Stupid Money (A Little Chile)

Chilean money.

I returned to Peru 130 years too late, and found it to be Chile.

Once famous for its flourishing copper and saltpeter mines,  the northern province of Chile was wrested from Peru during the War Of The Pacific in 1879. Nowadays, it's a dry and barren region peppered with creaking ghost towns--eerie, abandoned settlements that were once Chilean mining hubs.

The War Of The Pacific also saw Chile plunge headlong into fiat currency, with the government printing more and more money to make up for the rising cost of war. This led to serious inflation, a problem Chile has been wrestling with in one way or another throughout much of its history. 

Currently Chile is a prosperous country,  with Western prices and a cosmopolitan feel. It's a stark contrast to poor neighbouring Bolivia, full of ragged buildings and pot-holed roads.

Which is why it feels so strange that one Chilean peso is worth 0.01 of a borderline worthless Boliviano.

***

Iquique, caught in between surf and sand.

There's something quite unsettling about going to a cash machine, and withdrawing 70,000 of a currency.

In Chile, zeroes are important--a razor will set you back 500 pesos, a box of breakfast cereal 1,600. (And alarmingly, many supermarkets use the "$" sign for pesos, making prices perilously easy to confuse with dollars. ) In an effort to make costs seem more sensible, some shops substitute the comma in each "1,000" or "10,000" for a decimal point, like so: "10.000." But there are still zeroes everywhere, like multiplying rabbits.

Upon arriving in Chile,  I stopped off at Iquique--a bustling port city located between the ocean and a vast sand dune named Cerro Dragon.  Beloved by surfers,  Iquique was famously visited by Charles Darwin in 1835,  who described it as:  "Very much in want of everyday necessities, such as water and firewood."

Nowadays, Iquique is home to the Zofri; a vast Duty-free mall, crammed with discount goods and overpriced ice cream. It's a monument to capitalism worthy of the USA,  and it sits in one of the city's most ramshackle-looking neighbourhoods.

Darwin thought Iquique was empty. Now it's home to all the goods that money can buy.

***

Humberstone, an abandoned Chilean mining town.

Money is a silly thing, when you think about it.

Originally designed as a means of  exchanging shiny beads for goats, it has since become the mechanism by which a mindbogglingly complicated global infrastructure works. And yet,  as Chile's tumultuous history shows, there is no safety with money.  Economic models can be overturned at the slightest revolution.

In 1973, Chile's the then-new Pinochet regime brought in the Chicago Boys--a group of neoliberal economists educated in the USA, tasked with redesigning Chile's formerly socialist economy. This resulted in a crazed orgy of free-market restructuring, and debate still rages among academics as to whether the Chicago Boy reforms were responsible for Chile's devastating economic Crisis (note the capitalisation) in 1982.

Nowadays, Chile is one of the most prosperous and stable economies in Latin America, but the peso shows no sign of deflating to less outragious levels.  Consequently and curiously, Chileans have effortlessly achieved what so many Brits and North Americans struggle and strive for.

Everyone's a millionaire.

If only a million was worth a little more.

EXTRA BITS:

>The City of Iquique, home to the Zofri, caught between sea and sand in the shadow of the mighty Cerro Dragon.

The more travel, the more I find--everywhere's a fantasy,  if you phrase it right.

Bolivia

Bolivia.

Bolivia is filled with unfinished places.

Ride a bus through the country and you'll see huge stretches of barren land, beige and flat but for the horizon-straddling mountains. Little bushels of yellow grass flutter in the wind, and occasionally, there is a town. 

"Towns" and "cities." That's what people call them--the half-formed patchwork pueblos scattered over the Bolivian countryside. Girders stick up from squat houses, attesting to second floors that will never be built. (In Bolivia,  it is possible to dodge property taxes by leaving your house unfinished). Wide, dusty streets run between the almost-buildings, occasionally ribbed with rubber tires. Walls are graffitied with opposing politics. "EVO DICE SI" and "EVO DICE NO," they say--bickering camps regarding the President's bid to stay in office past his term limits, possibly forever.

Typical Bolivian architecture. Spot the incomplete structures. 

And in the desolate streets people wander like lost things,  between tiny shops and bereft little markets and canteens with vomit-yellow signs advertising pollo lunches. The women wear bowler hats and carry coloured sacks. The men, oftentimes, wear a prominent slump.

This is the Bolivia that exists between jungle and mountain,  between eccentric famous city and bustling tourist stop. It is the Bolivia you pass late at night on a bus,  going from place to place, never quite finding a reason to linger in.

Citizens engaging in ad-hoc construction work in El Alto, a perennially unfinished neighbourhood in La Paz.

There is a guilty glee in travelling through edge places; countries that are poor, corrupt or suffer lunatic infrastructure, and are somehow more fascinating for it. It's a terribly privileged, almost colonial attitude, and it risks obscuring the hardships and happinesses of the people who live in these places. But it also taps straight into the basic urge to travel--the urge to find things strange and different.

As I exit Bolivia, I find to my mild surprise that I will miss the country. Sure, the food is stolid, the internet intermittent, the governance mystifying.  But the country is certainly strange and different; a wild west frontier stuffed into a landlocked patch of South America, filled with people alternately warm and cold, tired and angry, and always teetering on the verge of another revolution. 

And curiously, what I will remember most about the country will not be the cholitas in their bowler hats, or the bumpy bus rides (not as bad as expected), or the mind-blowing spectacle of Uyuni, or even the jungle's sticky depths.

It will be all those half-formed places in between, like living ghost towns in the desert.

Not quite finished, and never getting there.

A family in a small Bolivian town.

Emerald City (The Jungle)

Vines hang from the trees like power lines.

Above, a leafy canopy blots out the sun, but for narrow splashes. There are too many kinds of tree to name. Some palms have pointy leaves; others are like gently swaying fans. Mossy deciduous giants tower, tall as skyscrapers--hundreds of years old.

Yellow and brown monkeys drop from the branches like falling fruit, leaping and bounding along, tails curling as they search for food. Red macaws soar overhead as they flock to the cliffside apartments where they roost in rocky scarps.

The jungle has a mighty nightlife;  as the sun goes down, birds screech and insects click, while caiman lurk in darkened waters and glare at passing shadows.

On the leafy jungle floor, ants move in orderly columns, while giant butterflies rest on mushrooms blossoming out from rotting logs. Wild pigs snort and scowl, rustling through the undergrowth--protected from jaguars by their repulsive clouds of stink.

And always,  of course,  there are the silly tourists, threading through town in little groups, following the advice of local "guides," (local indeed; they weren't even born here). The visitors keep to safe neighbourhoods, hardly glimpsing the real jungle, the one that's wild and hot and ragged. They spend a few days on the fringes, then go back to their strange concrete forests--with tacky souvenirs like tans and mosquito bites.

Some stay a little longer (perhaps a lifetime or two)--and the jungle laughs there too, because these silly bipeds think that moving to the wild makes them city folk.

But no matter what the humans hunt or build within the trees, the green metropolis remains vast, and dark, and filled with things that bite.

And the folk who come to visit? 

They are welcome for a while.

But if they stick around, the green will eat them too. 

 

There Is No Health And Safety In Bolivia (The Pampas)

A guide anaconda hunting. 

The mud of the bog clung to my wellington boots, thick muck leaking in and squelching underfoot. The hard afternoon sun beat down on a small group of tourists as we traipsed after our guide, through the stinking wetland swamp.

We were hunting for an anaconda (an effort doomed to failure, though we found a dead electric eel)--an activity not uncommon for backpackers in the Bolivian Amazon. I was part of a group visiting the Pampas, an Amazonian river teaming with birds and snakes and grinning caiman. 

Before our serpent hunt began, the guide warned us that the area was home to five types of poisonous snake, four of them deadly. Someone in our group asked if the guide was carrying any anti-venom.

"No," he replied, jovially.

I asked him what would happen if one of us got bitten.

"You die," was the simple,  less than reassuring response.

***

I do not have a very long telephoto lens. In the Pampas, it's possible to get really close to wildlife.

Deep within Madidi National Park (a 18,958 square kilometre patch of protected jungle in the Bolivian Amazon) there is a shrine to a dead girl.

It isn't much to look at; a stone bearing a little clay cave, which shelters a crucifix, a crinkled photo of two girls, and a broken pair of sunglasses.

The shrine.

Ask a local guide about it, and they will shake their head and mutter: "Very sad story." The photograph is of two tourists from England, who were touring the Bolivian jungle--with a fairly safe, reputable agency. On their very first day, an unexpected gust of wind tore through the jungle and sent trees toppling.

Sadly, one of the two tourists was caught beneath a falling tree.

All it takes is a little bad luck, when you're in the wild.

***

Swimming in search of Pink river dolphins. Spot the Caiman on the bank. Another has just slunk into the water. 

Outside of its dodgier big-city neighborhoods, Bolivia generally feels very safe--perhaps safer than it should.

On the road to Uyuni, my group (like most) was encouraged to take photos of an active geyser, venturing to the edge if its sulphurous,  smoking pits. A fellow tourist idly mentioned a similar geyser in Yellowstone National Park--but that one is surrounded by safety railings, making it impossible to venture near its boiling edges. After all, one wrong slip could mean a set of fatal burns.

A few hours from La Paz, tourists flock to the town of Coroico to bike down the famous Death Road--a spiralling mountain path that courts cliff edges. It's an incredibly touristy activity these days, which by all accounts feels rather controlled and safe...  so much so it's easy to forget that between 100 and 300 people die there each year. 

And along the Pampas river, Mr. No Anti-Venom sought to cheer my group following our failed anaconda hunt by offering us a chance to swim with dolphins. Pink river dolphins abound in the Pampas, playing as they swim. It was perfectly safe to venture into the murky water, the guide assured my group, when we saw pink humps cresting.

"Hello."

On the nearby river bank, a pair of caiman lounged, with their reptile smirks. Don't worry, our guide promised us. Caiman won't get in the water with the river dolphins; the dolphins are very aggressive toward caiman, keeping them scared back.

A few minutes later, one of the caiman slipped into the water. Don't worry, the guide assured us again. He isn't interested in you. You'll be fine, I promise.

And we were all fine, in fairness.  We waded in the water (the others for longer than me; I ventured back to the boat to fetch a pair of glasses) and we didn't come to harm.

But animals aren't clockwork; they don't always work the same way. Much as with that unfortunate girl in the jungle, all it takes is one piece of bad luck for things to go very wrong. There are more than a few stories about tourists who got too close to an adventurous caiman, and had something bitten off.

After all, this is Bolivia, where mines and prisons are for tourists, and health and safety is a vague suggestion.

It's fun to swim with caiman. 

But watch out for those teeth.

EXTRA BITS:

> Rurrenabaque is crawling with agencies offering trips to the Pampas river and into the jungle reaches of Madidi National Park, some much cheaper than others. There are plenty of stories about bargain basement tours run by duplicitous con-men and alcoholic guides,  while the more expensive trips feel comparatively overpriced.

I took a cheap tour to the Pampas, and a more expensive tour to the jungle, both lasting three days. The difference wasn't huge. In the jungle, my treehouse lodgings were something close to lavish, but only for my first night--then it was camping in the undergrowth. The pricier guide felt more skilled (if also more taciturn), but there was a greater sense of fun with the cheaper guide, who would quite merrily drive his boat while tipsy. 

Ultimately, the content of cheaper and expensive tours is quite similar, so it's a question of how much you value comfort. Though watch out for some of the ultra-cheap jungle tours, as the smaller agencies will sometimes try to save money by dumping tourists on the fringes of the jungle, instead of in the National Park itself.

>The more expensive agency I chose was Max Adventures, while the cheaper was called Amazonicus. Escorpion is another cheap agency which seemed to have a reasonable reputation (although in practice, most of the cheap agencies work together, and lump all their tourists into the same tour group).

Tiny Propeller Machine (Flying to the Bolivian Amazon)

I chose to fly into the jungle.

The plane from La Paz to Rurrenabaque (on the fringe of the Bolivian Amazon) has a reputation for being quicker and safer than the bus ride, which is a 13 to 24 hour skitter over the country's least developed, most perilous roads.

A tiny tube with wings, the plane held perhaps thirty passengers. It quaked and juddered as it leapt into the air, clipping snowy peaks as it left Bolivia's mountain reaches and plunged towards the green trees and cloying air of the country's verdant tropical regions.

Still, I thought, as the plane lunged to a laboured stop on the ground at Rurrenabaque--skidding and skating to a halt beside an "airport" slightly smaller than some coffee shops. Still, I'm sure this is much safer than the bus.

The next day, the plane I flew in on was grounded.

During a routine flight, a bird had flown into one of the plane's propellers, very nearly bringing the whole thing down. No one was hurt in the resulting emergency landing, but dozens of passengers were stranded for a day or two in Rurrenabaque.  There aren't many planes to go around in Bolivia's stretch of Amazon.

That's what you get,  for relying on a tiny propeller machine.

EXTRA BITS:

>Since getting to Rurrenabaque, I've heard conflicting reports about how bad the bus is. Some people have managed to get from La Paz to Rurrenabaque enduring only 13 or 14 hours of perilous cliff-side driving. Others report 18 to 22 hours trapped on a juddering bus, with the windows serving as the only toilets. 

>The plane, on the other hand, takes barely an hour. But watch out for birds. 

 

 

Every Day, A Different Planet (Salar de Uyuni)

My spectacular four day journey from Tupiza to Uyuni, in brief. Click on images to expand.

Day One:

The jeep collects my party at 7am on a chilly Tupiza morning, just as sunlight strikes the red mountains that surround the town. It's a sturdy-looking vehicle,  packed full of food and water bottles. It's driven by Mayco (pronounced "Micheal") a good-natured Bolivian with a jokey manner and a few teeth missing, his eyes usually hidden under a pair of stylish shades.

With him is the cook for our journey (a shy young woman named Maria), who cradles her gently cooing infant son. She has been bringing her child on these trips since he was one month old; he is calm and peaceful as still water, as long as he is in a car.

My group consists of an Englishman (me), a French girl, and two Swiss German men, placed together at the whim of our tour company. The French girl speaks a little English and a lot of Spanish. The Swiss Germans speak a lot of English and a little French. Our driver speaks only Spanish, and I'm left flailing for words in between.

Somehow, our little group will muddle through.

Mayco, our driver.

The jeep tears away from Tupiza, tracing craggy roads over lunar canyons and misty valleys. The landscape is dry, featuring great scarps of beige and barren brown, peppered with scrappy bushes and looming cacti. 

Mountains rise over us. We drive and drive, through huge ranks of parting Earth.

Occasionally, there is a break to go to the bathroom.

Day two:

It is cold.

It is terribly,  terribly cold.

After a night spent in a chilly little lodge, we resume driving early in the morning--early enough that to remove gloves is to risk frozen fingers. The dry landscape of the previous day quickly gives away to snowy peaks and dead volcanoes, encircling icy lagoons. 

My party shakes and shivers, as we dutifully take photographs at every opportunity.

My group in the cold, while Mayco explains a salty lake to us.

In the middle of the day, we stop at a steaming thermal spring--a gift from old volcanoes. At the foot of the mountain Cerro Polques, the spring is a balmy 29.4°C, and rich in minerals. Bathing there, we regain some memory of warmth, until our driver urges us out of the water and back into our many clothes. 

Emphasis on the many. It gets so cold after dark, the only solution is to layer up. For the most part, we will wear the same clothes for four days without pause, occasionally dropping a jumper or two during the sunny midday--stripping to change at night would be unbearably chilly. Showers are available at some of our rudimentary lodgings, but only for B$ 10. 

After the spring, we pause briefly at an active geiser; a sulfurous splint of land where the earth is bubbling clay and billowing smoke. Surrounded by pools of seething primordial-esque goop, it feels like the beginning of the world. It smells like the end.

For the finale of the second day, we visit the famous Laguna Colorada--a vast salt lake, its waters dyed red by sediments and algae. Flamingos flock to the lake in droves, despite the fact the cold sometimes kills them while they nest and feed.

While we admire the lake, I become pathologically obsessed with getting a good picture of the flamingos.

Much to their dismay, as they try to fly away. 

Day Three:

We walk.

Our group is freed from the confines of the jeep for most of the day, as Mayco leads us on a series of short hikes through surreal scarps of twisted rock that look like they belong in an 80s fantasy movie.

(And is there any animal that looks more like a fantasy creature come to life than the silly llama?)

Other jeeps flying across the land.

Throughout the whole expedition, our only real company comes from other jeeps; other tour groups plying the same route. About 50 people per day embark on an odyssey through Bolivia's southwest circuit from the town of Uyuni, more still from Tupiza. The region feels eerily barren, empty but the roving jeeps, and the occasional quaint little Bolivian village, farming quinoa.  

It's a bit like being in a car advert, watching Land Rovers cut lines of dust across the sweeping mountains.

Day Four:

There is nothing.

A bright white void surrounds me. It isn't like land and isn't a sea; just mile upon mile of cracked, powdery salt. Bolivia's famous Salt Flats (the Salar de Uyuni) span 10,582 square kilometers, at an altitude of 3,656 meters above. The salt is the leftover remains of a vast prehistoric lake, which dried to nothing thousands of years ago. 

The area is so flat and featureless that it's used for calibrating satellite altimeters. In the centre of the white void sits the surreal Isla Incahuasi, an outcrop of volcanic rock covered in enormous cacti. There, jeeps converge and tourists gather to watch the sun rise across the snowy flats.

Needless to say, it is very cold.

Me, in the Salt Flats.

In some ways, the journey from Tupiza to Uyuni (or vice versa, if you're doing the trip from the other direction) is punishing in its spectacle. Every day is a constant barrage of mind-boggling vistas, awe beaten into you again and again by the impossible scale of the world. Four ripe days in a jeep, plus coldness and tiredness, can be pretty draining by the end. 

And yet when our jeep escapes the Salt Flats, and crawls to the dusty desert town of Uyuni (where prospects abound for hot showers and transport elsewhere) there's a curious melancholy to leaving the car and our faithful driver behind.

We saw all sorts of wonders, in that sturdy vehicle.

Every day was like a different planet.

And now we must come back to Earth.

EXTRA BITS

> In keeping with Salt Flat tour tradition, our group spent one night in a hotel made of salt. It wasn't as cold as I expected, but it's a bit of a gimmick; you can't even eat the walls.

> Our group found good company with another party of four from the same tour operator; our jeeps crossed paths at regular intervals. It was nice to have lots of little reunions with our newfound friends, in the most desolate reaches of Bolivia. 

> The company I toured with was called "Natural Adventure." I heartily recommend them, despite their adorably worded catch phrase: "The Best Way To Enjoy The Nature."

> And of course when you're on the Salt Flats, there are the obligatory silly perspective pictures, afforded by the total lack of landmarks in the white space. So if you're going, don't forget to bring along, for instance... a hat:

 

 

Paul Newman Was Here, Almost (Tupiza)

In 1908, two bandits were killed by the Bolivian army.

A mule had given them away.

The bandits had robbed a courier transporting a payroll for the Aramayo Franke y Cia Silver Mine, stealing about 15,000 Bolivian pesos (as the currency was back then) worth of loot. The bandits then tried to hide out in the nearby town of San Vicente, where they were promptly ratted out by the owner of their boarding house.

The robbers had stolen a mule branded with the mark of the Aramayo Mine. The owner of the boarding house saw this, became suspicious of his lodgers, and notified the local authorities. That is, the Bolivian army.

A shootout ensued.

All of this happened in the south of Bolivia, near a place called Tupiza.

They made a movie about it, with Paul Newman and Robert Redford. It was called Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.

***

Tupiza

Nowadays, Tupiza is a quiet city located between huge scarps of red rock, along the Oruro -Villazon train route; Bolivia’s most famous railway line.

(Incidentally, the train that plies this line is a full-sized, horn-honking, multi-carriage affair, a far cry from the tiny duster that took me from Sucre to Potosi. Tupiza feels like a town right out of the Old West, so it’s reassuring they got the railroad right).

Aside from the whole business with Butch and Sundance, Tupiza most famous for being the back gate to Bolivia’s famous Salt Flats. The trip from Tupiza to the Flats is a four day expedition via jeep, which promises staggering and surreal views of Bolivia’s strangest natural sights.

That’s not really why I came here, though.

I just wanted to muck about on a horse for a bit.

Tupiza offers bargain-price horse trekking, through the rugged red countryside. It’s just like being in an old Eastwood movie, right down to the cacti. 

***

The cacti

Butch and Sundance fled to South America because the Old West wasn’t really the Old West anymore. Having more and more trouble keeping ahead of North America’s increasingly sophisticated lawmen, they fled south in the hope of recouping their glory days in more primitive climes.

In many ways, Bolivia still feels like that kind of frontier. The poorest part of the Americas, it’s a land full of ramshackle buildings and half-finished houses. It’s not hard to imagine two bandits out of Old West patrolling its countryside to this day, with handkerchief masks and six-shooters in hand.

Things didn’t end well for Butch and Sundance (unless you believe the rumours about them surviving their famous final shoot-out, and taking new names elsewhere; their bodies were never definitively identified, after all.) But here, on the ruddy edge of a ragged country, it’s easy to imagine their story playing out again--perhaps differently, this time.

After all, if there’s any place in the world where Butch and Sundance could still ride, it must surely be Bolivia. 

Horse riding in Bolivia. Click to expand.

EXTRA BITS:

>Horse treks through the countryside surrounding Tupiza are available from any one of the town’s many tour operators. The prices vary from 250 bs to 390 bs for a five hour expedition. I paid 350 bs for a very pleasant seven hour ride via the Valle Hermosa tour agency.

>It’s easy to find affordable accommodation in Tupiza, but watch out--many cheaper hostels have travel agencies attached, and they may try to pressure you into taking a Salt Flat tour with them before you have a chance to look at the alternatives.

>Going on a tour of the Salt Flats via Tupiza is quite a bit more expensive than going direct from the Flats-adjacent town of Uyuni (expect to pay around 1300 bs instead of 600 bs), but Tupiza is a far more pleasant place to spend a bit of time, and you get an extra day on the road for your money. I've chosen an agency called Natural Adventure, which was recommended to me by other travellers.  

I've also brought some extra socks. I hear it's very cold, out in the Flats...

A Mountain Ate These Men (The Mines of Potosi)

Antonio, a former miner and current mine guide.

The caves are narrow, dark and choked with soot.

Men scramble though tunnels barely tall enough to crouch in, pushing carts and hauling sacks of stone. Helmet beams cut through the blackness; thin streams of torchlight, bouncing off glittering mineral stains on the rock walls.

Ahead of me in the tunnel, my guide--a former miner named Antonio--scurries along, squatting. It’s a struggle to keep pace with him, my hardhat scraping against the stone ceiling.

We’re following rails; a path intended for mine cars. Every now and then, Antonio barks a warning to step aside. There are plenty of cars trundling along the rails, each one carrying a tonne of ore. They thunder past, with enough force to crush a person under-wheel.

This is a working mine, after all.

***

The Mines of Potosi.

The Spanish called it: “Cerro Rico.”

It means: “Rich Hill.”

Once, the streets of Potosi were plated with silver. Cerro Rico is a mountain that overlooks the city, and in the 16th century, its silver deposits made Potosi the richest spot in South America: as close to a real El Dorado as anyone ever found (albiet in silver instead of gold). 

That silver also cost millions of lives, of course.

The Spanish were ruthless in their desire to exploit Cerro Rico, working countless Quechua labourers to death. And when that supply of workers proved insufficient for the task, they began importing a steady stream of slaves from Africa. Conditions were awful; African slaves forced to work in the Casa de la Moneda (the National Mint, located in Potosi) were referred to as "Acémilas Humanas"--"Human Mules."

These monstrous conditions earned Cerro Rico another nickname: “The Mountain That Eats Men.”

It still does, to this day

***

The city of Potosi, and Cerro Rico overlooking it.

Today, the mines are run by Bolivian Mining Cooperatives--workers unions which allegedly offer the miners some measure of solidarity and legal protection, and which permit tourists entry to the mine for a small fee.

(A fee which my guide insisted goes toward helping the miners' feeble healthcare coverage).

But the conditions faced by miners are still absolutely brutal. The men have safety equipment insofar as they have helmets, and the mines are filled with rickety wooden ladders and precarious ledges. Getting into the mines means descending down through warrens of rock that could all too easily cave-in.

Occasionally, there will be a low, escalating rumble, like thunder through the caves. It's the sound of blasting dynamite, somewhere in the tunnels.

"At first we were afraid of one blast a day," a miner commented to me, in jocular Spanish. "Now we are used to hearing them every fifty minutes."

***

Miners eating coca leaves in Cerro Rico

Having been mined for the last 500-odd years, Cerro Rico is so riddled with tunnels that its very structure is in question. The mountain is puckered with sinkholes, and geologists have warned that parts of the peak are at risk of collapse. In 2011, a 339 square metre crater opened in the mountain's summit, and attempts to shore up Cerro Rico with cement and metal bracing have been of debatable efficacy at best.

But there's no doubt that the mining will carry on. The mines employ an estimated 15,000 men (and boys; some miners start as young as 6), and they are at the heart of Potosi's attempts to build itself a viable tourist industry.

"My family moved away from Potosi," Antonio said to me, explaining that his father was a miner, "to Argentina... because all there is here is mine, mine, mine."

***

A young miner.

On the way out of the mine,  I passed a young man with a handsome face and clever eyes, wearing a hardhat.

I wondered at his future. Antonio--short, hunched and possessing a resolutely dirty sense of humour--is one of the lucky ones. He taught himself enough English to escape working as a miner, and become a tour guide instead.

Few others are as fortunate. Miners have a typical life expectancy of around 40; the soot that fills the mines does serious harm to the lungs. Visitors have to wear breathing masks (scraps of cloth), and the miners themselves chew coca leaves while they work, because eating on the job would risk ingesting extra muck. 

Inside the mine tunnels, there are numerous shrines to a El Tio; a devil-like deity, with red skin and pointy horns, to whom the miners offer booze and coca leaves. They hope that a little supernatural pact might help keep them safe. It's a deal that (in the classic style of devils) El Tio rarely keeps.

Cerro Rico once made Potosi rich, on the backs of choking men. Nowadays, Potosi is a poor city in the poorest country of South America. There's little silver left, and the great peak slumps.

But men work all the same, and the Mountain eats them up.

EXTRA BITS:

>Whether Potosi's Mining Cooperatives truly help the workers, or simply exploit them, is a matter of debate. Similarly, the ethics of mine tourism is an open question. Certainly there are some tour operators that pay the miners much less than others. 

If you are considering a mine tour, try to find an operator that is run by miners, as they are most likely to pay other miners fairly. It's also typical practice to bring the miners gifts of drink or coca leaves. 

>Venturing into the mines is probably inadvisable if you're prone to claustrophobia or afraid of the dark. They are a fascinating and somewhat horrifying experience, and I was certainly very glad to escape into the daylight.

How To Catch A Train In Bolivia

A Bolivian "train" in its entirety. 

A guide to catching a train from the city of Sucre, Bolivia to the city of Potosi, Bolivia.

Step one: Upon exiting your hotel, convince your taxi driver that the train station exists. For some reason, bus and taxi drivers in Sucre are likely to insist that the train station is closed, temporarily out of service, or was never in fact built in the first place. If possibly, bring a map with the station's location labelled on it, to point at insistently. 

Step two: Understand that Bolivian "trains" are small,  cramped, and move at a speed only slightly faster than a brisk jog. The train to Potosi takes seven plus hours--a public bus will cover the same distance in two or three.

So why take the train?  In my case, because Bolivia's tumultuous political scene has led to road closures across the country, shutting down bus routes.  The train may be slow,  but at least it runs on time.

Step three: That's a lie, in fact--the train does not run on time, but rather on Bolivian time, which is an altogether more relaxed concept. So don't worry if you have to spend ages queuing at the ticket office at Sucre station (which you will); you'll still have plenty of time to spare before departure.

Step four: Bring a book and/or particularly challenging crossword puzzle for the journey. Be aware that the train will lurch to a stop at random intervals to let passengers on, off, or go to the bathroom.

If you're feeling adventurous, risk leaving the train to pee. It probably won't go on without you.

Step five: Forget to read your book, because the view is quite spectacular (click below to enlarge).

Step six: Congratulations, you have arrived at your destination! And thanks to the awesome power of the locomotive, it has taken you only two or three times as long as riding a bus.

EXTRA BITS:

> The name of the working train station from Sucre is "El Tejar," which cab drivers seem more likely to recognise than simply asking for the train station.  

> When using Bolivian trains (and indeed busses) be aware that you need a luggage ticket to stow your bag. This comes with your regular ticket: give it to the train porter, and he will happily sling your bag onto the top of the train with great force. 

> It's a good idea to bring snacks for the train. This is, in fact, sound general life advice.

 

 

Women in the White City (The Beehive, Sucre)

Once upon a time (four years ago, to be exact), a quartet of young women sat down in a coffee shop to discuss gender politics in Bolivia. 

One of them was named Susana Valda (Susi for short), and today she is the manager of The Beehive--a combined hostel and community centre located in Sucre, Bolivia’s quiet capital.

The Beehive is the fruit of that conversation four years ago. Started by the quartet of women, it uses money made by the hostel side of its business to fund projects supporting women across Sucre.

I sat down with Susi on a crushed leather sofa in the hostel's dinky reception area, to ask about The Beehive's history. ‘We never thought it would come true,’ she told me, of the dream to build the hostel.

It's a dream that wouldn't have existed at all if it hadn't been for one tourist, trying to learn Spanish.

***

Bolivian women getting married in traditional dress.

The Beehive was the brainchild of Amanda Pojanamat, a traveller from California. The daughter of Thai parents, Amanda came to Bolivia to learn Spanish--and while there, she was moved to do something to improve conditions for Bolivian women.

Susi was a teacher at the time, at Amanda’s Spanish school. Together with two friends, they hatched The Beehive Project. Starting a philanthropic project in Bolivia is no mean feat--the country isn't exactly set up to encourage third sector activity.

‘The government has no money,’ Susi told me, brushing back dark hair with a rueful smile.  ‘And if they have, they are using it for other things.’

Susi comes across as a quietly stylish woman, with a thoughtful demeanour but a ready smile. Sitting on a sofa in beige boots and a sleek bomber jacket, she looked a world away from the ladies in flannel caps and bowler hats selling potatoes in Bolivia's bustling markets.

'Women here need to work, be in the house, cook, clean, look after the kids, be a nurse...' Susi said, with a sigh. Women in Bolivia face serious hardships; the country has a disproportionately high illiteracy rate among women, and more than half of reported assaults come under the heading of domestic violence. The 2009 election saw an increase in female representation in Bolivian Parliament--but even so, Bolivian women only occupy 28% of Parliamentary positions. 

Women selling potatoes in a Bolivian marketplace.

‘Our first idea was a Foundation,’ Susi explained, of the Beehive initiative, ‘but the question was how we would get money, so we decided to start the hostel instead.’ 

Securing a hostel building wasn’t easy. The Beehive is currently based in an old colonial house, with white walls and a sunny courtyard (Sucre, otherwise known as the White City, is positively bursting with white walls and sunny courtyards).  The hostel originally started out on another property, but when their contract ran out, Susi and co. were forced to move

They spent the next twenty-four months refitting their current building to make it livable, putting in everything from new flooring to electric sockets.

It’s work that’s still going on. ‘Two years,’ Susi said wryly, ‘and we’re still fixing things.’

Still, The Beehive is one of Sucre’s top-rated hostels on Hostelworld.com, and the place is home to a constantly refreshing roster of quirky, friendly travellers. It isn’t unusual for backpackers to stay at the Beehive for days or even weeks longer than planned, volunteering to help the Beehive and its project out.

They could always use the extra hands.

***

Sucre's classic colonial architecture. 

‘It’s crazy hard,’ Suzi said, of The Beehive’s work.

The Beehive strives to support Bolivian women in two ways. Firstly it works together with other organisations in Sucre to provide support, legal aid and advice to local women, especially those trying to run their own businesses in the city market.

Secondly, in collaboration with a charity called Foundation Dos Mases, The Beehive runs a language school for Sucre's children. This is to help open the children’s minds to different cultures, and fight Bolivia’s toxic Machismo environment--winning hearts from an early age.

‘It’s not about being feminist,’ Susi said, when I asked her if that was how she saw The Beehive’s mission. ‘It’s about women having their own rights in jobs, in family, in society... human rights, to be able to say what you think. Sometimes women can’t do that.’

‘I feel it is getting better,’ Susi added, about the status of women in Bolivia. ‘But as a little, little thing.’

Women protesting on the street, during an anti-government march through Sucre.

‘I was very surprised when the kids ask for more lessons every day,’ Susi added, remembering her own time in school--being forced to learn English, and hating it. But The Beehive’s English lessons have proven a hit. Additionally, The Beehive also provides cheap Spanish lessons to passing backpackers, to help bring Bolivians and foreigners closer together. 

I asked Susi about the future of The Beehive, and she sounded optimistic. ‘I’d like to see what else we can do,’ she said. ‘Maybe a foundation, or a centre in another place.’ Susi is the last of the four founding members still working at The Beehive, but her co-founder Amanda will be returning to Bolivia in a year, with plans to expand The Beehive's efforts to include improving the standard of healthcare in Sucre.

A woman in traditional Bolivian Cholita garb.

Expanding will be serious a challenge for The Beehive, which has to scrap for all the funds it can get--but with support from travellers and locals alike, it's one that Susi thinks they can meet.

‘All my life I was working in an office,’ she told me wryly, gesturing at The Beehive’s small lobby, and the prim colonial courtyard outside. ‘I never thought I’d be working in a building like this.’

It started as four women in a coffee shop.

It’s amazing how far one conversation can go. 

EXTRA BITS

> You can find out more about The Beehive and its mission here.

> Relaxed, walkably small and positively European in its architecture, Sucre is a definite contrast to the Gothic nightmare of La Paz. It's a great place to spend a few nights winding down.

>That said, Bolivia is still Bolivia, so Sucre is currently in the grip of anti-government protests; firecrackers sound off in the streets, as protesters wave placards at the local police and demand lower taxes.  When I got here, there was a small but colourful  street-fiesta going on; the dancers segued into protesters without pause.

Bolivians just like their streets lively, I guess.

Over the Rainbow (Mountain)

Rainbow Mountain

While I was in Cusco, I trekked up the famous Rainbow Mountain--a multicoloured peak in Peru that stands at 5000 exhausting metres.

You can read all about it at my guest post over at The Planet D!

Above: Alpacas trek across Rainbow Mountain. Click to expand.

Bas-Lag Sprawl (La Paz)

Cables snake across the city.

They cling to each other, slender black serpents binding buildings and nesting atop lampposts. They dangle over churches wrapped in gothic grandeur, over teaming markets, over streets closed off by police blockades. Pigeons perch upon the power lines (as well as on the city’s countless stone statues); sky rats everywhere, mingling with the snakes.

In the markets, women dressed in bowler hats and puffy skirts hunch as they pull their wares from stall to stall; heavy baskets of potatoes, nuts, and sundry goods. Other women sit comfortably amid piles of vegetables and meats--meats of every kind, from heart to liver to splayed lung, as many fresh as putrid. Men in puffy jackets and fedoras flit between them, either gathering goods or hurrying from work to home and back again. Everything in this city moves.

At the centre of the chaos lies the national seat of government, the Palacio Quemado... The Burnt Palace. Named for the fact it was burnt down by citizens, during one of Bolivia’s many violent revolutions.

Traffic chokes every road and street and alley, and at night, a few buildings manage neon lights. The city is set in a deep mountain bowl, endless sprawls of houses crawling up the rock. It’s watched over by the great snow-capped peak of Illimani--allegedly the city’s guardian, standing impassive as the sprawl is choked by pollution, revolution, and petty crime.

High above most of the city sits El Alto--The High Place, linked to the streets below by a creaking red cable car. It’s a neighbourhood full of half-finished buildings and broken streets, where witches huddle around tin huts, reading palms and burning incense. Down on the streets, more commercial witches tarry with the masses in the famous Witches Market, dazzling tourists with herbs and animal embryos that they use for potions.

Everywhere, the city seethes through day and night. It smells of soot and dust and food left out too long. In the mornings, the mountain weather freezes; in the afternoons, it bakes. 

Welcome to La Paz, built up in the mountains.

It could put a fantasy to shame.

Lake Titicaca (Puno vs. Copacabana)

The Floating Islands of Lake Titicaca, and a traditional reed boat.

Puno is a bit of a dump.

Perched on the sparkling blue shores of Lake Titicaca (a name people have sadly grown tired of giggling at), it’s a slump of ugly buildings wrapped around ugly streets, all pavement and decaying "Hotel" signs.

At the centre of Puno is a small main plaza with a medium sized cathedral. This plaza is connected to a public park with another cathedral (this one painted yellow) via a vaguely boulevard-ish street full of shops selling alpaca clothes and boat trips to tourists.

At the bottom of the city, there is a bus station and a port. The bus station brings travellers to Puno. The port sends them to Lake Titicaca. In the meantime, they can soak up the sketchy atmosphere that permeates the streets.

The lake is very pretty, though. You have to give it that.

 

Puno

***

Peru owns 60% of Lake Titicaca. The other 40% belongs to Bolivia. 

From the Peruvian side, tours abound to the famous Floating Islands, inhabited by the Uros people. These are tiny settlements built on yellow totora reeds, drifting in the middle of the lake. It's a lifestyle that was adopted by the Uros hundreds of years ago; they fled to Lake Titicaca to escape the expanding Inca Empire.

Living adrift.

The islands are miraculous feeds of construction--reed platforms with soil bases, anchored in the river by wooden pikes--but these days they entertain a different kind of invasion. Tourists frequent certain of the islands, bringing cameras and often tour guides.  There’s something unnerving about the way a guided visit to the isles begins with the inhabitants being prompted (somewhat awkwardly) to explain their culture, and quickly transitions into various attempts to sell the tourists trinkets.

Interestingly, the Uros people have adopted solar panels, bringing them electricity. 

Meanwhile, on the Bolivian side of the river, the gorgeous Isla De Sol lies waiting, a three hour boat trip from the city. There, you can spend a day hiking across the island, soaking up the stark beauty of its yellow sands and matchstick trees. The island is divided into three local communities, but there's plenty of stunning, empty space in between to walk across.

While Peruvian tours offer the chance to spend a night with a local family on one of Lake Titicaca’s islands, staying a night on the Isla De Sol is more of a do-it-yourself affair; there are plenty of hostels waiting, if you want them. 

That’s Bolivia versus Peru for you. One of them has frills; one of them, less so.

The Isla Del Sol

 

***

Copacabana should, by all rights, be a bit of a dump. 

It’s a small beach sprawl full of unfinished buildings and nigh-deserted streets. In the main marketplace, there are stalls where women sell huge bags of nuts, and men sell raw meat. It’s Bolivia, away from the comforting tourist infrastructure of Peru, and into a country that feels instantly stranger and wilder.

Copacabana

 

And yet, Copacabana feels like a relaxing place to hang out. There’s a laid-back atmosphere radiating outward from the beach, where visitors indulge in activities ranging from speed-boat rides to water-zorbing. A viewpoint at the top of the city (complete with religious shrine) affords a fantastic view of the harbour, and it’s a scenic walk up stone steps to reach it.

As overused as the word “Bohemian” (currently the go-to-phrase for describing Tom Baker’s 70s wardrobe), it feels like a good fit for Cobacopana. By rights, it should be a much less agreeable place to spend the day than the comparatively richer and more built-up Puno.

But that isn’t the case at all.

Somehow, it appears, being over the border has done it good.

The Bolivian side of things.

EXTRA BITS:

>Lake Titicaca is positively freezing at nights right now. In fact, when I was in Cusco, I saw a Peruvian news program reporting (with alarmingly dramatic background music) that the Puno region has been so cold, baby Alpacas are dying.

>While they do feel a bit like a human zoo at times, boat trips from Puno are nevertheless very pleasant--in particular a visit to the tranquil island of Tequili, which feels far less touristy than the Floating Islands.

>At the viewpoint at the top of Copacabana, there is a religious shrine, full of candles lit by locals. There’s also a stall from which you can purchase little model houses. 

On the way back down the steps, men with bowls of incense offer to take the little model houses, and bless them in smelly smoke. It’s a ceremony, to bring fortune to one’s home and family.

Bolivia is going to be an interesting country, I think. 

 

 

School's Out

Amauta Spanish School in Cusco

I could have learned more Spanish.

I've been at the Amauta Spanish School in Cusco for the last three weeks, mingling with students, scribbling in a notebook, and generally fumbling around with a language I can now mas o menos hold a broken conversation in.

I could have stayed longer, quite happily (in fact, I stayed a week longer than originally planned).

Whenever I'm at an academic institution, I'm invariably disappointed that it isn't a Hogwarts-esque castle full of precocious brats and enchanting teachers. Amauta certainly isn't Hogwarts--it's a squat little building tucked away in a sidestreet, filled with dorms and classrooms. But it has a charming faculty that could be straight out of any novel.

There's a perennially stylish lady named Dessy who teaches in an array of colourful hats; a curiously evasive outdoorsman who leads field-trips and bears a startling resemblance to Nick Offerman; and of course Rudolfo, a sprightly white-haired man of small stature who all the students agree is the kindliest person in the universe.

During my time at Amauta, I made friends with fellow students from across the world--normal practice was for us to study in the week, and use the weekends for expeditions to the surrounding countryside.  I spent a couple of weeks staying with a loving host family located in Cusco's Wanchaq area--a household headed by a basketball-loving lawyer named Maria, who became my Peruvian Mum.

And I danced, of course.

It's been a long time since I was in a school. I forgot how nice they could be (High Schools exempted). A good school is basically a cult of people sharing a conspiracy to learn.

I was glad to put my travelling hat down for a while, and pick a few phrases up.

But there's a lake with a funny name to see, though I've heard it's rather chilly. Apparently Lake Titicaca is so cold right now, even the alpacas are uncomfortable...

A mí me gusta Amauta.

Nos vamos. 

EXTRA BITS:

>In practice, putting down my travelling hat just meant passing it around all the other students to try on. I'm surprised I got it back...

That Machu Picchu Post (History and Names)

In Quechua, the word Pachakutiq means "He who overturns space and time." The word "Yupanki" means "with honour." 

It's from these words that the Inca ruler Pachacuti Inca Yupanqui derived his name. The man under whom the small Kingdom of Cusco transformed into the mighty Inca Empire, Pachacuti was also known as "The Earth Shaker." According to legend, during a battle with the Chanka (bloodthirsty enemies of the Inca) Pachacuti fought so well that the very stones rose up to fight at his side.

Words are powerful things. They can make a man mighty, or a place magical.

It's thought that Machu Picchu, the most famous Inca icon in the world, was built for Pachacuti. We're not entirely sure why, but popular hypotheses have it as either a personal estate for Pachacuti, or as a religious training ground for members of the Inca ruling class. 

Machu Picchu was constructed around 1450, when the Inca Empire was at its height. Just one hundred years later, the citadel was abandoned, probably due to smallpox. The Conquistadors never found the Machu Picchu; it sat silently amid the clouds while the Inca Empire below was mapped and slaughtered. 

For a long time, the city was lost in mist, left to ghosts and the growing jungle.

***

I went to Machu Picchu with two friends. We took the easy way.

Well, easy is a relative. The easiest way to Machu Picchu is the train. Tourists can take the train from either Poroy station near Cusco, or from the town of Ollantaytambo in the Sacred Valley. But at around $130, a train trip is pricey, and you don't get to do much walking on the way.

There's also trekking of course, but the famous Inca Trail books up months in advance. Other treks are available in Cusco, though prices vary from operator to operator--if you have this in mind, be sure to ask around. You'll need 3-5 days. Walking the whole way takes a while.

We chose the middle option: hiking alongside the train tracks from Hydroelectica, a small settlement ten kilometres from Machu Picchu. This option means taking a bus from Cusco to Hydroelectrica, then following train tracks through the jungle until you hit Aguas Calientes, a tourist town built at the base of the mountain leading to Machu Picchu.

After a pricey night in Aguas Calientes, it's an early morning stagger up to Machu Picchu. There are 1500 unforgivingly steep stone steps to beat before reaching the top. The stairway opens to tourists at 5am, but it's best to be there an hour earlier. A lot of people make this climb, and you don't want to be at the back of the queue. 

The clamber upward is a determined scramble of panting travellers with flashlights and headlamps, trying not to trip in the dark. 

The sun comes up as you climb. 

At the top, Machu Picchu is a populated by tour groups and flag-waving guides. The view is magical; clouds slink across vast mountaintops, while sparrows flit between the stone walls of the dead city. You're not allowed to take food in, or anything out.

In recent years, Machu Picchu has been seriously eroded by tourists stealing stones away as souvenirs.  Keeping the site accessible but authentic has been a longstanding issue for the Peruvian government.   In the 1980s, a large rock was removed from the citadel's main plaza to allow helicopter landings; in the 1990s, helicopter landings were banned for fear of causing damage. 

Meanwhile, UNESCO has been criticised for allowing tourists to access the location at all. There are serious risks of landslides and hiking accidents, as well as damaging all that history. 

Hiram Bingham III, discoverer of Machu Picchu, and the original ruins prior to modern reconstruction work in 1912.

***

Machu Picchu isn't really what it was called.

In 1911, American explorer Hiram Bingham III went in search of Vilcabamba, the last Inca city to fall to the Spanish. While in Hiram was travelling Urubamba Valley, a local farmer pointed him to a set of mysterious ruins on a mountaintop. The farmer called the mountain "Machu Picchu," meaning "Old Peak." 

Hiram brought Machu Picchu worldwide attention (though some evidence indicates the city may have been found and pillaged by a German named Augusto Berns about 44 years earlier). Since then, it's been Peru's most famous landmark, and a must-see hub for travellers visiting the country.

In 2012, Spanish historian Mari Rubio claimed to have discovered the real name of the ancient Inca citadel--"Patallaqta," meaning "Step City," in Quechua.  Many of Machu Picchu's tour guides nevertheless still claim that the true name of the city remains unknown, shrouded in mystery. 

In truth, it doesn't make much difference. Its the words that people know which stick.

The mountain city of the Incas was called something else, but it was swallowed up by mist and time and jungle. 

Nowadays, Machu Picchu is the name on all the maps.

It's the place that people come to visit.

Including me.

Including me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

. 
" 

We Can Dance If We Want To (Who left the EU Behind?)

Cusco has a party.

 

Where were you when the Big News hit?

When the results of Britain's EU Referendum came trickling in, I was dressed in a bright red poncho with a frilly hat, getting ready to flounce my way through the streets of Cusco.

Everyone knew the referendum was going to be a near thing; polls had made it clear that Britain was closely divided between those who wanted to stay part of the European community, and those who wanted out. But it was still a shock to see Leave votes surge ahead as the first constituencies were called.

I wasn't dressed up alone. I was with a group of students, a rag-tag assembly of fellow tourists studying at the Amauta Spanish school in Cusco. For reasons that escape me, we had volunteered to take part in a night-time parade through the streets of Cusco, as part of a larger city-wide celebration. It meant funny hats, bright ponchos, and performing a traditional Peruvian dance in the crowded town square.

The parade was huge: we were the 147th group due to perform. While we waited nervously for our turn to shine, the Europeans in my group crowded around a smartphone with a dying battery, and boggled at the latest updates from the UK vote.

***

The Inti Raymi reenactment.

***

Once upon a time, Inti Raymi was the old Inca Festival of the Sun: a colourful ceremony held on the Winter Solstice to persuade the sun to keep on shining. This persuasion came via enthusiastic singing, dancing, and the bloody sacrifice of an unfortunate llama.

The festival was banned by the Spanish in 1535, but historical reconstructions began taking place in Cusco in the 1940s. These days, the llamas get off easy. A few get paraded back and forth during the festival, but they don’t get anything cut out.

Instead, the whole of Cusco erupts into a solid week of parades to mark the holiday. Dancing children cartwheel through the streets, fireworks light the sky, and on June 24th, a theatrical reenactment of the Inti Raymi ritual takes place at the Saksaywaman Inca ruins, two kilometres from the centre of Cusco. 

It makes perfect sense that the Spanish banned the original Inti Raymi festival, when you think about it. They were a Colonial power, and it was something colourful, strange and different.

Of course it had to go.

***

I honestly have no idea what that last float is. Parades breed strange terrors.

***

The most distressing thing about the EU vote (aside from the massive economic uncertainty it has caused) is that the debate took what should have been a fairly dull discussion about economics, and repeatedly framed it as one set of people versus another.

Brits overwhelmed by refugees. Brits endangered by immigrants. Brits against that lot in Brussels (who aren't influenced by the British government at all). So much rhetoric positioned the referendum as the story of a plucky island full of one people, and the worrying Others all around them.

It's a line of thought that leads to nasty places--and thinking of the world in terms of Us and Them is a little old fashioned, too. Once upon a time, that kind of reasoning would have given one empire licence to repress another, like the Spanish and the Incas. 

But in an age where a British vote can cause markets across the globe to splutter and crash, a philosophy that makes strict divisions isn't really fit for purpose.

It just doesn't fit the world we live in anymore.

***

A group of tourists who wish they could dance. Photos via the Amauta Spanish School.

***

In the main square of Cusco, a bunch of foreigners danced.

We did so very badly, truth be told. With only a couple of hours practice under our tasselled belts, our choreography definitely needed work. I certainly don't think I won any awards; I spent most of the night prancing up and down in desperate search of rhythm, flapping and squawking.

Why flapping and squawking? Because my group was performing a traditional dance which represented the mating of birds. The girls sashayed and skipped and shook their village-maid dresses. The boys flapped billowy white sleeves, and cawed at the sky.

The air was filled with drums and flutes. People clapped for us, as we lolloped past. The night smelled heavily of sizzling street meat, and overused public toilets.

The audience smiled, and chuckled, and encouraged us along.

Half a planet away, my home country decided it ought to see the world as Us and Them.

But on the streets of Cusco, a bunch of tourists looked like fools in a parade, while the locals cheered and clapped.

And we laughed together, late into the night.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Riding Batman (How to catch a bus in Peru)

A guide to catching a bus in the city of Cusco, Peru.

STEP 1: Admire the names on Peruvian buses. While buses elsewhere make do with pedestrian names like "Number 33," buses in Cusco proudly wear exciting monikors like “Zorro,” “El Dorado,” and, best of all, “Batman,” complete with Bat Symbol. 

If you are very lucky, you may get to ride Batman.

STEP 2: When the bus stops, a conductor will hop off and begin herding people aboard. The conductor will not have any kind of uniform, but you’ll be able to recognise them by their jangling money-belt and harried expression. Approach this conductor and say the name of your stop. If they recognise the name, they'll usher you aboard the bus.

If they don’t, wait for the next bus and repeat.

(Beware: buses have the names of some of their stops on the side, but not all of them.)

Nanananananana...

Nanananananana...

STEP 3: You are now crammed onto a tiny mini-bus with several dozen Peruvian citizens, all jockeying for space and trying to make sure their pockets aren’t picked. The conductor will be standing near the doors of the bus, shouting out the names of stops as they approach. You may not be able to hear the names of the stops over the sounds of other people chatting.

Don't panic. You may miss your stop, but there's nothing you can do about this, so there’s no point worrying.

STEP 4: If you hear the conductor shout the name of your stop, force your way through the crowd by liberally shouting “Permisso,” and “Perdón,” and possibly waving your arms for the conductor’s attention.

A bus trip should cost 0.70 Soles before 10pm, and 1 Sol after. As you exit the bus, press some money into the conductor’s hands, and be sure to wait for your change.

STEP 5: Congratulations, you have now ridden the bus!

Examine your surroundings, as it is possible the bus has deposited you in the wrong place. Occasionally and somewhat inexplicably, you may be let off a stop early or late. If so, don’t worry, as another bus will probably be along shortly. 

EXTRA TIPS: 

> If you are lucky enough to get on a Peruvian bus with empty seats, a word of caution. Most buses have three red seats toward the front; these seats are reserved for the elderly, infirm, women and children. If you are not one of these, do not sit there, as you are liable to get sorts of nasty looks.

> In fact, Peruvian citizens are generally impeccable when it comes to giving up their seats for the infirm or elderly. It helps to blend in if you follow suit. 

> The buses in Cusco really are an excellent way to get around, once you get the hang of them. They cost much less than a cab (which charge about 5 Soles for a trip from Plaza de Armas to Santa Ursula, after haggling). 

 

Everyone Wears Alpaca (Cusco)

Alpaca Ladies.

If the tourists in Cusco were wearing anymore alpaca, they would be clomping around on all fours, chewing on grass. 

Cusco was once the Inca capital of Peru, until the Spanish arrived and replaced most of it with churches (a familiar tale throughout South America). It's now the country's most popular tourist destination, a baroque hive of travel agents offering treks to nearby famous landmarks like Manchu Pichu and Rainbow Mountain.

Every third shop in Cusco sells supposedly pure alpaca clothing--slippers, socks, scarves, ponchos and fleeces, available in dizzying a variety of shapes and sizes. In practice, most of what's on sale is at least partially synthetic, and nothing marks you out as a tourist more than wearing a giant alpaca fleece, decorated with little alpaca patterns. But it's still impossible to leave the city without buying at least something with an alpaca label on it. Buying alpaca is what you do in Cusco, if you're visiting.

You can even meet some in person. A quick walk around the city will reveal plenty of the animals, working the curb. 

***

Cusco. 

The most common touts in Cusco are the Alpaca Ladies.

These are women colourfully dressed in traditional Quechuan garb, who rove Cusco's cobbled streets dragging alpacas (and occasionally small llamas) behind them on leashes. The beasts tolerate this with resolutely wry expressions, as if they are quietly in on some top-secret joke--even as they're hauled before tourist groups to serve as portable photo opportunities. 

'You pay what you like,' these Ladies will say, offering travellers the chance to have their picture taken with the animals. This is usually quickly followed by: 'American dollars okay.' 

Sometimes, the Alpaca Ladies will carry  baby alpacas in their arms (ridiculous creatures which resemble cuddly toys). They'll press these babes onto tourists to hug and hold. If the amount of cash the tourists offer in return is not considered sufficient, the women become insistent on receiving more--if given less than 10 or 20 Soles ($3-$6), they are likely to beg plaintively, or else become aggressively demanding. 

It's how they earn their living, after all.

***

Alpacas, souviners and shopping.

***

Travelling South America without knowing a word of Spanish is a recipe for comic misunderstanding, so I've stopped in Cusco for a couple of weeks to attend a local language school. Called 'Amauta,' the school is located just beside Plaza de Armas, the city's historic centre. Most of its students are either backpackers hoping to brush up on their holas, or young professionals who think Spanish might be useful in their careers. And naturally, most of them have added at least one alpaca garment to their wardrobe.  

One morning, on the way to classes, a fellow student told me a worrying story about the Alpaca Ladies. Apparently, many of these women snatch baby alpacas from their mothers at a young age (much to mother and baby's distress), and keep them in poor conditions, without proper nourishment. It's enough of an issue that some Cusco citizens have begun advocating for the Ladies to be banned. 

In a bustling tourist destination it's hardly surprising that some touts would mistreat their charges, but it feels especially unfortunate in Cusco. After all, this is a city that generates a huge amount of money from silly camelids with flippant expressions. Everywhere you look, tourists are dropping serious Soles in shops to take a little alpaca fur home to snuggle with. 

Getting up close with alpacas is what you do in Cusco.

But it may be a good idea to think twice, before you have your picture taken with one.

EXTRA BITS:

> Cusco has another notable street animal: the dogs. Ownerless mutts patrol the city in packs, wagging their tales and scavenging in garbage, weaving through traffic like fish in water. These dogs seem relatively docile in their attitude, but it's still a bad idea to pet them.

> Peru passed a major law banning animal abuse in 2015, though curiously, this law deems cockfights and bullfights permissible as they are considered part of Peruvian culture. 

> I brought alpaca socks and gloves, in case you were wondering.

> You can also eat alpaca in Cusco. It's delicious. It also fills one with guilt, like eating a Dr. Suess character. 

 

 

 

A Yellow Kind of City (Landing in Peru)

The city of Lima owes its name to a mispronounciaton.

The river that runs through the city was once called the Limaq by the native people, after a famous Oracle (Limaq means 'talker' in Quechuan). But when the Spanish arrived to build a city in 1535, they mispronounced the name as 'Lima,' and that name has stayed since. 

Colonial powers rarely felt under obligation to get the phonetics right.

***

Lima's famous yellow arches. Not golden. That logo belongs to McDonald's.

Lima's Jorge Chávez International Airport is a small airport, located a twenty minute drive from Miaflores--the gentrified area of the city that most guidebooks prod tourists toward. 

Exiting this airport at 01.40 in the morning, I was immediately accosted by a huddle of touts trying to force me into their dodgy-looking taxis, bringing to mind horror stories of unsuspecting tourists being robbed in Lima's unmarked cabs. The chaos of the touts was oddly comforting after the brusque roboticism of America's TSA. It felt a lot more human, by comparison.

I didn't take an unmarked cab. My hostel in Miaflores sent a taxi out to me, for only 60 sols (about $20.) It seemed like the safer option. 

I  didn't say I minded the guidebook's prodding, after all.

***

In Lima's famous Kennedy Park, stray cats congregate from across the city, to be fed by locals. At night, there's sometimes dancing amid the cats. 

***

Lima is the capital of the Peru; its largest city, perched on the coast. It's the second largest city in the Americas, and a draw for visitors and migrants from across the continent. So much so, in fact, that the city is bordered by shanty settlements called Pueblos Jóvenes, scrappy hospots of crime and poverty seething in semi-legitimacy on the city's edges.

Unfortunately for its non-shanty architecture, Lima is located in an area known as the Ring of Fire--a part of the Pacific Rim prone to intense earthquakes. Over the years, great chunks of the city have needed to be repaired and rebuilt, usually to the latest architectural fashions. This has left the city a bit of a jumble when it comes to building styles, with its most distinctive features being the bright yellow blocks with bright yellow arches that stand out amid small flower gardens in the centre of town.

It may be karma. When the Spanish came to Lima, they decided to build a cathedral right on top of the existing Inca temple, destroying it in the process. Since the, thanks to Lima's position on the Ring, the grand Cathedral of Lima has needed to be rebuilt eight times.

Perhaps somewhere there's an angry Inca god, who's trying to get a point across.

***

Across the bridge to downtown Lima

 

'People from Miaflores say not to go down town,' The tour guide told us, dismissively, 'they say you will get killed, you will get robbed, you will get raped, but no.'

He was a short, lightly lisping man by the name of Arturo, wearing a yellow safety jacket and leading a herd of about two dozen backpackers through Lima's city centre--cameras poised and expressions studiously interested. Our tour group had irritated locals from across the city, clambering on an off public buses on our quest for landmarks to ponder at, and now we were on the edge of Lima's main square, looking across the river to the hustle and bustle of Lima's infamous downtown. 

'The people there are good, hard-working people,' the tour guide said, enthusiastically. A small tank trundled around the tour group, travelling along the bridge to downtown. Apparently this was not an unusual enough event to attract any comment from the tour guide. 'The people there are the real Lima.'

The guide then advised us not to venture downtown without a Peruvian friend or two, as we would likely get our pockets picked.

I wonder about the real Lima. In a city built on a mispronunciation, full of buildings that have been remade so many times, what counts as the real and genuine heart of a place?

The answer is pretty obvious, I guess.

It's whatever the people living there think. Especially the tour guides. 

 

EXTRA BITS:

>Llama Watch: I have seen a Llama, along with some alpacas. They were being held in a cage in Huaca Puccllana--a set of pre-Inca ruins in the heart of Lima, and in interesting place to tour. They didn't look too happy about it, so I've decided that they don't count.

>Also glimpsed in Huaca Puccllana--Peruvian Hairless Dogs, scrappy creatures who are sometimes put in little shirts and jumpers to keep them warm (and possibly chic) in the cold.

>The Inca deity responsible for earthquakes would in fact be a goddess, in case you were wondering--by the name of Pachamama. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Sunshine State of Mind (Florida)

Florida

I lasted about twenty minutes in Miami. 

That isn’t even time to work up a decent CSI pun.

Passing though Florida on the way to Peru, I thought South Beach would be the perfect place to relax for a couple of days in between flights. Instead, I found Miami's seafront strip to be a teeming mess of drunken tourists, lurching in packs between tacky bars, or else leering out from the gated confines of their ugly multi-story hotels.

South Beach is like Ibiza or Magaluf; the kind of place great throngs of tourists come to drink and sun themselves, drowning out much sense of anything else. In this case, things were made worse by the impending Memorial Day celebrations. Streets were cordoned off and public transport was rerouted along strange and winding paths, making navigation a nightmare.

I decided to skip the whole place, and visit Sarasota instead.

***

Siesta Key, Sarasota- one of the world's finest beaches, made of white sugar sand.

Sarasota is located across the state from Miami, on Florida’s opposite coast; a few hours drive from Orlando.  A popular holiday destination for the rich, Sarasota is full of beachfront condos that are only occupied for about half of the year, by tourists coming in from far up north

‘We call them Snowbunnies, because they only come for winter,’ I was told by a local resident named Shannon; a perky, ebullient Sarasota housewife whose family was kind enough to invite me into their home for a couple of days. It was a rare opportunity for someone on my budget to see the area, and Shannon's family--a P.E. teacher husband and a precocious son with a Star Wars obsession--were eager for me to enjoy their state. 

Nearby Orlando is also home to Disney World--a weird selection of themed rides and hotels that looks like it should house an evil cult in a 1960s science fiction movie.

Shannon showed me around Sarasota Country in an enormous black land rover. Car is really the only way to explore the area (and indeed most of Florida); Americans like to spread themselves out over large spaces, and Sarasota is made up of chilled beachfronts linked by teaming highways,  abuzz with giant jeeps and SUVs. The roadsides are liberally sprinkled with fast-food eateries, convenience stores, and billboards advertising some very shifty looking medical practitioners. In the grand spirit of Americana, doctors hawk their services through roadside advertisement. 

When I made a comment on the impressive size of Shannon’s vehicle, she explained that driving big cars had become something of a defence mechanism among locals. Apparently, Florida’s impressive population of senior citizens has a predilection for SUVs, not to mention dodgy driving. ‘If somebody hits you,’ Shannon explained, ‘you don’t want to be driving something smaller.’

*** 

Life's a beach.

‘Florida mountains,’ is a nickname for Florida’s impressive cloud formations; billowy, looming white towers of fluff, apt to turn dark and thundery in a hot heartbeat. Like many local homes, Shannon’s house has storm shutters. This is a state that has been prey to more than its fair share of hurricanes, after all.

In general, Florida’s residents have a curious relationship with the weather. Every house, every shop, every car in the state swears by the need for air conditioning, to fend off Florida’s brutal sunshine. Often, the temperature inside are cool to the point of feeling freezing, while temperatures outside are sweltering hot. This creates a strange situation where people endure the summer haze in sweaters and hoodies, to avoid being caught out by the cold next time they go into an air conditioned space.

It's funny, the lengths people will go to in order to be somewhere warm and beach adjacent, like Miami or Sarasota. Deadly old people, hurricanes, shifting temperatures and of course the numerous alligators; Florida's residents put up with them all year round, for the sake of living bright and near the sand. Visitors flock here in droves for extended periods, courting sunburn, for much the same reason. 

That sounds just like human beings, really.

Pick a sunny spot, and work out the details later.