An unexpectedly busy day

An early rap on the door is followed by the message “Leenda, Manuel is waiting for you on the land!

A shake of the head and I manage to squawk “OK… I’ll be right there…???, and I scramble into my clothes, grab meds and inhale an energy bar, all the while wishing I had some prior notice about this meet up.

Do I need my backpack?  Yes.

Should I take a sunhat?  Maybe… in it goes

Should I take a rain poncho?   Probably… in it goes

Water?  Always… in it goes

My Passport?  Legally required to carry ID.  Oh, just toss the purse in.

Anything else?  Wait!  The land survey!  Where DID I put it?  Oh, there.  In it goes.

Boots or shoes?  Silly question.  Boots absolutely…  on they go.

Wait!  Better pee again before I go.

“Being right there” involves a 15 minute power walk to the outskirts of town and much sliding about as I pick my way carefully down the last stretch of unpaved road, turned to deep muck by two days of torrential rains.  I grumble at the mess, but I recognize how much worse it would be if it were actually raining.  Thank you to the Rain Gods.  Hopping my way on patches of grass and large stones, and back, and on I go.  The song “slip sliding away” starts in my head, and I smile at the silliness. The ground improves as I reach the hill and up I go.   

Indeed Manuel is waiting.  He has one of the brightest, sweetest smiles that you can imagine and he is wearing it this morning.  There is a pile of freshly cut fence posts that I am sure were eucalyptus trees yesterday, next to a couple of rolls of barbed fence wire.  His son Carlos and another young man are wandering the property and chatting.   I shake hands and kiss cheeks in the traditional greeting, and with my haltingly Spanish (and their patience) we find the boundary markers, decide where a gate will go and I take my leave to let them work. 

My closest neighbours are Carlos and Janet… should I stop in this early?  I know that if they find out I didn’t they will ask why, yet MY cultural tradition (stodgy, reserved Canadian) has me hesitating.  Oh just go on and do it.  I find Carlos busy getting breakfast ready for himself and the kids   I flew by him on my hasty exit from the Hostal this morning but had seen him arrive back to his house by motorbike earlier.  The baby is happy playing with Daniel and, with a very deep breath, I settle into a kitchen chair to actually wake up.  “Did you eat?” asks Carlos.  “Si, Gracias” I reply.  I really just want to sit, collect myself and chat.  Breakfast over and I depart, donning the mud caked boots left at the doorstep.  I call out a cheerful “Hasta Luego”, which is of course returned.

And there again is the mudfest, just waiting for me to misstep and end up wearing most of the road.  Also tiptoeing her way through the muck is an old woman (sounds bad no?) carrying a heavy sack on her back.  I catch up with her when she stops to clean her shoes on a patch of grass, and I triumphantly take the last step towards the pavement.  We share a look of exasperation, a greeting, and a new acquaintance is made.

Dressed traditionally in dark skirt, shoes, tights, smocked shirt and woven hat with a long grey braid laying down the back of her black, blazer-like jacket.  Bright beautiful eyes, her face is younger than I expect, not young, but not grizzled and wizened either.  Greetings are exchanged.  Do I speak Spanish?  (oh lord, here we go…)  Lydia is her name. What is in her bag?  Corn freshly picked from her patch of farmland on the hill.  Do you have a house here?  No, she lives near town with her family, but she proudly owns the land she where she grows her corn and vegetables.  She is a cousin of Manuels’ mother.  (I think?) 

I am from Canada.  Canada is very cold right now.  Yes, I am the gringa that bought the land up the hill.  No I am not young.  Yes, I know my name translates to “pretty’ in Spanish.  I am single.  (I leave out the divorced part because it usually brings condolences and concern… although being single is only slightly less worrisome.)  No, I am not building a house yet.  Yes, the road to the land is very bad.  It has been raining a lot.  I took a plane and bus to Chacha.  Many hours.  I am sorry about my Spanish. 

And so we continue until we run out of conversation.  A quiet walk ensues until she excuses herself, points to a house and politely departs.

I walk on… stopping occasionally to try and kick off some of the heavy poundage of mud annoyingly stuck to my shoes.   This hurts my back, which I tweaked when last putting my boots on.   A shout and wave as Carlos and Janet go whizzing by on their way to the plaza a few more blocks ahead of me.  Kick, scrape, kick, scrape.  We are talking a lot of mud here.  Glad I picked my boots because this would have ruined my runners.

Off to get my first cup of coffee for the day.  It is overdue.  Inhale and appreciate the french pressed, locally grown, organic wonder.   AHHHH.

Sprinkles begin as I head for my next pit stop… the dreaded BCP bank machine.  I need cash.  The machine refuses.  I try again.  Nope..  OK then… off to the multi-red machine.  Which also refuses.  WTF??? 

No trip to the market then, I skedaddle on back to the hostal to count my soles and see how things stand.  Not good.  I have 130 soles, owe Manuel 200, owe Eduardo for my room.  Have to eat for the next two weeks.  I take a deep breath, relax my shoulders and resign myself to banking fickleness. 

I now have dirt sprinkled all over my floor thanks to the muddy boots I forgot to remove while banking distracted.  I change into my runners and grab a broom… no time like the present and all that.

A wander out of the room and I join Janet sitting on the bench outside her office.  Chit chat, banking grumbles and land talk.  She has offered to go with me to pick up the paperwork and go to the tax offices.  It is a short walk, and she provides translation services with the Notary Public as I try to understand the land tax transfer and registration process. 

This leaves us confused (no kidding) because no tax documents can be obtained as the land is not yet officially registered.  “What about a release so I can leave the country?” I ask.  He, in his studied wisdom, has no idea.

“We will ask my accountant” offers Janet.  An appointment is made for the afternoon.  So it is hurry up and wait again.

Not much in the mood for a siesta (highly unusual I assure you), I spend time perusing the internet… anybody on facebook?  No.  Any emails?  Just junk.  Comments on  my blog?  Nope.  But there is a nice game of hearts to play, and I am happy to report that mostly I win.

Janet returns and it is off to the accountant.  This woman is a firecracker… completely on the ball and what we find out is that a) the taxes have never been paid because the original purchaser did it wrong.  b) the notary didn’t give me back essential paperwork and c) we can take a past vender to court because he skimmed money on the sale. 

Solutions?  a) all the land purchasers can force the registry and tax payment.  b) back to the notary for said paperwork, after a long and tactful discussion by Janet.  And c) well I leave it to Carlos to see if all the purchasers want to file a complaint to whichever authorities here deal with tax fraud.  J

The final conclusion is that at this point there is no tax due, and just the purchase paperwork should get me out the door.  We will see.  I will be going to the airport extra early with a written explanation in Spanish on hand.

After this shemozzle comes another round at the bank, whose machine still won’t accommodate.  At first I am told that my cards won’t work in their machine.  Nonsense, I explain, since I have used them several times already.  The kind gentleman then has us wait while he makes a phone call.  It is a network problem between Chachapoyas and the main banking system, he says.  Try tomorrow.  Okey-dokey.

Thank you Janet, for all your help today.  That is what friends do she says, giving me one of her pretty smiles.  She goes off to see to the baby, and suddenly I realize that I am starving.  A quick check of the watch tells me why.  I am pretty sure the energy bar is not guaranteed for 9 hours. 

At my “regular” restaurant, served by a familiar waitress, I order my usual meal minus the fresh juice…( it is pinch pennies time).  I mix it up and sit at a different table though, and try not to inhale my meal.  I am the eat your own arm kind of hungry. 

Back to the hostal while evening settles over the square.  The sprinkles abate.  The Cathedral is lit.  People mingle and visit.  Taxis beep by.   Cable TV awaits.

All is well. 

 

This little piggy....

The clouds are low today, brushing the tops of the buildings in the main square and bringing a misty sprinkle that is surprisingly warm. 

Walking to breakfast has me reflecting on how comfortable I am in these surroundings.  No longer am I stopping at the lights like a polite Canadian, but instead I weave my way through the traffic like a pro, jumping on and off the curbs, respectfully making my way around the various police groups.  If it weren’t for the light hair I might be momentarily mistaken for a local. 

I woke this morning to a pounding headache, and crawled out of bed joints screaming.  There is a “grippe” that has hit town suddenly and the sounds of illness made their way into my reality this morning.  I am so hoping the flu shot my doctor talked me into proves worth it. 

Yesterday was one of those interesting days that keeps morphing from plan to plan.  An early breakfast invite to Donna and Joses’  home started my day of with humitas, fruit salad and coffee.  Humitas are a local dish made from corn which is boiled, mashed, and then enfolded in sweet corn husks with bits of cheese tucked in for good measure.  After another round of cooking, it is served up to be unwrapped and eaten, a paella type delight.  There was the usual selection of sauces used as garnish, but I wasn’t sure my stomach would appreciate spicy corn and fruit salad in the same sitting.

I thought the day would be spent catching up on computer work and include another round of stairs.  But a surprise meet up with Carlos and Janet resulted in an invitation to go with them to visit her Grandparents in a small town in the hills.  Yes!  Off we headed to the market to pick up some food to take with us.  As far as market visits goes it was quick, but memorable to be sure.  After picking up some vegetables Janet lead me to an as yet unexplored area of the market for meat.  Huge slabs of the beef being carved up in front of us after being pinched for freshness.  Big hooks lined the front of the stalls and the vendors would carve a hunk and flip it up to be caught by the hook and inspected. 

Now in this situation I generally keep a fairly narrow vision field, not really wanting to see ALL the various body parts up for grabs.  Walking by one vender though there was no escaping the sight of what was on offer swine-wise.  On the counter was laid out what was a pig, minus the body bulk, the head carved in half… Looking like an abstract relief, pale white skin, little hooves, knees, curly tail, whiskered snout, ear pointing towards the ceiling and a single eye staring up.  Made quite an impression.  It I hadn’t thought it would cause offence I would have whipped out my camera for a photo.

I parted company at the Hostal with the plan that her brother would pick me up at 1:30 and away we would go. 

At 12:30 I awoke from my early siesta to Eduardo knocking on the door, delivering a message to come to Janets’.  Up and redressed I grabbed the bags of groceries that were left behind for pick up and hailed a cab, wondering how I was going to manage to cart them up the final couple of muddy roads to their home.  Thankfully Carlos had anticipated this and was waiting at the side of the road when I got there. 

An hour spent playing patty cake and monopoly with the kids was followed by a delicious lunch featuring another local specialty Papas a la Huancaina, boiled potatoes drenched in delicious, spicy, creamy cheese sauce.  It is typically served cold, with rice and salad greens, as mine was.  Mmmmm….  Top it off with some mint tea and my tummy was content.

After dinner we all went out into the fresh air for a round of blackberry picking.  The bushes here are different than at home, less dense, fewer thorns and much smaller berries.  The very positive (in my books) trade off for the smaller berries was that there were no big spiders to be seen, which resulted in zero arachnophobia freak outs on my part.  We somehow managed to fill the bowl despite the large quantity Daniel kept raiding.  Sound familiar? 

We ended up sitting on the hill overlooking their house and what is now my land.  The weather was nice and it was good to just sit and relax.  A few of Daniels’ friends gravitated our way, and we eventually ended up back at the house where the boys took to some kind of older version video game.  Again, sound familiar?

And of course by this time it had become very apparent that my anticipated visit to wizened, authentic local elders was not happening.  Don’t know why… maybe Janets brother couldn’t get the car, or maybe I would have made it one passenger too many… But in Peru I have learned that going with the flow makes for good days, and this one qualified.  Back to the hostal before nightfall, a couple of hours of trying to catch words while watching a movie, “Impact” I think is the name (with Morgan Freeman… asteroid… end of the world etc.), a delicious mango for dinner, tea and I was well ready to call it a day. 

Since it has been some days that I have not posted to the blog, I have more than the usual tidbits… if you have the time and inclination to read on.

As you may have deduced by now, this is not a run of the mill visit.  The aim is to put into motion the realization of a small house of my own, on a little patch of land with a view of the mountains surrounding town.  Regular neighbourhood, nondescript house, a garden to tend and within walking distance of friends.  Land: check.  Fence: check.  Fiddling with possible layouts: check.  New property survey:  coming.  Next off to the tax clearing office to get the paperwork to be able to actually leave the country. 

There have been doubts.  The language is a huge barrier and getting it done without being Gringo’ed is a daunting task.  Building and land costs here are miniscule compared to home so having a small place here is possible provided the locals decide I am one of their own.  And the weather here is not “snowbird” weather.  There will be rain and cold to go along with the tropical sun. 

I am getting older.  I am out of shape.  The tours are going out without me because I get tired.  Hopefully the next few weeks of rest and easy exercise will help with that. 

Keep thinking I should finally get to Mendosa to check out this famed area, but I can’t seem to get out of my mind the visions of people killed in traffic accidents on the road there.  It is another one of those dangerous drives that many people make safely.  But. 

After a couple of weeks carefully avoiding wheat I went out and had a lovely pastry treat… nope.  It seems this half century old body no longer wants the stuff.  Two days of feeling gross and it is wheat free for me from now on.  Which of course means a limited diet here because I don’t have a kitchen to call my own.  Rice and potatoes it is.

I had Clarinet Boy and friends join Guitar family for a few days of smoking and taking over the hostal courtyard.  Soooo glad they left yesterday.  No early morning kiddle noises.  No insidious second hand smoke wafting into my room. 

The stick-in-the-mud grouch I have become needs serious reflection on what it was to travel as an optimistic, naïve, free spirited youth… with all its fun and vision. 

I will settle for a good long walk I think.  Might need to wait though because the morning drizzle has long since become a steady downpour.  Looks like it is planning to stay a while. 

As I sit and write this post I have been bothered by an incredibly disrespectful peace corps conversation going on at a table near me.  Young, mid-western twanged Americans dissing the local customs and “backwardness”… talking about how they will bring “better things” to the area.  How disappointing.  When I spoke to some of them individually earlier it sounded like they were so respectful and had serious projects on the go in individual towns.  Today it is nothing but backwards languages, backwards customs, backwards practices.  God knows HOW these people have managed for the past, oh I don’t know… 2000 YEARS.

Puh-lease.

So, breakfast and three cups of coffee in, there you have it.  You are more or less up to date and I have managed to pass the morning successfully.

Alone, but not lonely…

Laid back is sooo uneventful...

Day three of a so far laid back catch up in Chacha.  That’s the local nickname for Chachapoyas in case you were wondering.

My days have consisted of sleeping in (as much as you can above the noise of the hostal), veggie omelets , organic coffee, meandering around the streets and market and visits with Janet, Carlos and Eduardo.   There has been glorious, baking hot sunshine, intermixed with rains torrential enough to turn the hostals’ courtyard into a wading pool… all normal here.

It has been nice seeing Janet, being introduced to her new baby Mateu and seeing their new house now that the kitchen is in and the furniture placed.  Their first home.  Looks good on them… they work hard.

Must be the granny gene but I am having delightful fun playing with the baby, who is smiley and good-natured.   Daniel is as quiet as ever and he gifted me with a hug when he said hello. 

There are signs of building everywhere, and there is land being cleared for a subdivision near their home.  I walk the property nearby that if all goes well will be mine by Tuesday.  It is much larger than I thought, and I realize what a good deal I got.  It is an unusual shape and will require a lot of thought as far as building is concerned.  I will need to put a fence this year and take some time to decide what comes next.  A topographical map would be good I think. 

Dinners have been hit and miss, with one outstandingly bad dish at a former favourite restaurant.  The no wheat thing is hard,  with bread being one of THE staples here.  Rice and potatoes will no doubt fill in and keep me filled out. 

Next on my hit list is a visit to friends Donna and Jose, who were out of town when I first went to see them.  This I found as I was on my way and from the back of a passing motorcycle I heard an enthusiastic voice shout out LEENDA!  Donnas niece Sandra was on her way to English School and hopped off the bike to give me a warm hug.  She is such a sweetie. 

Things seem to be looking up for people here, with real estate opportunities, tourism growth and plans for retail development.  Jose is opening his second hostal next month and Janet is thinking of opening a shop for travel and trekking gear.  It might not stay a sleepy little town much longer.

The unorthadox checkpoints are a sign that unwelcome elements are also on their way.  Janet says there have been banditos preying on night time travelers between here and Tarapoto, so I guess I can consider myself lucky that my, er, “encounters” were of the polite variety.

I have been enjoying tea in the evenings thanks to the kettle I purchased in Lima.  Nicer than just plain water, and I even am in possession of a nice set of four mugs from the local one size fits all store.

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In a laid back town such as this, and given that I basically have nothing to take care of, time slips bye easily.  So easily that I have now lost track of how long I have been here. 

I spent the better part of a day with Eduardo touring his now almost complete home with the killer view, and lunched with Janet & Carlos at their house.  Watched the Sunday changing of the guard in the plaza yesterday, and was quite surprised how many shops are now opening on Sundays.  First year I was here the place was shut up tight. 

Had a vice visit with Donna, and Jose proudly showed me their new hostal.  Nice guy.  Good plan.  Going places.

Watched the tadpoles swim around in the ditch.  Thought about how to use cow poop in a compost mix for a garden.  You know… world changing kind of activities. 

And speaking of going places, I sure do wish the young French couple and their baby would leave.  Crotchety I am.  Up and crying at 7am, guitar playing at 8:30, smoking all day long, and still making music, talking and baby noises at almost 9pm.  Three days running now and I am not amused.  The courtyard has an amplifying effect and there is just no getting away from them.  If they stay much longer I might just relocate. 

This will be my last year here at the hostal in any event and I will mostly miss it.  It has generally been nice to watch the guests come and go, and hear their reactions to the various tours they take etc.  The hot showers have been wonderful this year, and a nice change.  Time to move on though…

After several beautifully warm sunny days, today it has poured on and off all day, and thanks to a message from my sister I hear we are in for a deluge.  (yes, weather forecasting for Peru from Kelowna.  Somehow I believe her.  Sure hope the roads hold up.

A visit with the notary today has papers being drawn up to take possession of my land.  Arrangements are being made to fence the perimeter.  It looks like I did the negotiating at the right time as at todays’ prices it would cost me triple.  I’ll have to deal with the Peruvian tax authorities one day down the road but for now all is good.

According to Eduardo I will need a garage.  Ain’t that putting the cart before the horse, so to speak.

And that brings us to the challenge of keeping up a blog when life is so uneventful.  Will have to do something, or something.

Tarapoto to Chachapoyas

Travel day, and I can’t make up my mind whether to chance the 8 hour journey sans washroom or wait another day or two.  My preferred option is to take the bus tomorrow because there are washrooms aboard… but alas it turns out there are not tickets left. 

Breakfast is disappointing, with greasy eggs and mediocre coffee.  Not someone’s best morning in the kitchen I guess.  Whatever… it is not something that is usual here.

Back to the room to pack and I finally decide to trust Imodium and down a couple, wait while Yolanda calls ahead for a reservation and hail a motorcar for the ride to the depot for the minivan service to Chachapoyas. 

What a Zoo.  There is a crush of people, vans loading for 7 different locations and no discernable “stations”.  Watching the chaos for a moment allows me to find what I think is the ticket booth and I join a small mob of people waiting to get tickets.  Finally I worm my way to the woman sitting writing tickets, tell her I have a reservation, watch her scan the clipboard in front of her and frown.  She shakes her head, points to the chicken scratch on the page and I THINK she was speaking Spanish, but there was no comprehension on my part.  I tried again.  Nothing. 

Onto the scene comes a guardian angel who guides me to a minivan and we slowly work out what seats are available, and which I will take.  Back to incomprehensible lady, pay money and wait a half hour for take-off.  I say take-off because I remember the last trip I took by combi and we could have been flying at the speed we travelled.  The driver offers me the front seat for the first part of the trip as his next pickup is two hours down the road.  Bueno.  I am very happy to leave the madness behind.

 Off we go, zooming along at 60 in a 30 zone and I resign myself to relying on angels to get me there safely. 

As we travel up the valley the deforestation is almost complete, with small patches of rainforest her and there towards the crests of the mountains.  I close my eyes and try to imagine what this area looked like a hundred years ago. 

I also close my eyes when the impatient passing starts.

We pass areas where the roads have given way to the rains, meaning we take turns with oncoming traffic to use the single lanes left behind.  Military checkpoint.  Conservation checkpoint.  Mountains, rain, dogs playing chicken with the cars, and many heavy transport trucks to whiz bye.

Lunch stop was in Moyabamba, which is much smaller than Tarapoto but is actually the capital of this province.  Nice spiffy new station, good bathrooms, restaurant, and there is order instead of chaos.  Nice.  Good food, lose some passengers, gain some passengers and lots of cargo.

Back on the road I am not sitting up front anymore, but have a window seat nonetheless. 

Cue the rains… tropical downpour.   We are now headed east with the high Alto Mayo mountains off in the distance.   Second stop is Riojo, again passengers depart and board.  Not too far after that is Nuevo Cajamarca where the last of the passengers embark.  And cargo.  Wow.  A lot of cargo. 

We are in a transport Minivan and it is hard to convey just how much stuff they carry on the reinforced rooftops.  To start there is all our luggage, add to that boxes of motor oil, bags of produce, chickens, propane cylinders (thankfully empty)… and that is just the stuff I remember.  Once covered with tarp and netting it sits 4 feet tall.  I am hoping this guy belongs to the CAA or something because this is a Toyota van carrying weight way beyond what I can believe it is meant to. 

Hoping he had good brakes and tires too.

I close my eyes for a bit of zzz’s (hardly, let’s just say resting) and the bus heads into the hills and their turns that make the compass I have attached to my backpack go round and round.   The lush rainforest is trying to overtake the road faster than the road crew that attempt to keep it back.  

We are flagged down by what appear to be armed militia of some kind, and when the door opens they make a polite request (no idea) and people dip into their pockets and hand over change.  Hmm.

Round and round, back and forth, and the little van that could just kept on climbing. 

Until we are stopped by another armed checkpoint, these gents wearing blue uniforms marked security.  Another polite request, twice to me… (again no idea) and coins chink into the extended palms.  I, ignorant tourist and all have yet to clue in and haven’t yet produced any requested donations.

Somewhere into hour six the vegetation turns slowly drier and we begin to head down for a change.  Cue another checkpoint and another request for cash.  This time I am ready and hand over a couple of soles, and on we go.  This alms thing is new, and I am thinking not necessarily government sanctioned. 

We begin to stop and drop people and cargo off in small towns, and I am thinking it is toilet time.  A generous townsfolk offer reminds me of the vast differences in “facilities” outside of the city as I am shown to a large cement pee spot.  I manage a dribble or two, buy a coke from them as a way to say thank you and reboard the waiting Van.  Shortly thereafter we pass a large lake and we reach the transit town of Pedro Ruis.  No stop here, but a left hand turn puts on the final approach to Chachapoyas.

The river is running high and rough, evidence of recent rains up the valley.  We twist and along its’ banks for about 45 minutes before we begin the winding upward journey to the hilltop town that is Chachapoyas.  And I am so relieved.  The acrid, sour smell of vomit has been filling the vehicle for some time as child and adult alike give in to the effects of careening the multitude of hairpin turns.  Like dominoes, one after one in the rear seats they take turns, and I shudder thinking how full their plastic bags are getting.   I am guessing there is no such thing as Gravol down here.  (prayer of thanks sent upward)

We arrive after dark to a terminal just a couple of blocks from the town square and my destination, the Hostal Amazonas.  Home away from home for me.  I opt for a seriously ridiculous taxi ride to avoid having to carry my bag.  Shortest taxi ride ever.

My friend Carlos is in his usual spot near the doorway and a warm welcome ensues.  Nice room, laundry drop off, unpack, dinner, tired, bed.

Made it without pooping my pants.  Hooray!

Tarapoto. The best laid plans...

Here I swing…

It is a beautiful warm evening in Paradise, a lovely end to a what has been a scorchingly  hot day.  Last post I was in the same position, I believe.  I say this with a warm satisfied smile firmly entrenched on my face.

Hostal La Patarasca in Tarapoto has taken its’ place as my de-facto home away from home in this Jungle city in Northern Peru, just one set of mountains away from the watery wonder that is the Amazon Basin.  There really is something wonderful in coming back to the same place year after year.  The welcome smiles and hugs make a long journey worthwhile. 

Petite and friendly Yolanda (who speaks the fastest Spanish of anyone I know) is expecting me, and check in is a breeze and I have my pick of rooms.  A quick unpack before heading up the road to La Capola, a lovely restaurant with a wonderful view of the rain forested mountains of the Cordillera Escalera.  For months I have been looking forward to and my tummy is now rumbling in anticipation of their Avacado & Vegetable salad.  But they have run out so I must settle (really?) for a heart of palm salad instead.  Poor me.

Off to the main square to the beautifully renovated supermarket to pick up some water and to poke around.  I decide to forgo buying fruit in anticipation of a quick visit to the local market tomorrow. 

Back at my room, up goes the mosquito net and not many minutes later I crawl under it sans clothing to lie exhausted from the heat.  Zero appetite for dinner and a litre of water down by bedtime.  Sometime after nightfall on this Saturday night the music of Festival starts, it comes to me that arriving on such a day is not promising sleep wise. 

This is street party season, and normally I would be out there with the crowd having a blast.  Overwhelming, pounding Latin beats competing from all over town keeps up until about 5am.  And at 6 the parrots start squawking just outside the screened windows.  Can’t blame anyone but myself because I have been here for Festival before and should have remembered. 

Bleary eyed, I emerge from my room for coffee and to reacquaint myself properly with my hammock.  AHHH.  In conversation with the staff and learn that the wonderfully impertinent, and universally loved blue parrot Domingo had recently died.  I had wondered why he didn’t come robbing bread and Jam off my table at breakfast.  I am welcomed by the lovely family that own this slice of urban paradise, Cesar, La Senora and their daughter Cindy.  

A quick saunter (in this heat it is not an oxymoron) to the local market to get more water and some fruit, and then I retreat to my room for most of the balance of the day, emerging once to have a late lunch.  The heat and lack of sleep has played havoc on these old bones.  Mosquito net, birthday suit, cold showers, room fan on high and T3s.  Such is life. 

When the days heat gives way to the evenings breeze I throw on some clothes and join a group hanging out on the Patio.  To my delight I find Nicolas there.  I met him a couple of years previously here and he was one of the male posse that I so enjoyed on a day visit outside town.  We spent several evenings sitting together and talking as new friends do… about life and the future.  He is here with his kids and partner, all of whom It was a pleasure to meet.  Funny thing is I had a feeling I would see him this visit. 

He has purchased a parcel of land just outside the city, and together with Cindy (who has started her own Real Estate agency since I last saw her) we chat a bit about the area and Real Estate values etc. 

The value of a good sleep can really not be overstated.  The aggravation of Travelers tummy is in the same boat.  Apparently I was due both. 

Morning comes and it is clear that a planned rafting trip down the local river is not going to happen for me.  Sometime between hammock swings and toilet visits the tropical rains begin and I mourn the wild ride I am missing. 

I blog.  I drink water.  I swing.  I drink water.  I snooze.  I drink water.  And yes, yes, I poop, and I drink water.  Oh joy.

The blogging is done without the internet, as the rains tend to mess with it somehow.  The swinging is done with plenty of bug spray… the mosquitoes have found me.

The snoozing is done in the buff and under the net.

The pooping… well that is just nasty.

Another day goes bye, a repeat of yesterday.

Another day goes bye, a repeat of the repeat.

So I am down to one main meal a day… why waste money, no?

I am watching evening reruns of 1980s movies.

I am re-establishing a rapport with the parrots.

I am dodging all manner of carnivorous bugs.

I am not going for my much beloved river wanders.

I am not headed Lamas to buy some of their spectacular coffee.

I am not poking about the city markets or visiting friends.

And I SERIOUSLY doubt I am getting on a bus for an eight hour journey to get me to Chachapoyas tomorrow. 

The best laid plans and all that…

City ruins and sore feet

Day 3 in the tropics… and once again I find myself in my favorite hammock enjoying the breeze as a light rain sprinkles down.  This morning again the internet “no esta”, so will putter away on word.

Another catch up post… as I last left you at the tail end of day two.. and, unbelievably it is already day eight.

Onward...  Days three and four in Lima were spent mostly walking around the city areas adjacent to the hostel.  Notes and highlights:

Breakfast is a reminder every day that the whole “no wheat” thing is going to be a challenge here.  Standard offerings are coffee, fruit and a scrumptious selection of baked breads.  Supermarket purchases to supplement this are walnuts and yoghurt.  Could get very old, very quickly.  

Star Peru, one of the many domestic airlines, comes through again with availability to Tarapoto at a non-gringa price.  I seriously think I should join their frequent flyer program, as I think this makes flight 17 in the past 5 years. 

Day 3 in Lima had my sights set on walking around one of the ruins being excavated and reconstructed right in the heart of this metropolitan city of 10 million inhabitants.  It is a remarkable sight to be driving down a major thoroughfare and to pass a large lumps of dirt, some almost 2000 years old, with areas of slightly discernable adobe brick ruins.   Huaca Pucllana is the closest to Hostel El Patio, easy walking distance.  A stroll along the road circling the site revealed areas under excavations, areas being restored, bare untouched ruins and areas that looked as if they are being prepared for the time tours are available on the site itself. 

Managed to get turned around nicely at some point, and after eventually realizing this a very nice gentleman helped point out the right direction.  After a long, hot, blazingly sunny pedestrian exploration, lunch was sorely needed.  As was a siesta.  Woke in time for some blogging, and forgoing a heavy dinner headed off to the casino to kiss $20.00 goodbye.

Morning brought time and inclination to head to the district of San Isidro, and being it was not too great a distance the decision was to have another pedestrian day.  On the  hit list was a boutique shopping area, another set of ruins and a large park area.  Let’s just say at this point that most maps issued by local tourist organizations suck.  So do streets without signage… if you catch my drift.   Also on my list of things that suck are multilane roads and traffic circles choked with vehicles of all shapes and sizes driven by crazy, pedestrian loathing kamikazes.

On to the days outing…  first (and closest) was the large park area known as “Olive Park”, a long strip of green dotted in perfect orchard style is what remains of a historic Olive grove.  Trees bent and twisted with age, they are still bearing fruit even though they be urban dweller now.  There is a lovely long and wide interlocked walkway straight through the centre of the trees, with benches set about to encourage sitting and viewing the bounty of tropical birds that now call the green space home.  I caught glimpses of yellow, cobalt, sky blue and purple-black cheerily chirping specimens in addition to the hundreds of mundane looking pigeons and morning doves.  This place deserved a slow saunter, and that is what it got. 

Next was (following the directions of the nice gentleman practicing his English in the tourist info booth at the side of the park) the second urban ruin, Huaca Huallamarca.  Dating from slightly earlier on the historical continuum than yesterdays’ site, this one has undergone much more excavation and reconstruction, is open to the public, and has a very small on site museum showcasing small funerary items as well as mummies.  The total site area is much smaller, and sits so close to the other ruin that I can’t help wonder about the vast amount of archaeological information sitting under the residential neighbourhoods and congested roadways betwixt them. 

There are plenty more ruins dotting the Lima area, and more detailed historical info about them and the two I visited can be found following this link… scroll down past the ads to find it.    http://alianzaamerica.com/LastMinuteLima/Ruins.htm   This is probably not the most authoritative or exhaustive list, but it did come up at the top of the search results and gets the job done (more or less).

Two blocks away from the ruins is an area touted as “the most upscale shopping in Lima”.  I fail to see the justification for such a claim, as the area (and another one a few blocks away) just didn’t seem to have a huge amount of stores, along with what looked like some upscale restaurants.  Maybe you have to be “in the know” to appreciate it.  The City Tour guide had called San Isidro the most exclusive and expensive place to live in Lima, and judging by the well tended homes (with glorious gardens) and many  sleek mid to high rise buildings (with fabulously treed and gardened terraces) this is probably so.  Definitely well off my price point.

After 6 hours of walking I have hot, sore tired feet… so I hobble back to Miraflores for a very late lunch.  Stopped at a restaurant that a couple of days previously I had ordered a Spanish tortilla, which my waiter explained was vegetarian and came jam packed with all sorts of veggies.  Upon my return I happily ordered a Spanish tortilla and was presented with a platter of mystery meats cooked into it.  I called over the waiter (different fellow this time) and politely asked where my vegetables went… no, he says, I should have asked for a vegetarian tortilla.  Hmmm… I look and nope, no such animal listed.  When I asked for a replacement I was served a tortilla consisting of runny eggs and frozen vegetables, seasoned with chicken soup mix.  It was awful.  No return to this restaurant planned.

Short walk back to the hostel (thank god) and a lovely long nap.  My feet felt recovered enough for a wander to the ocean bluffs for sunset,  and a return trip to the casino to kiss another $20.00 goodbye.

Next day it became apparent that I had overdone it the past couple of days, and although I wasn’t in pain there was simply no umph left.  Back to bed and a solid sleep until 1pm.

Revived by a shower, I went around the corner to a local eatery and enjoyed a delicious 3  course vegetarian lunch for about $5.  Hit some local department stores and picked up a couple of t-shirts and a small kettle to take with me to Chachapoyas.  I do love my tea before bedtime.   Back to the hostel to blog, some window shopping and then returned to the casino to make back the $40 and a wee bit more. 

Time to pack… and a realization that the laundry did not drop off my clothes like they were supposed to.  Perfect.  I have a morning flight and a cab booked.  Grrr.

Nothing like a little aggravation to keep one from sleeping well, so I am NOT well rested, NOT in the mood for airport aggravation and definitely NOT feeling at all in an agreeable mood.  With basically no time to wait, the laundromat opens late (thanks, Mr. Murphy), keeping traveller and cab driver waiting 20 minutes. 

Love leaving for the airport late.  (heavy sarcasm intended)

Thankfully traffic was light, and the driver knew the shortcuts, because we made it with time to spare.  Check in was efficient and friendly (a Star Peru standard), and it was off to Starbucks for some mint tea to try and find some Zen.   Watched a facebook posted Tom Thomson video on living conditions in Attawapiskat, it is worth a watch…  I`ll try and post a link later, once the internet returns. (or you can google it)

Another round of airport security… boots need to come off, but putting a bottle full of water through is ok.  International regs. Vs. domestic regs.   Managed to set off the alarms because I inadvertently touched the sides of the metal detector (oops), but got coordinated enough to make it through the second time while we all laughed. 

Wandered and poked about the various shops (see LAX… everyone seems to do it better) and tried some samples of dark chocolate covered jungle fruits, heavenly at only $11.00 per small pouch.  Maybe on my way home so I don`t eat them all in lieu of healthy food.  I have been known to do this. 

Flight`s late, but waiting room is air conditioned so it is all good.  There is rainy season cloud cover, but there were good clear breaks along the route so I got the (for me) rare opportunity to see the High Andes.  And the inland mountains, small settlements, rivers and roads, which slowly gave way to the tropical mountains, rivers and vegetation. 

Got off the plane to the welcoming punch of the scorching, full sun, afternoon heat of this Jungle town.   Finally my hammock is but a short moto-taxi ride away.

DIGIMIN and some Lima

From a deep sleep I reach out to shut off the ringing alarm clock, and prepare to roll over and return to the depths and dreams of much needed rejuvenation.  Then a word filtered into my thoughts… DIGIMIN.  Instantly awake, I quickly dress and off to breakfast and much needed coffee.

DIGIMIN is the Peruvian government passport, visa and immigration office.  Today is the day I formally ask the government to give me permission to sign contracts in Peru. 

Having done some research online through the Peru Expat forum I was ready with the completed application form, photocopies of my passport and immigration admittance form, and extra passport photos.  I had read that if you download the forms in advance I would skip at least one line, and therefore had done so.

I gulp down 3 cups of coffee, some yogurt and walnuts.  Breakfast complete.  Slap on sunscreen.  Grab backpack and insert water, sunscreen, sunhat, snack, sunglasses and of course the file folder with documents tucked safely inside.  Slip moneybelt under and handbag/pouch on.  Ready. 

A half hours cab ride and I am deposited in front of a large concrete building teeming with people scurrying in and about.  A short wait in line to present my passport at the outside security stop.  Inside a passing harried official looked at my papers and in rapid fire Spanish gave me directions.  Blank.  I got nothing.  So a request to repeat slowly is issued, and kindly granted.  OK… first down to the bank to pay the fee.  Straight, left, right.  A.N.D there is the bank line up. 

Good thing I have basically dedicated the day to getting this done, I am thinking…

A good while later I am directed to a window, where I display my form and pretty much hope the teller knows what is next.  A lot of people must apply for permission because an  immediate request for 16 soles is made.  Paid.  But what about the second tariff I read I had to pay”,  in my halting, basterdized Spanish I inquire?  He gestures upwards, says third floor, and then come back with paper.  OK.  I locate  and try to get to the stairs, but am directed to a large area of chairs and signalled to wait. 

I settle in to wait a while.  Unnecessary because in no time at all up the awaiting folk and I get up to form a line for inspection by a serious looking woman dressed in government blue.  Yes, No, Yes, Yes, Yes… and I got a nod too.  Third floor I ask?  Looking bothered she waives me upstairs without answering.  Getting up the stairs and very away from her, I pull out the Internet notes, and sure enough they say third floor.  Up I go again.

The third floor offers 2 choices, one of which seems to be the passport application area.  Long lines.  Hmm.  Choice number two is through a doorway guarded by not only an official blue lady, but a security guard as well.  I am given a glance and signalled to sit down to join a growing group of people waiting in chairs.  Sit.  Wait.  Watch many people arrive and be waived through to the next area.  Am I even in the right line, I wonder?  What harm can it do if I actually get up and ask for her attention long enough to tell me?  Ponder and practice words in Spanish… and up I go.  I get as far as “excuse me” as she consents to look at my form and she immediately waives me on through and tells me “line six”. 

To my delight, line six is a dedicated line just for Form 004, permiso para firmir contractos.  Exactly.  And the line is short.  As I wait I notice the people who are in front of me have the same form, but at the bottom there is a fingerprint impression.  I look about and am relieved to see a small ink pad on the counter.  Phew, maybe I won’t have to start the process all over.  Less than 10 minutes later it is my turn, and without me having to say a word (thankfully) I am asked to mark my fingerprint, sign here and told to go over to a back wall to wait.  Just as I got settled, I heard my name called (Leenda Geebso) and return to line six dude… and am promptly handed back my passport with some kind of official stamp next to my immigration entry stamp.  Said dude informed me we are done and points to the exit door.  Confused I ask about the second tariff I was told I had to pay (bastard Spanish again), but am told it was “No necesitar”

Bueno.

Follow the exit signs into the bright sunshine.  I look at my watch and to my astonishment the entire endeavour took about an hour.  And here I had booked myself 4 days in Lima for the process, which is what I was told could happen.  Now what to do with an almost entire extra day?

Off to the Historical District it is.  Hail a taxi, bargain a fare, and off we zoom into the traffic madness.  I am still nervous hailing cabs, what with all the warnings about taxi abductions and robberies, but millions of people do it daily and although I am a prime gringa target, chances are I will be safe.  Actually ignoring the niggle is surprising difficult.

Very nice driver agrees to a drop off at the San Francisco Cathederal, making a recommendation for a local bar/restaurant around the corner.  Locals love he declares.

This is a return visit for me, as the city tour I took a few years ago had included a harried visit.  Thought I’d get more out of a smaller group, so here goes.  First up a much needed pee break, bathrooms basic, not toilet paper provided. 

The Cathedral itself was closed last visit, but this time it is open.  I enter slowly and quietly, something I always do out of respect for the faithful inside attending services or simply praying at one of the myriad of shrines to Saints, stretching all the way along the walls down both sides of the cathedral. 
And I am glad I do because there is a woman weeping as she prays at the shrine to Saint Jude just inside the doorway.  There is also a mass being performed at the front sanctuary area for a faithful few kneeling in the first few pews.   

The cathedral holds all of the usual abundance of historical religious regalia, representations and murals.  I do notice the lovely adobe domed ceiling, white with terracotta coloured architectural accents.  Pretty.

Time to head to the monestary for a tour and I am told there is an English tour guide.  Am set aside to wait.  Off goes one Spanish group.  Off goes another Spanish group.  Another Gringo is set aside to wait.  Ten minutes later it is decided that our small group would proceed.  Short talk about the San Franciscan order that established the monastery in the 1500s.  Up a wide staircase, we pause and the guide gives details of an intricate wood dome, earthquake damage and restorations.  Lots of damage and restoration stories to come. 

I have discussed this monastery in detail  in a previous post, but there was plenty to scribble notes about. 

In the Choir room located above the back of the cathederal I am taken with the original pipe organ and fascinated with the explanation of it’s use.  One person in the back working the pedals and another in front playing.  Still works apparently but is not used now. There are two kinds of wood used in the seats, carvings of saints, floor and the woodwork in this area, chocolate wood from the Philippines and cedar imported from both Nicaragua and Panama.  No expenses spared when building apparently.

The staircases are mostly solid stone, worn deep from hundreds of years of use.  In some areas the stairs are wood, with huge timber lintels, and some have white marble to slip on.  (or I did)

The library is remarkable.  2500 books holding unimaginable historic detail.  Beautiful hand worked bookshelves floor to ceiling, my guess is 30 feet high.  A balcony with staircase access has been built all the way around the inside of the room in order to walk around and easily access the books from the upper shelves.  Skylights run the length of the room to let in reading light.  Oil lights and candles were strictly forbidden lest a chance accident destroy such bounty.  The lower shelves hold books dated from the 15^th, 16^th and 17^th century, upstairs are found those from the 18^th, 19^th and 20^th century.  My hands itch to get to those books just to touch and read the history. 

Most rooms hold artwork and portraits painted by the European and Peruvian masters.  There are preserved traces of the original friezes that adorned the walls pre-earthquake damage.  Itallian hand painted tiles adorn the walls and floors surrounding the inner courtyard garden, painted predominantly in the Blue and Yellow of the Fransiscan Order.  I love hand painted tiles and these are excellent examples of the craft.

Walking about there are occasional metal grates in the floor through which I can see the skeletal remains of church benefactors and their families.  Such an honour was reserved for only the most important, of course.   I see that there are coins dropped in, a la fountain good luck wishes worldwide.  Seeing them I hope that the wishes asked for were important enough to justify desecration such a site.

I glance to the side at one point and see two people painstakingly doing restoration to a frieze in an alcove.  Mostly camouflaged by heavy white gauze, the bright light shining inside offered a tantalizing glimpse of masters at work.

We turn and head down an outside corridor painted the deep terracotta red I love, and there are pots filled with geraniums.  Lovely. 

This leads into two rooms, the Jesus room (really cool Reuben school portrait whose eyes follow me), and the Dining Room with its portraits of the 12 tribes (or sons of Jacob) and a huge depiction of the last supper which was painted in pieces and reassembled in Peru.   English guide lady scurries our group (which has grown substantially by now) through too quickly for me, so I am annoyed.

On to the Vestment Room, lined with deep hand carved and detailed drawers used to, well, hold the vestments.  There is a musty smell that immediately bothers me. 

                                                    

On to the Catacombs.  25,000 people buried below the church, and it still feels grizzly to me.  I try to concentrate on the shapes of the ceiling and arches… an old world design from roman times, incorporated the design of the catacombs beneath the Cathedral and Monastery as an anti-seismic means to shore them up during an earthquake.  But I keep finding myself imagining what it must have been like, bringing body after body through the low and winding walkway,  past all the already placed  decomposing lime covered bodies.  Not anything I want to be doing.

Happy to be back into the relatively fresh monastery air, I ask for and receive permission to wander back into a couple of rooms to read some info plaques there was no time for previously.  Reminder… no touching and no photos.   OK.   I wander a bit, enjoy a leisurely inspection here and there, notice my tummy rumble and decide to head off to the cabby recommended bar for a meal.

Beans and rice, nothing fancy, but the price was right.

Just outside there were 3 police on guard with their machine guns.  Picture?  I ask.  A nodded ok and snap!

Lots of police about, including groups of riot police… all fully armed.  Wander around in the hot, hot, equatorial sun, nipping in here and there for shade.  Feeling more comfortable in the downtown crowd, it is off on a search for a map of the city and a forgotten camera cord.  Lonely planet has it all wrong (not the first time I might add), but eventually I have success, given the amount of shoe rubber I burn through. 

Time for this chickadee to head back to Miraflores and the nap that is now screaming my name. 

Napped hard and long… and next up on my list is to get my flight booked to Tarapoto for Saturday.   Star Peru, Peruvian Airlines, TACA, LAN…   some availability, but Star Peru, (my usual air choice) is having problems with their website.  They have offices nearby so I decide I will head there in the morning and check them out first.

By this point I am starved so head out to find a something to eat… Cooked veggie salad works for me.

A quick stop at the casino to lose my usual twenty dollars, and I am ready for sleep. 

Not a bad day at all.