujillo and Chiclayo, there seemed to be more control: anyone who owned a car and could print out ‘TAXI’ on fluorescent stickers and PAINT their cars yellow could be a taxi driver.
They were tooting their horns all the time, whistling at you, beckoning you, enticing you. I was browsing in a shop and I kept hearing a insistent tooting and whistling amongst the mêlée of tootings and I happened to look up. Indeed, through the shop’s door, on the road, a taxi driver was gesturing to me and giving me the ‘you-want-taxi?’ look. What the…? I was shopping!
And not to forget, the Peruvian’s own brand of cola - the Inca-Kola, the sickly yellowish, urine-coloured, chemically-flavoured cola that they are so proud of. Adverts everywhere. Bottles on sale everywhere.
Ah, Peru… how I had missed you.
Chiclayo, PERU - 02 march 2003
The tourist office of Chiclayo had been closed yesterday for it was Saturday. The tourist police were right next door and I had popped in to ask when the tourist office would be opened.
Instead, a guy, I was not even sure if he was a tourist police as he was not in uniform, very earnestly helped me with all my inquiries, even took the trouble to go out on the street to photocopy a map of Chiclayo for me. He pointed out all the places where I could take colectivos [shared taxis, a car or a van] to visit the museums and ruins around Chiclayo. Peruvians were really helpful.
I got into a colectivo and headed to Lambayeque, a small town near Chiclayo which had two reputable archaeological museums.
The first one I visited was Museo Arqueologico Nacional Bruning de Lambayeque. It was alright, not super impressive.
But the next one was amazing! Museo Tumbas Reales de Sipan is the museum that housed the entire collection of the treasures discovered in the tombs of a ‘Lord of Sipan’ from the Moche culture (around 100 BC to about 700 AD). The items uncovered were incredible. There were tiny, intricate, gold figurines that needed to be assembled (with dangling ear-rings and minuscule ornaments); many gold and turquoise round ear-rings; necklaces made from micro-sized shells; other gold and silver chunky jewellery shaped like peanuts, heads of men, spiders, etc; enough pottery to cook and feed Calcutta; many, many more. It held a stupendous collection!
Besides the treasure on display, the museum had very good representation of the tomb of the lord, buried with eight people, a few llamas and dog, and lots of pottery and treasures. There were wonderful replicas everywhere to present to us how life was like in that epoch.
This was truly one of the most impressive museums I had been to. Personally, I felt the treasures here were comparable to those unearthed in Tutankhamen’s tomb in Egypt. This made coming to northern Peru all worthwhile already. The rest would just be bonus.
After lunch, I went further north on another colectivo to Túcume. Here were 26 adobe pyramids from the Lambayeque culture (which was before the Chimu culture).
As these pyramids were made from adobe, or mud, unlike stone-pyramids in Egypt or Mexico, these did not last very long. It apparently did not rain that often in this region at that time, but occasionally, the El Niño phenomenon would arrive to wreck havoc with the weather. And so, these pyramids basically looked like muddy mountains, with signs of erosion caused by rivulets running off at the base.
I was perhaps the only tourist there and I was totally alone when I walked up to the mirador for a view around the pyramids. That was nice. Later, I saw many broken ceramics amongst the ruins too. No, I guess it was not possible to pick up everything and try and piece them together.
To go to these little towns, there were no set schedules for buses whatsoever. Anyone with a vehicle could supply the transportation. Usually, there would be an assistant hanging at the door, shouting out the locations they were heading. This was required because, while there were signs in front of the car or van, many people were illiterate or some, so old and blind, they could not read anything.
Usually, I did not know where to catch the colectivo-vans but people on the streets would point me to the place where the colectivo-cars waited. They would wait until five people show up and then, they were off.
The colectivo-vans were easier to catch back to the main town, like Chiclayo and they usually tried to pile as many people in as possible. I was standing with my back bowed for a good distance before someone got off and I could snuggle my butt between two locals.
The 1 Sol and 50 centavos coins I handed over were declared ‘falsos’ [counterfeits] and I had to fish out other coins for payment.
OK, I was warned about counterfeit coins on my first day in Peru. Every time I received change, I studied them closely. But I had no idea what to look out for. I was just pretending. Sometimes, I would mutter something and return a nearly smoothened-out coin to the shop-owners and they usually changed it without a word. Now, with a few days into Peru, I might have accumulated a handful of these falsies and it was time to study the differences.
I spread all my coins at the reception of my hotel for my receptionist to analyse. However, he passed the ‘rejected’ 1 Sol and 50 centavos. I pointed out the different fonts. He said, yeah, but these were the new ones issued from 2000 onwards. Some folks still had not caught on. Well, he detected a false 2 Soles coin. The font-size for the two ‘S’ in SOLES were larger than the other letters.
Hmmmm… I had worked in a credit-card centre for six years and I had seen MASTERCARD printed as MASTECARD on some counterfeit cards and seen a fax of a passport once, with PASSPORT spelled as PASPORT. What was wrong with these fraudsters with their mis-spellings and font-size mistakes? Were they not afraid of counterfeit laws but of copyright laws?
I spent my fake 2 Soles on a bus-ticket later.
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