Perilous Peru and Equatorial Ecuador

Perilous Peru and Equatorial Ecuador

In this episode, Ryan…
-wins a trivia contest in Cuzco
-enters a convent in Quito, Ecuador
-encounters Venezuelan President Hugo Chavez

Puno, Peru

Border-crossings in South America make me yearn for the ease of which I traveled through Europe (gotta love that Schengen Agreement), though of course if it weren’t for awkward border crossings, I probably wouldn’t have half as many stories about South America now would I?

Coming from Bolivia, I was beginning to expect anything and everything (or nothing as the case might be) from buses, so when I was told we were to be whisked to Peru in a glorified Mini-van with jimmy-rigged fold-out seats (the bus companies are determined to increase passenger capacity and they’re not about to let a silly little thing like customer comfort or vehicle safety get in the way).

So after getting us all packed up and conditioned, we prepared ourselves mentally for a long uncomfortable journey.

The bus stopped about half hour later and we were kicked off and told to get a new one. This was the Peruvian border, and we’d be having a new bus on the other side. First though we had to go through customs on both sides, waving good-bye to the smiling photo of Evo Morales for the last time before waving “hello” to the smiling photo of whoever it is that is currently president of Peru (I think it’s some latino guy).

The Peruvian border office seemed markedly cleaner than Bolivia’s and I took this as a positive omen, and I needed one as my intestine was still doing cartwheels from my Bolivian adventure. The bus we were on was much bigger too, and though the lights kept flickering on and off (mostly off) and I still had to sit diagonally (on account my knees kept hitting the seat in front of me), at the end of the day, I made it to Puno (the major Peruvian city on their side of Lake Titicaca).

At first glance, Puno doesn’t seem a whole lot different than Bolivia (although perhaps a little cleaner). That said, the town does have a few markets, restaurants, and copious amounts of cheap video game arcades that made me fall in love with the place (although I probably wasted a few too many “Nuevo soles” on Metal Slug 4).

Puno’s also the jumping off point for voyages to the Peruvian islands in Lake Titicaca, although I was only able to visit the Islas Flotantes (Floating Islands), which were a series of aboriginal villages built by the Uros people to escape subjugation by the Incas. Think of them as the Venetians of Mesoamerica (not to be confused with the Venezuelans who were also named after Venice because aboriginal villages there were also built out over water). In Venezuela and Venice though, the villages were firmly built from the lake bottom up (or just built on stilts), where as these islands, made of mud and buoyant reeds from Lake Titicaca, actually float, which gives them some unique advantages. For one, you never have to worry about rising water levels or flooding (although you might have to worry about sinking if your reeds rot out too much and you haven’t replaced them), and if some foreign people is threatening to make nasty from the shore, you just haul up your anchor and float towards Bolivia. Neat trick eh?

Of course, these days the islands experience daily tourist invasions (although they’re just as happy to relieve you of your Nuevo sole as the next guy) and touring them is neat (although very touristy). You can expected to run a gauntlet of hawkers of traditional handicrafts at some point in your visit, though make sure you buy from the artist directly if you can.

Because the miniscule islands are not interconnected, you have to take boats to travel between them (which makes independent travel nigh impossible), so basically you’re always with a herd of other tourists (Incidentally you have to be very careful getting off boats as its hard to tell where the reeds are strong enough to support you. Also they’re springy, so if you jump off the boat, you tend to bounce). At some points I tried wandering away from the group, only to have some old guy yell at me to get back with them, but eventually I found a hunter dude who showed me the bird he killed and his gun (his gun was about 10 times larger than the bird it killed, I’m surprised it didn’t obliterate the thing) and would be cooking for his family in next day or two (meanwhile it sat outside in a swamp unrefrigerated). He also showed me his house and his kids, had a couple of those too, which was very small and made of the same grass reeds as the island it floated on (we’re talking the size of a tool shed back home with upwards of six people living in it). He was very proud though and didn’t mind the clutter. He didn’t even ask me for money, knowing full well I’d have to give him some later as he was the ferryman tasked with canoeing us off the island.

(One last note on Puno. Advertisements for RC Cola were everywhere. Apparently its considered an aphrodisiac in Peru).

Cuzco

After Puno, I headed to Cuzco which is famous as the former capital of the Incas (and being not far from Machu Piccu, relatively speaking). Cuzco itself is very hilly old colonial city (many Spanish colonial buildings remains) and is quite beautiful to walk around (if you’ve caught your breath yet). Watch yourself though, as due to it being one of the biggest tourist towns in South America, its also one of the worst for people who prey on tourists. Practically everyone I talked to had been scammed in one way or another, some losing thousands of dollars or finding themselves in precarious situations. The worst for me was at the bus station when I arrived as aggressive would-be salesmen chased me throughout. I had to dive backwards into a cab (which was awkward as I had a backpack on) as if I was escaping paparazzi.

Cuzco is also said to be the party capital of Peru and I was feeling somewhat better, so I decided to be more sociable. It turned out there was a trivia night at the hostel that night, so me and two other independent travelers, a Dutchman and an Irishman, formed a trivia team to fight for the unnamed prize (the contest was to raise money for a school for poor children). Since most of the other teams had like 15 people on them, we didn’t think our chances were that great, but we were determined to win that unnamed (and likely minimal we presumed) grand prize, so we hunkered down and attacked question after question, and as it happened the three of us had exactly the right mix of obscure trivia data to pull us through (for example: I knew that 300 points was the maximum score in 10 pin bowling and the Irishman knew the title of Madonna’s book from the early 1990s and in which movie Marilyn Munroe’s skirt blows up, although he asked not to be congratulated on knowing both these things). In the end, we tied with another group and so it came to a tie-breaking question (both teams were asked to guess the number of kids living under the poverty line in Cuzco, and the team closest would win). Using Cuzco’s total population and some clever logical deductions, we were able to get nearly bag on the figure, we were able to win the contest and the grand prize… which to our surprise was a bottle of champagne.

Naturally we had been drinking heavily up to this point, but when three strangers win a bottle of champagne through a spontaneous burst of camaraderie, there is no choice but to drink it. And this is where our logic failed us…

Pisco is national alcohol of Peru (mentioning “Chilean Pisco” is a good method of starting a fight with a Peruvian), and while it might seem like just a strong wine-based brandy, it can certainly mess you up good if you let it (which basically consists of anytime you drink the stuff). Naturally, since we were new to Peru, we had enjoyed many a Pisco by the time the champagne came out, and by the time the champagne was finished, so was I.

Nevertheless, I continued out with the group as they to a nearby nightclub, hoping my condition would improve itself. When all I got was a bareknuckled cab ride, flashing lights, and throbbing music, I realized this wasn’t going to work. Minutes after walking in the door, I decided it was time to leave.

What followed was one of the most gruesome nights I experienced in my entire South American trip, as the Irish Stew I had for supper, not to mention my re-awakened Bolivian bowel syndrome. Cuzco may have been the party capital of Peru, but I’d be spending most of my time there in close proximity to a washroom facility.

That said, I did manage to find my way to a few places of interest. I saw a folklorico show at the Centro National de Arte Nativo (which featured native dancing and Incan history alongside ridiculous amounts of flashing lights and effects) and the Centro Artesanal de Handicrafts (I may have that name wrong) where was I able to haggle my way to purchasing a few traditional handmade crafts for the folks back home. By Saturday I was feeling a little better, so I decided to do what I came to Cuzco to do in the first place. Go to Machu Picchu.

While some people hike to Machu Picchu on the Inca Trail, I had been advised not to attempt it. A) because its difficult B) because its overrun with tourists, is expensive, and has to be booked well in advance and C) because most of the people I mentioned earlier who got scammed, got scammed at something involving the Inca trail. So I took the train.

Now, I was looking forward to the train journey, as experience had taught me that train journeys are generally smoother than bus ones. Of course in Peru this was not the case, but at least they advertised the Hiram Bingham Backpacker train (Hiram Bingham’s the Indiana Jones-type who made Machu Picchu famous) as if it were. I’m pretty sure the train was too big for the tracks it was on, but oh well…

The train drops you at a place called Aguas Caliente (“Hot Water,” and no I didn’t take a shower here). And from here you can take a bus up a gazillion precarious switchbacks to reach the summit, where you find the majestic ancient citadel whose purpose remains a mystery. (Of course some people like to hike up, but unless you’re a fan of masochism in the outdoors, one look at the cliff you have to climb should tell you this isn’t perhaps the wisest way to spend your vacation. I found the trailhead at Machu Picchu while I was up there, and it was chock full of absolutely exhausted people who were in no position to enjoy the ruins they worked so hard to reach).

That said, Machu Picchu is a world wonder for a reason. It leaves you breathless wondering how (and especially why?) this massive and ornate ancient city was built in such a difficult (but startling beautiful setting). It was one of my must-sees in South America, and you’d be an idiot to come all the way to Cuzco and miss it, traveller’s diarrhea or not.

At any rate, with Machu Picchu under my belt it was time to move on to my next objective. Nazca here I come.

Nazca

Peru has a ridiculous amount of priceless archaelogical sites (partly due to the ridiculous amount of advanced ancient cultures that called Peru home at some point). There weren’t just the Incans, in fact the Incans were only the pre-eminent culture in Peru for about 100 years before the Spanish came a-conquistadorin’. Pretty much every region has a relic of a previous society, one of the most famous non-Incan sites being the Nazca lines. (by the way, I know I’ve been talking about highways too much, but let me just say that the road from Cuzco to Nazca switched back on itself so much that I’m surprised it didn’t tie itself into something of a bowline knot).

These 300+ configurations of animals, plants, and mythological creatures were only re-discovered by an overflying plane in the 1930s (from the ground, people apparently didn’t recognize anything unusual). They are giant pictographs created by removing surface rocks to reveal the different coloured rocks underneath and theories about their purpose range from alien visitors, time travelling Peruvian, and an ancient astronomical calendar system constructed over time by the local inhabitants of the Nazca region (my money’s on the latter). You can only really appreciate the lines by air, but the flights are notoriously bumpy and my stomach was still recovering from Cuzco, so I decided to do the ground tour (which involved me climbing a tower, visiting the house of the German woman who dedicated her life to the lines, and generally wandering around in the desert). That night, I went to a planetarium to learn more about the possible astronomical functions of the line (many theorists think the pictographs correspond to ancient constellations and were made to be only visible to the sky as to be visible to the sky gods as they charted stars and solstices and whatnot). Unfortunately, I missed the English session of the planetarium, but when I was the only one who showed up for the Spanish version, I was able to convince them to do it in English anyway using my clever persuasiveness.

I was supposed to go to Lima the next day, but a transit strike soon threw a rock at those plans (if you try to leave town during a transit strike, the strikers throw rocks at you). Since the road was clearly blocked by all manner of debris.

Consigned to the fact that I would be at least spending one more night in Nazca, I finished some blog work on the computer, which one of the Peruvians whose family ran the hotel to gawk at my apparently rapid keyboarding skills the same way some people gawk at a bearded lady (perhaps Peruvian schools don’t teach word-processing). Wanting a break from South American food (and its aftermath), I decided to try Chinese food instead and ended up eating at a Chifa restaurant (Chifa being a Peruvian rendition of Cantonese food). They ended up sitting me with a young Englishwoman by the name of Sultanna (but because she was darkskinned I thought she was Peruvian at first) whom I ended up helping to order in Spanish (she didn’t speak Spanish and as she was Muslim she had a few dietary restrictions, such as not eating pork, which the waitress assured us wouldn’t be a problem, though my Muslim friend was still served pork). The two of us, both stranded travelers like something of a modern Miller’s Tale, regaled each other with stories of our journeys in lives, trying to pass away the time before the transit strike finally averted. The Chinese food, aside from the pork, wasn’t that bad either (and I’m not saying Peruvian food is bad, au contraire, their Mandarin oranges are excellent).

Lima

Now many travelers had spoken negatively about Lima, some even telling me “it’s just a big city, avoid it altogether.” But since I have a Peruvian friend, Rubi Paredes, whose from Lima but lives in Canada, and it was clearly on the way, I figured I’d give the Viceroyalty turned Republican capital a go. And I’m glad I did, the place is far more awesome than its backpacker reputation gives it credit for…

Okay, granted it helped that Rubi hooked me up with some compadres of hers including her family and attractive female friends, and I ended up staying in Lima for about a week. The Paredes family invited me to stay with them for free, apparently they’re thinking about opening a backpacker’s hostel themselves and wanted to get my feedback (as Rubi had told them I was an experienced traveler right after she told me to please not cause any international incidents this time while in Peru). I had been staying in a hostel called Flying Dogs in the nightclub district of Miraflores, but I was anxious to move after after arriving home at 1am on my first night to find the door locked and no one answering with a group of suspicious and obviously lying characters standing outside. After knocking aggressively to no available, and repeated attempts to separate me from my money by the harassing scam artists outside, it took 45 minutes more of bugging Starbucks employees, walking to an alternate Flying Dogs location, and getting them to call and wake up the security guard so I could finally go to bed (the next morning, another hotel guest had all his luggage stolen from inside the hostel security locker). So yeah, I was ready to move, and would advise anyone visiting Lima to give Flying Dog a miss. There are many more hostels to choose from.

Miraflores though, should not be missed. Not only does it have its share of Lima-ish drinking establishments (Pisco Sours are the local fave and a great way to induce an early hangover). It is right beside Lima’s seashore (yes, there are even tropical beaches, and people apparently surf here, some every morning before work). The coast is a great series of giant green cliffs parsed by major highways and shopping centres. Further down is the similar neighbourhood of Barranco, likewise famed for its nightclubs and bar districts, although Miraflores and Barranco. Centro Lima (Downtown Lima), the colonial district filled with elaborate and well-restored colonial architecture that makes it seem like something out of Europe, also has an assortment of cool bars and places to hang out and is a great place to meet locals, although not necessarily the locals you want to meet (the reputation is a tad dodgy).

Let’s see, we also climbed a hill, looked at ancient Waca structures (mud pyramids which I’m going to say were made by the Wacan people), ate arroz con pollo (rice with chicken) and other Peruvian specialties. We even saw a fountain park, which had many moving waterspouts and served as an excellent way to get soaked.

Of course, a big thank you goes out to the Paredes family, including Ma and Pa Paredes, Amparo, Mariela, Betsy, and Anhil and his wife (whose name has escaped me), as well as Danny Luz, Ana “Anita” Maria Quispe Aguirre, Magaly Gastello, Milagros Otto, and even one else who hung out with me in Lima.

Mancora

I spent longer than expected in Lima, so I didn’t have much time to get north to Quito where my flight back home was leaving. But it was too far and legnumbing to just bus it straight to Quito, so I decided stop halfway at the Peruvian tropical beach resort of Mancora, where you get a beachside hut to sleep in for like $15 (why not?).

The beach is very long and nice, although watch yourself (I ran to a few people who were held up at gunpoint). And there are plenty of places to party along the strip although they don’t really get going until the weekend. Still if you want to meet Peruvians on vacation, this is the place.

If you’re going on to Ecuador though, be warned that the border crossing is nicknamed “the worst in South America.” There’s a reason for this. As recent as 1995 this border was a no go zone, as Ecuador and Peru were still fighting each other over land claims. The war’s been over for 10 or more years now (although Ecuadoreans, who lost the most in the conflict, are still bitter), but the Canadian government still advises against all travel to the region due to the abundance of landmines. Probably though, the bigger threat to travelers is all the shady characters and corrupt border officials that populate the area. The border posts themselves are organized bizarrely, so you have to criss-cross a run-down and crime-ridden city multiple times in order to get all your stamps in order. This is also the only crossing where I felt I need my Yellow Fever card (proving that I’ve been vaccinated). Not that they even looked at it after I showed them mine, but they sure gave my Irish friend some hassle because his was stolen (although he had documents proving he had one). Likely they were just fishing for a bribe.

Quito

15 hours later, after awkwardly transferring buses, taxiing around, repeated checkpoints, and hours upon hours of Vin Diesel movies (en espanol) we finally reached Quito, at which point the bus drove off with my luggage, leading a sleepless and bedraggled me to chase after it, lose it, and eventually create a scene in the Quito bus station (which ultimately lead to me recollecting my baggage, thankfully, at Cargo). In the process though, I lost track of my Irish friends (in the confusion I hadn’t had time to collect their contact info) and as a result made them worry sick that something nasty had happened to me (I found this out later when I randomly ran into another girl from the bus).

Quito and I didn’t get off to a great start (on account of my lack of sleep and the aforementioned luggage fiasco), but somehow I made my way to Old Town and found a place to shack up (my guidebook claimed Old Town was safe to stay while the more popular New Town was extremely dangerous after dark. Other people claimed the reverse to be true. I’m still undecided.) I did like the old architecture of old town and hotel was decent enough (the shower was electric, which meant it had wires running out of it and ranged from red hot to ice cold and no where in between.) Still though, the place was alright.

As I usually do when I enter a city for the first time, I spent my first day basically just wandering around. I tried to have lunch at the Mercado Central in order to try some Ecuadorian cuisine, but as I went to place my order, a big cockroach ran across the counter, stopped to look at me, and then slithered off. The server was dumbfounded as I inexplicably changed my mind.

Instead I wandered to the Plaza Grande, the biggest square in Old Town and seat of the Ecuadorian government. Mainly I was here for ice cream, there’s a traditional home-made ice cream shop just a block or so away, but since it turned out to be closed, I decided to take in the square anyway.

As I was photographing some of the buildings, I noticed a small crowd gathering outside one of the more important looking ones. There were colourful guards outside, so at first I thought it was a changing of the guards or something, but when I asked one of the street vendors what was happening he gave me a surprise.

“The president of Venezuela is coming to visit.”

Hugo Chavez? The most famous—and probably infamous—current president of a South American country? He was made famous as an enemy of Bush during the Bush era when he referred to Bush as the devil in a speech at the United Nations. He’s been leading the charge, alongside Evo Morales, of trying to put leftist candidates in charge in all of South America’s presidencies, and apparently they’ve been having some success as almost all South American presidents (with the notable exception of Colombia’s Uribe) are leaning left of centre. That said, the situation at home isn’t so rosy; word on the traveler’s street says Venezuela has gone to hell since Chavez took power as poverty rates have skyrocketed therefore so has crime. In fact, many people say the reputation that Colombia used to have now belongs to Venezuela (things have been steadily improving in Colombia apparently).

In any case, like him or loathe him, Chavez is an undeniably important figure in the present-day politics of Latin America. And judging by the crowd he seemed quite popular too. They cheered wildly as his motorcade approached, and then again when he appeared at the balcony with Ecuador’s president Rafael Correa. One woman even threw a flower at him. The closest I could get was 15 feet, but that’s not bad for someone who just stumbled on this.

As someone who personally doesn’t agree with Chavez that much, he wields a lot of boasts and bravado which overshadows the increasing misery faced by average Venezuelans, I was quite surprised at how many people showed up to cheer him on. I was later informed that in fact most Ecuadoreans share my opinion of him, but they all like a good party, and will show up and celebrate regardless of the political views. One girl told me that, when Israel invaded Lebanon back in 2006, many of the people who showed up to the pro-Israel rally also showed up to the pro-Palestinian one. Ecuadoreans love a good fiesta.

That night I checked out the Mariscal neighbourhood, but not knowing anyone in town it kinda became something of a dull evening, so I ended up going home early and catching some shut-eye.

The next day I went to the Museo Central to Banco National (Ecuador’s premiere museum) and appreciated a great deal of art, meeting the lovely and charming Lady Sofia (She was named after Lady Di, as her mother thought “Lady” was Di’s English first name). A nurse by profession, but a chef in training, she took me out to a few places around New Town to sample Ecuadorian cuisine, which can range from everything from fried Guinea Pig to Yuca plants to delicious potato cheese patties called Llapingachos. It was so good we met and had breakfast the next morning.

Now, because I left Ecuador to last, I didn’t have that much time there before I had to head back to Canada (needless to say, it felt a little rushed much like Scotland at the end of my Europe trip). But I still had time to see a few more things before I left, like a few more museums, a heckuva lot of churches, and of course Ecuador’s namesake, the Equator (there’s a tourist site called Mitad Del Mundo where you can dance along both sides of the line and watch an interesting display about swirling toilets. It’s a bit kitschy and cheeseball sure, but what the hell?).

I also found time to visit the convent of Santa Cantalina, where 20 or so nuns voluntarily live in complete isolation for 5 years (not my idea of a good time), and spend that time growing gardens and producing an assortment of hand-made products (including some pretty tasty consegration wine) which they sell through a revolving door which keeps them hidden. Apparently this has been going since the early 1500s. Huh.

Miami

Oh well unfortunately the time came for me to fly home, which I did early one Thursday morning. The plan was to fly American Airlines to Miami then switch there and fly Air Canada to Toronto then on to Winnipeg (I was trying to get back to Brandon so I could surprise my buddy Ray at his wedding social dressed as a Latin dancer). Unfortunately, there was a major storm system passing through the US and Caribbean at that time, so things were a little shaky. We landed alright, but the plane I was supposed to take to Toronto got a piece of Styrofoam stuck in its engine, which after many delays ended up grounding it for the night.

I suppose there are worse places to be stranded than Miami Beach, Florida, but when my bags didn’t appear on the carousel I went into panic mode. Air Canada claimed they never received my bags, although I had personally re-entered them through security (as instructed by American Airlines) after I cleared customs. While they promised to cover costs of accommodation, meals, and transportation for the unexpected overnight stay, I was worried about my bags so I asked if I could check with security. I raced across the airport only to be held up by more bureaucracy (and claims that Air Canada did indeed receive my bag) only to return and find the desk abandoned and myself on my own for the night. Needless to say I was not a happy camper, and after much expense and hassle, when I finally did get to a place to stay in South Beach, I just ordered a pizza and fell asleep (although, fearing I’d lost my bag, therefore half of the total amount of clothes that I own, I bought a few south beach shirts, so if you see me wearing them, that’s why)

The next day, I managed to get to Toronto and then on to Winnipeg and finally Brandon where we had a great social and I promptly began thinking about travelling again. Oh man, I’m hopeless.

Well thanks for reading everyone. I hope to see you on my next trip.

Until then, hasta luego.