Day 4 - Cuzco - Ollantaytambo

Cuzco - Ollantaytambo road

Somehow we haven’t seen much of the interiors of Cuzco’s monuments, but I feel we’ve gotten a good feel for the city as a living thing.  How it works.  How it evolved.  And who knows; I might come back some day.  But even if I don’t, I can still be happy with what I’ve seen.

Chinchero, in the valley

I thought a cab would be nice for today’s trip to Ollantaytambo, the next leg toward Machu Picchu.  We’d have to take one to the train station far outside of town anyway, so...  The hotel made arrangements for us at our arrival and a price was agreed: 140 soles.  (One dollar is worth almost 3 soles so the trip will cost only $49, far less than the two train tickets would have cost.) 
     Wilfredo, who drove us to the Ministry of Culture, is on time and once again I’m glad it’s not me driving.  The roads around Cuzco are badly paved and people tend to pass almost in the curve.  Wilfredo is cautious; at least he is with us in the car.  We pass one accident - a car well off in a ditch.  He tells us he’ll stop at two sites good for photos but if we want to stop elsewhere, just tell him.  (He saw me taking photos in the street earlier in the morning.)  And he answers any questions we have good-naturedly.

Roadside stop

     The road entering Ollantaytambo is the worst!  A real car suspension-killer.  Wilfredo finds our hotel, close to the main square, right next to the Patakancha River, and with a view of the fortress ruins.  He has been a prince and seems very pleased with his extra 10 soles; after all, he’s headed back empty and it’s a 1½ hr drive.

     That drive took us from Cuzco - at 3,326 meters (almost 11,000 feet - more than twice the altitude of Denver) and a population of 350,000 - to Ollantaytambo at a mere 2,800 meters (9,200 ft) and only 700 people.  This town is set out as Inca towns were - on the same grid - and it’s the site of the Incas’ greatest victory over the Spanish conquistadores, a point of vast pride for them.
 

Ollantaytambo

    With the lower altitude, or maybe thanks to my warm-up in Cuzco, I feel ready to attack the ruins, which we do after changing some money on the Plaza de Armas (a far cry from Cuzco’s majestic square of the same name).  As this is a far outpost of consumerism, I try some shops and actually find digital memory cards for my aging camera; they stopped making them about four years ago and in Paris and America they’re impossible to find any more.  The lady has two and she’s so glad to get rid of them that she gives me a discount.  (It’s probably been ages since anyone last asked for this item.)  We also buy a doll for a niece in France, two Andean hats for the grandsons and a hiking stick for me.
     Which was an excellent purchase.  My neighbor Grace had lent me hers, saying it would be a big help at Machu Picchu.  But I was afraid the planes would confiscate it, so I left it at home.  Now I have one of my own, and if it’s lost to the Aviation Security Vultures, it only affects me.

The fortress

     The walking stick immediately proves nothing short of life-saving at the fortress ruins.  After paying the entrance, a young man appears next to us and offers to be our guide.  As it would be nice to understand what we’re seeing, we say yes.  For two hours, Ron patiently waits for me to pick my way and catch my breath.  He knows all about the history and architecture of the place, pulling out a book on archeology from his fanny pack when wishing to make a point.  He takes pictures of us and is just generally charming and eager.  Plus he runs this circuit - up and down the steps and all around the ruins - every morning in an impressive 7 minutes, without falling flat and killing himself on the uneven stones!  I’m sad to say good-bye to him.
     As we leave, tourist bus after tourist bus arrives, vomiting up crowds of people.  Just like at Mont St. Michel.  I’m so glad we went when we did!
     With time to spare, we decide to poke around the town a bit and see how a real Inca town was laid out.  Adopted and accompanied by the proverbial yellow dog, we go up and down narrow streets, each with deep stone gullies to carry off the abundant rainfall and snowmelt.  Flat rock slabs laid over the gully in front of each door allow people to get into their homes safely.  

Kura Oqlla

     Along the Patakancha, which flows into the Urubamba down at the train station, we discover teenagers talking and laughing and just being universal adolescents beneath what looks like a solid gold statue - which it may once have been.  Once they move off, giggling and talking loudly, closer inspection shows that this golden woman is Kura Oqlla, courageous wife of Manco Inca Yupanqui, the warrior who defied the Spaniards and served them up more than one defeat.  A warrior herself, she was ultimately caught by Pizarro’s army, tortured, raped and executed.
     Later that night we decide to check how far it is to the train station, in preparation for tomorrow morning.  On the way back, we look for the Milky Way.  Wilfredo, the taxi driver, had told us this Sacred Valley was sacred because it grew plentiful crops to sustain the people.  But Ron explained it was sacred because the Urubamba River’s course is identical to that of the Milky Way above. Unfortunately for us, there are far too many lights even in this small town for it to be visible and personally I’m too tired to try walking outside of town on roads I don’t know.  Not the way these people drive!
     It’s a disappointment followed by others.  Although the food is excellent in the restaurant - when we finally get it - the service is worse than anywhere, ever.  As close to non-existent as you can get.  Finally we leave the price of the food on the table and flee, unperceived.

Woman carrying totoro reeds

     As consolation, my daughter decides to take a hot shower and wash her hair, after the dust of our ride across the countryside and clambering over the ruins. Ollantaytambo is a dusty town.  But no hot water, no matter how long you run it. There’s also no heat, only warm duvets.  So we strip the third bed and pile the covers over ours, to be sure we’re not woken by the cold in the middle of the night. No TV either, but who needs one?
     We were spoiled at Rumi Punku.  Will there be any more hotels like it?  We’ll find out tomorrow.

Taxi

Day 3 - Cuzco

Plaza de Armas with San Cristobal Church on the hill

San Blas
hill through smoke from breakfast fires

A light breakfast and a pill and some coca tea to start.  Do not want to feel like yesterday.  No headache but just so tired and so hard to move.  Being out of breath easily and moving as if dizzy. Not to mention the tingling, which worried me the most.

        Guides my daughter arranged, friends of a friend, arrive at 10.  Absolutely charming.  The tall German Steffen from what was once East Berlin and little Maria from Cuzco met working on a cruise ship.  They arrive with snacks in their backpacks - especially bananas - and coca candies, one of which Steffen hands me halfway through the day.  They show us the San Pedro market, the stone of 12 corners and explain things we saw yesterday.  Peppered with details that I hope I’ll remember, like what the carvings over the doors mean - the snakes and all.

Santa Clara Market

Wanchaq Market

       We stop for juice and lunch in the other market, the one the natives shop at, the one Europeans never see. No tourists here except us.  A lady makes huge drinks from fresh fruit - one is enough for two, even in the dryness of Cuzco.  (She calls me Mahmmy, which is a diminutive for any woman, regardless of age.  Or so I’m told.  That word - ma mie - is a term of endearment in French, so I like it.)

San Blas Church

        Then Maria orders our meal and we sit at the stand and enjoy - meat stew, chicken soup, fried mountain trout.  It’s Reading Market in Philly, Peruvian-style.  All around us stalls piled high with fruit and vegetables, some familiar, some not.  I buy a plastic bag of coarse salt from the mountains (this will reappear later on); Andy buys coffee beans.  I also see and buy some muna (pronounced moon-yah), a type of mint that helps fight that breathless feeling I’ve been getting.  I’ve read it’s effective and I’m up for anything that helps.

         Steffen and Maria have other wonders to show us, up-hill.  Wimping out on the walking part, I request a taxi which takes us to T'oqokachi, the art-y section of town.  The Montmartre of Cuzco. The church across from Maria's old convent school - San Blas - is closed.  (You need a ticket/pass that you can buy from the central tourist agency, which is the case for many places.)  So I don't get to see the baroque pulpit carved out of a single piece of cedar.  It evidently stands above an Incan sanctuary dedicated to the god of thunder and lightning, Illapa.  The Roman Catholics made sure, here as elsewhere around the globe, that the old sanctuaries were... rebranded.  The Romans did that before them, in Antiquity.

      Then back by foot to the hotel.  Our bellies and eyes filled, we all sit in the courtyard and drink a beer (me, coca tea) to celebrate our new friends.  And that is plenty for a day in Cuzco, where the sun sets by 5 or 6 and you run out of oxygen well before that.

Woman carrying calf

N.B.  If you're planning to go to Cuzco 
and you're looking for a walking tour, 
or if you're really crazy 
and would like to take a bike tour, 
you might want to contact Steffen and Maria.  
They have an e-mail:  tastingtheroad@gmail.com
and also a blog:  www.tastingtheroad.blogspot.com

Foot loom

Day 2 - Lima - Cuzco

Coastal clouds over Lima

A Ramada hotel is not really Peru, so all this isn’t quite sinking in yet.
     A quick breakfast and then back across the street to the airport.  Complete chaos but of a somewhat organized sort.  A Seňora Adelante (which means “forward” in Spanish) at the front of the line helps the flow.  There will be more Ms. Adelantes in our future.
     We check in and head to the pre-boarding area... where we almost end up in Arequipa.  Wrong line.  Then wait on the tarmac while the crew tries desperately to figure out how to secure a quadriplegic passenger in an upright position for take-off.  (It was the same Japanese person who was in our hotel breakfast room.  I salute the family’s determination not to leave this relative behind, even on such an oxygen-unrich voyage to a mountainous region.)

The Andes

Cuzco valley

We take off over a sea of clouds that break like surf against the surrounding hills. Up and up to clear the snow-capped Andes - August is February down here.  Then the pale green deserted mountains and high plains.  And after an hour we circle a valley without descending much... the mountains have risen to reach the plane.  A sharp bank reveals Cuzco, and we’re here.
     At the taxi stand, a uniformed lady asks us where we’re going, calls it out to the drivers, who quote a price of 30 soles ($10.50) and we all agree - no taxi meters here, so the help is appreciated.  She is another Ms Adelante.
     The transit convinces me that I will under no circumstances be driving here.   It’s one gigantic game of chicken ... and through narrow streets.

     The hotel is wonderful.  An old Inca house of huge basalt foundations, with a stone door that I later find out gives the hotel its name:  Rumi Punku - Stone Door.  In spite of its age, it’s well-equipped, and friendly.  We no sooner present ourselves at the front desk than the clerk calls out for two coca teas.  I decline, so he says the second one’s for him.  A diplomat.  He warns us not to do much the first day and to do it slowly.  No alcohol.  Eat light.
     After we stow our bags, he orders us a taxi and we head off to clear up the Machu Picchu mess.  When the driver stops, he announces this is it:  a grubby building in the ‘hood.  We get out, hoping he’s right, and he drives off.  It sure isn’t what I expected a Regional Office of Culture to look like.
     We are the only non-natives in the line.  A guard comes out and we ask for Mr. Aguilar.  He appears and escorts us down a hall, past stacks of cardboard boxes and into a back room that could hardly be called an office.  But in spite of the setting, Mr. Aguilar works his magic.  We get in line, buy entry tickets for the first two available days - which turn out to be August 11th and 12th - and then bring them back to his window where his assistant changes the dates for the 5th and 6th, stamps them... and we’re good.  That’s all it took.  I call to him - I seem to be only a vague memory - and he shakes my hand, tells me to enjoy and we’re off.  Knowing how much this means to me, my daughter has been a rock through this crisis and her Spanish is so much better than mine!
     The Avenida de Cultura (sic) is lined with construction materials stores.  But as it enters what I take to be the city proper, it changes.  I see a sweater shop and buy one made of newborn baby alpaca wool, “from the chest only, and we don’t kill them to get it” the clerk reassures.

     Nearby is the Church of Santo Domingo.  Although the guidebook says it’s open “on an erratic basis”, today babies and children are being christened by one of the kindest, most gentle priests I’ve ever seen.  And my daughter seems to connect with the church’s aura so we spend quite a while.  The sitting is good because I’m starting to feel the altitude.

     After the church, we head up Calle Pampa del Castillo, a narrow street between walls completely made of those amazing Peruvian stones you can’t slip a sheet of paper between.  (The next day I find out it’s the street with the 12-cornered stone that’s in all the guidebooks.)  Through a doorway, we spot a market.  We look in and there’s a baby goat with a silly knit cap on.  I go in to take a photo.  Although I’m pretty fast with a camera, the little girl with the goat is wise to this and scoops up the goat with one hand while fanning out her colorful skirt with the other hand. Just as quickly her friend pops up next to her and fans out her skirt.  Then yet another shoves a second goat in my daughter’s arms.  And finally they ask for money in return, which we expected, even though we didn’t ask them to pose.  But we don’t have soles yet so we offer them dollars, which they don’t want, even though they can be easily exchanged.  They follow us to the gate of the market, pleading for “real money”, but it’s the best we can do.

Plaza de Armas

    Up at the corner is the Plaza de Armas and I really need something to drink.  We see a balcony that says “cappuccino” so up we go.  It’s lovely and the service is kind - which seems to be the way here.  And the chocolate cake luxurious.  We both enjoy watching the show down on the plaza.  The shoeshine boy and all the Andean-dressed women carrying their wares home in a blanket on their back.
     The hotel is uphill and I’m having a bit of distress now in spite of the meds.  It’s a slow progression and my daughter is patient.  I haven’t eaten since the sandwich on the plane but I’m not hungry.  A restaurant - Piedras y Carbon (stones and charcoal) - is just down the street from the hotel and my daughter decides to try cuy (guinea pig, pronounced coo-ee), expecting it to be like rabbit.  Turns out it’s more like chicken.  The two ladies who own and run the restaurant explain they raise the animals themselves and feed them only organic things.  (Organic and recycling seem to be big here.)  The cuy turns out to be moist and not greasy in spite of being fried.  The restaurant will deliver, but we get it “to go”, which seems to surprise them a bit.  Maybe it’s because it’s early still, and we’re so European-looking.
     While we’re waiting, my fingers begin to tingle, and then my toes.  My daughter, who is a doctor, informs me that’s the altitude and it’s getting serious so the minute we get back to our room, before eating her cuy, she makes me a cup of coca tea and I snuggle under the warm covers and go to sleep.  It’s only about 7 or 8 o’clock.

I usually write about France, which is where I've spent half my life.  The professional half.  The half where I was an interpreter and translator (and tour guide).  That blog is called Sandy's France and you can Google it.
But now it's time for me to have fun.  To write books.  And have photo shows.
And start in on my Bucket List before my 
     a) knees, 
     b) hips, 
     c) heart, 
     d) lungs, 
     e) all of the above
     give out.
So here we go.  We're off to Peru, and then on to Rapa Nui.  Episode 1.  

Miami Beach at dawn, as we prepare to land

Day 1

So here I sit in Miami Airport, waiting for my daughter to arrive from Cincinnati.  Miami Airport’s code is MIA.  Being of the Vietnam era, to me that means “Missing in Action”... but for the moment, her plane is only 10 minutes late, not missing.  Still, perhaps they should rethink that code.
     So far, this trip has been fraught with obstacles.  Plane tickets were easy, especially as my travel guy Garry did that.  Of course, he got both of us on planes at the crack of dawn (or 0 Dark 30, as my friend Carol says).  The hotel reservations were easy too, with far too many choices when you have no idea of the town's layout.  And then it all started to go south... which is logical for a trip to South America.
     From France, I had had no way to secure entry passes to Machu Picchu on-line.  And in espaňol, if you please.  But with 2,500 entries allowed per day and a month left to go, it should be easy, I thought then.
     But it wasn’t.  After returning to the States, the website wasn’t working.  When it finally worked again, it wouldn’t take credit card information.  I found an e-mail address and wrote for “ayuda” - help!  Four days later - and 36 hours only before my departure - I tried the suggestions I'd finally received.  Only to find that it wouldn’t take my request at all because... there were no more entries to Machu Picchu left!

     And this with thousands of dollars already spent for one sole purpose:  being at Machu Picchu on my birthday.
     With great difficulty, I find a phone number.  “Your call cannot be completed at this time.”  I call the Peruvian Consulate in Chicago.  They can’t help - Machu Picchu is an entity unto itself and the federal government has no control over it.  Interesting.  But the Consul tells me I have the right number.  He has been very kind to la seňora llorando (the lady who is weeping) that his secretary announced.
     Another half hour - and countless cycles of “press 1" and other incorrect instructions in an attempt to get a real-live operator to try the call.  Finally I’m told to just hang up and press O for operator, as in the old days.  Duh.
     And it works!
     The operator dials the number.  But it rings busy.  On the second try, it goes through.
     And then my luck turns.  The man who picks up the phone is very helpful.  He tells la seňora still llorando that he will help and sets an appointment for my arrival in Cuzco on Day 2.  Then he gives me his name:  Flavio Aguilar (the Eagle)... which is the same name as on the e-mail I'd received.  This must be a good sign, right?  If he will do as he promises, I won’t even have to stand in line when we get to Machu Picchu.  I love him already.

But back to the present.  My daughter arrives and we set out to kill almost eight hours until our plane leaves.  Which we manage to do by eating and talking and drinking caffeinated beverages and buying last-minute items such as spare camera batteries.

     The flight is exciting for me because we fly over Cuba, which is a big deal for someone who sat, shivering in fear of Armageddon, through the Cuban Missile stand-off between Kennedy and Khrushchev.
     The rest of the flight was the usual boring stuff that international flights have become.  We arrive to the chaos of Lima Airport.  Lines are approximate, and there are many.  We’re used to pusher-take-all non-lines in France, but we’re tired.  We just want to find our hotel and sleep.
     In addition to customs, there’s an x-ray security pass required for leaving the airport.  It’s evidently designed to find goods being smuggled into the country for sale.   We ask an airport guard where the hotel is and he points... across the street, literally.  We run the gauntlet of cab drivers and hotel hawkers and are asked at least twice by employees outside the hotel doors if we have reservations.  Is this security - there are many fences - or are they sold out?
     At last, our passports photocopied (which will happen throughout Peru), we are given our room key and a coupon for a free pisco sour at the bar, to which we immediately avail ourselves.  And then BED!

The  Andes in winter, as seen from the sky

N.B.  In case you're new to my blogs, 
all the photos are mine, 
except where stipulated to the contrary.