R + D | South America

Two hours into Peru from the Ecuadorian border, one of our day packs was stolen. The dirty little ladron left a bad taste in our mouths that has soured Peru a little. The stolen day pack contained all of our guide books, among other things, so we had a taste of pre-Lonely Planet travelling. God bless Lonely Planet. The little bastard also got my green book — a collection of everything I´ve written in the past five years (poems, stories, thoughts). ¡Que lastima! The only upside is that maybe the little maldito will have more persistence than me and actually get my stuff published. At least there is one person in the world who can now appreciate my brilliant writing, even if he can´t speak English. 

By now we have seen quite a few Peruvian cities. From Chiclayo and Trujillo in the north to Cusco and Arequipa in the south, with a little smidge of Lima in the middle.  Two things all Peruvian cities have in common: unbelievable noise pollution and very aggressive salespeople. The latter are the primary source of the former.

First, are the taxis. More per capita than in NYC for sure. Like all Peruvians selling something, taxi drivers believe that pedestrians need to be constantly reminded that they are there and ready to take your money. Every taxi that passes you (mas o menos ten per minute) honks at you. This is the first layer of background noise. There are many others. Almost no one owns cars so public transportation is ubiquitous. Taxis, combis, collectivos, buses, mototaxis, etc. Each has its own call, ranging from honks to modified car alarms that blare on and off in an instant, to guys hanging out of the side shouting destinations ¨Puno, Puno, Puno!¨¨Arequipa, Arequipa, Arequipa!¨ They have no faith that you might be able to decide for yourself that you need a bus and identify the correct one. The honking, beeping, squealing, squawking, bleating, wailing, whining, blaring, barking, yelling have no limits. 5 a.m. is no injunction.

On this cacophenous background are the street vendors selling ANYTHING you can think of. Peru must have an informal economy twice the size of the formal one. They stop you every few feet selling anything from adrenaline-packed-canyoning-for-gringos-with-death-wishes, to individual used AA batterries. Popcorn, peanuts, gum, water, tours, t-shirts, your photo Senor!, shoe shine for your Tevas?, sunglasses, phone cards, empanadas, pan, choclito con queso, verduras, chicha, helados, etc. Like the hucksters of transportation, they are loud and constant. The gringo tourist has it even worse because he must also contend with the old ¨menu in your face routine¨ (with added soundtrack of course). ¨Amigo! Spaghetti, cuy (guinea pig), orange juice?¨

Thrown in to the great communal Peruvian sales pitch is blaring music, reggaeton – a mix between Latin hip-hop, salsa, and reggae – being the best example. The music must be loud enough to distort as it comes out of the speakers.

Actually the harangue of the sales pitch can be beautiful in an annoyingly catchy way. Each salesperson using his own inflection to make his product as catchy as possbile. I still can´t get the ice-cream salesman out of my head with his deep voice, head tucked in, lips fully puckered out ¨helados, helados, heladitos!¨Or the shrill ladies in the bus station in Cusco, all 25 of them, one at a time in rapid succession ¨Arequeeeeeepa, Arequeeeeepa!¨ 

My dear Granny Thelma used to call rude, loud people ¨Peruvians.¨As in ¨that man over there is a Peruvian. He has no manners.¨I don´t believe in such stereotypes and we have met many wonderful and kind Peruvians, but I know where the loud part comes from now.

Speaking of stereotypes, we met an Israeli who walked for eight hours on a train track from Macchu Picchu to Ollaytantambo because he refused to pay the higher tourist price for the train ticket. He was so proud of the thirty dollars he had saved. The only other people who ever make this ridiculously long and hot journey are occasional Inca Trail porters, who could outrun the Isreali army drunk and in their sleep.  The Israeli also told us about his numerous bargaining victories with Peruvian sellers. I realized as he spoke that only Israelis and Arabs can out-bargain the Peruvians, and an American-Canadian mestizo doesn´t have a hope in hell. Although we have a pretty good husband-wife, good-cop bad-cop routine going.

Of course the intense pressure to sell comes from grinding poverty, and the artful bargaining comes from gaping inequality. The upper class, ultra-rich Peruvians and American retirees with $800 video cameras should pay more for alpaca scarves than average Peruvians eeking out an existence driving a taxi. I saw a grey-haired, pot-bellied, American couple arguing for a senior citizen discount because the 15 soles  ($4.60)  entrance fee to see a spectacular museum housing a perfectly preserved sacrificed Inca woman was too much. The couples´ monthly pension is probably more than the annual budget of the museum.

That museum by the way, Museo Santuarios Andinos, is the most haunting sight I´ve seen in a long time. Macchu Picchu in all its splendor is peopleless (aside from the 2,000 person horde of tourists). It´s magnificent and awe-inspiring, but it´s just stone. This museum in Arequipa houses the perfectly preserved remains of a 14-year-old Inca girl sacrificed on top of a volcano 500 years ago. She was found in 1995 a few weeks after an adjacent volcano erupted and melted the ice that had been keeping her beautiful for centuries. Everything she was buried with — clothes, offerings, food — was perfectly preserved. It´s chilling. And the Japenese designed transparent freezer that she now lives in makes it all the more so. Ahhhh the Japanese, I bet they wanted to put a DVD player in there too.

The other museums, in the north of Peru, housing the remains of the Lord of Sipan for example, were equally cool, but lacked the whole young girl being sacrificed at 6,000 meters element. Spooky!

Say what you will about the Inca, they certainly liked heights. How the Spanish defeated them I will never know. Yea, yea, yea I know the whole Guns, Germs, and Steel arguement, but really all the Inca needed to do was ambush them before they acclimatized.  

The Inca trail was only possible thanks to coca leaves. Anyone who says it´s easy is a liar or has a porter carrying everything they own. The coca makes you move uphill fast. I hiked with a 12 kg backpack which was agony when the coca wasn´t pulsing through my veins. The porters who carry 25 kg, wear smooth leather sandals, and move 10 times faster (seriously, ten times faster) were an impressive sight. Zero percent body fat  and strong backs. These guys are very impressive. Very impressive.

They serve you hot tea in your tent at 5 am and clap for you as you arrive in camp each day. They make you pizza and fresh fish in a 4000-meter high wilderness and have your tent set up and taken down before you can blink. They were one of the highlights of the trail for me.

Unfortunately, some tourists arrive in Cusco and don´t give themselves enough time to acclimatize. They over pack and then think they can carry their own packs. Half way through the trek they have the porters — already straining under the legal limit of 25kg –carry the extra load. The porters, desperately poor, will never say no to the extra cash. The tourists, in awe of the porters strength, never think about the bad backs and work injuries these guys must end up with. It was really sad to see the pitiful tips the porters ended up with after their spectacular work.

I only couldn´t help thinking that the Inca, like the porters, surely could have defeated the Spaniards, like modern-day tourists, unacclimatized and over-packed.

The trail was stunning, passing trough all kinds of terrain — from high mountainous altiplano, way above the tree line and dotted with lagoons, to orchid and fern laden cloud forests. Along the way Inca ruins cling to mountain sides. Wind on carved stone.

Machu Pichu are just two words you´ve heard over and over again which transform into this unfathomable stone city on an impossible mountain top hidden by a shield of higher peaks that makes you realize just how ugly any modern city really is. It is astonishing. It makes you forget the pain in your knees from the 2,000 Inca steps the day before, the pain in your feet from the kilometre on kilometre of carved stones winding through the forest, and the pain in your shoulders from your pack.

After we descended to the Sacred Valley, we spent a night at Willka T´ika — a five star haven surrounded by gardens unrivaled even by my Granny Thelma´s once upon a time. It´s somehow nestled incongruously in a sea of rural South American poverty. The place is a luxurious Eden. We lay under the stars in an outdoor stone bathtub filled with rose petals, rosemary, eucalyptus, and other unidentified herbs under the Milky Way in all its glory serenaded by live Andean folk music from a nearby concert. It was magical, especially for our aching bodies.  

Peru´s not so bad after all.