Peruvian Paso Horseback Fun

I have been fascinated with Peruvian Paso Horses since I first saw them in Trujillo two years ago. This is a horse that has been bred with a distinctive gait and is known for its smooth ride and amiable nature.

As one who has watched her share of cowboy movies, and even tried riding on occasion, seeing one of these horses being ridden is a rather otherworldly experience. The riders seem to almost float, with none of the up and down motion at play.

I wanted to know what it was like to ride one of these remarkable beasts.

Today I got the chance. Outside of town there is a man who raises these horses and I arranged to go by horseback to a ruin located in the hills outside of town.

Imagine if you can the romance of being met by a wizened old vaquiero (cowboy) and led through cobblestoned streets to awaiting horses. Metal stirrups are replaced by square leather footholds, the saddles intricately tooled and the tack included romal reins.

A quick boost up and I was following the leader through the cobblestoned roads and on the path out of town. We followed the river up the valley quite a ways while my host greeted and conversed with the locals as we passed. Once we cleared the trickle of small homes the road widened, and then the real fun began for me.

My host had until this point kept me at a walk, which was not what I had come for. When the road widened I passed him and encouraged my ride to speed up. My expectation that the gait would be exceptional was played out... wow, it was wonderful, so smooth and effortless. I would pull up and let my party catch up, and then gallop away again. What a blast. I think my smile must have been a mile wide.

Came the point when we left the road, crossed the river and headed up towards the ruins. As we rose above the valley we passed bulls and donkeys grazing at the side of the path, and to my delight we passed lovely, time grazed elderly women and men near their fields, all of whom were greeted respectfully in Quechua.

Throughout it all my mount showed independent spirit while consistently listening to my prompts. This is a prized characteristic of the Peruvian Paso horse, and knowing this it allowed me the confidence to ride more easily and boldly than ever before. What a blast.

Reaching the ruins required some steep riding, and while the ruins were extensive I will admit to not paying much attention to them... the ride down was calling.

Down is definitely harder on the butt. Days later and I am still feeling it.

Retracing our way back to Ollentaytambo allowed me more opportunities to gallop away, although I think this worried my host some. Clop, clop, clop over the cobblestones and through the alleyways and it was good bye to these great creatures.

What a fun fantasy of a day.

ollentaytambo

This lovely little town from which my adventure have been based also boasts its own official ruins. These are covered under what is known as the boleto turistico, or tourist ticket, which is the only way to get into a group of historical entities here in the Cusco area. Whether or not you are interested in most of the ruins etc. you must purchase this ticket.

Since I possess such a ticket I was welcomed into the ruins for a turn about. Part of the ruins are pre-Inca, although these are cordoned off from the masses. The rest of the ruins consist of the requisite terracing, some interesting housing and what looks like would have been some kind of temple. Hard to know because the town was overrun by the Spanish before it could be completed.

What is astounding is the sheer size of the stones used for the temple area, and that they were able to bring these mammoth blocks from the mountains across the river, over the valley and up the hillside to their positions on the mountain high above the town. The stones are faced with carved protrusions in no discernable pattern, although with so many left enroute and unfinished we will never know for sure.

There are a couple of ruins located high on the hills overlooking the temple, and they require a fair hike up to reach them. Off I went following a trail, which came to a fork with no signage. I chose left, which had me winding around and up for quite a distance. Once the track petered out (well past the scary spiders, geckos, butterflies, weird ants and donkey poop) it became apparent that right was the correct avenue, and this required a turnabout.

Of course by this time the sun had appeared, and I was well on my way to scorched. I found a white plastic bag in my backpack, wrapped it around my head (instant sunhat) and continued on. Once on the correct path it was not too long before I was again looking down upon most of the ruins in the area. Really cool, actually.

This portion of ruins was small, mostly what looked like an alter and caretakers area. There was a convenient bench provided for a rest, and after some rehydration it was a reverse trek back to explore the balance of the site.

All in all not a bad days schlepping, sunburn aside. I believe on facebook I have declared that soon my face will be like tanned leather. I will regret it one day, no doubt. But not today.

Spent a little time in and out of the various shops in town on my way back to the hostal, stopping to overeat at a nice place on the way. Whether it was sunstroke, or whether another reoccurrence of the tummy trouble bug I am not sure but I was down for the count.

Yet again another full, fun day.

Machu Picchu

Who knew a trip down memory lane would be so expensive? The cost of my admission and transportation was included the last time I made the journey as part of the Inca Trail trek, so I was less than prepared for the outlay.

But down memory lane I had decided to go, and the day started with a 5am rise from a dead sleep, a 5:20 quick bite to eat the breakfast left out by my host the night before, and a 5:30 dazed walk to the train station. Inside the gate there was a coffee bar, which I utilized in order to down the coffee I would need to wake up. I mean it was a very, very deep sleep.

The boarding of the train was organized and efficient, and we left more or less on time. I was very glad the decision had been made to pay the extra $3 for upgraded seats. This also included a beverage and snack, although the coffee and stale cookies were nothing to write home about.

The start to the day was nice and the view of the gorge through which the train route travelled was stunning. Most of my last journey here was done in darkness. There was lingering evidence of the rail closures of the past couple of years when the river rose high and washed out the tracks.

Upon arrival at the town of Aguas Calientes (the name meaning hot waters, for some thermal baths located in the area) there was a maze of mostly closed market stalls to navigate, and it was easy to get turned around looking for the exit and the way to the cultural centre where the tickets to the ruins themselves are sold. A passport is required to purchase the tickets, which I did for the hefty price of nearly $50. Then there was the short-lived search to buy the tickets for the bus to transport all of us tourists who chose not to walk up to the ruins. Another peek at my passport and I was allowed to spend the $31. to use their services.

A hop, skip and a jump later a seat was procured and the bus did depart. Up, up, up... a long, winding, switchback road that scared silly anyone unwise enough to actually look down, especially when busses had to pass on what is essentially a one lane road.

There was a surprisingly short line-up to get into the ruins. I expected a crowd, but then the option of staying over and trying to catch the sunrise by lining up at 4am for the first bus at 6am had been easily discarded, and I suppose the crowd had more or less already been through.

And so I once again found myself roaming the lost city of the Inca. I certainly never anticipated a return journey here, but there was much I was too tired to take in on my previous visit. Then I had legs of jelly after 4 days of trekking, and was on auto pilot. This time I arrived with legs, lungs and health more or less intact.

As most people took the path leading up to the heights of the ruins, I chose a path that countered and descended to the lower ruins. This was done mainly to avoid the crowds, and because I dislike feeling like a herded sheep. The sun shone down for the first hour of roaming before the expected clouds rolled in and rain ponchos sprouted.

Sauntering across the lower terracing to the temple of the sun area I looked for the alpaca that are set to graze to keep the grass controlled, but there were none about. From time to time I listened in on the guides speaking to the various tour groups, and realized that a lot of the information given was contradictory... I mean this is the lost city, with there is no one about who knows the inside story.

Walked the temple of the three windows, saw the sun dial and the temple of the condor, but I enjoyed most just wandering the nooks and crannies left out by the tours. Followed overgrown pathways, walked the extensive gardens, imagined living in the residential complexes and wondered how it must have felt to be a prisoner chained and tortured in the prison area.

Looking out at the masses of terracing I tried to envision the multitude it must have taken to tend the crops to maintain the population. There are new terraces being unearthed every year, and when a good look is taken at the jungle vegetation that surrounds the complex I suppose we will never find them all.

One thing I missed then was the path to the Inca Bridge. Long, narrow and built into the cliffs high above the gorge, those with a fear of heights should beware. Until recently you could actually walk across the bridge, but it was closed when a tourist took a tumble. The path was a back door that met up with the Inca Trail network, and is thought to have been an escape route. A collapse of the path about 50 meters past the bridge means it is no longer possible to walk this back door, even if the authorities found a way to keep tourists from falling to their deaths.

Sigh. Another opportunity lost. For a trek.

I walked back up the path to the Sun Gate. It is here that the trekkers of the Inca Trail hope to watch the sun rise over Machu Picchu. Two years ago I was one such individual, although the lost city was elusive and shrouded in clouds. This time was no different, but as then I did not mind because I was lost in thought, and in the beauty of the terracing in the mists. The air here in the cloud that rises from below is heavy and settles in your mouth and throat. It tastes elemental.

I sat for a while facing back along the trail and remembered bits of what was essentially the turning point of my life. How different a woman I am today. Then was a desperate and black time, now a time of strength and acceptance. Then I felt alone, and now I know I am loved.

Lightened by reflection, it is a relaxed and enjoyable walk back to the ruins, and with the skies having cleared there was time for a last long look at this destination of a lifetime for so many. Now smelly and exhausted after a full 8 hours wandering and exploring it was an easy decision to skip walking down the Incan Stairs to Aguas Calientes.

Somewhere along the line there was someone intelligent who decided that it was ok to allow visitors to carry a small pack into the ruins. This was much appreciated because I was able to carry in enough food and drink to keep the energy up for the full days fun. Most people do not abuse this privilege, but here and there was evidence of ignorance. When will idiots learn to respect that which is not theirs?

Down at the base of the mountain the river was roiling... the rapids massive and displaying a frightening power. It is not surprising that the rail lines and farms are washed away. Photos will not do it justice, although an effort was made.

Another ode to inhumanity was on display at a roadside gift shop, where a tiny monkey was tied up to a wooden beam. It was pacing back and forth, agitated, and obviously wanted to get away. Why wasn't it allowed to stay in the surrounding jungle and just be?

After ignoring the aggressive restaurant touts (found in every tourist area and city) I sat down for what turned out to be an expensive cup of really crappy coffee. Ick.

Back to the train station, where there was an earlier train getting set to depart. The door attendant was having no part in letting the empty seats be filled, and it was to a seat in the waiting area for me. The area filled with people, and I am sorry to say the loudest and most obnoxious of them were Israelis. At one point in the ladies room I got to listen in while two of them, young, badmouthed their friends and the tourists around them. Didn't have much nice to say about me, but it seemed rather pointless to let them know I understood what they were saying.

Once boarded and on our way it soon became evident that there was something quite wrong. The train barely made it out of crawl, and after an hour and a half of trying the engine filled the cars with smoke and gave up the ghost. Took some time to bring in a replacement, and I was glad I had provisions left from the day because once again we were served bad beverages and cookies.

My planned stop at Hearts Cafe for a hot bowl soup didn't happen because we arrived long past closing. Just a note about this Cafe. It was started as a project to employ locals and raise funds to support programs in the high mountain communities. Great place, great food and friendly people. They do good work.

After a full, full day exhaustion set in and after the short stroll (thankfully) back to the hostal, I enjoyed a welcome hot shower and a soft comfy bed.

Tomorrow... another great day was planned.

Great start to the week

There are some pretty impressive ruins on the mountainside above the Hostal. They are not part of the "official" Ollytentambo ruins and so can be climbed and investigated at leisure. (If you call scrambling up a mountainside leisurely)

After dropping my things in my room I followed my hosts' advice and walked down the alley until just passed the ceramic shop, turned left and went up the stone stairs... and just started climbing. Easy path to the first ruin, not so easy path to the next, and then pretty much off the path and upward from there. When the time came to look down and over, well didn't I just about swoon at how high I was. Way above the ruins accross the valley and well away from the original target. Took pictures, decided enough was enough for the day (sun was getting close to setting) and carefully picked my way down the shale covered incline.

Was treated to the sight of a curious and busy hummingbird, this one iridescent blue. Tried the photo thing... you all know how successful I am with it.

A walk down to purchase rail tickets for the train to Aguas Calientes, a town at the base of Machu Picchu Mountain. There was room for Monday which fit the schedule perfectly.

Excellent start to the week.

Dinner was pizza (how Peruvian), and after a full day of travel and hiking I made for an early nights sleep.

Also early was the start to the next days activity, a trip to Chinchero. After an early am breakfast I was introduced to the gent that was to take, wait and return. The trip involved an ascent of almost 1000 meters to this small town which is known for its authentic market, especially on Sundays when the locals descend from the hills in full native dress.

On our way we passed a couple of very swanky resorts in Urubumba (think $250 per night minimum), not someplace that I choose to waste money that can be spent trekking. I also noted the signs for Salinas and Moray, two places to visit on a beautiful day hike. This I did last time I was in the area, but I would like a return visit just to see if the incredible energy I felt was just my imagination at the time.

The market at Chinchero was smaller than I expected, but the ambience did not disappoint. There were rows of stalls selling all manner of local produce surrounded by vendors selling weaving and other tourist related items. Bartering was definitely the name of the game... all done respectfully and with smiles. I am now the proud owner of some hand made dolls, hand painted pottery and multicoloured woven wool blanket/cover. This last item I bought when the woman I had been bartering with followed me to the car and agreed to my price.

Now I will HAVE to decorate the guest room.

The market is not the sole attraction in Chinchero. There is also extensive terracing that surrounds the ruins of what was an Inca town. As per the custom of the day, the ruins were torn down and a catholic church built upon its foundations. I know it was something that was done 500 years ago, but I get aggravated each time I see it. Over and over and over. I took some photos of just how incredibly fit the original stonework is... the precision is amazing.

After wandering the terraces and ruins for an hour or so it was back to the cab and a descent back to town and the hostal. Should have remembered that most things would be closed Sunday, so I had a bit of a challenge finding food supplies for the day at Machu Picchu, which I wanted to do because I remembered how expensive it is once you are there. Water, Gatoraide, Sprite, Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, granola bars and fruit. All set.

Got my little alarm unit set for a 5am start and was asleep by 9. This being over 50 thing means adjustments to what "night life" represents.

I am stoked.

I have a list

Having made the decision to abandon Cusco for lower altitudes and less chaos, I sorted belongings so that only a minimal amount need be schlepped around for the next week. Left a bag at the hostal (under lock & key) and headed out for a morning coffee before catching a combi. Walked the short distance to the main plaza and was disconcerted to find it brimming over with thousands of people there to celebrate the “happiness of the baby” day. After spending some time trying to decode the multitude of waving signs it became apparent that it was in fact an anti-abortion rally.

With armies of school children still arriving in front of the Cathederal to join more nuns than I have ever seen, a quick exit was made and coffee procured. On to the combi station and a fairly uneventful 2 hour ride to the Incan town of Ollytaytambo.

This is one of the jewels of the area known as the Sacred Valley, and is one of the few remaining functional Incan cities. I have never visited this area, but had passed through briefly two years ago on the way to the starting point of the Inca Trail.

Walking through the old alleyways and up to the hostal was a delight. There were stone walls and stairways, stone streets and swiftly flowing water in ancient water channels. The hostal is located at the end of one such street, and through the low wooden doorway I found yet another gem. Family owned and operated, kids running around, laundry fluttering in the breeze… and a room that has a doorway opening on to a magnificent view of the ancient abandoned ruins and fabulous Incan terracing. Wow.

From here will be based all my wanderings. I have a list.

Chinchero

Local ruins

Moray and Salinas

Pisac

Urubamba

Local Caves

Peruvian Paso Horseback riding

Machu Picchu

I also have much Robaxicet. Will be needed. Good thing my hiking boots are broken in.

On to Cusco

There is a reason it is a good idea to keep up with blog posting, mainly that I have a memory like a sieve and so too much is lost, much too quickly.

The balance of the time I spent in Arequipa is just such an example. I walked, strolled and toured. I went to the casino. I took many photos of the volcanoes surrounding town. I missed my flight to Cusco.

Yep, you heard right. I, Linda, intrepid and experienced world traveller, got the dates mixed up in my head. Should have listened to that little voice that said “are you sure the flight is on the 1^st?”, but noooo I relied on my memory. See above note about my memory.

The result of this rookie mistake was a mad dash to the bus station and a 10 hour night time bus ride through pitch black, high Andean mountains over a dirt road. Nerves abounded because I had read warnings in numerous places about this route being subjected to hijackings and robberies. But after weighing the odds (many nightly busses by different companies and only a few incidents per year) I snuggled down in the sleeper seats, and pulled into Cusco at about 8am.

Went straight to the hostal, and after profuse apologies for missing their airport pickup and first nights’ accommodation all was well.

Well, except for the altitude thing. You wouldn’t think a few thousand feet would make a huge difference, what with most of my time in Peru sitting at more than 7000 of them, but alas my body thought differently. Add in this bug that has plagued me for the last couple of weeks (and kept me from my planned trekking in Arequipa) and my time in Cusco was kept to a minimum.

Saw some old sights, and a couple I missed last time… mainly small ruins. I found a place that makes excellent coffee, listened to some really obnoxious tourists and was reminded how friggin cold this high, damp city gets at night.

So I found myself once again apologising to the hostal as I packed up and vacated to spend a week in an alternate location in the Sacred Valley. Too bad really, because once again I had lucked out and found a hideaway gem hostal. Friendly, comfortable, and most importantly cheap. I made sure there was room booked for the night before my flight home… and yes, I checked the date carefully!

Arequipa

It has been a gift of a day here for day one in Arequipa. Beautiful tropical sunshine buffered by a cool high altitude breeze.

Had a very relaxed day yesterday, a noon checkout meant that bags were left at the front desk of the hostal while a final turn was taken around the Miraflores district of Lima. I was totally surprised by how quiet the area was on a Sunday. It was actually enjoyable, provided you didn’t want to shop… most of the stores and cafes were closed.

The mists rolled in off the sea early and it is truly surprising how much it drops the temperature. Found a comfy spot on the patio and waited for the taxi driver pick up.

A swift ride out to the airport, friendly Star Peru check in, and then Starbucks was the next target. Whiled away a two hour wait before boarding, had a cloudy take off, some mediocre snacks and a very smooth landing an hour or so later.

The cab pulled up in front of the hostal, which didn’t look like anything particularly special but once inside opened up to a lovely lobby, attended by one of the friendliest and most helpful front desk staff that I have ever had the pleasure of dealing with. The room is nice, although it doesn’t have the ambience of the El Patio in Lima.

A full English cable tv selection seduced me until about 1am, at which time it was to dreamland I did go. I awoke to glorious sunshine coming in the window, checked my watch, and seeing 6:15 went promptly back to sleep. Should have paid attention to the visual clue, because it turns out that my super cheap, I don’t care if it gets stolen watch has finally given up the ghost. Thankfully the lady cleaning up in the breakfast area was kind enough to serve a breakfast at 11, when 10 is the cut off time.

After a stroll in the historical centre of town and taking photos, I enjoyed a tour of the Santa Catalina Convent. Built in 1571 it has been expanded and renovated throughout the years and still houses a functioning Convent of 20 nuns… at present the youngest is 17 and the most elderly is 90something. The latter has seen great changes… from living in privilege to Spartan minimalistic communality, and then in 1970 to living communally but not in isolation… there is now access to music and television.

According to the English speaking guide, the custom for Peruvian Spanish aristocratic families assigned very rigid roles to their children. All second born children, male or female, were given over to the church. So somewhere between the ages of 12 and 16, dowries paid and trousseaus delivered, all were to be delivered to the church to live out the rest of their lives as either nuns or priests. In return for the generous dowry (approximately $20,000. today) the young nuns were able to live in relative comfort, enjoyed the use of the luxurious dowry items, and were allowed servants and/or slaves to attend them. At one time there were 200 nuns and 300 to tend to them living in what was a small city, itself located within the confines of historic Arequipa.

At some point the discrepancy between the vows of poverty and the lives lived in the monastery became too much for the Church, which expelled the servants and slaves, took away all possessions save a bed and chamber pot, and decreed that nuns from that point on live communally.

I can’t help but wonder if the good nuns ever harboured any resentment for losing their privileges. I would, but then I am no nun… and it is a bit late now, isn’t it.

Arequipa is in an active seismic zone, and the area is ringed by volcanoes. The most famous is El Misty, a perfectly coned beauty that is now considered active, following an eight point something earthquake a decade ago. No expectation of imminent eruption, but it’s now a sleeping giant. It looks magnificent.

After Briget Jones’ Diary will come dinner, then will head back to dreamland. I am coming down with a cold or something, and since I am soon heading back to Cusco and I don’t want a repeat of last time when I spent more time sick than sightseeing.

Hope the blue skies and sunshine continue tomorrow.

Home sweet homes

I love finding cosy, unique, intimate hideaways to stay in when I travel. I have been fortunate over the years to enjoy many such gems.

Here in Lima I am enjoying such a gem, which is listed in Lonely Plant as an “our pick” recommendation. Hostal El Patio in Miraflores oozes ambiance and charm. Right now I am sitting in bed next to a huge window fronting a sunny courtyard filled with tropical plants growing tall up the walls, birdsong and the sound of water from a lovely fountain.

Brings to mind some of the other cuties I have encountered. The first was when I was a travelling 17 year old, following verbal instructions to find a tucked away spot in the old city of Jerusalem. Enter the David Gate, head strait into the market, turn right up the first set of stairs, take a left through the first doorway, follow the cobblestone walkway until you find a half height doorway on your left, etc….

My trip to Quebec with Amy yielded two such gems, one just across from the Fairmont in Old Quebec and one in the gay district of Montreal. Creaky, narrow staircases, open brickwork walls, original wood flooring and very interesting bathrooms.

I recommend seeking out such gems any day over the huge, fancy, swank Superchains out there…

But for today I am content to listen to my fountain and dream in my home sweet home away from home.

A last swing...

Upset tummy, mosquito bites and swollen ankles. Oh the joys.

While I have not spent my entire last few days confined to the hostal, my outings have been unremarkable. To the corner store for water. To the market for fruit. To the supermarket for bread and yoghurt. Italian restaurante for dinner. Searching for internet cafes and coffee shops.

It has been entirely too wet to go upriver, and with last nights rains a trip today is also ruled out. Knowing my luck if I tried I will probably end up stranded or something.

And I have a plane to catch tomorrow morning, back to my beloved Lima. (ok, so my use of sarcasm sshould be duly noted) Arequipa is next up on the hit list, and after Star Peru made a somewhat unwelcome change to my flights it appears there will be time to take in a museum or something while I wait, unfortunately carving a day off Arequipa time. Climbing the volcano will have to wait for another trip I suppose.

In the mean time I will spend the afternoon strolling the road to the river, tummy gods permitting, and feeding apples to the parrots here at the hostal. That and packing, which should take all of 5 minutes, tops.

Then I will swing in my hammock for as long as I can, before bidding it a fond adios.

sunday notes

And I thought that getting back to the big city would fix my internet woes… HA. The front desk has wireless connectivity, but for some reason none of the guests do. And I am in the mood to write…

It is raining, pouring actually, and I have been having an interesting conversation with a young biologist from Germany who is here doing her doctorate studying tadpole habitats. Really interesting.

It is such a shame that we in Canada (North America, really) don’t insist that our children learn a variety of languages from kindergarten on. We are at such a disadvantage in the world compared to Europeans in this. English, French, German, Dutch. And usually Spanish too. The Dutch and Germans do it best though. In Canada we can’t even ensure that all our children speak both official languages, yet alone one from offshore.

My plans to walk upriver today seem to be a bust, what with the trail turning into mud hazard central and the river running too high to cross. Given my recent stint of non-activity it appears this will be the first time I return from Peru needing to lose a few pounds. Maybe I’ll climb a mountain or two in the next few weeks and see if it helps.
Altitude sickness might do the trick too.

I am right now enjoying the sight of a hummingbird drinking the nectar from the huge pink flowers sprouting forth in the garden. This is a medium sized cutie, with a slightly elongated beak… There is no sun to reflect off its feathers so at the moment he appears black from head to toe. As I enjoy the sight of the tropical blooms all around me, it occurs that back home there will be garden preparation goings on to get ready for spring planting.

And that in turn has me thinking about all of the community work and celebration I will have missed while I am away. For the last couple of years I have arrived home just in time for Creekside to settle into summer, which usually means that things slow down, teams go on hiatus and everyone spends more time on outdoor activities that take them away.

………………………………………………………

Monday now, and still no WiFi. I tried to find and internet café open yesterday, but Sunday things are closed up tight.

Maybe my next hostal will have better access. Finally.

I am melting...

I have abandoned my Chacha and have returned to sweaty, sultry, tropical Tarapoto. I arrived Thursdaay night after a very long day on the road and have spent most of my time resting. I sit now on the patio in order to dodge the mosquitoes. Sounds inside out, doesn't it? There is a great cool breeze blowing though, and my room is stifling hot even with the fan going full tilt. Highs of 33, and hotter still in my room.

Over a lovely treat of fried plantain stuffed with cheese I said goodbye to my students, ladies and friends in Chachapoyas, on a day that also had me walking out into farmland to get a last look at the lush fields and great vista of mountains and ravines. Beautiful sunny clear day, hot dry tropical sunshine and a last evening strolling the main plaza. Lovely. Had I not committed to other travel plans I would happily have occupied my little haven longer.

One sour note on my final day was the hard evidence of the stupidity of the majority of drivers here. While Steve and I were out on our walk there was a long drawn out car honking incident. There was no crash so at the time I thought no more of it. Further along our walk we heard a siren approaching, and it took us a while to see where it was coming from and where it was going. Around a bend it disappeared and then silence. It was then that we noticed the smoke coming up from the ravine, well down off the road. I don't know what kind of vehicle it was, car, combi or bus, but it is unlikely that there were survivors. They were either trying to pass on a curve or driving at kamakazi spead (pretty standard fare here), and took their passengers with them.

Not something I really needed to see the day before I undertook 12 hours worth of road travel.

Up early for breakfast with Janet, who together with Eduardo took me down to get me on my way to Pedro Ruiz to catch my bus. Eduardo carried my bag, which is a good thing because it feels heavier than when I arrived even though I haven't added anything to it. Must be weaker than when I got here. So with a request to the driver to drive carefully, I was settled and headed down the long windy road out of town and on toward the next phase of my trip, passing through canyons dotted with bromelids like a child dotted with chicken pox.

Pedro Ruiz is a sleepy little transit town, and although I have been informed there are many great sights to visit in the immediate area, most people don't stop and investigate. Like me they simply arrive, transfer vehicles and leave.

There was an extremely helpful and attentive clerk behind the ticket counter, who very patiently deciphered my halting spanish, made a change in seating for me and kept an eye on my bag while I passed the time until my bus passed through. He was cute too.

It was not long before my bus was climbing again... headed almost immediately into high mountains covered in more vegetation than the scrub, grasses and bromelids seen around Chacha. We are headed east (well doing circles this way and that, but eventually eastward) through the Caja del Selva, or the eyebrow of the Jungle. High tropical mountains whose rainfall runs into rivers running east into the amazon. Ridges are shrouded in mist, clouds and humidity.

I am thankful for Gravol.

We got stopped at a police checkpoint for about 45 minutes while the drivers logs were checked, lisences examined and cargo searched. After this the trip got a little hairy, I guess because the drivers wanted to make up the time? I am travelling Movil Tours Bus Line, considered as one of two superior choices for safety, but I was holding my breath during stupid pass after pass and cringed several times as brakes were slammed to avoid colision. Not impressed.

But make it safely I did, and after fending off a flock of mototaxi drivers at the station I found one that was willing to take me to the hostal I wanted, and not the one they got commission from. Kisses hello, key handed over and I pretty much keeled over into bed. After I got my mosquito net up, of course. Only took a few moments to collect my fair share.

And I sit and melt in the heat. No more thought of wanting to live in the tropics. Although a river walk tomorrow would not be something I pass up.

Survival of the fittest

I have been awakened at night several times by the sound of dogs fighting. There are a large number of strays that seem to run in packs at night. From time to time they prey on a dog here in the main square, and the squeals of distress coming from that direction break my heart.

I place my fingers tightly in my ears and just hope that the weaker dog somehow gets away. God knows they try, as the din carries off into the distance, often continuing a long, long while. I haven’t figured out which is the group that takes such delight in attacking, but surely they are trying to establish a new dominance here.

Last night was one of those nights. The vicious snarling, growling and barking, and the terrible sounds of distress from their target woke me about 4am, and I was not able to sleep again. When the sounds of the run, chase, attack cycle had faded I looked outside into the square, and there was a pack of dogs lying indolently in the intersection below. Watched over by a large German Sheppard looking cross of a mutt, they were apparently certain the terrain was safe now.

As the sky lightened I could hear the whimpering of a dog moving slowly into the plaza and up the street. My guess it has puppies somewhere and despite whatever its injuries, a valiant effort was being made to get to them.

I got out of bed wanting to hunt down the mayor of the city and explain what a detraction this is for the city, and suggest he have these super aggressive dogs dealt with. I think I will ask for help writing a letter tomorrow (in Spanish), and also mention that a tourist here had recently been attacked by an aggressive pack of dogs.

Think I will also suggest a catch and castrate type of program for the strays, something like the City our Courtenay does to help control the population of feral cats. Any dogs showing extreme aggression should be put down. After they have been tested for rabies, which is a problem in these parts.

And maybe I will take Steve’s suggestion and carry a walking stick with me, which could be used to fend off any possible attack.

It is once again late evening, and the plaza is slowly clearing of people and cars for the night. I can already hear distant fighting, and hope it doesn’t return to the area outside my window. No doubt subconsciously I will be listening for it.

Sigh.

Just one week until I fly to Lima, and on to Arequipa. It is called the white city because all the colonial buildings were built from a white rock found locally. Supposedly one of the prettiest cities in the country, it sits beside El Misty, a perfectly formed active volcano and Colca Canyon, which is deeper than the Grand Canyon in the U.S.A. Food is supposed to be uniquely delicious, the weather some of the best in Peru, and it has many historical buildings of note.

It is still a large city, so I will have to be far more vigilant about keeping an eye on my belongings than I have here. Not one spec of trouble, nothing stolen or missing, not really surprising, this is considered one of the safest areas of the country.

Lima, Arequipa and Cusco do not have those distinctions, so it will be back to real life travel in South America.

Anticipation grows.

Flags and ceremony

Sunday morning, 9:30 am, and as is the custom here there is music being played on loudspeakers outside my hostal while the police start quietly clearing the main Plaza D’Armas. Traffic is also re-directed at this point, and the whole plaza area, usually teaming with cars and people, takes on a quiet, serene aura. Music ended, there is a gentleman who does a sound check to prepare for the weekly formal flag raising ceremony.

Then down the street and into the plaza a group of soldiers march, dress khakis, shinyshoes, and rifles on their shoulders. They make their way diagonally across the plaza, moving around the main fountain, and then execute a sharp turn at the corner closest to my room before moving to settle just this side of the war memorial, at ease.

They stand there dutifully while the final preparations are made. Chairs and a podium are readied across the street from the monument, and dignitaries gather.

At exactly 10:00 a voice booms out welcoming the participants, and announces the program to the small crowd of people stopped to watch on the periphery of the plaza.

This being my fourth consecutive flag raising event, I believe I have the gist of it understood, Spanish notwithstanding. Basically the dignitary performing the introductions does so with the gusto of a politician speaking to a crowd of supporters at a rally. Three officials approach the memorial and stand for a moment of respectful silence. Honours are given to a select few to raise, in order, The Peruvian flag, the flag for the province of Amazonas, and the flag for the city of Chachapoyas, each followed by the appropriate anthem.

A speech is usual following the proceedings, one week about International Womens’ Day, one by a candidate in the upcoming elections, and so forth.

The whole ceremony is ended on a fervent “Viva Peru”, and the honour guard goose steps away.

A few minutes later people surge onto the main plaza to begin the days’ main entertainment, basically sitting or meandering the plaza, socializing. Traffic again buzzes and honks by, and the police take up their places at the ready to whistle at any car that even thinks about stopping or parking.

So begins another Sunday.

The rest of my Sunday has been pleasant. Veggie omelette, an attempt at skype (the connection is too slow), and an outing to the Orchidarium. This lovely spot is located at a point not too far along the road to Levanto, across a pretty valley from the city but before the road begins its steep ascent.

In the company of Jessica and Steve I spent a pleasant half hour or so taking pictures of Orchids in bloom, and then meandered back down into the city. The day started in cloud, but as usual the sun had come out (yes, I remembered my sunscreen… no, I did not remember my hat) and gave us a beautiful day for a walk.

Through a part of town where people smiled and greeted us as we passed, a nice change from yesterday.

The barrio

Following the day that was scripted I breakfasted at the café while Skyping with Amy and that is about as far as the plan became actual activity. My meet up with a student, Dora, for our shop and cook did not materialize, even taking into account Spanish Small Town Time. Things happen.

Back to the café with Jessica and her husband Steve while they broke fast, and stayed for more virtual communication & information, and planning for the last month of my time here (excitement growing!).

Short siesta and then the usual vegetarian lunch being served by a surly, dour faced waitress (still haven’t figured out what I did to offend her… although maybe she just hates Gringas that don’t speak Spanish?)

Return to the Hostal for a tentative 3pm meet up for a nice long walk, but by half past I figured that wasn’t happening either.

On to plan B, my threatened solo walk to Equador. When discussing this possibility with Amy this morning she said “go for it, just maybe take a small knife”, which I thought was cute really. In consultation with Steve I came to the conclusion that I had left my start rather late in the day, so would need to start my “get over it, Linda” solo outing on a smaller scale. The road to Huancas looked a good bet.

Now to give Steve his due, he did advise I take a taxi part way up and avoid the barrios. Obviously my fear of taking taxies is greater than my fear of the barrios because on foot I did go. Quite the experience really.

This is an area of town where few people meet your eye or offer a friendly greeting. New for me, because up until now I have been struck by just how friendly everyone is. Onward an upward (literally), I kept walking and observing. Falling down buildings, and new construction. Windows barred or covered by metal roofing. A multitude of dogs, none of which barked, swarmed or attacked (I used the positive expectation technique). Requisite chickens… one with a whole gaggle of chicks. Wait, that’s geese. Hmm, inquiring minds.

I watched the painfully slow progress of a tiny, ancient looking woman as she attempted to walk down the road. Feeling grateful for my as yet young, strong legs I tried to picture myself in that situation. Don’t want to go there.

There were sheep wandering at the side of the road, and others tied to trees by their hind legs, hopelessly tangled having turned a time or two while grazing. Trucks and taxis whizzed by, picking up the dirt from the road and sending into the air in great clouds. Can’t say I care to have grit in my teeth. Eyes, nose or hair either.

Music blaring out from buildings (enjoyable), Moms watching their children poop in the dirt (not so enjoyable).

Having achieved a fair gain in altitude, I stopped whenever possible to enjoy the views back into the city, and that of the valleys spreading out below. The garbage littering the hillside at my feet was in stark contrast to the beauty off in the distance.

The nicest buildings were the Catholic & Seventh Day Adventists Churches, standing side by side, painted perfectly white and wooden doors stained and shiny. Someday I might understand how the money goes into the churches and not into educational programs for kids or women. Maybe.

There were dirty kids playing on the road and in the yards. Moms knitting in the doorways. Men working in the yards and on the houses. One such man shouted what I assume were obscenities at me, waving me up the road and spitting after me. I believe he also called me a whore, or at least according to my Spanish that is what “Puta” means.

You see the experiences I would have missed had I taken a cab?

I continued on this rutted, dusty, dirt road onward and upward until, rounding a bend I came upon three young men who sent my “oh, shit”, antennae on red alert. Any woman would be hard pressed to explain exactly how this works, we just KNOW. Showing fear is the worst thing to do, so after sparing them a disinterested glance I wandered up the road another few paces and looked at the view for a moment. Then I turned and started my way back down, at a slightly accelerated speed, until I came into view of villagers. A few moments more and the (I am pretty sure stoned) dorks stopped following me.

I smiled and waived at the man who had spit at me on the way past his property, then ate the dirt road pretty much all the way back to town.

With confidence I can say I have found a neighbourhood to which I will not be retiring.

Fear faced, I am safely back in my writers’ haven, rubbing my hands together in anticipation of tomorrows outing, not yet planned but certain to happen.

Albeit barrio free.

Worrywarts R Us, Inc.

In general, my experience as a woman travelling alone has been a good one. With one minor exception on the Inca Trail I have not been in a situation that left me feeling in danger.

Enter the "warning crowd". Please be careful. It is too dangerous. Bad things happen. Well, yes I will, yes it could be and yes sometimes they do.

All of a sudden I am second guessing my planned activities and feeling boxed in. Some stupid little switch has been flipped in my brain and now I am uncomfortable wandering out of town by myself. I don't like it one little bit. That and I am bored silly, there is only so much eating, writing and siesta'ing a girl can do.

So, as I recently told one who is particularily worried, tomorrow I am going to walk to Equador and back... by myself. Face your fear and all that.

Other than the above nonsense it has been gloriously sunny for the past couple of days, and when I have been wandering (around town, sigh) it has been lovely. Surely it is for days like this that Canadians head south en mass. Definately sunscreen and sun hats required.

My last class will be monday and then I will start looking for transportation back to Tarapoto, and my hammock. Better wash my mosquito net in preparation.

Come to think of it just stepping off the plane in the tropics is dangerous, what with Malaria, Dengue Fever and Typhoid popping up everywhere. There is a guest in the hostal that just got back from the clinic diagnosed with worms and some kind of infection.

Let's not get started on all the taxis that try to mow me down each time I try and cross the road.

Wandering down a lonely lane solo would seem to be the lesser of all the above evils, no?

Knock on wood for all the above, of course.

Twice.

We'll see what I can get up to.

Parades

The rains have finally come to Chachapoyas. Every afternoon for more than a week there has been a downpour, and several times I have awoken to the sound of heavy rain. I won’t complain, this actually being the rainy season and all, but let’s just say I am very glad I brought my poncho.

I have been frustrated by internet access (or lack thereof) for the past few days. The tax inspector made his rounds and closed down many of the businesses in town for not issuing proper receipts. They will not be able to re-open until they pay their fines. Not usually the kind of thing that would test the average tourist, but one of the stores that was closed was the one from which the Hostal gets its signal. (my grandfather pops into my head from time to time to remind me not to finish a sentence with a whatchamacallit, hence the from & which)

But I digress. So set adrift to ferret out alternate sources of WiFi, and having had it up to well past “here” with dial up slow cafes with their wall to wall computers in tiny cubbyholes, I have been finding staying in touch rather a challenge. A big hooray! for today when I discovered that the signal is back. Well back to the 9-9 and not on Sundays, I suppose.

There are parades through the streets here… they seem to happen a couple of times a week at least. Always accompanied by a brass band, and many times playing the same tune. Like in old New Orleans, funeral parades make there way through the streets, coffins being borne along with the mourners, all to the sad sounds made by the brass band following.

Today there was such a parade however this time it was symbolic, a glass coffin enclosing a statue of a crucified Christ. Topped with a large flower arrangement the procession made its way out of the Cathedral and down the street, led by worshipers carrying lights. I watched this and wondered at the practice of religious beliefs. I thought this the end of the display, however about two hours later the parade returned, having finished its tour of the city I suppose. I later found out that it is Ash Wednesday… hence the display.

Not limited to funerals, I have watched dancing displays, carnival parades, military parades, political parades (it is an election year) and to my delight a group of poncho wearing vaquieros atop Peruvian Paso horses. All but the horses were accompanied by a band. Yesterday, in celebration of the last day of Festival there were a couple of large eucalyptus trees cut and paraded through the streets to the shouts and encouragement of the crowd. Smelled heavenly. They are apparently set up and decorated with gifts donated from local merchants.

The owner of the International Learning School came by and left a card for me at the front desk. I have heard through the grapevine that he just lost a teacher, and no doubt he has heard through the same vine that I am in town teaching.

I will pay a courtesy call tomorrow, but as I am still busy with my classes for the next few days and then headed back to my hammock next week, that is all it will be. I know why the teacher left, having bumped into him a few times at the café. He just could not work with a system that passes everyone whether they know the material or not.

My students are not even going to get an exam. Think I’ll invite them to lunch though… we can practice vocabulary and conversation and call it my last class. Will be fun I hope.

Tomorrow I have class, walk, lunch with Jessica (another gringa here in town), siesta, skype, and dinner. I’ll try to fit some writing in to, now that my muse seems to have returned.

My wee houseguest made another appearance last night, scampering across the floor and into his hidey hole. I love houseguests… wait bedbugs, mosquitoes and spiders have been issued no invitations.

Period.

Not much a'do at all

It has been a mixed bag lately, with me having trouble writing, and with my mood.

Oh the joys.

Let's see, I have been teaching, wandering, thinking, sleeping and thinking some more. I really should stop that.

Saturday I was invited by my students to one of the farms I have seen lining the river along the main road. It is one of the farms built up a hillside that slopes steeply from the river, and I was happy to be able to visit. I also got to take the cable platform transport across the river again, which is way fun.

The lovely family that hosted us inlcuded mom, dad and 3 young boys. They have been farming this property for 8 years and looking around it is so obvious that this is hard, hard work. Not only the hillside terracing, planting and tending but building the house, setting up a clean water source, the chicken hut, still, and of course the cable river crossing transport.

Their home was quite large in comparison to many I have passed along this route... 5 good sized rooms with mud packed walls and bamboo roofing, and an open air bungalow out front.

We brought food from the market to cook (me not allowed… guest and all) and we sat down to a first course of soup (Peruvian staple) consisting of broth and a small fish floating in the middle. I did my best, although the little sucker had more tiny bones than anything I had ever encountered… and I just couldn’t bring myself to eat the head. Call me a silly Gringa but it was just not something I could do.

One of the girls (Sandra) and I started out on a hike that was to take us up to a ruin located on the hillside across the river. Not ten minutes out the skies opened and a rainy season deluge had us taking cover under an orange tree, and then running back to the house when it became apparent this was no scattered shower.

Nice little nip of home made sugar cane liquor and a seat next to the open fire pit stove in one of the rooms had us drying off and warming up quickly.

I sat contentedly while the Spanish flew above my head back and forth at light speed. The locals here speak with a distinct “jungle” accent and chances of me understanding were slim to none. I snuck off to the bathroom, the typical small hole in the floor, and embarrassingly can tell you that my aim has not improved much since last year.

The second course of dinner was served outside, and in my honour consisted of bean stew, cooked potatoes and corn. The chicken that was due to be dinner was able to cluck away for another day.

Sometime during the day the day we went for a stroll (and by stroll I mean hike almost straight up) about the farm, and watched bananas being cut and packed for transport. There were many coffee plants in various stages of maturity, lemon, orange, mandarin, papaya and banana trees, corn and oodles of sugar cane.

Let me tell you, there is something pretty nifty about eating sugarcane immediately after being cut. I was handed a long finger that was oozing sweet juice. The trick is to crunch down on the cane and suck at the same time, necessary because of the explosion of cane juice when chewed. If you happen to bite a piece of the cane itself that is ok, just chew until all the juice is gone and spit the leftover roughage out. Yum, yum, yum.

Also notable was the spectacle of an older man taking his bath in the river across the way. The order of things kind of confused me. First he stripped naked, squatted and did his business at the edge of the river. Then he put his skivvies back on and went into the river, where he proceeded to wash his face and hands, then his hair, then his body and finally did some kind of up and down in a chair kind of motion to clean his backside and, well, you know, nether regions. The five of us women just sat there laughing. Terrible I know, but it was just so… And how come he put his underwear back on to go into the water? Enquiring minds and all that.

After the afternoons entertainment came a quiet time when a couple of ladies snoozed, another couple who were obviously good friends talked quietly to catch up on news, share opinions about sunscreen and face creams (universally female) and I sat and enjoyed the sight and experience of the river flowing by in such a tranquil setting. It was a lovely way to pass some down time.

Home time, and I was able to sit close to the open window in the front of the taxi in order to try and take pictures of the amazing rock formations that line the river. My camera, still suffering the effects of last years sudden dip, performed erratically. There were pictures taken of the clouds floating above and around us as we climbed back up to Chachapoyas.

My reflection for the day revolves around just how happy a family can be even though they have none of our modern conveniences. There were 3 pots, 3 plastic bowls and a rough board for a countertop, and cooking happened over open flame, or a small 2 burner propane stove. There were stacking white plastic chairs and table for furniture. There is a much different standard of clean, which is oh, so understandable when considering the work involved. The kids played with things they found lying around, although there was a television that I saw on in the main sleeping room. Cartoons.

Sunday was quiet… persistent headache, and Monday I was tired and slightly brain dead. I walked both days in the hopes that it will help me perk up.

Two espressos this morning helped considerably.

Festival / carnival comes to a rowdy close today, so it should be hopping in the plaza until the wee hours. I’ll check it out.

Just here...

So you know, all is well. I have been in a reflective kind of mood and the words don't want to work.

Did you know that they have daily garbage pick up here? The garbage truck comes by at 7:30 every morning and the driver rings a bell hanging outside his window while the truck is moving, just to remind people and let them know he is close.

That is it for today.

Will post again soon.

Volumnous Spanish Skirts

It has been one of those Chachapoyan delightful days.

The big plan for today was to take my students to the market so we could review and practice fruits and vegetables etc., and then head back to my haven to write.

At slightly past the designated hour (Spanish small town time) we met at the plaza in front of my hostal, and meandered down and over to a large open area filled with people from local farms bringing their produce to market. Huge sacks of potatoes, beets, corn, hot peppers, peas, green beans, a rainbow of not yet dried beans, baby ducks, quail, chickens, kittens? (I am assured they are not eaten) guinea pigs, and more. Add in hawkers of sweaters, sneakers, clothes, etc... a wonder it was.

No hats though, which was a shame because who knew it would be my first full day of high mountain sun?

And I forgot my sunscreen.

Shopping and field trip completed, I was invited back to a students’ house for lunch, which I happily accepted..

Have I talked at all about the generosity and friendliness of the people here? They have little, but what they have they are happy to share with guests.

I chopped vegetables etc, which was nice because it made me less of a guest and more of a friend. Lunch was served when Dora’s husband Juan came home. (most people here work on the am open, close for siesta, open evening schedule). We all sat down to a lovely meal of soup, rice with veggies, fried egg … picked fresh from the chicken in courtyard… , salad and huge yummy red grapes for desert. Juan is a guide here, has been for years, and is presently the head of the local Guiding Association.

We had a great conversation about all the off the beaten track areas near here, and his studies, plans, and the people who have moved to Chachapoyas from Britain, Australia, and Canada that have become part of the promotional / planning team for tourism and adventure travel. Interesting.

We talked orchids and birds, and he brought out his Peru bird book (the same one I have), which I perused it to see if I could find the hummingbirds from last Saturday.

From another student that dropped in an invitation was issued to come to a dance school performance in the evening, so I headed home for my siesta to recuperate… see above, too much sun, bright red cheeks. More wrinkles.

The dance was the same one that captivated me in Trujillo a couple of years ago. What fun it was to see it as a work in progress.

Voluminous brightly coloured Spanish skirts and matching shirts, lace, eyelet, embroidery and beading. Hair in buns topped with flowers, fresh and silk. Makeup and sparkles. Long dangling earrings.

Boys decked out in white pants and shirts, replete with shiny black shoes, waist sashes and kerchiefs. And to top it off for the girls and boys, large white handkerchiefs waiting to be waived with great flourish. It is these and the boy’s large straw hats that set this dance apart.

The evening started with a parade down the street and around the main square, accompanied by a small brass band playing the appropriate tunes.

Back at the hall the real fun began. Off came the girls’ shoes, strictly barefoot for this dance. Flourishes, dips, skirts held high to show elaborate underskirts and plenty of fancy footwork were on show, and all the while those white hankies were a’twirlin. Sure was fun watching all the little wee ones give it their best shot.

The last dance of the evening had the male dance teacher come out and really show us what this dance is all about. Wow, what a performance… like watching a peacock in full show.

There I was, surrounded by a great group of people while the director read out names, and students collected their end of year gifts. Sweet wine was served, toasts were raised and I realised I had once again been part of the dance recital scene.

Short walk home, and I find myself writing with me eyes closed, head resting on my raised knee… that is how beat I am.

I think I would kill for a bath. A cold shower is just not happening tonight.

Cut off from the world.

What a difference a generation makes. When our parents were cut off from the world it meant that they were stranded in some out of the way place because of a landslide, or something of that import.

Last week I was cut off from the world. In my world this means no internet. No virtual way out. No email, no Skype, no Facebook. And worst of all, no access to an online thesaurus. Is there a worse fate for a writer?

An addict in need of a fix couldn’t have been more agitated than I was.

My first trip to Peru was two months long, and I think I spoke to my family twice. I was immersed in the experience.

My last trip to Peru was at least that long, but email and cheaper calling made keeping in touch easier.

This trip? Well, haven’t I discovered this great thing called Skype? I brought a computer with me, the hotel has WiFi and don’t I find myself keeping in touch almost daily?

Seems to me the world is getting smaller. Until the internet goes down.

Then I am cut off from the world and I am forced to face the fact that I am in a foreign country.

Wait, isn’t that the reason I travel?

Hmmm.

Leymebamba or bust?

Yesterday I found myself sitting in a café high up in one of the mountains surrounding Leymebamba, a small town southwest of Chachapoyas. Directly in front of me was a tree full of hummingbirds, The Café owner has set out feeders in various nooks and crannies on her property and I enjoyed the sight of dozens of the wee beauties flitting to and fro.

It was quite a show, their colours mostly involving shades of iridescent blues, greens and oranges, and in sizes ranging from tiny thumb-sized to some 4-5 inches long. Long beaked and short, and one with tail feathers that were about 8 inches long.

They all made noise as they flew and the tiny ones made a hum loud enough to remind me of a seaplane taking off. The chorus of chattering and tweeting in the trees surrounding the feeders was unreal.

It was interesting to watch a hummingbird hierarchy at work. From what I could make out the mid sized blue and green birds dive bombed each other, yet got pushed aside by the orange ones, the small bright tree-frog green ones kind of snuck in whenever they could, but tiny blue guys were simply bullies… they just swooped in and kind of kicked everyone off and went to work eating.

When I shifted my gaze only slightly to the left I saw a patchwork of farms on the mountains next to us, and a little further left there was a house with some kind of grass thatching for its roof. Rolling mountain peaks rise all around me. It was a lovely spot to stop for coffee and some banana bread, and I sat there long after I had finished my snack while I tried to take hummingbird pictures. It was a welcome break.

My day had started as I let myself out of the hostal in order to catch a 6 am bus from the station a few blocks away. Formalities observed and ID checked off we went down the switchback road out of Chachapoyas and turned onto a road that would wind along the riverside and for the next few hours. We stopped every now and then to either pick up or drop off people at the various small farms and villages that hugged the space between the river and the mountains.

Found my hostel in Leymebamba easily enough, the room was large and clean albeit a bit on the musty side and paid my $6 for the night. Then I went to find a taxi to take me up to the museum that put this town on the map.

No taxis. No motocars. Hmmm.

I ask how long it will take to walk, and am told that it would be about half an hour. (This obviously from someone who had never actually made the walk.) I walked up the street from the main square for about 3 blocks and then ran out of town. I mean this place is small. Continuing up the now dirt road I pass people coming in to town, all friendly, all knowing that I was headed to the museum, seeing as that is just about the only thing that would bring a gringa here.

At a juncture I waited until someone came along and they pointed me up a road that turned into a path which apparently was a short cut to a switchback. Back on the road, I walk until another fork has me wondering where the heck am I?

The next passerby was a man headed in the same direction as me, very hard to understand, but he indicated a path that was apparently another shortcut and headed up before me. I spared a thought for the advice about not taking shortcuts, and the wisdom of heading up the same pathway as a stranger who carried a machete strapped to his belt.

With a voice in my head reminding me of all the horrible things that can happen to a woman travelling alone, I took my time and soon my travelling companion gave up trying to converse with me and was far ahead of me on what was a very steep, old, stone trail dotted with large smelly fly patties. The reward was finding myself in the middle of pretty farmland showered in old stone wall fencing and framed by a breathtaking vista of mountains. A wow moment.

When I FINALLY made it to the end of the shortcut (god knows how long the road would have taken me) I was a mere 100 meters from the museum, according to the sign at the bend in the road. And it was a nice museum, full of artifacts and the remains of some 200 mummies that had been found in the cliffs of a valley not far from town. It took me no longer than a half hour to get through the exhibits, which then had me wandering into the café across the street… and to the hummingbirds.

The walk down to the village was much quicker, and I shared the shortcuts with various individuals, donkeys and horses, and the things that rustle and skulk in the vegetation beside me of course.

Back in the main square (really? in a town this small?) someone comes up to tell me that my return bus has been cancelled for the next day. That is how small this is, everyone was on the lookout for me. I looked for food. There was rice. I tried the internet place but I couldn’t log on. I went back to my hostal and pounded on the front door until someone opened it. I went to have a shower but the hot water didn’t work. I packed my stuff and took the next bus out. My plan to hike to a local ruin was pretty much killed by the hike I had to make up to the museum anyway, I could not have done both.

The bus ride back was long, and I was too tired to be bothered when all the people across the isle started vomiting or when the nice man sitting next to me kept falling asleep with his head on my shoulder.

Sunset saw me back in Chacha, after a long tiring day. I crashed after finding food, and slept until 11pm and the planned earthquake response re-enactment… Planned mayb,e but no one had told me about it so when police, fire, ambulance and military sirens started going off I wondered just how many busses must have driven off the highway or where the plane had crashed.

What a day. Good and Bad.