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Link #20
31 August - 25 September, 2000
Cusco, Peru to Lake Titicaca (574km)
"Mamita, tengo naranjitas. Comprame, comprame,..."
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"No gracias."
"Postales? Postales? Quieres postales?... Ya pues..."
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"No gracias."
"Carmelo! Carmelo!... Gringa, regaleme un carmelo!"
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"No gracias."
Walking through the market, Nicole holds her own against a steady stream
of barks and pleas. Matronly senoras sell little oranges, grubby boys
hawk postcards, and 2 year old girls beg for candies. To that melee add
the robust scents of warm meat being slaughtered, near venomous hot peppers,
fresh cilantro and garlic, greasy sausage smoke billowing from a gauntlet
of hibachis, thick bouquets of medicinal herbs and whole tea, and the
dull undertones from standing puddles of urine. So goes the daily search
for food in Andean markets.
* * *
We met Ana and Arturo at their bike shop a few days after
arriving in town. Our bikes were in sad shape and they helped turn those
frowns upside-down. I had a wasted rear hub, a rear wheel that was threatening
to fold, a damaged rear derailleur, a broken pedal, and a irreparably
cracked frame (cyclists who want the gore, can read more on the Nitty
Gritty page). Arturo was kind enough to invite us to stay with them
while we waited for the parts from Lima and a new frame from Schwinn in
Colorado. Arturo is a professional cyclist and runs the shop on the side.
Ana sings opera, teaches music at a local school, and speaks with a suave
Argentine accent. They are good people.
Every morning Nicole and I would get up at half six and
put on the water. Overhead Ana and Arturo's floorboards would be just
starting to creak. I'd throw on some clothes and run across the street
to see the little lady. Ten pieces of fresh bread for one sole, or about
30 cents. By the time I got back Nicole would have stuffed the sleeping
bags, tucked our mattress away for the day, and the table would be set.
Papaya jam from Arequipa, Nescafe coffee, manzanilla tea, yogurt, condensed
milk, honey, butter, and the little lady's still warm bread. Ana would
be just coming out of the shower when the teapot would start to sing.
Arturo would stumble down the stairs, hair going in every direction, and
bellow something in a scratchy old man's voice. We would laugh, more at
the tone of his voice, his hair, and his facial expressions than at what
he actually said because we'd never quite get all of it. Morning humor
must be one of the last things you learn in a second language. He would
put on some music and then we'd all sit down and start stirring our coffee
and buttering our bread.
One Sunday after breakfast they took us on an unforgettable
ride through the backroads of Cusco, visiting some remote Inca ruins,
a couple small towns, and the salinas, or salt beds, of Maras.
A strange sensation indeed to rip around in the dirt relatively weightless
after so many fully laden miles. My bike felt like it jumped under my
feet in response to the slightest prod. The last part was an epic downhill
that took us about 30 minutes to descend. We later learned that the record
time was just under 9 minutes - a record that Arturo held.
On the way back, we pedaled the main road to Urubamba. Along
the way, we passed numerous houses and shacks with bamboo poles arching
from their doorsteps out over the street, each with a red scarf or scrap
of material tied to the end. With Peruvian mail service not quite up to
snuff, we quickly discarded the theory that the flags meant there was
mail to be picked up. Ana later filled us in. Turns out the red flags
indicate a rural speakeasy. If you're a farmer in need of chicha,
that's where you go.
By the time the new frame finally cleared customs, we had
been in and around Cusco for three weeks and staying with Ana and Arturo
for two. Such hospitality! The next day, with a little more help from
Cusco's wild-haired mechanic, we got my bike put back together. The following
day we were rolling.
* * *
Coming off a long sabbatical from the bikes, it was nice
not to have to hammer the hills straight off. In fact, we enjoyed some
of the best riding of our trip on glorious new asphalt roads. The names
of the towns we passed through however were more interesting than the
towns themselves: Andahauylas, Urcos, Quiquijana, Cusipata, Checacupe,
Combapata, Racqui, Sicuani, Marangani, Ayaviri, Pucara, Juliaca.
From Cusco, we coasted downhill for half a day and then
started what was mostly a barely detectable climb that continued for a
couple days. Two days out the road was almost deserted. On the third day,
after the town of Marangani, the road pitched and started its snaky ascent
of Abra Raya, or Boundary Pass. Topping out at 4330 meters, or
about 14,300 feet, it serves as a gate to the altiplano, or puna, an
immense semiarid basin that stretches south through Bolivia and
into Chile and Argentina. This "basin" actually varies from
3500 to over 4000 meters and includes cordilleras that range from 5000
to over 6000 meters. On the western fringe of the altiplano straddling
the Chilean border is Nevado Sajama, weighing in at a respectable 6542
meters. The altiplano serves as home to vast herds of llamas and alpacas,
lesser herds of fuzzy-hided vicunas, as well as flamingos, condors,
and viscachas, long-tailed rabbit like creatures.
After catching our breath at the pass, we descended to about
4000 meters and then hit the wide open plain. The first thing that struck
us was the wind. Tail, head, and cross - we got it all. The second was
the colors. Altiplano hues are surreal. Taken out of context, the brown
sun-baked hills and dry yellow fields would become drab and indistinct.
But under that immense blue sky and majestic high altitude light, the
terrain assumes a magical glow. It's the kind of landscape that clears
the cobwebs from your head and lets thoughts come easy. Pedaling becomes
effortless. It's as if the landscape passes through your body and gets
washed out in the eddies of your wake. It makes you want to go faster
and faster and get more of it in you. The black ribbon you're riding becomes
a thin line and promises never to end. And it doesn't. The day just closes
with the sinking of the sun and in morning you get up and the ribbon is
still there and you ride it until it becomes a line again.
* * *
In Puno, we took a rest day and decided to see Lake Titicaca by boat.
First stop was the floating islands of Uros. Made entirely from buoyant
bundles of totora reeds and anchored to stakes in the shallow water so
as to not float too freely, these floating islands serve as home to the
Uros, an Aymara people. Nowadays subsisting on fishing and tourism, they
are the descendants of a tribe that took to the lake to escape plunder.
For them, the tall, slender totora reed is at once the ground they walk
on, their primary and almost only building material (used for both houses
and their famous canoes), a hangover cure (they suck the root), an upset
stomach soother (orange flowers that blossom in the spring), and the key
ingredient for making chocolate (the roots become sweet in the rainy season).
At 237km long and 97km wide, Lake Titicaca is South America's
second largest lake, after Venezuela's Lake Maracaibo. Depending on which
book you read or the pride of your informer, it's the (or "one of
the") world's highest navigable lakes at 3820m. Apart from the trivia,
it's a gorgeous body of sapphire-blue water bounded by the parched, scrub
covered hills of the altiplano. Being the biggest splash of water around,
the lake serves as a sanctuary for waterfowl. A keen birdwatcher might
spot Andean Avocets, Giant Coots, Pectoral Sandpipers, Lesser Yellow Legs,
Andean Geese, Snowy Egrets, Yellow Billed Pintails, Puna Ibises, Common
Gallinules, or Speckled Teals. Us, well, we spotted one of each in the
museum.
The second stop of our tour was the island of Taquile. Also
of Aymara heritage, the 2,000 inhabitants of Taquile also live a unique
lifestyle. They primarily fish the lake and farm the terraced slopes of
the island. They have their own form of self-government, their own dress,
and their own customs.
Any self-respecting islander will proudly tell you they
have no police and no crime. They're schools are taught in Spanish and
Quechua and/or Aymara. Every Sunday each of the six distinct communities
on the island meet and discuss issues. The men are seated in the chairs
and do all the talking. The women situate themselves on the floor and
remain silent. Although according to the women, everything the men say
they've instructed their men to say.
The men wear one of three kinds of hats which you can watch
them knit as they walk around the island. The test of a good hat is if
it holds water. A red hat with a thick white stripe means he's single,
a mostly red hat with decorative bands means he's married, and a red hat
with black bands means that he holds some social office. Lastly, if he
wears an American baseball cap it means he's spent too much time showing
gringos around the island. The women wear the traditional Andean full
skirts and blouses, plus a shawl that either has a large pompom signifying
she's available, or a small pompom signifying she doesn't need a large
pompom. In addition, the women wear thick intricate belts woven from a
combination of llama and human hair that also serve as their calendar
which starts in August, or their sowing time.
Life on Taquile is replete with customs and rituals maintained
since pre-Inca times. Of particular note is their traditional four-stage
mating ritual. In the first stage, a young man tries to steal the large
silver safety pin that serves as a stay on a young lady's shawl. If the
interest is mutual, the girl lets the boy make off with the pin. If not,
she puts up a fight and generally wins. Next, the suitor goes to the home
of his would-be mother-in-law and offers her something to drink. While
the mother-in-law is busy imbibing, he serenades her daughter with music
and then kidnaps her. The third stage in which they live together lasts
two to four years. If after this trail period, they are still together
and want to make a go of it, they proceed to the fourth stage. If things
haven't quite worked out, they break it off and both are free agents again.
If during this period they bare children and then later decide they weren't
meant to be, the woman is free to have her pin stolen again and the man
assumes responsibility for the children. The final stage is the marriage
ceremony that lasts seven days. For the first six days, the families and
townspeople celebrate nonstop. They dance and eat and drink large amounts.
Meanwhile, the bride and groom are sentenced to sit on the ground and
watch the party. They can't eat or drink, and so must be fed by their
parents. They are not allowed to talk or even smile. They must be accompanied
to go to the bathroom. On the evening of the seventh day, they are permitted
to join the party and that night they sleep together as a married couple.
Apparently divorce is extremely rare.
After that hefty dose of cultural anthropology, our tourist
launch chugged us back to Puno. By that time, our stomachs were grumbling.
With the markets closed for the day, we went in search of... a restaurant.
* * *
Generally speaking, the gastronomical experience in Peru is one not easily
forgotten. Every town worth being called Peruvian has their pollo a
la brasa and papas fritas district, where you can stroll the
rows and rows of shops tendering identical plates. The choice is 1/2,
1/4, or 1/8 of a rotisseried chicken. All birds come pre-injected with
a syringe of flavor-enhancing, finger-licking grease. 30-weight, we think.
The French fries are the thick-cut kind that may have come from any one
of Peru's 7,000 varieties of potatoes. Place the order and 30 seconds
later we're on our way to getting topped-off. For reading material while
you eat, you can peruse any of the countless posters of bare-breasted
models coyly holding bottles of Cusqueña or Cristal lagers.
Kinda like a small town Jiffy Lube, but different.
If we've already exhausted the chicken shop's reading material, we look
for the street with sidewalk chalkboards listing menus of the day. Each
eatery generally has one offering, or menu. Most come with a soup,
an appetizer, a main dish, a juice of some sort, a dessert, and coffee
or tea. At $1 to $2, they're always a bargain. The soup is often a caldo,
or consommé of chicken that comes complete with floating claws.
Other soups are made with quinoa, a local grain not unlike barley
that Andinos make wide use of. If not warm enough, you can add heat to
your soup with a spoonful of the ubiquitous aji that comes in small
bowls and graces every table. The appetizer, or entrada, is usually
something fried or a few slices of tomato or cucumber. The main dish,
or segundo, can be anything from liver to a thin cut of alpaca
to more chicken. As a rule, the drink never comes until after you're done
eating. On the heels of the drink comes the sometimes tasty, always simple
postre, or dessert. A frequent favorite of ours is a warm gelatin
with suspended whole cloves that's made from mora, or purple maize.
That night off the main plaza in Puno, around the corner from Pollo Row,
we were surprised to find good old fashioned hamburgers. Kinda like the
American backyard BBQ'ed types, but different. Actually, they weren't
cooked on a grill, but reheated in a microwave. Furthermore, we're fairly
certain that they weren't all-beef patties, but crafted from yesterday's
quinoa.
* * *
The following morning we were back in the saddle. It took
two days to crank along the western shore of Lake Titicaca and reach the
Bolivian border at Copacabana. During those last days in Peru the locals
had told us that things weren't going so well in Bolivia. There were rumors
of strikes and roadblocks. Sounded like the typical "the grass is
way brown over there" syndrome one gets used to while traveling in
South America. As it turned out, there was no grass.
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