I awake with a vague remembrance of a dream. The details elude me, but my sense is that it had to do with the purpose of this trip: harmonizing my feminine and masculine nature. Upon reflection most of my adult life has been devoted to mastering masculine skills such as being detailed and results-oriented, assertive and professional. I certainly didn’t start this lifetime that way! Largely unconsciously, however, I created an imbalance between the feminine and masculine qualities of my nature. Even the leukemic condition that developed in my body is an expression of this imbalance and a call to honor and refine feminine qualities such as self-nurturing, becoming more “being” rather than “doing” oriented, creating more give-and-take in relationships, and becoming more inwardly self-referencing and directed in my engagements. Last night’s dream reinforces my need to unite these two aspects — masculine and feminine — to reignite the fire in my belly so I create from the place where both are honored and given voice. I feel energy coursing through me at the very thought — my fingers are pulsating!
It’s 5:30 a.m. as I head to the bathroom to get ready for the day. While waiting to meet Jerry for breakfast at 7, I take the insights from dreamtime to my mesa so these revelations “cook,” allowing me to grow into their deeper meanings. Still time, I read another few chapters of my book.
At the appointed hour, I go and knock on Jerry’s door and soon we are heading down for breakfast. Jerry complains of an altitude headache. Thankfully, I feel great — guess the half container of Pringle potato chips I ate yesterday has helped! Before leaving for Peru I consulted my oncologist on how best to offset the anemia I experience due to the medications I inject — especially at altitudes over 10,000 feet. After consulting with a colleague he recommended the salt and fat in potato chips over prescriptive medications, which tend to act as diuretics at high altitude. Always prepared, I literally dragged dozens of cans of potato chips to Peru in one of my duffle bags. Much to my amusement, the same potato chips are sold in small grocery and tourist shops throughout Cuzco!
Jerry and I are both famished. After ordering matte de coca, we head to the buffet — rolls and croissants, scrambled eggs, small sausages, bacon, cheese, fresh fruit, and freshly squeezed orange and papaya juices fill two tables. I opt for a croissant, eggs, cantaloupe, and a combination of orange and papaya juices to wash down the vitamins and supplements that will also help my body stay oxygenated.
It’s 5:30 a.m. as I head to the bathroom to get ready for the day. While waiting to meet Jerry for breakfast at 7, I take the insights from dreamtime to my mesa so these revelations “cook,” allowing me to grow into their deeper meanings. Still time, I read another few chapters of my book.
At the appointed hour, I go and knock on Jerry’s door and soon we are heading down for breakfast. Jerry complains of an altitude headache. Thankfully, I feel great — guess the half container of Pringle potato chips I ate yesterday has helped! Before leaving for Peru I consulted my oncologist on how best to offset the anemia I experience due to the medications I inject — especially at altitudes over 10,000 feet. After consulting with a colleague he recommended the salt and fat in potato chips over prescriptive medications, which tend to act as diuretics at high altitude. Always prepared, I literally dragged dozens of cans of potato chips to Peru in one of my duffle bags. Much to my amusement, the same potato chips are sold in small grocery and tourist shops throughout Cuzco!
Jerry and I are both famished. After ordering matte de coca, we head to the buffet — rolls and croissants, scrambled eggs, small sausages, bacon, cheese, fresh fruit, and freshly squeezed orange and papaya juices fill two tables. I opt for a croissant, eggs, cantaloupe, and a combination of orange and papaya juices to wash down the vitamins and supplements that will also help my body stay oxygenated.
Breakfast finished, we drop off our room keys at the front desk. On the desk is a bowl of homemade cookies. Trying one, I grab three more — they are addictive. Out on the street the vendors are in full gear. We “No gracias” our way to the Plaza de Armas where a boy selling postcards relentlessly pursues us. |
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Santa Clara Market After a block and a half, Jerry tells him we are heading to the Santa Clara Market, and asks if he can give us directions. With those few simple words, we’ve hired a guide. Rounding the Plaza onto Mantas, our guide, Marta, stops a police officer and gets directions — two blocks, turn left onto Tupacamaru, then cross the Plaza San Francesco to the entrance at Santa Clara. |
As we enter the gates of Santa Clara, Marta warns us to hold tightly onto our fanny packs since pickpockets and thieves are at hand. I take mine off and hold it tightly with both hands. Before us are scores of stalls selling clothes, shoes, blankets, and curios of all kinds. The stalls of durable goods pale by comparison to the rich life within a large, metal open structure that contains mostly the food portion of the market. It’s 8:15 a.m. The noise and smells compete for our attention. The cacophony of activity is orderly in its chaos. Vendors call out to us to buy their produce. I wonder aloud how people choose from whom to buy. There are rows and rows and rows of fruits and vegetables. Shopping is a serious business here, a daily activity. This is clearly not El Rancho Market in the Santa Ynez Valley where I live in California. It is so tempting to try the many varieties of ripe bananas, oranges, apples, and exotic looking fruits I’ve never seen before. For now, I pull out my camera and feast on the Market’s visual richness.
We are the only “gringos” here, and no one seems to mind as I take photographs. Just beyond the fruit vendors are juice bars. Boy, do I miss not having freshly pressed veggie drinks in the morning — my daily elixir. Smells of soup and stews next greet my nostrils. People line up, two and three deep for hearty breakfasts of vegetables and meat. No omelets, sausages and bacon, or croissants served here! Eating is a solitary and very functional experience here at the Market. Conversation and small-talk is nonexistent. Eating is an act of replenishing the fuel needed to go about the work of living.
We are the only “gringos” here, and no one seems to mind as I take photographs. Just beyond the fruit vendors are juice bars. Boy, do I miss not having freshly pressed veggie drinks in the morning — my daily elixir. Smells of soup and stews next greet my nostrils. People line up, two and three deep for hearty breakfasts of vegetables and meat. No omelets, sausages and bacon, or croissants served here! Eating is a solitary and very functional experience here at the Market. Conversation and small-talk is nonexistent. Eating is an act of replenishing the fuel needed to go about the work of living.
Beyond the food stalls we come upon the flower section. The sight of color draws me in — beautiful, perfect, fresh flowers. Some of the varieties are familiar and others not. The smell is intoxicating! How wondrous to see women and men, seemingly of all economic levels, buying these brilliantly colored flowers! At the far end of the flower section are bags of beans and grains — kidney and black-eyed beans, quinoa, amaranth, and many that I do not recognize. We later learn that grains and vegetable crops grow at altitudes below 15,000 feet. The main crops and staples of rural and lower income Peruvians are barley, potatoes, corn, quinoa and amaranth. Working our way through the food stalls, we discover a section devoted to fish and seafood. I hold my breath in anticipation of the smell of decomposing flesh. Instead, I am surprised by the freshness of it all. I ponder how this can be with no visible refrigeration. Again, there are many types of seafood that I’ve never before seen. The meat section is the last. Whole and half sides of animals — cows, pigs, guinea pigs and chickens. Organs, heads and entrails are displayed and available for sale, too. Women and men stand behind the counters wielding knives, saws, and cleaver-like implements. It’s noisier in this area — if that is even possible!
Jerry and I follow Marta back to the durable goods stalls, which are now open and full of activity. He points out many textile dealers that sell ponchos. Women and men standing in, beside or behind their stalls call out to us to buy their goods. Glancing quickly, none have the quality we are after. Because the aisles between rows of stalls are only about three and a half feet wide, I begin to feel claustrophobic.
Above the noise I hear Jerry call out to me. He is about 15-feet and eight people in front of me, and has discovered a stall displaying many beautiful old mantas and mesa-size cloths. The stall-owner, Berta, introduces herself in fairly good English and asks “What is it you might be looking for?” Jerry tells her that we are looking for black alpaca ponchos. Reaching into a five-foot high stack of cloths, Berta pulls out a lovely black alpaca poncho with thin blue stripes at the hem that glow in the sunlight. Jerry immediately claims it, and tries it on. It’s perfect! I ask if she has any others of that quality and she pulls out another that is solid black and made of alpaca and wool. Seeing my look of disappointment, she says the magic words, “Come to my shop — I have many more higher quality cloths and ponchos there.” Berta asks the man in the next stall to watch hers while she leads us to her shop.
Above the noise I hear Jerry call out to me. He is about 15-feet and eight people in front of me, and has discovered a stall displaying many beautiful old mantas and mesa-size cloths. The stall-owner, Berta, introduces herself in fairly good English and asks “What is it you might be looking for?” Jerry tells her that we are looking for black alpaca ponchos. Reaching into a five-foot high stack of cloths, Berta pulls out a lovely black alpaca poncho with thin blue stripes at the hem that glow in the sunlight. Jerry immediately claims it, and tries it on. It’s perfect! I ask if she has any others of that quality and she pulls out another that is solid black and made of alpaca and wool. Seeing my look of disappointment, she says the magic words, “Come to my shop — I have many more higher quality cloths and ponchos there.” Berta asks the man in the next stall to watch hers while she leads us to her shop.
Retracing our steps back towards the Plaza de Armas, just around the corner from our hotel, we enter a doorway that leads to a lovely cobblestone-paved courtyard with fountain. The walls of Berta’s shop are lined with shelving stacked with old, finely woven mantas, ponchos, ceremonial despacho cloths and more. We are in textile heaven! |
Berta shows me several black alpaca ponchos with thin striping on the edges in different colors. I select one that has purple and blue at the hem. The cost is $60 US.
Next, we look through several stacks of cloths woven from the hair of vicuña, which is the national animal of Peru and a relative of the llama. These exquisite pieces of cloth are delicate and durable, woven with the finest strands of this most highly prized animal. Because vicuña produce only about one pound of wool a year, it is very valuable and as a result expensive. Mythologically, these animals were believed to be the reincarnation of a beautiful maiden who received a coat of pure gold after consenting to the advances of an old and ugly ruler. During the time of the Inkas, it was against the law for anyone to kill or wear the fleece of a vicuña, except for royalty. Currently, the Peruvian government sponsors a program that humanely captures, shears alive, returns the animal to the wild, and guarantees that they will not be sheared again for at least two years. However, this program has not stopped the illegal exportation of vicuña wool.
Next, we look through several stacks of cloths woven from the hair of vicuña, which is the national animal of Peru and a relative of the llama. These exquisite pieces of cloth are delicate and durable, woven with the finest strands of this most highly prized animal. Because vicuña produce only about one pound of wool a year, it is very valuable and as a result expensive. Mythologically, these animals were believed to be the reincarnation of a beautiful maiden who received a coat of pure gold after consenting to the advances of an old and ugly ruler. During the time of the Inkas, it was against the law for anyone to kill or wear the fleece of a vicuña, except for royalty. Currently, the Peruvian government sponsors a program that humanely captures, shears alive, returns the animal to the wild, and guarantees that they will not be sheared again for at least two years. However, this program has not stopped the illegal exportation of vicuña wool.
Jerry and I each select two small, exquisitely woven vicuña ceremonial cloths — $20/each. One of the cloths I select has been naturally dyed using cochineal bugs to produce the rich crimson and pink woven pattern that Berta tells us represents flowers. “The meaning of this cloth,” she tells me, “is for the healing of the body.” Perfect. The second cloth, which I select to hold Rick’s mesa stones, she says is “for protection from bad spirits.” Again, perfect. Marta laughs as Berta dresses both Jerry and me up with our ponchos, finely woven cloths that are used as scarves, and beaded Q’ero hats. What fun! |
Totaling up our purchases, Berta tells us that her grandmother is a healer who uses plants — a curandero — and has been one of her own teachers. After we share with her the purpose of our trip to Cuzco, she gives us each a crystal from the region and shows us how to use it to cleanse our energy fields. While cleansing my field, she comments, “It will help you acclimate to Cuzco more quickly and take away anything that stands between you and the reason Ausangate has called you here.” We leave smiling, after many hugs, feeling lighter and happier now that our “poncho mission” has been successfully accomplished!
Rounding the corner, we drop off our purchases at the hotel before heading to lunch. I note, as Jerry and I hike up the three flights of stairs to our rooms, that I am less out of breath. Is it the potato chips, the vitamins and herbal supplements, the matte de coca, the crystal cleansing, or all of it? Jerry suggests that we have lunch at Quinta Eulalia, a restaurant he read about in a guidebook that specializes in local Andean cuisine. While sipping yet another cup of matte de coca, we pour over a map of Cuzco to chart our course to the restaurant.
We head to the Plaza de Armas saying “No gracias” to all we meet. Left on Procuradores, we pass a line of young street vendors. Right on Huayna Pata we climb hundreds of stairs to the narrow “one llama” alleyway known as Ladrillo. Next we turn left at Choquerchaca. Much to our surprise on the right side of the road is our destination: Quinta Eulalia.
Rounding the corner, we drop off our purchases at the hotel before heading to lunch. I note, as Jerry and I hike up the three flights of stairs to our rooms, that I am less out of breath. Is it the potato chips, the vitamins and herbal supplements, the matte de coca, the crystal cleansing, or all of it? Jerry suggests that we have lunch at Quinta Eulalia, a restaurant he read about in a guidebook that specializes in local Andean cuisine. While sipping yet another cup of matte de coca, we pour over a map of Cuzco to chart our course to the restaurant.
We head to the Plaza de Armas saying “No gracias” to all we meet. Left on Procuradores, we pass a line of young street vendors. Right on Huayna Pata we climb hundreds of stairs to the narrow “one llama” alleyway known as Ladrillo. Next we turn left at Choquerchaca. Much to our surprise on the right side of the road is our destination: Quinta Eulalia.
Upon entering the doorway, we are met with stairs that lead to the left and right. I chose the right, both lead to an open courtyard that holds many tables. Another flight of stairs, off to the left leads to a covered dining area. We decide to sit in the courtyard and immediately order matte de coca, which comes with the leaves floating in the cup. Brewed this way, the tea is less bitter. |
A waiter brings us a board that describes the daily specials, in Spanish and Quechua, and helps us translate each of the dishes. Jerry orders fried pork with potatoes, beans and Andean corn. I order chili relenos with meat. My meal looks like it has already been eaten once and regurgitated. Surprisingly, it is very tasty. |
Jerry does not fare as well. The fried pork is overcooked and stringy. We remind ourselves that this is traditional Andean food. Perhaps this is the reason there is no “red” Michelin Guide for Peru, we speculate. During lunch a man and woman entertain us with songs accompanied by guitar and a ten-string instrument that looks like an oddly shaped mandolin. He has a deep, rich voice in contrast to her high, almost shrill one.
After lunch we wander the back streets of Cuzco. Finding ourselves in front of an internet café, we stop to retrieve messages. Jerry receives one from his partner, but there are none for me. I determine to check again later. Next we head back to the Plaza de Armas to buy a Historical Sites ticket and tour La Catedral of Santo Domingo, which was built on the foundation of the Inka palace of Viracocha, who ruled about a century before the Spanish arrived, and named after the creator in the Inka cosmology. |
Designed in the shape of a Latin cross, it took almost 100 years to build this Gothic-renaissance styled church. That is not surprising since most of the stones used to build the Cathedral were transported from the fortress of Sacsayhuaman, which is located on the hillside above Cuzco. I am impressed with how far the interior restoration work has progressed in the four-years since I was last here. The main altar is solid silver. My favorite religious relic is a crucifix of a dark-faced Jesus, the result apparently from centuries worth of smoke and dust. There is a separate room that contains portraits of each bishop of Cuzco — all but one looks angry and mean-spirited.
We walk around the Plaza La Compania, considered to be the most beautiful church in Cuzco. Like La Catedral, it too stands on the remains of an old Inka palace. Inside, a man points to the back of the room and a narrow doorway. Walking us over, he points up at a narrow staircase that has no visible illumination except for the dim natural light from above. An exposed electrical wire runs up the staircase, which makes for easy tripping. There is no handrail and the stair treads and risers are not uniform. Clinging to the wall, we grope our way up to the top step. After climbing over a low wall we find ourselves on the rooftop. Climbing a little higher still, we are rewarded with a gorgeous view of the Plaza de Armas.
Retracing our steps, we work our way down slowly. Next, we head to the end of the block for high tea and a slice of torte chocolat with two cups of matte de coca at the Trattoria Adriano. While eating the delicious chocolate cake, we survey the other late afternoon diners and make up stories about them. Three young men in particular capture our fancy. We speculate they have traveled from England. Jerry is smitten by the youngest, a blond haired man with a very innocent and boyish face. The two “older” men, who are most likely in their late 20s (at best), have designs on the younger man, whom we call “Eric.” We wonder whether Eric is a recent traveling companion, and if so, whether the three will continue their journey together. Fortified, we head back to our hotel where I read several more chapters of my book before showering and changing into warmer clothes for evening.
Dinner tonight is at La Bella Napoli, a restaurant on Plateros that we spotted yesterday. Jerry orders Peruvian trout and I decide on a ham, cheese and onion pizza. Instead of being served Italian bread and olive oil, we are given freshly made tortilla-thin bread that has been lightly toasted with garlic and cheese. The nearby stone pizza oven provides cozy warmth on an otherwise cold evening. Over dinner we begin making plans for tomorrow. Sunday is market day in many Andean towns. There are two scheduled nearby — one in the town of Pisa’q and the other in Chincheros. Since we’ve both been to the Pisa’q Market, we opt to travel to Chincheros. After dinner, on the way back to our hotel, we stop to check email at an internet café — still no message from Rick.
We walk around the Plaza La Compania, considered to be the most beautiful church in Cuzco. Like La Catedral, it too stands on the remains of an old Inka palace. Inside, a man points to the back of the room and a narrow doorway. Walking us over, he points up at a narrow staircase that has no visible illumination except for the dim natural light from above. An exposed electrical wire runs up the staircase, which makes for easy tripping. There is no handrail and the stair treads and risers are not uniform. Clinging to the wall, we grope our way up to the top step. After climbing over a low wall we find ourselves on the rooftop. Climbing a little higher still, we are rewarded with a gorgeous view of the Plaza de Armas.
Retracing our steps, we work our way down slowly. Next, we head to the end of the block for high tea and a slice of torte chocolat with two cups of matte de coca at the Trattoria Adriano. While eating the delicious chocolate cake, we survey the other late afternoon diners and make up stories about them. Three young men in particular capture our fancy. We speculate they have traveled from England. Jerry is smitten by the youngest, a blond haired man with a very innocent and boyish face. The two “older” men, who are most likely in their late 20s (at best), have designs on the younger man, whom we call “Eric.” We wonder whether Eric is a recent traveling companion, and if so, whether the three will continue their journey together. Fortified, we head back to our hotel where I read several more chapters of my book before showering and changing into warmer clothes for evening.
Dinner tonight is at La Bella Napoli, a restaurant on Plateros that we spotted yesterday. Jerry orders Peruvian trout and I decide on a ham, cheese and onion pizza. Instead of being served Italian bread and olive oil, we are given freshly made tortilla-thin bread that has been lightly toasted with garlic and cheese. The nearby stone pizza oven provides cozy warmth on an otherwise cold evening. Over dinner we begin making plans for tomorrow. Sunday is market day in many Andean towns. There are two scheduled nearby — one in the town of Pisa’q and the other in Chincheros. Since we’ve both been to the Pisa’q Market, we opt to travel to Chincheros. After dinner, on the way back to our hotel, we stop to check email at an internet café — still no message from Rick.