Monday 28 March 2011

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.

Friday 25 March 2011

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.

Tuesday 22 March 2011

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.

Monday 21 March 2011

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.

Friday 18 March 2011

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.

Tuesday 15 March 2011

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.

Sunday 13 March 2011

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.

Saturday 12 March 2011

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.

Friday 11 March 2011

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.

Wednesday 9 March 2011

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.

Tuesday 8 March 2011

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.

Monday 7 March 2011

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.

Tuesday 1 March 2011

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.