I continue dozing until the plane starts its descent into Lima around 1 a.m. Standing in the Immigration line I engage an attractive, but exhausted-looking, couple behind me. They have traveled from Monterrey, California to Lima for his brother’s wedding to a Peruvian woman. Like me, they left home very early the previous morning, however, were unable to sleep on the plane. The woman is irritable and unpleasant. She doesn’t like to travel and resents having to be in a third world country to attend a wedding for someone she does not know — even though he is her brother-in-law. In contrast, her husband tries to be light and jovial, but his patience is really thin. Neither speaks Spanish. Thankfully, the line is short, and the officer quickly stamps my passport and waves me through.
Next, I find myself standing by the carousel waiting for my luggage. None comes down the shoot though the number above the carousel indicates Flight 601. Several minutes later someone calls out, in Spanish, that the carousel across the room is where our luggage is being deposited. Like lemmings we head there and vie for space around an already crowded carousel. Cart-load after cart-load of luggage is unloaded, but not mine. Ten-minutes, twenty-minutes, still no sign of my luggage. Thoughts of no clothes or camping gear filter through my mind. Thirty-minutes and still no black duffle bags in sight. I begin to regret not having taken at least a change of underwear and toothbrush in my carry-on daypack. Finally, forty-seven minutes since baggage first started arriving, I see one of my duffle bags. Then the second. I am elated. Life is good. I pull my bags onto a luggage cart, dig in my daypack for the baggage claim checks, and head towards a security guard. Pushing the cart, I am off to another line — Customs. This line is short, too. The Customs Officer asks where I am from, scans the down vest in one of my duffle bags, and waves me through. Stopping a police officer by a currency exchange booth, I ask the way to the Diners Club Lounge. He answers in Spanish, which I don’t understand, and points straight ahead. There in the main terminal area, behind a makeshift gate my friend Jerry is wildly waving his arms. I am so relieved to see a familiar face! It’s 2:30 a.m. and I am flying on adrenalin.
Jerry had joined the Diner’s Club so that we could hang out in its VIP Lounge in comfort until our 6:30 a.m. flight to Cuzco. Unfortunately, the lounge is in the out-going flight area so we are unable to access it. Instead, we wile away the hours at the Dunkin’ donuts café sipping aqua sin gas and catching up on all that has happened since we last saw each other six months ago. Time passes slowly while our number of yawns quickly increases. World Cup soccer plays on a muted television screen overhead. Steadily the café fills up with more travelers speaking German, Spanish, English, and a number of languages neither of us can identify. Many stories and one donut later, we head to the Aero Continente reservation desk. It’s now 5:30 a.m.
Next, I find myself standing by the carousel waiting for my luggage. None comes down the shoot though the number above the carousel indicates Flight 601. Several minutes later someone calls out, in Spanish, that the carousel across the room is where our luggage is being deposited. Like lemmings we head there and vie for space around an already crowded carousel. Cart-load after cart-load of luggage is unloaded, but not mine. Ten-minutes, twenty-minutes, still no sign of my luggage. Thoughts of no clothes or camping gear filter through my mind. Thirty-minutes and still no black duffle bags in sight. I begin to regret not having taken at least a change of underwear and toothbrush in my carry-on daypack. Finally, forty-seven minutes since baggage first started arriving, I see one of my duffle bags. Then the second. I am elated. Life is good. I pull my bags onto a luggage cart, dig in my daypack for the baggage claim checks, and head towards a security guard. Pushing the cart, I am off to another line — Customs. This line is short, too. The Customs Officer asks where I am from, scans the down vest in one of my duffle bags, and waves me through. Stopping a police officer by a currency exchange booth, I ask the way to the Diners Club Lounge. He answers in Spanish, which I don’t understand, and points straight ahead. There in the main terminal area, behind a makeshift gate my friend Jerry is wildly waving his arms. I am so relieved to see a familiar face! It’s 2:30 a.m. and I am flying on adrenalin.
Jerry had joined the Diner’s Club so that we could hang out in its VIP Lounge in comfort until our 6:30 a.m. flight to Cuzco. Unfortunately, the lounge is in the out-going flight area so we are unable to access it. Instead, we wile away the hours at the Dunkin’ donuts café sipping aqua sin gas and catching up on all that has happened since we last saw each other six months ago. Time passes slowly while our number of yawns quickly increases. World Cup soccer plays on a muted television screen overhead. Steadily the café fills up with more travelers speaking German, Spanish, English, and a number of languages neither of us can identify. Many stories and one donut later, we head to the Aero Continente reservation desk. It’s now 5:30 a.m.
We must pass through a security check and show our tickets to enter the flight reservation area. Minor crisis — Jerry cannot find his ticket. He tears his daypack apart — wallet, passport, a stub from his previous flight, book, notepad, sweater, and guidebook. No ticket. Again, he looks through everything. Sweat beads on his forehead. Too many hours of no sleep begin to take its toll. |
Frustrated, Jerry hands his daypack to me. Rummaging at the bottom, all crumbled up is a small pouch with his ticket. Whew! After showing our tickets to the security officer, we head for the reservation desk, and yet another line. One of the attendants takes pity seeing me drag two large duffle bags across the floor and carries them to the reservation desk where I can retrieve them when it is my turn to check-in. The line moves along efficiently. When it is our turn, a very personable Peruvian attendant checks us in — my bags weighing in at 12 and 11.5 kilograms (about 26 and 25.5 pounds) are tagged and sent down a conveyor belt. Pointing towards a kiosk, the reservationist tells us that is where we need to go next to pay an airport tax ($4.5o US). Much to our surprise there is no line!
Moments later, however, we find ourselves at another security checkpoint. Again I reach in my daypack to retrieve my passport and airline ticket, Jerry has his readily available. Both are electronically scanned. Before I have time to put away my passport and ticket, we round a corner and come to yet another security checkpoint — less than 200 yards from the last one! This time we are scanned as well as our carry-on bags. Airport security is everywhere, but at least it is quick and efficient.
Finding seats at the gate lounge I feel my tiredness take over. “Almost there,” I tell myself. I can almost feel the softness of a bed. Jerry and I have been up more than 24 hours. We feel it, and it shows. Thankfully, our wait in the terminal is short. I remember it well from Rick’s and my trip four-years earlier when we had to wait several hours for a connecting flight. Soon, we and about two dozen junior high-school age youth and their adult chaperones are escorted across the tarmac to the plane. Our seats are in the second row. Almost there. I feel acutely a level of tension that is wanting to be released, but not quite yet. At exactly 6:30 a.m. the plane taxis down the runway and lifts off. I close my eyes.
Moments later, however, we find ourselves at another security checkpoint. Again I reach in my daypack to retrieve my passport and airline ticket, Jerry has his readily available. Both are electronically scanned. Before I have time to put away my passport and ticket, we round a corner and come to yet another security checkpoint — less than 200 yards from the last one! This time we are scanned as well as our carry-on bags. Airport security is everywhere, but at least it is quick and efficient.
Finding seats at the gate lounge I feel my tiredness take over. “Almost there,” I tell myself. I can almost feel the softness of a bed. Jerry and I have been up more than 24 hours. We feel it, and it shows. Thankfully, our wait in the terminal is short. I remember it well from Rick’s and my trip four-years earlier when we had to wait several hours for a connecting flight. Soon, we and about two dozen junior high-school age youth and their adult chaperones are escorted across the tarmac to the plane. Our seats are in the second row. Almost there. I feel acutely a level of tension that is wanting to be released, but not quite yet. At exactly 6:30 a.m. the plane taxis down the runway and lifts off. I close my eyes.
The flying time from Lima to Cuzco is about the same as from Santa Barbara to Los Angeles. Yet, while the driving time to the latter is about 90 minutes, it would take about 24 hours to drive from Lima to Cuzco. The drone of the engines puts me into a light sleep. Twenty-five minutes later I feel a slight shift to the left and open my eyes to a spectacular view. Our mountain, Ausangate, is below. |
Majestic in a cape of thick white snow, he glistens in the morning sun. The rugged Andean Mountains are young, new mountains. They are magnificent and look far colder than I had anticipated. I begin to have thoughts about not having packed enough warm clothing. The plane continues to bank to the left, passing between mountains before making its landing approach. Four years ago it took several stomach churning attempts because of crosswinds and poor visibility. That is not the case now, the mountain spirits or apus welcome us with calm air and perfectly clear visibility. While descending the plane circles around Cuzco, which appears more sprawling than I remember.
Cuzco, Peru
Upon landing I am struck by how much the airport has grown, and the upscale boutiques that are housed within it. Displays of alpaca, silver and live Andean music greet us. It is 7:30 a.m. and it is cold. It feels like winter, which it is. I button my lightweight jacket that seemed much too warm in Los Angeles. We look around for our pre-arranged driver who is to take us to the hotel. No one is holding a “4 Winds” sign. Time to default to “Plan B?” Our luggage comes quickly. Gathering all our luggage we check outside to see whether our driver has arrived. No sign of anyone looking for us there. A friendly female airport tourist assistant comes to our aid. As I dig out a down vest from one of my duffles, she arranges for a taxi — well worth the $5 US cost — to our hotel.
The taxi winds around the outer reaches of the city, sometimes traveling up streets that seem little more than alleys. We weave between cement barriers that seemingly block traffic out of one street while oncoming cars and miniature trucks whizz past. A dilapidated old sedan takes up the entire width of the street as it pulls out of a hidden garage. Backing up onto the sidewalk, it knocks over a barrel. Not to be delayed, our taxi driver somehow negotiates around as the sedan grinds into first gear screeching down the street. Nearing the center of town, church landmarks begin to look familiar. Instructions from the Four Winds Society are to go to the Royal Inka I hotel where rooms are booked for us. Upon arriving the reservationist informs us that our rooms are at their other hotel, the Royal Inka II, one block away. “Not to worry,” she says as a bellman grabs our bags. Weaving our way through the street vendors, who seem to appear from nowhere, Jerry and I run down the street after the bellman and our luggage. Not yet 9 a.m. — it has certainly been an exciting morning!
Because we are checking into the hotel so early, it is suggested we go to the dining room for some coca tea while housekeeping finishes making up our rooms. Matte de coca is my drink of choice in Peru. It is served everywhere and is found in tea bags or as loosely dried leaves, and works to help oxygenate the blood, which is absolutely necessary at an altitude of almost 11,000 feet. At the hotel a large urn of hot water stands beside a bowl of dried coca leaves. The tea is somewhat bitter, but perfect with the addition of a tiny bit of honey or raw sugar.
The main section of the hotel is five-stories high. The central area contains the dining room, gift shop, lavatory facilities, and a sitting area. Four floors of guest rooms open onto the sitting area below. In the sitting area are three life-size llama statues made of metal with ceramic “hair” that I immediately fall in love with. The llamas would look great in our front meadow, but unfortunately these would not work as outdoor sculptures. Too bad. The sitting room also has a wonderful Inka mask-shaped fireplace that is about four-feet tall. The expression is fierce; its “mouth” is stacked with logs, which I imagine must look wonderfully demonic when ablaze with fire. Again, I visualize this very fireplace freestanding on the patio of my art studio and wonder how I can order one and how much it would cost to ship back home.
Jerry and I barely sit down and stir honey into our tea when a bellman informs us that our rooms are ready. Following behind, we squeeze into a tiny elevator with all of our luggage. Our rooms are on the third balcony. Each has an interior window that looks onto the balcony, a double-bed, dresser, round table, bench with a pole suspended above to hang clothes, a small above-eye level window, and bathroom. It is 9:30 a.m. Jerry and I agree to meet at 11:30 a.m. and begin exploring Cuzco. His room is perpendicular to mine, as are our two interior windows.
Alone. Quiet. I take off my jacket and head to the bathroom to wash my hands. After locating a bottle of water in my daypack, I brush my teeth. Then, a very hot and relaxing shower. Tired, I lie down for a brief nap. However, I find I am more wired than sleepy. Instead, I end up reading a few chapters of Catherine Neville’s book, The Eight, instead. The book was suggested by my brother John, and seems the perfect choice — a metaphor, in a way — for my adventure. Alternating between two disparate time periods, the French Revolution and contemporary time, the heroine is in search of an age old treasure . . .
Cuzco, Peru
Upon landing I am struck by how much the airport has grown, and the upscale boutiques that are housed within it. Displays of alpaca, silver and live Andean music greet us. It is 7:30 a.m. and it is cold. It feels like winter, which it is. I button my lightweight jacket that seemed much too warm in Los Angeles. We look around for our pre-arranged driver who is to take us to the hotel. No one is holding a “4 Winds” sign. Time to default to “Plan B?” Our luggage comes quickly. Gathering all our luggage we check outside to see whether our driver has arrived. No sign of anyone looking for us there. A friendly female airport tourist assistant comes to our aid. As I dig out a down vest from one of my duffles, she arranges for a taxi — well worth the $5 US cost — to our hotel.
The taxi winds around the outer reaches of the city, sometimes traveling up streets that seem little more than alleys. We weave between cement barriers that seemingly block traffic out of one street while oncoming cars and miniature trucks whizz past. A dilapidated old sedan takes up the entire width of the street as it pulls out of a hidden garage. Backing up onto the sidewalk, it knocks over a barrel. Not to be delayed, our taxi driver somehow negotiates around as the sedan grinds into first gear screeching down the street. Nearing the center of town, church landmarks begin to look familiar. Instructions from the Four Winds Society are to go to the Royal Inka I hotel where rooms are booked for us. Upon arriving the reservationist informs us that our rooms are at their other hotel, the Royal Inka II, one block away. “Not to worry,” she says as a bellman grabs our bags. Weaving our way through the street vendors, who seem to appear from nowhere, Jerry and I run down the street after the bellman and our luggage. Not yet 9 a.m. — it has certainly been an exciting morning!
Because we are checking into the hotel so early, it is suggested we go to the dining room for some coca tea while housekeeping finishes making up our rooms. Matte de coca is my drink of choice in Peru. It is served everywhere and is found in tea bags or as loosely dried leaves, and works to help oxygenate the blood, which is absolutely necessary at an altitude of almost 11,000 feet. At the hotel a large urn of hot water stands beside a bowl of dried coca leaves. The tea is somewhat bitter, but perfect with the addition of a tiny bit of honey or raw sugar.
The main section of the hotel is five-stories high. The central area contains the dining room, gift shop, lavatory facilities, and a sitting area. Four floors of guest rooms open onto the sitting area below. In the sitting area are three life-size llama statues made of metal with ceramic “hair” that I immediately fall in love with. The llamas would look great in our front meadow, but unfortunately these would not work as outdoor sculptures. Too bad. The sitting room also has a wonderful Inka mask-shaped fireplace that is about four-feet tall. The expression is fierce; its “mouth” is stacked with logs, which I imagine must look wonderfully demonic when ablaze with fire. Again, I visualize this very fireplace freestanding on the patio of my art studio and wonder how I can order one and how much it would cost to ship back home.
Jerry and I barely sit down and stir honey into our tea when a bellman informs us that our rooms are ready. Following behind, we squeeze into a tiny elevator with all of our luggage. Our rooms are on the third balcony. Each has an interior window that looks onto the balcony, a double-bed, dresser, round table, bench with a pole suspended above to hang clothes, a small above-eye level window, and bathroom. It is 9:30 a.m. Jerry and I agree to meet at 11:30 a.m. and begin exploring Cuzco. His room is perpendicular to mine, as are our two interior windows.
Alone. Quiet. I take off my jacket and head to the bathroom to wash my hands. After locating a bottle of water in my daypack, I brush my teeth. Then, a very hot and relaxing shower. Tired, I lie down for a brief nap. However, I find I am more wired than sleepy. Instead, I end up reading a few chapters of Catherine Neville’s book, The Eight, instead. The book was suggested by my brother John, and seems the perfect choice — a metaphor, in a way — for my adventure. Alternating between two disparate time periods, the French Revolution and contemporary time, the heroine is in search of an age old treasure . . .
Promptly at 11:30 a.m. Jerry knocks on my door. The sun is out and the temperature has warmed considerably since we arrived several hours ago. We decide to head across the Plaza Regocijo to the Plaza de Armas in search of lunch. Immediately upon leaving the hotel we are bombarded with people wanting to sell us something — woven goods, jewelry, postcards, water, candy. |
The Plaza is bustling with activity — taxis, tour groups, people walking in a hurry, and others leisurely strolling and shopping — and noisy. As we walk by restaurants boys with menus call out and invite us to come inside or to show us a menu. We walk around the Plaza towards the Cathedral taking in the sights and sounds. On the church steps school-aged children practice a routine that we later learn will be performed at the Inti Raymi or Festival of the Sun. The event is held at Sacsayhauman, a sacred site outside Cuzco, to reenact a religious ceremony dating back to the Inka Empire in honor of their god Inti. It also marks the winter solstice and start of a new year. After the Spanish conquest, the Catholic Church suppressed the celebration claiming it was a pagan ceremony, until it was revived as a theatrical event in 1944.
To the left, we spot a small restaurant that is occupied by locals. No one comes out to accost us or invite us in. Refreshing. We enter and are seated by a window. Time to start practicing our almost nonexistent Spanish. Jerry orders a cheese omelet and I ask for a ham and cheese sandwich. We both order matte de coca. Lunch is satisfying and costs us each less than $1 US. Afterwards, we continue our exploration of Cuzco. |
Considered the historic capital of the Inka, Cuzco is a UNESCO World Heritage Site, and a major tourist destination. More than 300,000 people live in and around Cuzco, with approximately another one million visiting annually making it a very international city. Constructed in the shape of a puma, which is known in the Inka cosmology as the archetypal animal chokinchinchay, the city was divided into two sectors (urin or upper; and hanan or lower). These two sectors were further divided to create four quarters (tiwantinesuyu): Chinchaysuyu (northwest), Antisuyu (northeast), Qontisuyu (southwest) and Collyasuyu (southeast). A road leads from each to corresponding quarters of the Inka Empire.
We wander up Triunfo, a steep and narrow road off the Plaza. I feel my heart pounding from the exertion of walking at this altitude and am grateful for my decision to come a few days early to acclimate. When previously in Cuzco, Rick and I had made several purchases on this road from jeweler Carlos Chaquiras, including a silver statue of Inti inlaid with Peruvian turquoise and coral-colored shell from the spondelous spiny oyster. |
Continuing further we poke our heads into shops selling textiles, religious objects and curios. Turning back towards the Plaza we explore shops across from the Cathedral. One selling old textiles catches our eye. We explain to the old woman tending the shop that we are looking to buy ponchos — negro — while pointing to an alpaca poncho. She nods her head and disappears down steep wooden stairs to a basement area below. In the dim light we watch her searching through stacks of textiles. Climbing back up she hands Jerry a black poncho that is frayed. “Antiqua,” she says. It may or may not be old, but it is certainly well-worn! Jerry asks if she has others. Again, she nods and disappears down the steep wooden stairs returning with another. This one is in much better condition and looks marvelous on Jerry. “Conta Costa?” he asks. The shopkeeper replies “$300 US.” Reaching for his heart, Jerry feigns a heart attack while countering, “$100 US.” The shopkeeper shakes her head vehemently and insists “Antiqua.” Jerry agains feigns a heart attack. She continues to shake her head. We say, “Gracias, senora” and leave. It is a lovely poncho, and in very good condition, but we plan to spend $100 US or less. Walking up Plateros, we spot several restaurants with pizza ovens and mentally take note for future meals. At the end of Tigre we turn right, and then right again on to Procuradores. The street is lined with vendors selling jewelry and small statuary.
Open doorways capture my imagination and energetically pull me in. Beyond some are courtyards with gardens and fountains. Others are in disrepair. We stop in at an internet café to send emails home saying we’ve arrived safely and are beginning our adventure. For two soles, about sixty-five cents, we retrieve and send email for thirty minutes. Try as I might, I can’t remember the password for our internet account. Finally giving up, I send Rick an email using Jerry’s account — hoping he will not “trash” it before reading and discovering it is from me. We leave smiling with a plan to check back tomorrow for replies. Though it is only 3:30 p.m., I am starting to fade. Peering through an open doorway we discover it is really a “one llama” road that leads us to the Plaza de Armas. |
Back at our hotel we agree to meet around 6 p.m. for an early dinner. Once in my room, I set the alarm clock for 5 p.m. and stretch out across the bed to read. Instead, I fall into a deep sleep until awakened by the sound of the alarm. Drowsy, I draw a hot bath and read a few more pages of my book.
A few minutes after our agreed upon time, Jerry knocks on my door. It is already dark outside and the air temperature has dropped considerably. Reaching the street I am thankful for having put on a turtleneck top and polar fleece jacket. The street vendors greet us as we leave the hotel shoving necklaces and textiles in our face. “No gracias,” we say over and over. “Perhaps later?” they reply. “Perhaps,” we say in turn. This interchange becomes our constant mantra. We head towards the Plaza de Armas saying, “No gracias” to dozens of children who insist we buy their postcards. The Plaza is alive with activity. We are accosted again by men, boys, and sometimes girls trying to woo us into a restaurant with promises of “Free pisco sours, for you friend.” After a while, we have no “No gracias’” left — we just walk by. We turn right on Mantas and left onto Avenida del Sol, where a police officer directs traffic. On the corner, we spot an Italian restaurant. Though neither of us feels hungry for pasta or pizza, we note the chocolate cake in the window and make plans to go there tomorrow. Instead, we turn right onto Almagro and walk along until we see a brightly lit restaurant on the corner of San Bernardo where many locals as well as foreigners are dining. The restaurant’s specialty is open-spit roasted chicken. We are shown to a small table at the very back of this two-story restaurant. Beside us three Germans — a man and two women — are eagerly devouring their meal. Leaning over, I ask the man what he is eating. He replies that it is the half-chicken with pommes frites. Once our order is taken for two plates of the same, a Coke Cola for Jerry, and agua sin gas for me, we hungrily attack the salad bar. Passing on lettuce, I pile my plate high with peeled carrots, cucumbers, beets and jicama. During dinner we begin to plan our next day’s adventure — an excursion to the Santa Clara Market in hopes of finding some better priced black alpaca ponchos. Dinner is delicious and costs less than $3 US, including tip. Tired and satiated, we head back to the hotel stopping to buy more bottled water.
Back in the room my energy body become restless. Turning on the television, after getting ready for bed, I discover several English-speaking stations. I watch the last twenty-minutes of the movie Entrapment with Sean Connery and Catherine Zeta-Jones, and then read several more chapters of “The Eight” before feeling sleepy enough to turn off the bedside light.
A few minutes after our agreed upon time, Jerry knocks on my door. It is already dark outside and the air temperature has dropped considerably. Reaching the street I am thankful for having put on a turtleneck top and polar fleece jacket. The street vendors greet us as we leave the hotel shoving necklaces and textiles in our face. “No gracias,” we say over and over. “Perhaps later?” they reply. “Perhaps,” we say in turn. This interchange becomes our constant mantra. We head towards the Plaza de Armas saying, “No gracias” to dozens of children who insist we buy their postcards. The Plaza is alive with activity. We are accosted again by men, boys, and sometimes girls trying to woo us into a restaurant with promises of “Free pisco sours, for you friend.” After a while, we have no “No gracias’” left — we just walk by. We turn right on Mantas and left onto Avenida del Sol, where a police officer directs traffic. On the corner, we spot an Italian restaurant. Though neither of us feels hungry for pasta or pizza, we note the chocolate cake in the window and make plans to go there tomorrow. Instead, we turn right onto Almagro and walk along until we see a brightly lit restaurant on the corner of San Bernardo where many locals as well as foreigners are dining. The restaurant’s specialty is open-spit roasted chicken. We are shown to a small table at the very back of this two-story restaurant. Beside us three Germans — a man and two women — are eagerly devouring their meal. Leaning over, I ask the man what he is eating. He replies that it is the half-chicken with pommes frites. Once our order is taken for two plates of the same, a Coke Cola for Jerry, and agua sin gas for me, we hungrily attack the salad bar. Passing on lettuce, I pile my plate high with peeled carrots, cucumbers, beets and jicama. During dinner we begin to plan our next day’s adventure — an excursion to the Santa Clara Market in hopes of finding some better priced black alpaca ponchos. Dinner is delicious and costs less than $3 US, including tip. Tired and satiated, we head back to the hotel stopping to buy more bottled water.
Back in the room my energy body become restless. Turning on the television, after getting ready for bed, I discover several English-speaking stations. I watch the last twenty-minutes of the movie Entrapment with Sean Connery and Catherine Zeta-Jones, and then read several more chapters of “The Eight” before feeling sleepy enough to turn off the bedside light.