TravelStream™ news feed for member lauravanwaas on TravelPod's free travel blogs service http://www.travelpod.com/syndication/rss/lauravanwaas en-us Copyright ©2009 TravelPod.com Mon, 23 Mar 2009 06:25:50 -0400 http://www.travelpod.com http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/lauravanwaas/2/1237346340/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/lauravanwaas/2/1237346340/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/lauravanwaas/2/1237346340/tpod.html Mon, 23 Mar 2009 06:25:50 -0400 A Peruvian Adventure

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Lima, Peru

It was a bright and sunny afternoon when we boarded a bus in Ica for our last long-distance, overland journey in Peru. In around 5 hours we would be in Lima and within a taxi-ride of the airport where we would fly out a few days later. Little did we expect that on this relatively short trip, undertaken in broad daylight, we would have our first and only encounter with the less honourable members of Peruvian society. Not long into the journey, Mark noticed that his bag had shifted from between his own legs to under my seat. Strange, we thought. Then a few minutes later, Mark had the sudden inspiration to double check the contents of his bag. Sure enough, a few things were missing. Someone had clearly pulled the bag out from behind, gone through it at leisure and taken anything he or she fancied. The Nintendo DS that Mark had just been playing with was missing, as was his mobile phone and a torch. On top of that, his wallet wasn't in its usual pocket in that bag and Mark feared that it had also been taken. There was no hope of nabbing the thief - the bus had just stopped in Pisco to offload a whole lot of passengers and the rows behind us were now filled with new people. So, I whipped out my trusty mobile phone from my own bag and Mark called his parents to sort out blocking his bank cards, while I sent a text message to mine to ask them to cancel one of my passes that had been in his wallet too. Thanks to modern technology, at least we had managed to block all of the important cards, from Peru, while we were still on the bus and within an hour of them being stolen. That just left us feeling stupid and a bit disappointed in society, and making plans to file a police report when we got to Lima. When we pulled into the bus stop in Lima and retrieved our luggage from the compartment under the bus, Mark checked his backpack and, with a broad smile, pulled out his wallet! He had put it there for safe-keeping about a week before we had been on another long bus journey and had never thought to take it out again. All of our cards were nestled safely in the wallet and even though they were useless now that they had been cancelled, we were pleased that the pick-pocket had not made off with them after all. Feeling much more relaxed, if no less stupid, we climbed in a taxi and went to our hotel. We were staying in Miraflores, one of the richest and safest suburbs of the otherwise very poor and very unsafe city of Lima. We had stumbled across a Bed & Breakfast on the internet that was both very reasonably priced and had received an absolutely amazing review, largely thanks to the owner Angelo who, it was said, was incredibly friendly, welcoming and knowledgeable about Lima (and much more besides), so happy to help you get to know the city. We rang the bell and, sure enough, Angelo opened the door personally and greeted us with warm smiles and a strong handshake. After we had thrown our things down on one of the seven beds in our room (we were only paying for a double but were given a massive room, full of beds to choose from, with a balcony overlooking the street in front of the house), we went back downstairs and Angelo gave us a map and told us all about where to wander and where to eat in Miraflores. And wander and eat is much of what we did for the remainder of our stay in Lima. Still tired out from our heavy schedule in Cusco and the travelling that we had been doing since, we were thrilled with the chance to take things easy. The weather was warm and sunny - although a thick mist also blew in from the sea on a couple of the afternoons - so we put on our shorts and flipflops and spent many hours just walking around Miraflores. We had several trips to the cinema in a flashy shopping mall that was built into the cliffs above the sea. We walked down the long hill to the beach to lie on the sand and read our books - and Mark even went in the sea (I was less brave, firstly because it was very misty that day and quite difficult to even see the sea from the beach or vice-versa and secondly because I had taken a good look at the sea from the cliffs the day before and didn't fancy the floating bits of rubbish and scum that adorned the surface of the water). We strolled through the central park, ate pizza on "pizza street" (a street lined, on both sides, with pizza restaurants), bought bananas from the fruit stalls in the streets, tucked into traditional Peruvian fried chicken and chips in a restaurant on the cliff while watching the sun sink into the sea, picked our presents to take home from the large Indian Craft Market and enjoyed the occasional, enormous icecream. One afternoon we walked to Huaca Pucllana, also situated in Miraflores, to admire our last Peruvian ruin. This one was build by the (very appropriately named) Lima people, a pre-Incan civilisation. Although it was built entirely from mud bricks, quite a lot of the original structure had survived - thanks to both the fact that Lima gets little in the way of wind or rain to erode the building and the ingenuity of the people who built it, because they had used an incredibly earthquake proof technique: stacking the bricks vertically like books on shelves, with spaces in between them, to allow the whole structure to bend and wobble, rather than crumble and fall, when the ground moves. The main focal point was an area in the shape of a broad, flat-ish pyramid that was used for all sorts of religious ceremonies. The guide told us with some relish about all of the human sacrifices that had been carried out by the Lima people and other such niceties about their culture. Lovely. Our last 24 hours in Lima were the busiest as we grabbed our last chance to see the sights of Peru. The evening before we were due to fly home, we both lost our "open-top-city-bus-tour"-virginity, boarding a garish, bright-red bus and taking our seats on the roofless top deck. The sun had already set and the streets were dark and we were ready to experience the highlights of "Lima by Night". We drove through Miraflores, watching all the people milling around at street level while we sat high up on the bus, ducking every now and then so as not to be decapitated by a tree branch, power line or traffic light. We went past the ruins of Huaca Pucllana, looking over the fence into the complex that was aglow with mood lighting. Then the bus carried on into the centre of Lima where we stopped at one of the city's most popular attractions: The Magical Water Circuit. The Mayor had had the crafty idea of turning one of the city's parks into a festival of water fountains (then charging people a couple of soles to visit them). The place was absolutely packed, both with groups like ours making their way around together as well as with couples, families or groups of friends enjoying an evening stroll. There were a dozen or so fountains, each one different - some of them beautiful, some of them entertaining. Some of the fountains were set to music and lit with different colours, creating a mesmerising effect that you could happily sit and watch for a long time. Another series of fountains had been set up to create a tunnel of water that you could walk through (in an orderly fashion, from one side, without cue-jumping please - or you will anger the man with the megaphone). And in another corner of the park there was a big, round plaza with playful, unpredictable fountains to jump around in, trying not to get wet - or just the opposite, depending on what took your fancy. We stood, watching and listening as hordes of people screamed and laughed as they got drenched time and again. Back on the bus, we did some laughing ourselves as we were driven round in a whirlwind tour of UNESCO-protected, downtown Lima. The commentary was completely inaudible above the noise of the traffic, the bus could only really stop for you to get a proper look at things if the traffic lights happened to be on red and in between the patches of incomprehensible commentary the driver played some Spanish music that the people behind us sang along with heartily. But we enjoyed ourselves nonetheless and the lit-up churches and other buildings of central Lima were stunning. We were so impressed, in fact, that the next morning (on our final day in Peru), we went back to downtown Lima to get a better look. The area was no less enchanting in the daylight and we took a look inside the cathedral, admired the town hall and the governors palace and visited the Convent of St Francis where we were led down into the labarynth-like catacombs to view the thousands upon thousands of bones that had been excavated and laid out in artistic formations for the public to see. Then it was time to pick our things up at our hotel and make our way to the airport for our flight home. Whereas on the flight out we had changed planes in Houston, on the return journey we would be transfering at Newark airport, New York. This broke the trip up into two pretty much even flights of about seven and a half hours each. The first went without a glich and we landed in Newark on schedule. As the plane was pulling into the gate, we checked the second pair of boarding passes that we had already been given in Lima to see where we would be boarding the plane for Heathrow. It was then that we realised that we were going to be caught up in the most ludicrous airport-transfer-dance we had ever had to do. Our plane from Lima had arrived at gate C125. We would be flying out again from gate C125. Exceptionally convenient... if we weren't first being forced to go out through customs, pick up our bags, re-check our bags, go back through customs and return to the gate we started from! But that is what we had to do. It took us just over an hour and very quickly we were called forward to board the plane that we had recently disembarked. The airport dance was not over yet though - a few minutes later we were asked to get back off the plane as a maintenance man had opened one of the doors and something important had fallen out or off so we would need to change planes! This time we didn't have to do the full circuit of the airport, just wait in the area of the gate and an hour and a half later we walked onto the replacement plane, took our seats and were ready for lift off. Luckily there were no more diversions and - about two hours later than scheduled - we landed safely in Heathrow, where the ground staff had kindly kept the terminal open late for us. And that marks the end of our Peruvian adventure.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/lauravanwaas/2/1236637200/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/lauravanwaas/2/1236637200/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/lauravanwaas/2/1236637200/tpod.html Thu, 12 Mar 2009 14:07:05 -0400 A Peruvian Adventure

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Ica, Peru

We have spent the last few days in Ica, Peru's city of "eternal sunshine", where the sun has indeed been shining down strongly. Our original plan was to skip from one town to another, staying first in Nazca to see the lines, then in Ica to taste some wine and finally in Paracas to see all the birds. However, when we caught the overnight bus from Arequipa to Nazca (a 10-hour journey according to the travel operator), we both fell asleep rather too successfully, the bus made ridiculously good time and the driver forgot all about us. This combination of factors led to us waking up at 6.00am, expecting to be arriving within the next hour or so, only to discover that we had long since driven past Nazca. In fact, we were well on our way to Ica, the next stop, some 150km further on. Mystified that no-one had woken us up or warned us that we were missing our stop, we quickly resided ourselves to getting off in Ica instead and using that as our base for a few days. Then, just as we were relaxing again, the bus pulled over onto the dusty roadside and a man came rushing towards us babbling something about Nazca. Yes indeed, we said, we were meant to get off in Nazca, but it seemed a bit late to be chatting about that now. Then the man gestured to the other side of the road where a battered looking bus going in the opposite direction had apparently been flagged down with the objective of shipping us back up the road to Nazca. Neither of us fancied tracing our journey backwards, seeing as Ica was to be our next stop anyway and we had read that we could also fly over the Nazca lines (the only sight that attracted us to Nazca) from Ica as well. So we said a polite "no thanks" to this hurried transfer and sat back in our seats to await our arrival in Ica. From the hard shoulder on the road into Ica where the bus finally dropped us off successfully, we caught a taxi to Hostal Austria which we had noted down a few days before as being a good place to head to when we got to Ica. Our first brush with the hostal management left us feeling confused as to why its staff had been so warmly praised in recent internet reviews of the place (the manager tried to sell us an expensive triple room, insisting that they had nothing else available when the keys to all rooms but one were blatantly still hanging up beside her, but she eventually conceded and let us have a double room; which turned out to be kitted out as a triple when we got to it, but for which we paid the double rate; strange). But the rest of our stay was fabulous as we had the place largely to ourselves and when we stayed in twice for supper in the hotel restaurant, the food was fantastic. The only snag with this hotel, as with many in Ica, is that it was located in a residential area a long way from the town centre, which made more nerve-wrecking taxi rides a necessity. After settling into our room and scrubbing off the layer of bus-filth that we had accumulated on our overnight journey, we went into town to find out about flights over the Nazca lines and other touristy things that we could do while we were here. We were in luck, it seemed. We could join a city tour the very same afternoon that would take us wine-tasting in two bodegas and show us the famous oasis that lies in the sand dunes close to town as well as telling us a bit about the city generally, all for a bargain price. We accepted immediately and after lunch boarded a little minibus with about 10 others. It turned out that we were the only foreigners this afternoon, so much to our amusement we quickly became the main attraction to the rest of the group - posing with people in their photographs and answering all sorts of questions about ourselves and where we were from. The tour was entirely in Spanish, but Mark and I understood quite a bit of it and enjoyed the chance to really test our listening skills. We went first to a church a few blocks from Ica's main square to take a closer look at some of the damage that had been done by an earthquake that hit the city in 2007. Many homes and other buildings had been destroyed and you could see cracks in lots of the structures that remained standing, but this church had really been left in a sorry state. A large section of the main tower and the roof had collapsed, killing 6 people - it would have been many more if there hadn't been 5 different exits that the churchgoers could run out of; but probably no-one would have died if the congregation hadn't first listened to the priest who told everyone to stay seated inside when the tremor hit. The church had yet to be rebuilt because there was an ongoing argument between those who wanted it reconstructed to its previous state and those who wanted to build a much bigger, grander church instead. So we had a look at the temporary church that had been set up on the ground floor of a nearby office building and where families were gathered for a number of christenings that would be taking place that afternoon. From Ica centre we drove out to the northern perimeter of the city where we were surrounded by vineyards, interspersed with the occasional field of cotton or cluster of ramshackle adobe houses. At the first bodega, we were shown how they make wine as well as the local grape-based spirit - Pisco (often mixed with lemon juice and sugar to make the cocktail Pisco Sour). After the demonstration, it was time for some tasting, but none of the products were quite to our taste. Pretty much all of the wine made at Peruvian bodegas is sweet wine (or 'semi-sweet' which is still very sickly), so the taste is rather reminiscent of cough syrup. The Pisco has little flavour at all, just that short burn that spirits give in the back of the throat. At the second bodega, the wine-tasting was very much overshadowed by a general sense of awe at the building that we were standing in. Like a long, wide garden shed, the whole place was packed with what I can only describe as "stuff" from floor to ceiling. There were piles of old typewriters, a series of old swords hanging from the roof, antique telephones sitting on a shelf, oil paintings adorning the walls, a stuffed crocodile sitting on the pots in which the wine is stored and many, many hundreds of other weird and unrelated items. In the midst of all this jumble, a rosy-cheeked and very jovial man offered us a tasting of some of the contents of the large, earthenware pots, dipping a bamboo cane into the pots in order to capture some of the liquid to pour into our little cups. Outside this room, the bar area itself was kitted out with dozens of wobbly picnic tables and yet more "stuff" sitting, standing or hanging everywhere. The entire place had the most amazing ambience which was clearly being enjoyed by a good number of grinning, chatting and drinking locals. Again though, the wine was pretty horrid. With a quick intermediate stop to visit a site where witches used to practice their art, we drove from the bodegas to the oasis of Huacachina where the backpackers of the world come to play. It comprises of a medium-sized, slightly smelly lake, that once used to be a natural oasis in the forest of high sand dunes that surrounds Ica, and that is now fed with water from a pipeline for several hours each day to stop it from drying out. Around the lake is a promenade lined with bars offering about 2 litres of beer for 3 euros, restaurants offering cheap but unappetising looking meals, hotels and backpacker hostels. And wandering along the promenade is a constant stream of the very hairiest kind of backpacker. Yet there is no denying that the surroundings are stunning. The sand dunes stretch up towards the clear blue sky and are dotted with people trying to clamber their way to the top. Here and there people are also sliding down the dunes on a sledge or sandboard (identical to a snowboard). But then this peace is interrupted by the loud roaring of an engine and another dune-buggy comes zooming over the top of a dune at a ridiculous speed, making the enormous roll-bars it is kitted out with seem like a very good idea. The 16 or so passengers wear expressions that range from boredom, through thrill, to just plain scared as they whizz past everyone. Mark and I climb one of the dunes and sit down on the sand to watch the sky grow orange with the setting sun, looking back down on the oasis that really is very beautiful from our vantage point. You can absolutely see why people are attracted to this place and why restaurants and hotels would do well here. But as we order a drink at one of the lakeside bars before getting back in the minibus, the absolute disinterest of the waiter, the questionable colour of my lemonade and the groups of loud teenagers that are sprouting up at the surrounding tables are a good reminder that our decision to stay at a hotel in residential Ica rather than here was a sensible one. Day two in Ica and time to see those Nazca lines that have been causing us so much trouble. Sadly, although you can also fly over them from Ica as our guide book says, the extra distance that has to be flown more than doubles the price of the flight. So we booked a flight from Nazca plus a transfer too and from the airport there and so the early morning saw us hit the road back to Nazca after all. But this time in style - just the two of us in the back of a very comfortable big car, stretching out and reading our books to pass the time. Within 2 hours we were pulling into the little airport at Nazca and half an hour later we were folding ourselves into the back seats of a tiny six-seater plane. The plane took off as if this feat was absolutely nothing at all and we were soaring over the desert with our noses pushed against the windows ready to spot the Nazca lines - huge shapes made in the sand by the civilisation that lived in the area two thousand years ago (no-one knows why). There are lines that trace the shape of a stylised spider, dog, monkey, condor, hummingbird and others. Some can be made out quite easily because the lines are several shades lighter than the surrounding sand or rock, others are less easy to spot. They also range in size and precision somewhat - a couple look like they have been made by not-very-talented-children while others are perfect, beautiful shapes. The plane dips and turns so that you can see them all clearly, making you cling tightly to your seat every now and then, but generally the ride is quite comfortable. Just over half an hour later and we were landing, touching down so lightly we barely noticed that the tyres had made contact with the tarmac. The lines had been interesting, but not knock-your-socks-off impressive leaving both of us with a feeling of overall satisfaction that we had now seen with our own eyes what all the fuss is about. Today, our last full day in Ica, we took another morning excursion, this time to Paracas and the Ballestas Islands just off the coast. Rather than packing up all of our belongings and going to Paracas for the night (it is sort-of en route to Lima where we would be heading next), we had grown quite attached to our hotel in Ica and decided it would be far easier to do another day trip. It took less than an hour to drive to the seaside where we were immediately shepherded onto one of the awaiting boats. Not the kind of boat we had expected though - what awaited us was clearly not a slow, leisurely sail to the island reminiscent of our day pottering about on Lake Titicaca. No, this would be a much faster tour indeed: we had taken our seats in a low-slung, open topped speedboat. Once the boat had moved clear of the harbour, the engines were (both!) roaring and we were zipping along the water, leaving a white, frothing wake behind us. At the first attraction of the tour, the Paracas Candelabra, the engines were turned off for a moment and we bobbed peacefully in the water. The "Candelabra" is another Nazca-line type of drawing in the rock, this time on a slope overlooking the water and it is a giant depiction of a cactus. Then the boat sped on to the main event, the Ballestas Islands, where we were greeted by billions of birds. Pelicans, penguins, cormorants, boobies and lots of species all crowded onto the tiny rocky outcrops that are the islands. The island's beaches, in turn, are covered in sea lions, all barking loudly to be heard over the sounds of the birds - one beach was home to dozens of mummy sea lions with literally hundreds of little black sea lion cubs that were vying for a position out of reach of the strong waves that kept dragging them back into the water. It was an amazing place, the birds swooping around overhead in droves and diving one-by-one into the water to catch a fish and the occasional sea lion peering up at us as it swam past the boat. A spectacular final outing from our cozy temporary home in Ica.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/lauravanwaas/2/1236299400/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/lauravanwaas/2/1236299400/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/lauravanwaas/2/1236299400/tpod.html Sun, 08 Mar 2009 20:51:56 -0400 A Peruvian Adventure

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Arequipa, Peru

As our boat moored at the Puno docks at the end of our afternoon on lake Titicaca last Sunday, we heard some worrying news. Some of our fellow passengers were due to catch a bus to Cusco the following day and had received a text message from their travel agent to say that they must instead leave that night. Apparently a strike looked imminent for the following day and this would block the roads and make long-distance bus travel difficult or impossible. The only way they could be guaranteed to reach their destination was by packing up early and taking a night-bus out before the strike started. For us, this strike may also spell trouble. We had already decided that we would travel straight on to Arequipa from Puno, cancelling all ideas of heading down into Bolivia (or Chile) since to do so would put us on a ludicrously fast-paced schedule and we were both tired out from our month of hard work in Cusco. Our new plan was to catch the day-bus to Arequipa (6 hours away) the next morning. But it seemed as though this new plan was now also in question. We did the only sensible thing - or so we thought - and headed straight for one of the many little travel agents near our hotel to find out more about the strike and whether it would also be affecting our route. After the travel agent eventually (after many investigatory telephone calls or an elaborate money-making charade) confirmed that the strike would affect travel across the nation, we also opted for a premature exodus from Puno on the next available night bus so as to ensure that we would not be stuck here while the strike continued, "possibly indefinitely". This decision would prove to be expensive and we will never know if it was a necessary one. The receptionist at our hotel - where we had to check out having alreay paid for the night we would no longer be staying - had very different information about the strike. According to her sources (she too made some phonecalls for us at the last minute), only the road between Cusco and Puno would be affected. But the travel agent assured her and us that he had less optimistic information and, tired from a busy day on the lake, we were already worked up enough by even a theoretical possibility of being stranded in Puno, we headed to the bus station. Once we were in our seats it became clear that the travel agent had charged us twice the actual ticket price for the bus, making a heftier than usual commission I am sure. And with the bus arriving into Arequipa at 2.00am, we also had the prospect of paying to check into another hotel for the night when we got there. We decided that we would be happier not knowing whether all of this rush, fuss and extra spending had been necessary in the end and did not ask about the strike. Instead, we spent much of the following day in a state of happy relaxation, enjoying our fabulously cozy hotel room, wandering lazilly around the city and finding inner peace through a trip to Arequipa's cinema. By bedtime that night, we had put all thoughts of a strike from our minds and were just happy to be exploring such a beautiful city. Arequipa has been nicknamed Peru's "White City" because many of its grander buildings have been constructed from light-coloured rock from one of the volcanoes that tower like watchmen behind it. It is a favourite of many travellers - an unexpected jem - and we could see why. Not only is it magnificent to look at, it has a very warm and familiar feel to it, with such a wide variety of restaurants and shops that the city would not be out of place in Europe. We took full advantage, having Chinese food the first night and french crêpes the next. On our second evening in town, we visited one of the city's star attractions, an historic convent, the Monestario de Santa Catalina. We had stopped by earlier in the day for a visit, but noticed a poster beside the ticket booth advertising the fact that on Tuesdays and Thursdays, the convent is open until 8pm for evening tours. So just after 6pm, as it was starting to get dark, we returned to buy our tickets and pass under an archway into the enormous complex of buildings and alleyways that is the convent. It is truly a city-within-a-city, taking up a large full block of town with a thick, imposing wall sheltering it from the outside world. In its heyday, the Convent was inhabited by a whole troupe of nuns who had come from wealthy families and apparently for many years had a rather merry time, living slightly beyond the terms of their vow to lead a simple and quiet existence. Later, things became stricter, but it was clear from the nun's quarters that those who lived here were always reasonably comfortable. The dozens of "cells" spread throughout the complex - an entirely inappropriate name for the rooms we explored - each consisted of a large bedroom with heigh ceilings and big windows, with an adjoining room that provided lots of extra living space, a small courtyard or garden that was open to the sky and a semi-enclosed area with a stove or clay oven for cooking. They were the penthouses of their day, I am sure. Because each nun's quarters was actually made up of a network of little adjoining rooms, the convent has a wonderfully chaotic feel to it. Everywhere there are low doorways into another series of rooms that leads to another little courtyard or garden. Candles and oil lamps had been lit in each of the rooms for the evening, as had the fires and ovens, and as it grew dark, the effect was spectacular. The mellow, flickering light guided us from one room to the next and the convent was infused with the soft smell of wood burning. There were very few other visitors and all was peaceful and quiet. We spent more than an hour wandering from one "cell" to another and admiring the communal areas which included several large, stately courtyard gardens with flowers or orange trees and paintings adorning the enclosing walls. And at the heart of the complex is a building which is still in use and houses today's nuns who are still sealed off carefully from the outside world. After two days of enjoying the sights and ammenities of Arequipa, we were off again, this time for an overnight tour to see the Colca Canyon and its famous residents - the condors. The bus climbed out of the city on a winding road into the mountains and although the clouds were low in the sky, we occasionally caught glimpses of the snow-capped peaks of Arequipa's volcanoes. We passed a large cement factory which had, we soon realised, supplied the cement for our construction work at the orphanage in Oropesa. And as we climbed higher, we drove through field of llamas, alpacas and vecuñas - all camel-related species. Then, all of a sudden, the road disappeared and we were weaving our way between enormous potholes and easing the bus ever-so-slowly over deep ruts in the surface. "Don't worry", said our tour guide, "it is only like this for 20 kilometres, then the road is paved again". Those 20km took well over an hour, but then, sure enough, a road appeared again as if from nowhere. And with it, we picked up our speed so that within no-time we reached a spot that was one of the highlights of this tour: the top of a pass through the mountains where we were at 4850 metres above sea level. For Mark and myself, the highest we have ever been (without getting on an aeroplane). We climbed out of the bus to get a proper sense of just how little oxygen there is up here - not much. It was also very cold and big drops of cold rain and wet snow were starting to fall from the clouds above us. Back in the bus, we turned a few more corners and then a wide, green valley stretched out below us. "Down there is where we are staying the night", pointed our tour guide, and sure enough, we could make out a town in the distance. We had to descend around 1500m to get to Chivay, our destination for the day, and we did so through a series of hairpin bends on a road that clung tightly to the green hillside. The afternoon's activity was at a site just outside of Chivay, along the valley floor beside the Colca river (another raging brown torrent). Thermal baths. There were three to choose from - a covered pool that sounded the most attractive on paper but actually smelt strongly of urine when we got inside (despite protestations that the water really is warmed by the thermal activity of the volcano under the surface); a public pool, "which anyone can use, not just tourists" (spoken almost as a warning, strange); and a "semi-covered pool" which should really be described as an open-air pool with a plastic awning covering about one eighth of it, but at such a height that the elements could blow in freely underneath. We opted for this third pool and Mark bravely went first, changing in one of the little wooden cubicles that surround the pool and then easing himself into the quietly steaming water, pulling a face that clearly betrayed just how hot it was. After a minute or so though, he was relaxing happily in the water and signalled that all would be fine if I joined him. Not wanting to miss an opportunity, I too changed and edged my way into the water which was hotter than I would have my bathwater but once the initial scalding feeling subsided it was actually quite pleasant. And it was rather nice there, sitting at the edge of the pool, waist deep in water but warmed by the steam, chatting to fellow tourists while we watched the sky darken above the valley walls and listened to some distant rolls of thunder. Shriveled but invigorated from the thermal baths, we were taken to the evening's entertainment - a sort of dinner show back in Chivay proper. There was more Andean music (hoorah!?) and dancers showing off both typical costumes and tradditional dances. Mark and I were quick to grab seats in the middle of one of the long trestle tables and against the wall, where we would be unlikely to be picked out to join in with the dancing and could just sit back and watch for the evening. Sure enough, our cunning plan worked and we munched our supper peacefully while others were pulled off their chairs to participate in the dances - one of which was particularly entertaining as it involved the man or woman taking a bite from an orange, then collapsing on the floor as if poisoned, then being "whipped" a few of times with an embroidered cloth by his or her partner before miraculously becoming ressurected. A large group of American teenage boys who appeared to be on a school or church trip were in fits of laughter as one of their number lay on the floor for his whipping by the beautifully-atired peruvian dancer and we happily giggled along. The following morning, we awoke from a surprisingly good night's sleep (surprising because our room in the hostel was horribly damp and musty and the ceiling covered in patches of mould), to the 5.00am wake-up call from our tour guide. After breakfast, we boarded the bus again to follow the Colca Valley until it became the Colca Canyon and we reached the spot where the condors can often be found soaring on the thermals. A few quick stops at villages, churches and lookout point - of course - then we were in the Canyon proper and were being flagged down by another bus that had stopped at the side of the road. The driver pointed up the slope behind us and there was our first condor, perching high on a rock, looking down on us. When he was sure that he had our full attention, he lifted off and swept down the hill, soaring over our bus with his huge wings fully stretched, then looping round and round on a thermal out in the valley in front of us. We all rushed off the bus to take a better look, but the condor grew quickly bored of this and flew back up the hill behind to take up a new game of chasing cows. He drove one left across the hill, making it bound awkwardly along the slope, then swooped around it and chased it back to the right. Satisfied that he had given us a full display of his authority, he settled back on a rock to survey the valley below him. We drove on a little way, then got off to walk along the rim of the valley, keeping our eyes peeled for more condors. Three young ones (their feathers still dark brown, not yet the deep black of the adults' plumage) sat on another rocky outcrop above us, but did not seem inclined to fly anywhere. Then as we got to "Condor Cross" - the lookout point for tourists looking for condors in the canyon - we were treated to a couple more brief flying displays by adult condors. We could go back to Arequipa, fully satisfied that we had seen what we came to see and on the return journey we were not even that annoyed by the ridiculous 20km stretch of mud and potholes that is just crying out to be leveled into a proper road again.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/lauravanwaas/2/1235951940/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/lauravanwaas/2/1235951940/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/lauravanwaas/2/1235951940/tpod.html Tue, 03 Mar 2009 17:39:57 -0500 A Peruvian Adventure

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Puno, Peru

It was clear and bright on Saturday morning as we closed the gate of our host family's home behind us for the last time and made our way to our bus. We had booked seats on the luxurious Inka Express service to Puno - a journey that would take most of the day but we would stop at a handful of interesting places along the way. There were only 9 of us tourists on the big, comfortable coach (2 Japanese, 2 Spanish, 2 Americans, 1 German and us) but our numbers were boosted by the driver, tour guide and "hostess" who brought us water or hot drinks after each stop. The bus drove out of Cusco along the road to Oropesa and it wasn't long before we caught what would be our very last glimpse of the orphanage across the fields. The driver pulled over at the turning up to the plaza of Oropesa to buy some of the famous bread for all of us to try. Then we drove further on through the valley, passing a stone quarry and an area of river where men were digging up the soft, wet mud to make bricks. After another half an hour, we came to our first proper stop: Andahuaylillas. In this small, otherwise nondescript Andean village, atop a hill beside the main square, stood a church whose interior took our breath away (and neither of us are church people). The church, like so many others, was built on the foundations of an Incan temple and has a broad balcony above the main entrance from which the priests would preach to the 15,000 or more natives that were forced to live in the town in early Colonial times. Inside, the walls are covered in frescos which had recently been restored, a colourful carved and painted ceiling and a wide, high alter that is drenched in gold leaf. This lavish decoration speaks volumes about the wealthy history of this now quiet village - the town held an important strategic position on the trade routes between that connected the gold, silver and mercury mines of this area of South America. Another hour and a half in the bus brought us to an even more impressive historic site. The Incan ruins at Raqchi cover a vast area of the fertile, tranquil valley floor. A long, four or five storey high wall catches your attention the moment that you walk onto the site. The first two metres or so have been constructed from stones, chiseled and cemented together. Above this level, the walls have been built from mud bricks - the only Incan ruin where this combination of techniques can be found, according to our guide. This wall once formed the central structure of an enormous temple with a massive thatched roof that was further held up by 11 tall, cylindrical columns on either side of the centre wall. Behind the temple were the ruins of the houses of noblemen, elders and astronomers, built in pairs on three sides of a shared courtyard. The straight, narrow street that connected these courtyards was again inspired by the astronomical phenomenon of the summer solstice (21 December). When the sun rises on that day, it sends its light right down this corridor, illuminating its full length. Behind the remains of the houses are the remains of over 20 round store houses for grain and other crops, a few of which have been rebuilt in order to show how they would have looked - one complete with thatch roof. Looking across the fields behind these ruins, over the fields and terraces of corn and flowering potato plants, you can just make out a stone wall running along the ridge of hills beyond. This wall once ran all the way around the Incan settlement, helping to protect it from invaders, now it is just a pretty addition to the already pretty landscape. After a lunch stop in Sicuani, during which we were sadly "treated" to more Andean music, the coach climbed its way to the highest point (4335m) on the road between Cusco and Puno at La Raya (meaning "the line", dividing as it does the provinces of Cusco and Puno). Here we were greated with heavy drops of rain as we took a photo or two of the mountains that loomed up even higher in the distance, topped with snowy glaciers. Hurrying back into the bus, we descended just a little as we drove across the "Altiplano" - the high plains that stretch between the mountains of the Eastern Andean ridge and those of the Western Andean ridge. One last short stop in Pukara, where we visited a tiny museum exhibiting various pre-Incan stone carvings, and we were nearing Puno on the shores of Lake Titicaca. As we entered the city it became clear that the Carnaval celebrations were still in full swing here. There were markets and parades in many of the main streets, making lots of noise and blocking traffic. The busdriver was forced to make a number of tricky manoeuvres, reversing down crowded streets and around tight corners while being beeped at all the while by impatient (motortrike) taxi drivers. At last, half an hour late thanks to the town's festivities, we arrived at the bus station, then into a taxi to make our way slowly back across town to our hotel near the main plaza. It was 6pm when we checked in and we were ready for a simple meal and a long sleep. The pedestrianised street full of restaurants and touristy shops started just round the corner from our hotel so it was easy enough to find a place for supper - we were lured into a very cozy little restaurant by the warm glow of a fire crackling in one corner and were rewarded for our good taste with a delicious and cheap supper, including chocolate cake for pudding! We spent the day today exploring the delights of the lake which had attracted us to Puno - Lake Titicaca, the "highest navigable lake in the world". Down at the docks we boarded a boat already crowded with tourists, taking the last two available seats. The boat chugged out of the harbour and out towards the famous "floating islands" - a phenomenon that is supposedly unique to the bay of Puno. This series of 40 or so islands, constructed of reeds that are naturally found growing in this area of the lake, are home to several hundred people whose ancestors have lived in a similar fashion for dozens of generations. They get almost everything that they need from the lake. Not only are the islands themselves made of reeds, so are their homes and boats - and they also eat the reeds and use them for medicinal purposes. They fish and hunt birds for food, keeping other birds such as herons as pets, and trading fish for crops on the mainland. The islanders have long lived in poverty but today they supplement their income with what they earn from the tourists that visit the islands to learn about and photograph their lives, allowing them to afford some luxuries such as solar panels for lighting. We are met with warm smiles and given a practiced but very interesting demonstration of how the islands are constructed and a number of other aspects of their lives. We are given a chance to buy some of the crafts that the islanders make, including colourful woven cloth and a variety of products made from the reeds - Mark and I pick a miniature reed boat that we hope will make a good fruitbowl back home. Then our boat pulls out onto the lake again, splashing its way across the deep blue-green water for two and a half hours until we reach the island of Taquille. There we happily clamber onto the dry land and slowly make our way up the hill to the village. Under an awning that protects us against the strong rays of the sun, we take a seat on one of the benches along a long trestle table and watch as the locals put on a display of tradditional dancing and tell us about the very special weaving that is done on the island (UNESCO-protected weaving these days!). Of course Mark and I are among both among the handful of tourists that are dragged off the benches to join in with the "wedding dance", twirling around the grassy hill, led by small, quiet girls. But the reward is lunch, so we don't complain. After lunch, we huff and puff the rest of the way to the top of the hill from which we have a fabulous view of the terraces and the lake beyond. We walk through to the island's main square where there is evidence of further Carnaval celebrations - drumming, flute music and dancing, all executed by locals dressed in brightly coloured costumes. We walk through the village and down the path on the other side of the island, descending 500 steps to the little marina where our boat is now waiting for us. Then we bounce our way back across the lake to Puno and to what we had been assured were the very last remnants of Carnaval celebrations - teenagers out in force enjoying a final opportunity to spray one another (and unassuming passers-by) with what looked and felt a lot like shaving foam while collapsing into riotous fits of giggles.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/lauravanwaas/2/1235833320/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/lauravanwaas/2/1235833320/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/lauravanwaas/2/1235833320/tpod.html Mon, 02 Mar 2009 11:06:11 -0500 A Peruvian Adventure

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Cusco, Peru

I am not sure how long it took the Chinese to build their Great Wall, but it took us just over three weeks to build ours and we were damn proud of it when it was finished. It forms an L shape, with the longer arm measuring perhaps 30 or so metres long and the shorter arm just under 10. The wall is between 40 and 60 centimeters wide and between 80 and 120 centimeters high. Anyone willing to do the maths would, I am sure, come up with an impressive number for the volume of matieral that the wall swallowed up in its construction. We certainly carried many hundreds of heavy granite rocks of varying sizes and mixed countless wheelbarrow loads of gravelly cement. And all of this with the most rudimentary equipment - just one descent, strong shovel and a collection of flimsier, bent ones; some slightly dodgy pick-axes and one rickety wheelbarrow. All agreed that an accomplishment of this magnitude was worthy of celebration, so rather than starting a new project during our final two days on site, we decided it was time for a fiesta. After lunch on Friday, we visited our local supermarket, where we picked up enough fizzy drinks, crisps, cakes and sweets to make a dentist weep and piled it all and ourselves into a taxi (what luxury!) for our last visit to Oropesa. We arrived on site at the usual time, just after 2.00pm, but discovered the place to be semi-deserted. The (police)man, Alcedes, who runs the orphanage had taken half of the boys into Cusco to get haircuts and buy new school supplies and uniforms since they are due back to school after their summer holiday on Monday. So we settled down with the older boys, whose would take their turn of haircuts and shopping tomorrow, to wait for the rest. We played a little football, on a muddy and potholed pitch beside the orphanage where you had to be careful not to kick the ball too far off to one side or it would land (again!) in a horribly smelly and muddy ditch. And we played games with water-balloons - the throwing of which, especially at us, is a favourite passtime among the boys here and a particular tradition at this time of year because it is somehow connected with Carnaval. Then at a bit after 16.00, a bright-red pick-up pulled in, laden with orphans and fertiliser for the plants that the boys are cultivating in their greenhouse. We helped to unload it all before retreating to the classroom where we stood around in a haphazard circle while Alcedes gave a little speech to thank us for all of the hard work that we had done to protect the buildings of the orphanage. We were each given a gift and a big hug from one of the boys (Mark received a wallet and I was given a little handbag, both locally crafted). Then it was time to pass round drinks and snacks. Within a matter of minutes the boys were filled with enough sugar to have them bouncing happily around the room, laughing and trying to stuff as many of the remaining lollypops and bags of smarties into their pockets as they could. Then there was just time for a group photo and one last water-balloon fight in the courtyard before we had to leave to catch the bus back to Cusco. More hugs and thank yous all round and we were waved off to wide grins and shouts of "safe journey" and "come back soon". Back at the house for our last evening together with our three fellow volunteers, the conversation turned to the curious question of our host family situation. At the end of our second week, the son, Diego, left to Lima to stay with his older brother for the remaining two weeks of his school holiday. Then, just a couple of days later, our host "mum", Gloria, told us that the older son who lives in Lima was ill and she was going to visit him for a few days to look after him. Nothing too strange in any of this, except that almost 2 weeks passed and she did not come home. In fact, there was no mention of her return, or of her or Diego at all, and both were still away when we left for Puno early this morning, our stay in Cusco having come to an end. Mystery number one. In her absense, we were taken very good care of by the family's "maid", a quiet young girl whose name I am ashamed to admit I keep forgetting. She does all the cleaning around the house and, since Gloria's departure, also all of the cooking (previously she helped Gloria with this task). She has a nine-month old son with chubby cheeks and big brown eyes called Sebastian, who is at the house all day with her and to whom we all smile and pull funny faces at breakfast time when we are sitting in the kitchen. Meanwhile, we have also seen less and less of our host "dad", Pepe, since has been very busy at work - he is an economics lecturer at two of the private universities in Cusco and works very long hours. And he is at the centre of a second, Jekyll and Hyde like mystery. He has never been anything but polite and friendly to me and Mark and he is always displaying his broad and infectious smile when we see him. He can also be heard, upon occasion, playing with Sebastian in the kitchen, making cooing noises as one does with babies of that age. He sometimes joins us for breakfast, making small-talk in slow, careful Spanish so that we can converse a little with him. And every now and then he is around at lunchtime or for an evening meal - always checking that we are ok and asking how our day has been. Now to the curious part. Tanner, one of our Canadian housemates who has been plagued by a nasty stomach parasite for much of his stay here making it very difficult for him to keep food down and therefore sometimes necessitating an extra afternoon in bed, has a different story. One afternoon while he was resting in his room, trying to beat the parasite, he was apparently forced to listen to Pepe shouting down the phone for a long time. At the end of the phonecall, Pepe could then be heard ripping up papers and later, Tanner discovered shreds of exam papers in the toilet bowl - a fact to which I can attest since I saw the remains of them myself when we got home. Tanner also swears that he has heard Pepe raise his voice to the maid and that this morning, as Tanner was sitting on the couch on the landing waiting for the alcohol, sugar and cafeine buzz to subside, he was scowled at by Pepe who was getting ready for work. It is a strange tale, as Pepe is so smily and welcoming whenever we have seen him. Mystery number two. The third mystery - undoubtedly fed by our overactive imaginations, is the overall relationship between Gloria, Pepe and the maid. When you find yourself suddenly living with a family of total strangers and some of them disappear and the relationship between others seems volatile, you start to wonder whether there is more going on than meets the eye. Over our last meal together, we 5 volunteers came up with a range of theories to explain what we had witnessed in the house. I am sure that all of them are rubbish, but we did feel a little let down by our host family over those last few days in Cusco. And our hearts went out in particular to the maid who seemed to be left to look after us without further instruction - she had no idea that we were leaving today until we told her ourselves, even though that had been the arrangement all along, and seemed sad that we would not be around for any more breakfasts, lunches and dinners. Quite whether new volunteers would immediately be arriving in our place was anyone's guess, we had no way of knowing. Overall, although we had been very well looked after throughout our month in Cusco, we were not sad to be leaving the house and heading out on our own to pastures new. First stop: Puno.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/lauravanwaas/2/1235685420/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/lauravanwaas/2/1235685420/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/lauravanwaas/2/1235685420/tpod.html Fri, 27 Feb 2009 08:59:10 -0500 A Peruvian Adventure

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Cusco, Peru

It has been a strange week. Freshly returned from the jungle, we spent much of Sunday and Monday getting used to the altitude in Cusco, again. It is amazing that after just 2 nights in a more oxygen rich environment we can have so much trouble re-adjusting, but it tired us out once more. Then there was the new addition to our Spanish group - a fact that ended up trying our patience and sapping our energy even more. The new boy was an Israelian hippy, dressed like a cross between Robin Hood and Captain Jack Sparrow from Pirates of the Caribbean with long dangling dreadlocks. Perfectly friendly and chatty outside of the classroom setting, he turned out to be a bit of a nightmare during the lessons. Keen not to miss out on the chance to learn any new word whatsoever, he would ask our teacher how to spell everything. This, in itself, slowed things down a lot as poor, increasingly unamused Ana-Maria had to keep spelling out the letters of words or jumping up to write them on the whiteboard. But the Israeli also seemed to have difficulty listening to what was being said in class, whether it be by Ana-Maria or one of us students, answering a question or completing an exercise. Everything needed to be repeated and then, of course, spelled out. By the end of Wednesday's class, Mark and I were ready to commit mutiny and through him out of our, until then, wonderfully peaceful and easy-going group. The most frustrating thing about this bizarre manifestation of a thirst for knowledge was that it meant that all of us learnt much, much less, because we were all constantly distracted and we were unable to get anywhere near as much practice with the material. I was a bit more fortunate since I had booked two additional 1-hour private lessons after our class on Tuesday and Wednesday to learn a little more vocabulary that is relevant to my line of work and to get a bit more conversational practice. Even so, enough was enough, so Mark and I decided to do the sensible thing and skive on Thursday morning, hopefully recovering enough of our patience to then be able to get through our last lesson on Friday. It was with great foresight that we decided in advance to skip Thursday morning's Spanish lesson for Wednesday evening will be forever etched in our memory as the night of the Cuba Libres. For the third week running, Mark and me and our three Canadian housemates headed into the centre after "work" on Wednesday. We had a meal at a restaurant and then settled down at a table in Nick's bar for the weekly pub quiz. And for the third week running we failed to win. In fact, our performance this week was the worst so far - we were completely flummoxed by the literature round where we were presented with 10 oh-so-familiar sounding first lines of famous books and only managed to correctly identify 2 of them (a sign of how bad our guesses were: we put "The three Musqueteers" down for what was actually the first line of Shakespeare's Macbeth!). But we were not put off by our defeat because we were making the most of Nick's happy hour drinks prices throughout the quiz and by the end of it we had worked our way through 27 Cuba Libres between the 5 of us - Cuba Libres that had at least as much Rum in them as Coke. This was undoubtedly our first mistake. Our second was to take up the suggestion of a fellow volunteer at another table to join them for a drink and a dance in one of the nearby bars. The promise of a free Cuba Libre was what sealed the deal of our choice of venue and the rest of the evening carried on along much the same vein. We danced happily to an eclectic mix of music (mainly rap and reggae, with "Ganster's Paradise" by Coolio featuring 3 times!) until about 2.30am at which point it really was time to get a taxi home.  This morning we discovered 2 annoying facts about drinking Cuba Libres in Cusco. The first was that high altitude here ensures that alcohol goes to your head much more quickly and efficiently and produces, the following day, a much more disasterous hangover. The second is that drinking Cuba Libres all evening means drinking a copious amount of Coca-Cola (as well as rum) and the sugar and cafeine buzz that this induces will ensure that you are in no state to sleep off your hangover. I was wide awake by 7.00am and completely unable to get back to sleep until mid afternoon, after I had ventured out with the Canadians to MacDonalds for a quick fix of fast food that can be relied upon worldwide as a hangover cure. Mark did not join us on that little outing, prefering to spend the whole day in bed in his pajamas. So, it was a very good thing that we had not hoped to learn any Spanish today and very lucky too that we completed our construction work in Oropesa yesterday (part of the reason for the celebrations) and were only expected there for a farewell party with the kids which we phoned to delay until tomorrow.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/lauravanwaas/2/1235338740/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/lauravanwaas/2/1235338740/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/lauravanwaas/2/1235338740/tpod.html Tue, 24 Feb 2009 09:04:42 -0500 A Peruvian Adventure

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Puerto Maldonado, Peru

Stepping off the plane after just a short 45 minute hop over the Peruvian hills on Friday morning we immediately noticed two things. The first was the warm, humid air that encircled us. And the second was that this air was also blissfully heavy with oxygen, delicious, how we had missed it so! We had flown into Puerto Maldonado to experience the Peruvian jungle and get our own small taste of the Amazon rainforest of which this area forms one of the Westernmost fringes. At the airport, we were met by our tour guide and shepherded onto a bus together with another 15 or so people all anxious to get out into the wild and meet some monkeys and other animals. The bus took us through town (via a market, because they love to encourage shopping here) and down to the river where a boat from the EcoAmazonia Lodge (our resting place for 2 nights), was already waiting for us. We clambered aboard, put on our mandatory life jackets and settled down on one of the two long benches that faced eachother across the width of the narrow wooden boat. The 'captain' pulled the cord and fired up the powerful motor engine and we were soon speeding our way towards the lodge. The river was wide and the current was strong, helping to push us downstream to the lodge. If you looked out across the water, the river had a pretty dark-green hue to it, reflecting the lush green trees that lined the banks. But looking down straight into the water, its milk chocolate-brown colour was revealed, the river being heavy with mud and the occasional tree being dragged along in the current.  After a little more than an hour, we reached the lodge where we got out of the boat and climbed a series of concrete steps up the bank - steps that had half collapsed and were now hanging both lopsidedly and at a precarious angle. At the top of the steps we were greeted by a big wooden sign declaring "Bienvenidos a EcoAmazonia" and we followed a wooden walkway, raised high up on stilts, to the reception area. There we were greeted with a glass of fresh juice and a word of welcome from the lodge manager before we were ushered on into the dining room for a lavish buffet lunch. After lunch, we were given the keys to our own wooden bungalow where to rested for an hour or so, reading in the hammocks that hung on our mosquito-net protected front porch.  By mid afternoon it was time for our first outing into the jungle. We were each given a pair of wellington boots before boarding another narrow wooden boat. We crossed the river and climbed up a very muddy bank onto "Monkey Island" where we would search for monkeys. With a machete-equipped guide leading the way, cutting back branches or patches of overgrown grass wherever necessary, we made our way along the trail into the cover of the forest. It wasn't long before  our guide pointed out the first tree-dweller, a species of small, dark monkeys with tiny, withered looking faces and long black tails. Coaxed down onto a lower branch by the piece of banana that our guide proffered, the monkey seemed entirely unimpressed by the crowd of camera-wielding onlookers. Once we had all taken a few snaps, we carried on deeper into the jungle, passing tall trees and thick, dangling Tarzan-vines. Before long, the boots were put to their first test, helping us keep our feet dry through deep mud and an ever-growing series of puddles on the path. But just a little further up the path it became clear that the boots were, in fact, a nonsense. The path became a stream which climbed to mid-thigh level, pouring happily over the tops of our boots and flooding our feet with warm, murky water. Each time we surfaced from such a patch of water, we would all pause and raise one foot and then the other, bending our legs up behind us to allow the water to flow back out of our boots. Then there was the sound of scurrying in the trees above us and another monkey emerged from between the broad green leaves. This time it was a different species, a white capuchin monkey, sandy brown in colour, larger and lankier with long, skinny legs and arms. It swung down to take a better look at us and we took out our cameras again. Then it grabbed a piece of banana in each hand and scampered back up into a tree. As we moved further on along the path, the capuchin monkey followed us, and as the trail rounded a corner it was joined by a group of black spider monkeys. We stood in knee-deep water as these monkeys played in the trees around us and came down one by one to pick up the pieces of bananas that our guide put down on a raised plank of wood (a sort of feeding table). One spider monkey dropped right down onto the shoulders of a girl in our group and another was dragging a little baby along on her back with her as she joined in with the general clammering for bananas. Monkey Island had certainly lived up to its name and we had managed to find 3 of the 4 species that inhabit it before it was time to head back to the boat and float back across the river to the lodge and dinner. After dinner and a quick drink in the bar, it was back onto the river in another rickety wooden boat for a spot of cayman-watching. Except that the water was too high for the caymans to be lying about in full view, waiting for our torch-wielding guard to point them out to tourists like us. So, after an unsuccessful hunting expedition upriver - during which the only animal spotted was a frog - the captain of the boat steered us into the fast-flowing midriver before promptly turning off the engine (and the torch) to allow us to consider instead the sounds of the jungle (in the absolute pitch dark). We floated back down to the lodge through the eerie black night, the spookiness eased slightly by a preoccupation with the need to stifle any urges to cackle evily and break the spell. The following morning we received an "alarm call" (heavy knock on our bungalow's front door) at 5.00am. We were to get have get up, have breakfast and be back in our boots and ready for a hike through the rainforest by six. The weather did not seem promising as we made our way from one wooden walkway to another, heading to the restaurant for breakfast then back to our bungalow to pack our things. The clouds were low and grey and it was the rain was already falling heavily by the time our little group had assembled. Just 6 of us were scheduled to hike out to the lost lake, one of the many spots that groups are taken to in the jungle behind the lodge. Our guide asked us if we wanted to wait for the rain to subside, but we were bursting with enthusiasm for the jungle and waved this suggestion aside. A bit of rain was not going to put us off and we had our boots, raincoats and raintrousers for protection anyway. In the end it was perhaps just as well that we didn't wait for the rain to stop before setting out, since the downpour continued all throughout the morning.  We climbed into one of the boats for a 10 minute journey downstream to start our walk at a particular point in the rainforest. One of the first points of interest that we came upon was an area of the jungle that smelt distinctly of garlic - very strong, ever so slightly putrid garlic. The odour, our guide pointed out, emanated from the "garlic tree" whose bark and leaves had the smell and taste of garlic and were used by locals to flavour food. A little further down the track and we stopped before another tree, this time a "telephone tree" with wide roots stretching out around it. If you hit the telephone tree with a branch, as our guide demonstrated and the men of the group mimicked, it made a low booming noise that resonated throughout the forest - a useful tree to track down if you are lost in the jungle and want to alert a rescue party. Another tall tree with wide roots was identified by our guide as the tallest in the jungle, dubbed the "father tree" or something similar thanks to this status. And as we continued on our hike through the rain and mud we were told about a wide variety of trees and plants, although sadly there was little in the way of animal life about besides a tiny frog whose bottom is naturally painted with two large eyes so that it can raise its backside to preditors, pretending to be a snake and save itself from being eaten. After a kilometre of walking, which took almost an hour thanks to the squelching underfoot and the many interesting stops, we came upon a waterway and a rowing boat. Armed with a wooden paddle each, we eased the boat out into the water and rowed our way through a series of streams for 3 kilometres, keeping our eyes peeled for animal life in the water and the surrounding trees. At one point, our path was blocked by a tree that had collapsed across the waterway and our guide took to it with his machete while balancing precariously on the bow of the boat until the way was cleared. The rain slowed a little for this part of our exploration and we were able to lower our hoods and gaze up at the birds that flitted from one tree to another to our left and right. A hawk was watching our progress carefully, always staying a few dozen metres ahead of the boat and soaring peacefully from one resting place to the next. Then there were a few trees full of parakeets that chased and danced around one another, squawking all the while. Three bright blue and yellow mackaws perched next to one another on a high branch, showing little sign of activity. And a tall white heron sat regally at the top of another tree, surveying the whole scene.  Although it was serene out on the water and the birdwatching was very enjoyable, we were all a little disappointed by the failure to meet any more threatening beasts - the giant otters, cayman and anacondas were clearly sheltering elsewhere. Our stint in the rowboat came to an end as we reached another section of the jungle path and carried on again on foot. Here our guide teased a massive (almost rugby ball sized) tarantula out of its nest (a kind of burrow in the ground below a tree) by wiggling a stick down the hole, pretending to be a mosquito or other tasty insect and we snapped obligingly without cameras before the tarantula scurried away again in disappointment. We also marvelled at the so-called "punishment tree" from which hundreds upon hundreds of nasty little fire ants emerged when the trunk was tapped with a stick - in the past, criminals would be tied to the tree as a punishment and left to the ants. Then we came upon a large clearing in the middle of which stood an ugly but functional piece of scaffolding with a look-out at the top. The structure was 45 metres tall, reaching above the tree line and looked decidedly unstable. Meanwhile, the rain had started again in earnest and water was pouring off the top platform and running down the slippery wooden planks that functioned as steps. Still, we had come to the jungle for an adventure and we would not be put off by mere health-and-safety concerns and we all ascended slowly to the top to see what we could see. The reward was pretty hopeless - from the viewing platform we were able to admire the treetops and the rain, but that was about all. With the water pouring out of the sky the birds had clearly sought out a dry spot somewhere far from view and there was nothing else out there. Plus, at this height, we could feel the wind and it made the platform wobble in a very sick-making fashion. We didn't stay up for long - only the terrifying thought of the slippery descent swayed us to spend any time up there at all.  Safely down on the ground, we braced ourselves for the last leg of our journey to the lost lake: across a 700m long "bridge". This bridge had been constructed over swamplands where the water - thanks to the inssant rain - was high, dark and cayman-infested. But bridge is too fancy a term for what we had to make our way across. Essentially it was a 700m long construction consisting of pairs of planks of wood laid down parallel and end to end. The bridge could therefore not have been more than half a metre wide, without any railings and ridiculously slippery underfoot thanks to how sodden the planks had become with the rainwater. Of the six in our group, the bridge claimed 3 victims. Two of the men slipped and fell into the water on the outward journey - making an almighty splash before scrambling out faster than you would have thought humanly possible (the threat of becoming lunch for the caymans ringing in all our ears). And on the return journey, one of the girls slid and hit her head nastily on the wood, but (just) managed to remain balanced on the bridge. At the far end of the bridge was the lost lake. No patch of land between the bridge and the lake though - effectively the bridge just stopped and the swamp took over in earnest and all that lay before us was water and another wooden rowing boat. Our guide rowed us around the lost lake in ever more desperate attempts to discover some of the promised animal life - looking in all of the "usual" places for lounging cayman - but to no avail. We just sat, staring at the bare trees and empty reeds, contemplating the rain. We were out on the lake for almost an hour and every few minutes it seemed that the rain would take on a new ferocity, but then we would realise that it was already pouring as hard as it possibly could. A glum silence descended on our group and one or two of its members dozed off in order to escape the torture of the eternal drip-drip-dripping of giant raindrops on our heads, shoulders, backs, knees, everywhere.  By the time we got off the boat, my waterproof trousers had given up on their task of keeping my trousers dry and the water had creeped in under my hood, and seeped down through my t-shirts. Everything was wet, except - miraculously - my socks, since the boots were holding out well. Mark, meanwhile, still had dry trousers but his boots had been leaking and so his feet were soaked. We were not much better off than the two guys who had fallen into the swamp and everyone was becoming increasingly obsessed with the fantasy of dry clothes and a hot drink. But first we had to get safely back across the "bridge" and hike the 5km back to the rendez-vous point with our boat. It was after 13.00 when we met our boat on the increasingly muddy banks of the river and we had been walking (and rowing) in the rain for seven hours straight. This might have been funny, had we also seen something of the impressive fauna that is meant to inhabit the rainforest, but all we had spotted were a few birds, a trusty and much tormented tarantula and a miniature frog. Thankfully, lunch followed by an afternoon nap was waiting for us at the lodge and by the evening we were in good spirits again - laughing happily at our rain-sodden exploration of the seemingly barren Amazon rainforest. That night we slept soundly, blocking out all of the jungle noises that encroached our bungalow from all sides.  This morning we awoke to clear skies and a dry ground, but it was too late. After another early breakfast it was time to board the boat back to Puerto Maldonado to catch our flight "home" to Cusco. Despite the new dry spell of weather, all of our belongings were still horribly damp. Flipflops, shorts and slightly damp t-shirts was all that we had left to wear as we made our way home. Even our belongings that had stayed in the bungalow throughout our stay, such as our passports, were cold and clammy since the bungalow had only mosquito nets - no windows - to keep out the jungle and these did nothing to hold back the intense humidity. All in all, ours had been an interesting stint in the Amazon and the well worth the short journey, but we were not altogether depressed to be returning to the drier (if oxygen-deprived) climes of Cusco. 
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/lauravanwaas/2/1235007540/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/lauravanwaas/2/1235007540/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/lauravanwaas/2/1235007540/tpod.html Thu, 19 Feb 2009 08:42:06 -0500 A Peruvian Adventure

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Cusco, Peru

Until last Monday, we were convinced that the area of the valley where "our" orphanage is possessed magical qualities. Every afternoon we would be treated to weather that was wonderfully - indeed perfectly - suited to hard, manual labour. The sun would often be out as we made our way to the project and would warm us as we picked up our shovels and pick-axes, but before we got too sweaty some fluffy clouds would blow in and take the edge off the afternoon's heat. A few times these fluffy clouds would be joined by black, menacing storm clouds and we would see lightning in the distance and hear thunder echoing back and forth between the hills that line the valley. We would even see the clear grey haze of rain over the hills towards Cusco or further down the valley in the opposite direction and there were days when we were convinced that the wind would blow the bad weather in our direction. But the rain never arrived, only the welcome shade provided by the cloud cover and at times a pleasantly cooling wind. This in spite of the fact that at the end of many afternoons, when we returned to Cusco, we found the streets absolutely sodden with water signalling that we had once again missed a heavy downpour. The apparent magic of the orphanage's valley was making a big impression on us all. But as I said, that was until last Monday... When we caught the bus to the orphanage on Monday, there was a thin cloud cover in Cusco and the temperature was perfectly acceptable - probably around 20 degrees. But in Oropesa, the sky was clear and the sun was burning down with some ferocity. Just the walk to the orphanage was enough to knock the breath out of us in this heat and we took our time in rehydrating and applying suntan lotion before we got to work. Try as we might, we were making a poor job of it that afternoon. We were weak, slow and lethargic, despite theoretically being fresh after the weekend's rest. The heat was so intense that it instantly sapped us of all our strength. Nevertheless, we ploughed through and as the afternoon progressed, the sun disappeared once more, but we never quite recovered the energy levels that we can usually rely on. As we were tipping the last few bucket loads of gritty cement into the ditch, the wind suddenly picked up and the sky darkened. We thought little of it, safe - we thought - in the knowledge that the gods knew not to send rain to this area of the valley while we were at work. But then the first few drops were felt, large and heavy. And within seconds it began to rain with an unexpected intensity. The raindrops were intermingled with hail and the impact of either stung the skin. Hastily calling it a day, we rushed for the shelter of the classroom and stood back to watch as the path down the hill to the site turned to a river and bucket upon bucketful of water poured off the corrugated iron roofs. In the classroom, the noise of the shower was deafening and the wind was blowing the rain sideways so that some dripped through the top of the roof where the two sheets of corrugated iron clumsily met. For 15 minutes, the rain continued to thunder against every surface and cascade down the hill. Then it slowed to a drizzle and we prepared ourselves for the walk to the bus stop - a journey that involved slipping, sliding and squelching in deep reddy-brown mud all the way. Meanwhile, back at home in Cusco, as we were relaxing in front of the television on Saturday evening, we were jolted suddenly awake by another intrusion of nature: an earthquake. Tremors are relatively common here in Peru because the country lies on the 'ring of fire', an active techtonic zone that encircles the Pacific ocean. And this wasn't a particularly big one. It rocked us gently for about 10 seconds, just enough to make us look up and question what was happening, then we were shaken a little more ferociously for another 5 seconds or so. During this latter shaking, Mark and I both jumped up and went to "shelter" under a doorway, but the earth was very soon still again and we were left standing there somewhat sheepishly, our Canadian housemates looking at us with puzzlement. Still, past earthquakes have been strong enough to do nasty damage to many buildings, including the cathedral on the main square, so our tremor-instinct wasn't entirely an overreaction. As for "un poco Español", I am pleased to report that we are making good progress during our lessons. Today we learnt how to present assorted ailments to a doctor, concentrating largely on sentences such as "I feel nauseous" and "I have diarrhoea" which are particularly helpful when travelling to foreign countries, as well as the usual "I have a headache" and "are my bones broken?" Other subjects that we have discussed in class have included the weather (excellent for Brits like me who like to make small talk about such things), directions (useful for our taxi ride to the school each morning because not every driver knows exactly where it is) and hobbies (another good small talk subject). In addition to these types of topics, our teacher Ana-Maria is trying to get us to learn how to conjugate about 7 billion different irregular verbs - an impossible task and we are still only working on the present tense. Luckily Ana-Maria is not too strict and she likes a good laugh, she has a highly infectious cackle and can be set off by very random things (including our inability to conjugate irregular verbs, but never mind, she means well). The good news is that by next week we will be allowed to move on to the "intermediate level" which means a new book and yes, more verbs, hoorah!
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/lauravanwaas/2/1234745160/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/lauravanwaas/2/1234745160/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/lauravanwaas/2/1234745160/tpod.html Mon, 16 Feb 2009 08:47:07 -0500 A Peruvian Adventure

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Sacred Valley, Peru

Our treat this weekend (other than a lie in and generally very lazy day on Saturday) was a day tour of the Sacred Valley, an area that stretches out between Cusco and Machu Picchu and contains many other important Incan sites. For an entire day, we did the most touristy thing possible: being driven around in a comfortable coach, obediently taking photos at any scenic stop, enjoying a mammoth buffet lunch and generally letting the guide tell us what to do when. By the end of the day we were tired out and happy to be released from captivity again, but it had been a good way of learning more about the Incan civilisation and an easy way of combining a visit to a number of interesting places on the map.  The first two stops were at markets - first on the edge of a small village and then at a famous regional market in the town of Pisac. We admired the wealth of locally grown fruit and vegetables in the local's section of the markets and then browsed the miriad of stalls selling a similar selection of jewerly, paintings, pottery, stone carvings and all manner of clothes made from Alpaca wool. We couldn't resist the usual Peruvian souvenirs: Mark bought one of the typical knitted woollen hats and I bought an Alpaca wool jumper. We also stumbled across some beautiful little watercolour paintings of typical Peruvian scenery in black and white with just two or three characters picked out in colour in the foreground. The salesman proudly showed us (and gave us a copy of) an article singing the praises of the supposedly award-winning artist who made them, perhaps one day we will google it to see if the story is true. Either way, they will look lovely framed and hung up one day.  From the market town of Pisac we drove on to the large, bustling town of Urubamba, the capital of the Sacred Valley (the river that runs right through the valley is called the Urubamba river and is the same one that we saw raging past us on the train to Machu Picchu). At Urubamba we off-loaded into a riverside Hacienda for our buffet lunch which was very tasty and seems not to have caused us any stomach complaints (our surrogate mother Gloria gave us a stern warning to avoid the salads and fruit at lunch before we went off this morning since she has often had volunteers come home from the Sacred Valley trip with dodgy tummies). Fully satisfied and ready for an afternoon nap, we got back on the bus for the short drive on down the valley to Ollantaytambo. This is where one of the most important of the Incan ruins can be found, clutching the hillside over the village. The many levels of terraces here, we were told, were used by the Incans as an experimental agricultural station to see which crops grew best at different altitudes and with different levels of humidity. The microclimate created by the steep, sheltered hill made it possible to test lots of things in just a small area. At the top of the hill, we admired the remains of a temple that was never completed, since the builders were interrupted by the invasion of the Spanish. Even unfinished, the stunning accomplishment of building anything that grand in such a spot was undeniable. Some of the boulders used were more than a meter wide, a meter thick and 3 meters tall and each had been transported to the site from a quarry across the valley, some 8km away. We could see the remains of the quarry across the raging river and high up on an opposing hill. And once the boulders were dragged all that way, they were carved and smoothed down until they fit together seemlessly.  After an hour or so walking around the ruins and learning about Incan astrology, agriculture and water management, it was time to get back on the bus. We headed back to Cusco using a different route, climbing away from the valley floor and the brown torrent of the river and up onto a high plateau of rolling hills. The hills were a patchwork of different hues of green, an effect created by the different crops grown. Many fields were busy producing the different varieties of potato that Peruvians so adore and the potato plants were in flower, dotting the green with white and purple - depending on the type of potato. Looking across the valley from which we had driven up, the sky had cleared enough for us to see what was beyond the lush green hills. Towering above them, the next line of mountains was capped with jagged rocks and there was a thick blanket of snow nestling between the peaks. Back at a heady altitude of 3800m, we made our last stop for the day, in a village called Chichero, which means something like "where the rainbow starts". Perched right at the top of the hill in the village was an 17th century colonial church that had been constructed by the Spanish invadors on the foundations of Incan buildings. Apparently this was very common practice - overshadow and dominate the Incan culture by building churches on important sites. In hindsight, they almost needn't have bothered: in just a couple of years, the Incan population had been reduced from 25 million to 10 million thanks to the arrival of one hundred or so Spanish and the diseases that they brought with them. The Incan foundations could still clearly be see and the church itself was also still in immaculate condition, with brightly coloured paintings inside from the "Cusconian" tradition (honestly, not very wonderful - a bit out of proportion and child-like). The view from the church across the village and farmland beyond was breathtaking. Then the guide led us back to the bus and our driver Jesus drove us safely (with a name like that, we would not have expected any less), back down a winding hill into Cusco. Home.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/lauravanwaas/2/1234491000/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/lauravanwaas/2/1234491000/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/lauravanwaas/2/1234491000/tpod.html Fri, 13 Feb 2009 11:38:59 -0500 A Peruvian Adventure

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Cusco, Peru

Our second week in Cusco has flown by and we are gradually getting more used to the altitude, the hard manual labour and our busy schedule. In fact, we even survived an evening on the town on Wednesday, by which I mean that we managed to go out for a meal, sit in comfy chairs and join in with a pub quiz, arriving home at 10.30pm, an hour after our usual bedtime. We came third by the way, managing to absolutely ace the "sports and games" round and then faltering badly when it came to questions on "roads and transport" (!?) and "Valentine's Day" (!?!?). By the end of the evening, I was completely confused as to where in the world we were, since we were surrounded by Brits and Aussies and of course the Canadians in our team, eating relatively western food, answering questions read out by a man with a very, very English accent! Our afternoons in Oropesa are still exhausting and invigorating. The bus trip there has been an adventure all of its own this week. I should perhaps explain that the term "bus" has a very flexible meaning here in Peru. They tend to be old minivans or little tourists buses, enjoying a second life now that the suspension and speedometer have given up the ghost. It costs us one sol each to get from Cusco to Oropesa (or back), which is just 25 eurocents. But for that, there is no guarantee that you will get a seat or a comfy ride. Earlier this week we made the mistake of cramming ourselves into an already very full bus, thinking that some people were bound to get off soon. Mark was far too tall for the bus, so was stuck with his head down much of the way and lets just say that you get very up-close-and-personal with anyone standing in front or behind you. There were easily 40 of us squashed into the minivan and every time the driver braked (always suddenly, even if he knew he had to stop) or accelerated (always dramatically, even though the road was busy and there was nowhere to go), everyone standing in the aisle or halfway out of the door swayed forwards or backwards together. Us "gringos" (foreigners) are at least fortunate in the sense that we are all quite a bit taller than the average Peruvian so we are able to make the most of the oxygen that lingers in the very top of the bus, near the roof. And, luckily, with the racing-oriented driver, the journey took under half an hour, whereas it can take up to an hour, if the driver is more cautious or particularly afraid that his van is about to fall apart (on one return trip there seemed to be great concern that one of the front wheels may fall off so we had a very leisurely trip back to the city).  On route to Oropesa, we pass through two other interesting small villages. I have already mentioned that Oropesa is famous for its bread, well the other two places have their own specialties. The first village on the way out of Cusco is Saylla, where one roadside stall or restaurant after another sells deep fried pig skins. This delicacy is on display in dozens of glass cabinets and looks much like huge chinese prawn crackers. We are told that it is mainly greasy and salty. The second village is known for a much more infamous Peruvian treat: guinea pig. The "cuyerias" as the restaurants are known, where you can buy "cuy al forno" (roast guinea pig) dot the road and their large, round clay ovens are a quaint sight. The guinea pigs are served whole and apparently the head is the tastiest part, but this is one delicacy that we have decided not to partake of, especially since our neices have their own guinea pig and would be absolutely appalled if they ever heard that we ate one of Snuffie's cousins! When the bus reaches Oropesa, the much more delicious smell of the bakeries hits us and one day we really will get our acts together after work and buy some of this famous bread.  The walk from Oropeso town square out to Azul Wasi, the orphanage where we work, has been made all the more enjoyable this week by a seemingly permanent new landmark along our path: a massive CAT bulldozer. It was there on Monday as we headed to work and we joked about bribing the driver to come and finish digging our trench for us. But when we walked back to the bus at the end of the afternoon, it hadn't moved an inch and the people hanging around it seemed to be looking at it with some concern. It would seem that the CAT was giving them trouble. Sure enough, the next day it was still there. This time the cabin was packed with what looked like personal belongings including a sleeping bag so apparently someone was guarding it day and night. Just in case a theif came along, repaired it, then drove off with it. On Wednesday, a second and even larger CAT arrived and at least half a dozen men were crowded around the two beasts, obviously trying to fix it (or at least watch the main mechanic's attempt at fixing it). Several parts were lying on the loose mud and things looked promising. But as we walked back to the square, having made more progess on our trench than these men had on whatever construction project they were involved in), we discovered that the second CAT had disappeared and a lone guardsman was left with the broken machine once more. Thursday, no change. Friday and next week, we will see... All we know is that passing that dead CAT twice a day makes us smile, because what little progress we make on sheer man- and willpower is more than this impressive piece of equipment has managed! On site at Azul Wasi, we have had a good week. We have nearly completed the reinforcing wall all the way along the back of the buildings. There has been more digging in the mud, more shoveling and moving gravel, more mixing and carrying cement and more magical moments sharing a sugary drink or standing back to admire our work with the kids. On Wednesday we were joined by another "gringo" who was there to see how the orphanage is doing financially and talk about what further funding is needed over the coming months. He is involved with various British organisations, channeling money into projects like this and a number of schools across Peru. He was able to explain more about how kids end up in Azul Wasi and what the orphanage means to them. Apparently, the police (including the man who founded and heads the orphanage) are often involved in "plain clothes" round-up efforts in the main plaza of Cusco. At around 10pm, after the kids are meant to have gone home, they move through the plaza to see who is still there trying to sell goods or services to tourists. They bundle them all into a bus and take them back to the police station. Then, within half an hour, word has somehow managed to get back to anyone who has parents in Cusco and the mothers come in to collect their children. Both mother and child are subjected to a lecture about how it is illegal and dangerous for their children to be out at that time of night, peddling goods in the plaza, although the police doubt that this warning will actually be headed. Often there are one or two children left, no parents to pick them up. These are streetchildren for whom another solution needs to be sought. They may be brought to one of the several orphanages in Cusco or, if they are lucky it seems, they will be brought out to Azul Wasi. Not all of the kids are necessary orphans, per definition. One boy that was staying at Azul Wasi until recently was thrown out by his mother when he was eight, because he was the oldest of many (probably eight or more) children and she could no longer cope with them all. At first he was brought to an uncle's place where he was forced to do hard labour on a farm and not given any opportunity to go to school - modern slavery in one of its most complicated forms. When he was 12, he ran away and went to live on the streets. Then he was brought to Azul Wasi, where he had the chance to get an education and he has since returned to live with his mother, but with the help of the orphanage he has been set up with the knowledge and equipment needed to have a small guinea-pig "farm", so he is able to make a small living for himself and his family. How many of the kids stories are like this one and how many of the children no longer have parents is unclear. What is certain is that they come to Cusco from all around the country, drawn to the city by the promise of tourist's money, and they are very, very lucky if they are taken in at Azul Wasi. The conditions there are far better than in the orphanages in the city and many of the children are happy to stay there and cooperate with the attempts to secure an education for them and the chance to behave like brothers. It feels good to be helping the kids, even if it is only for a month and only by building them a not very exciting - but incredibly important - wall.
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