Pisac

Below is a "clean" piece that I wrote for a local travel agency.  I apologize in advance for the lack of vulgarity and crudeness.  (Oh, and the chess comment is a bit of "creative license."  I will crush you given the opportunity...)

After living in Cusco for two months, I considered myself a bit of a "local" and thought I would be perfectly capable of taking my first visitor from the States out to the Sacred Valley on my own.  With a little advice from a native, we took a shared taxi to Urubamba and then caught a local bus to Pisac for a "local experience."  My "local experience" consisted of jamming 70 people into a bus meant to hold 40.  We had 3 school kids sitting on our laps, spilling popcorn, and blaring music on their cell phones (all playing different songs, of course) for one of the longest hours of my my life.  Next time, I'll gladly take the tourist bus...

Poor transportation choices aside, Pisac itself was one of the joys of my South American adventure to date. Poor transportation choices aside, Pisac itself was one of the joys of my South American adventure to-date. The artisan markets in town (Sundays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays) are claimed to be the best in all of Peru; I have seen none better anywhere. But be sure to give yourself time to get lost in the maze of booths in the center of town; an hour is not even close to enough. Here’s a glimpse of our afternoon:

12:30 pm: We arrive in Pisac and drop our bags at a beautiful hotel one block off the main square.

1 pm: After a quick spin through the square to get our bearings, we stop at one of the many huge empanada ovens for a quick and cheap (S/2.50) bite. Absolutely delicious. Not to be missed. However, if you are considering sampling the famous Peruvian cuy, try to avoid looking at the extraordinarily cute guinea pig habitats they have at all the empanada stalls in Pisac. You might lose your nerve. 

1:15 pm: Even though I haven’t played in 20 years, I am quickly convinced that I need a Spaniards vs Incas chess set for a mere 20 soles. I can figure out how to play again later. 

1:25 pm: After only 48 hours in-country, my Korean travel companion purchases her third llama sweater. I guess winter is coming at some point in the Northern Hemisphere… 

2 pm: A beautiful young local convinces me to buy an amazing stone necklace and matching earrings for my girlfriend. Even though I don’t have one. If all else fails, I have a nice Christmas gift for Mom.

3:35 pm: I purchase a granadilla from a woman selling fruit on the sidewalk. It is a South American fruit that is quite delicious but does happen to look like fish eggs on the inside. The Korean wants nothing to do with it. “You eat kimchee for breakfast every day, but you won’t even try this??”

4:15 pm: Negotiations begin between my Korean travel companion and an older indigenous seller over a beautiful hand-woven rug. Both stake out firm positions. Both are certain of victory. This could take a while. She has warned me that Koreans are the toughest negotiators in the world, but the odds seem to be stacked in favor of the natives. I will sit back and observe.

4:15 pm: I begin negotiations with a local dog about the last bite of my third empanada of the day. I cannot bear the thought of giving it up, but he is quite persuasive. This could also take a while. 

4:30 pm: The markets are beginning to close up and the selling gets more aggressive. Instead of buying the exactly zero wall tapestries that I need, I purchase two for 60 soles. I guess I can staple them to the outside of my backpack. 

4:35 pm: After walking away twice and then returning (an excellent strategy, in my opinion), negotiations continue between my Korean travel companion and her fierce competition. The seller has brought in two family members for support and they have her surrounded. I choose to stay well clear. 

4:40 pm: I walk by another empanada stall and briefly consider a fourth (my canine companion wags his tail in support), but think better of it when I see fresh churros just down the block. Hot churros filled with dulce de leche are also a must-try in Peru.

4:50 pm: The Korean finally approaches with a bag. There are two rugs instead of one. I try not to make a value judgment on who won and who lost in that exchange.

5:05 pm: Even though I have absolutely no need for one, the sun setting on the stuffed llamas convinces me otherwise and I pay full price without a second thought. I am quickly scolded by my Korean travel companion for breaking the rules of the game. 

7:15 pm: After an amazing dinner on the main plaza, we return to our hotel. The hotel owner lets us start a fire in the living room and we sit with him and watch Latin dramas on TV until the three of us have emptied a bottle of wine. Time to sleep and rest up for a day of exploring the Pisac ruins!

The Inca ruins ruins at Pisac are also an incredible experience and something you should give yourself ample time to explore; we spent 4 hours there and could have easily spent 4 more. There are guides who will happily walk the entire site with you and explain the historical and archeological context for just a few soles. There are also excellent group tours that can be arranged through our friends at Southern Crossings.

Casey Swendig is a freelance travel writer, chef, and aspiring novelist from Portland, Oregon who is currently living and working in Cusco.

 

Bar Stories

First Night

When Michael approached me about taking over the bar for a few months, my very first objection was that I didn’t want to clean up someone’s vomit in the bathroom.  It’s a bar!  It’s bound to happen, right??  “Oh no, that never happens here.  It’s just not that kind of place.  Besides, Rich knows what’s going on with all the customers and can always head those things off.”  Right…

It’s my first night on the job, and the first group down the steps is a nice young French couple traveling with their mom.  They order a drink.  Rich sits down with them and gives them 20 minutes of free travel advice.  Suddenly, French Girl gets up to go to the bathroom, passes out and drops like a sack of potatoes on the barroom floor (altitude sickness).  She then goes to the bathroom and vomits, and they rush out never to be seen again.  Freak occurrence.  Surely.

Superman Goes Down Hard

It’s my SECOND NIGHT of working and our friend Clark Kent comes in late (see reference photo below).  We had seen him a couple of times before and he seemed his normal self…the reality was, it was 10 pm and he had been drinking since NOON.  He has a couple of beers, goes to the bathroom for an abnormally long time (because he is vomiting in my fucking sink), comes out, grabs his coat and goes straight up the steps without a word.  He fumbles at the door and Rich rushes up to help him…too late.  He passes out, falls backwards down the steps and hits his head on the brick wall at the bottom.  The good news is that he was so drunk he was just fine…well, after about an hour or so.  The bad news is that I’m on cleanup duty for the second night in a row.

I’m Just Gonna Crash Here…

The SAME FUCKING NIGHT, I meet an couple from the US who have a travel agency here.  In fact, the female (we’ll call her Dopey) is from my hometown.  Cool!  We have something in common…or…  I sat down next to her to chat her up a bit but quickly discovered I would be better off trying to converse with a llama.  And she wasn’t even drunk yet… 

Dopey’s voice was so whiny and grating in that classic American style – you KNOW what I’m talking about – that my housemate Macarla literally packed up her shit and headed for the door within 10 minutes of their arrival.

But for the sake of relationship-building and client relations, I stick with it for another 5 minutes.  “How long did you live in Portland?  Do you have family there?  How long have you been in Cusco?  Do you like it here?”  All I get back is some crap about a dog and a lawn chair in Texas.  Fuck client relations.  I’m going behind the bar to pretend I’m cooking.

Dopey and Fiancee decide the best course of action is to play a drinking game where you take a 1 ounce shot of beer every 60 seconds for 30 minutes straight.  (Who the fuck plays drinking games in their 30’s anyway?  Didn’t we get that out of our systems somewhere around the first year of college?)  They rope in a couple other suckers at the bar and go at it.  Twenty minutes in, Dopey starts to do the narcoleptic head bob while sitting at a barstool.  Seems slightly unsafe.  I say to Fiancee, “Hey man, maybe you should keep an eye on her so she doesn’t crack her head on the bar or fall off the damn stool.”  His (deadpan) response: “No.  She does this all the time.”  Fucking fine.  Go nuts.  Three minutes later, she smashes her head into the bar.  Fiancee grabs her, throws her into a booth, and resumes his rightful position in the game.  Five minutes later, Dopey bolts for the bathroom and locks herself in.  After vomiting (…in the trash can instead of the toilet? What the hell is wrong with you people!), she proceeds to sit down on the toilet and take a 20 minute siesta.  Then she returns, straightens her hair, they politely pay their (sizeable) bill, say their goodbyes, and head for the exit.  Come back anytime?

Kris and The Drooler

Our good friend Kris is a regular customer and was drinking for a couple hours with someone he does some business with.  The guy was clearly wasted, but because we trust Kris, we kept serving him.  But then the bar cleared out and it was just us.  And he decided to share The Knowledge with us.  (Let me first clarify that this guy is so drunk that he is literally foaming at the mouth.) 

“HEY, MY FRIEND, you know what the most important thing is?  RESPECT.  Let me have your cigarette…”

“No way, man.”

“HEY, AMIGO, wait, wait, LISTEN, you know what the most important thing is?  SEX.  Give me your cigarette…”

“Fuck no.”

“HEY, MY FRIEND, I need to tell you something. You know what the most important thing is?  FAMILY.  I need one drag off your cigarette…”

“No fucking way.  Look at yourself, man!  You’re a goddamn mess!”

“HEY, MY GOOD, GOOD FRIEND, you know what the most important thing is?  YOUR MOTHER.  I need one drag off your cigarette…”

“You’re kidding me right now, right?  There is no way in hell I am handing you my cigarette.”

“LISTEN, LISTEN! You know what the most important thing is?  MY DAUGHTER. [Tries to swipe the cigarette from my hand.]”

“No, YOU listen motherfucker.  I will give you a cigarette but you are not touching mine with that foamy fucking mouth of yours.”

“No, no I don’t need a whole cigarette, but LISTEN. You know what the most important thing is?  PUSSY.  I want your cigarette…”

“Get the fuck out of my bar.”

Other Highlights:

-The manager from the live music club above us came down one night with a crazy-looking Peruvian hippy/artist/musician from Lima and he asked me (in Spanish) to comp them a drink in exchange for a future drink at their place.  I played stupid and looked to Rich for approval and got the “I don’t really give a shit right now” shrug of the shoulders.  Fuck it, good for neighborly relations.  So I pour them a Cuba Libre and try to chat them up in my sweet Españolish.  Two minutes later, I realize this conversation is going nowhere if I don’t start drinking as well.  Ten minutes later, I’m two drinks in.  Twenty minutes later, after they both revealed that they had spent time on the streets of Lima singing romantic love songs in English for tips, it was time to sing some Foreigner.  All three of us.  A cappella.  At the top of our lungs.  “I WANNA KNOW WHAT LOVE IIIISSSSSS...I WANT YOU TO SHOW MEEEEEEEEE…”  The look on his face told me, definitively, that Rich would never, ever cede control of the bar to me again.

-One night, my man Sam and I decided it would be a good idea to close the door, get out the bottle of Sauza, and go for a little Rob Zombie excursion at 3 am.  At 9:30 am, I woke up on the bar couch with a smashed thumb (still no idea what that was about, but it’s still only 50% functional 6 weeks later) and a reasonably righteous headache.  Sam was asleep in a booth and I don’t think his back will ever be the same.  We did discover that night that there is a “Maximum Volume” on our stereo setup.  Interesting.  Good thing we’re in an underground bunker with a double-bolted door.  (Ladies, this is what actually happens when you leave your fiancée alone for a week.)

-My good friend Alex is a regular at the bar who loves to get into heated discussions on just about any topic.  Two weeks ago, a very sweet young guy from DC made the mistake of expressing a belief in Christianity.  Thirty minutes later I hear, “YOU are what scares the hell out of me.  YOU are the reason I will never have children.  YOU are the source of all the ignorance and hypocrisy in the world.”  Fantastic.

-We do happen to have the most delicious popcorn around, and keeping the free popcorn flowing seems to keep the drinks coming as well.  Or, if people are coming in already half-loaded, sometimes the popcorn can’t make it to their mouths fast enough.  My friend Becca has the blessing (or curse) of quite large breasts.  I don’t happen to be a “boob man” myself, but most men are, and Juan Carlos (King of Spain) seems to be a particularly acute case.  Becca came bounding down the steps late on a Saturday “well lubed” and proceeded to sit down next to Juan Carlos and annihilate his entire bowl of popcorn in short order.  He did not object as he was quite busy staring at her chest.  There was popcorn shrapnel.  On the boob.  I tried to discreetly point it out, as we are buddies.  Juan Carlos was not quite so subtle:  “What happened to your boobs?  Are they hungry?”

I’ve had to resign myself to living a completely fucked schedule.  Case in point:  last night the bar was closed and we were cleaned up and empty by 11 pm.  Did we walk out the door?  Of course not.  We got out the chess board and the Cusquena and stayed up playing until 3:30 am.  Fucking stupid.

The good news is that we have made remarkable progress in a very short time in creating a consistently profitable business.  We have a great network of locals and are now attracting a consistent flow of tourists due to improved marketing.  We are also now the #1 restaurant/bar in Cusco on Trip Advisor thanks to help from our many fans.  The other good news is that I meet amazing people every night and have more stories than I have time to tell them.  The bad news is that I have to work all the goddamn time, which really cuts into the writing.  It’s time to hire someone else to grate cheese and do the dishes.

"Great drinks.  Killer popcorn.  Mostly interesting conversation."

The Nut

After a 20 year “interruption” living life as I was raised to live it, I feel again those same things I did when I was first out of the house and on my own.  So alive, so vibrant, so energized by all the people I meet.  Strong, unstoppable. Limitless energy and potential.  And so fucking alone.  Questioning every goddamn day, every decision.  There is such a monumental difference between living the life that is in front of you, day-to-day, and taking a chance on a solitary path.

I see many of the ex-pats here trying to find a middle ground, but I don’t think it’s possible; you are either grounded or you are transient.  Grounded means comfortable.  Grounded is safe.  But there is no art in comfort, and, for me, safe falls somewhere in the direction of dead.

My senses are heightened in a way that was impossible for me just 9 months ago.  I stop and stare at the stars every time I walk out my front door.  I stroll through the plaza every afternoon and shake my head at the beauty of this place.  I pause to give bananas or a few soles to the older woman who lives in a shed with a dirt floor right next door to our house.  I make new friends every day from all over the world.  And yet everything hurts in a way that is always just below the surface, scratching at my fucking skin.  I was thinking today of my first philosophy course at university and the kick to the skull I experienced when Plato and Aristotle told me that it was not only okay, but necessary to question everything that we know, to challenge all assumptions.  Life may be easier to live unchallenged, but I can’t take back what I learned and I have to stumble into the darkness, irrespective of the pain that comes with that choice.

My pain is self chosen and I wouldn’t trade this experience for anything.  And yet I would kill to have my old life back, just for one day, one hour, one moment.

I find myself increasingly dreaming of a return to the road.  Routine is routine, regardless of how exotic or new the locale.  I love this place and I adore the people I have been able to meet while here.  But I (again) have a house, I have a job, and I have responsibilities that I cannot control.  Isn’t that what I chose to leave behind in the first place?  I have caught myself twice in the past week mentally repacking my bag, deciding what of the things I have acquired I am willing to leave behind (the three llama sweaters and the pink bedsheets immediately come to mind) in order to get back to one bag. 

Sadly, the owner of The Lost City lost his mother to cancer last week.  I have no way of knowing for certain, but my gut says Michael will return to Cusco sooner than his original February intent, which means my future here is also quite uncertain.  Maybe that is for the best.