Running the gauntlet
We’d had a reasonably early night. Edgard’s cousin had eventually arrived, and a German friend of hers who happened to be in the city at the time also joined us for dinner. We went to a restaurant a little way from the plaza, and while everyone else had a decent sized meal and laughed at the German’s European Spanish accent, I sipped gingerly at some more chicken noodle soup, and wondered what they were all talking about. Occasionally they would slip back into English for my benefit, but for the most part I was the heathen.
In the morning, we had to checkout by 10am, but our flight down to Arequipa wasn’t until the afternoon. Edgard’s aunt had invited us to have lunch with the family before the flight, and so we went to the plaza to try and locate a taxi that would take us out to the part of Cusco where they lived. As with everyone else, most taxi drivers were unable to move around unless they had permission. When we managed to actually hail a taxi, we learned the prices had increased far beyond the norm as a consequence of the limited supply of vehicles, and actually let the first taxi go.
We then endured a lengthy wait before any more unoccupied taxis showed up. One of the little buzz-boxes like the ones we’d seen in Trujillo entered the square and was flagged by some other tourists. We were within earshot and could hear the very brief conversation. When given a price, the tourists referred to their guidebook in disbelief, and challenged the driver, advising him that his price should only be in the range specified in the book. The driver could see us waiting further along the street. He laughed at the tourists and drove away without any further discussion, pulling to a stop in front of us.
By now, we’d decided the greater priority was getting to our lunch engagement in time, and despite the driver’s price being higher than normal, it wasn’t too bad. It was the price to be paid for a rare service. Just to refresh the memory, these small taxis are so small you feel like your bum is dragging on the ground. The best way to describe riding in them, is like being in dodgem cars without all the other drivers trying to ram you…for the most part. There’s no suspension to speak of, so on the flagstones that pave many of the inner city streets of Cusco you really feel every bump. Edgard took the front to direct the driver, and I got folded into the back with the luggage. With my head scraping the roof, my knees near my ears, my backside a few inches off the ground, and my body pinned against the door by the luggage, we zipped off into the suburbs of Cusco.
We zigzagged through numerous small streets before emerging onto a larger main road, where the driver really opened up; as much as the little lawnmower engine would allow us at least. Going downhill and with a clear run, we built up quite a bit of speed and I found myself wondering if I’d spied signs of a seat belt before being packed into the car. Ahead of us, a number of police vehicles and officers were visible manning a checkpoint and pulling over any vehicles that came their way.
As one of the policemen walked to the middle of the road to wave us into the checkpoint, our driver wound down his window and began yelling something at the officer. He didn’t slow down and veered around the policeman, continuing to yell out the window. The officer seemed unconcerned by the taxi’s failure to stop. After all, he was on foot (and probably not able to leave his post), and we were already well down the road. I tried not to think about what might’ve happened had the police been more serious about making people stop.
When we arrived for lunch we were still early. The food was being prepared but a long way from cooked. We spent the next few hours eating chunks of Panetón, a Christmas bread kinda like a giant fruit bun, and being entertained by Edgard’s cousin’s son, who was being challenged by the mechanics of a new push bike his father had bought for him. Eventually a larger group of Edgard’s extended family had arrived and we sat down to eat in their yard under a surprisingly strong sun. I was still on a restricted diet of chicken noodle soup, however this time I didn’t have to force myself to eat. The gastro was definitely on the wane now, though my appetite was still lacking. I’d lost weight (several kilograms) in the previous few days and although I was glad to be lighter, it was definitely not the best way to lose it.
By the time lunch was underway, a number of hours had passed and I couldn’t stop myself checking my watch. The airport was at the opposite end of the city, and given how long it had taken to locate a taxi so far, I was getting anxious about being on our way again. In typical Peruvian fashion, my hosts were far less concerned about this, eventually though, I was able to convince them that we were too far from the airport to walk, and that taxis had been rare even in the tourist zone of the city, let alone in the residential area, which meant we needed to leave earlier.
We said our goodbyes and walked down to the main avenue in the expectation a taxi was far more likely to appear there. We spent close to half an hour waiting before one showed up, then a few more. We ended up in another super-charged lawn mower, which promptly buzzed us to the airport. We were there with plenty of time to spare of course—at least an hour—and found that our German companion from the previous evening was also there waiting for the same flight with some of his friends.
They were on their way to Puno and Lake Titicaca, and the flight we were taking detoured through Juliaca, a city not far from Puno, enroute to Arequipa, our next destination. As we were waiting, I was polled by census officials who were moving around the gate lounge collecting details of the foreigners waiting for their flights; the census was to get details of everyone in the country at that time. We boarded the flight and as we waited for the plane to push back, we watched several ground crew chasing sheets of paper across the tarmac. One of the crew had accidentally dropped a stack of forms from his clipboard just as the wind began to gust strongly. I hoped it wasn’t any of the paperwork relating to our plane.
Once in the air, I was once again stuck to the window, peering out over The Andes. In this part of the range there is little snow (also a symptom of the time of year), and the highland terrain is dry and brown. Nonetheless, I still find them mesmerising. For the most part I remember little of the trip until I got my first view of Lake Titicaca. I’d read it was quite large (though a shadow of its former self), but seeing it spread out below us didn’t compare to any image the imagination can bring. The huge mass of water spread out to the horizon like a vast inland ocean, the metallic blue contrasting sharply against the brown hues of the surrounding countryside.
Juliaca itself struck me as poor and barren. There was little visible vegetation around the city and many of the houses looked run down. Apparently in this part of Peru, houses are never completed to avoid paying taxes. I wonder if that’s the same reason so many of them in other parts of the country look like that. I’d been assuming it was because they’d run out of money to finish the construction, but side-stepping a seemingly ridiculous tax seems a pretty good reason.
The plane was not on the ground for very long. Those disembarking were quickly herded off, and within a few minutes, those going from Juliaca to Arequipa started filing on. Once back in the air we flew west to Arequipa. The ongoing eruptions of Mount Ubinas to the south-east had left large dark streaks in the sky in this region of The Andes, the muddy haze resembling the smog of a modern city. It had spewed so much debris into the atmosphere that flight paths had been altered to bypass it, and our flight undertook a number of course corrections as the plane tacked its way around the thicker debris clouds.
Once past the ash cloud, the air cleared, and in the distance we could see the cone of the volcano poking above the clouds, a thick dark trail lacing into the sky from its summit. Again we banked, and more volcanoes became visible to the north. As the flight descended, we swept in around several large volcanoes and could see Arequipa spilling down the valleys below us. The airport was located on a plateau above the city, near the feet of the volcanoes that stood grandly on the north and eastern flanks of the city. In the winter/wet season, most of the peaks are snow-capped, and although we’d arrived too early for that, they were still impressive enough.
We disembarked onto the tarmac, and I was struck by the difference in atmosphere here compared to Cusco. The Sun was more visible, and the air felt clearer somehow, and definitely drier. Perhaps it was the lower altitude, and the fact Arequipa is in a more arid zone, but I finally felt with the change in location, that I was on the mend. The airport terminal was relatively old, and much like in Cusco, we waited at the baggage carousel and watched through a window as the ground crew unloaded the luggage.
We’d booked into Casa Arequipa, a guesthouse in the south of the old city. The rooms were pricey compared to some of the places we’d stayed, but they offered a free airport pickup and were able to do a lot of the legwork for us with regards to booking tours, such as the trip to Cruz del Condor. When we emerged from the terminal there was a small group of people waiting, but no sign of our pickup. After several minutes of waiting, Edgard called the hotel and was in the process of getting a description of our driver when they arrived in a new minivan holding up a placard with my name on it.
When we arrived at the guesthouse the prices began to look very justified. It was a grand old colonial mansion that had been fully restored to its original grandeur (with one notable exception). The interior was a large drawing room with a ceiling to the upper floor, surrounded by a wide balcony that fed into each of the regular rooms. Downstairs was the dining area and a couple of the very luxurious suites, complete with king size bed, private lounge and ensuite.
It was all super-posh and a big change from some of the places we’d stayed in during the past month. Nonetheless, it had one failing: the exterior. The large rendered walls were painted hot pink, with the window and door frames a brilliant white. This combination under Arequipa’s clear, strong sunlight was surely a traffic hazard, though fortunately it was on a small suburban street with minimal traffic.
In the evening, the staff gave us directions to the central plaza where if we were lucky we may be able to stir up some food, as well as some tips on where to go in the city (and definitely where NOT to go). It was still census day, so it was unlikely there would be much movement within the city, and most places would probably be closed. We walked to a nearby avenue and hailed a taxi into the plaza—the centre of the city, and the suburb we were in, were both safe enough, but there were some areas between the two that were best avoided at night, even on census night.
As expected, the plaza was for the most part, deserted. In many ways it reminded me of the city squares in Spain—more so than most other cities we’d visited so far in Peru (although Trujillo was pretty close). The massive cathedral occupies the eastern side of the plaza, and grand buildings with intricately carved stone facades, wide verandahs and balconies flank the remaining sides. All of it has been built with sillar, the local volcanic rock which when lit as these are, has a soft white glow.
We skirted the plaza, looking at the handful of eating options that were still open. On one side of the plaza in particular, restaurants aimed squarely at the tourist market were still open on the top floors. At the entrance to each, spruikers tried to coax the handful of uncertain tourists—ourselves included—into climbing the stairs to dine on the balcony. Eventually we capitulated to one and went upstairs, laughing at the protests of the other spruikers who insisted theirs was better in a last effort to change our minds.
From the balcony we could only really see the plaza, and several streets branching off into the rest of the city. My stomach was ready for solids again and had begun demanding pasta. I made the mistake of thinking the dish listed on the menu would be as my body remembered it back home, and very nearly had a relapse in my condition after ingesting the dry and spicy boloñesa. After dinner we caught a cab back to Casa Arequipa. Tomorrow we’ll be exploring one of the local museums where Juanita is located, as well as a wider tour of the White City.