Living in South America

I’ve had some questions via email that I thought the answers might be good to share with everyone:

How is the food?

Overall, Peruvian food is quite good.  At first, the omnipresence of chicken and potatoes is a bit overwhelming, but it’s easy enough to work around it.  The Peruvians claim to have over 4000 varieties of potato, and there’s a chicken on every fucking rooftop, so this is easy to understand.  After being served papas fritas (Españolish for “french fries”) at my first 20 meals, I haven’t had any since.

They are very proud of their typical Peruvian dishes, including alpaca (everyone I know who has eaten it gets the runs) and cuy (guinea pig – I can’t eat it without the idea of formaldehyde creeping into my brain.  Thank you, high school biology.).  Apparently, trout is one of Peru’s biggest exports and you find that on almost every menu.  But I prefer the amazing soups and the dishes with quinoa and cool varieties of corn.  You can get a nice 3-course meal (soup, main course, dessert) for 10-20 soles (US $3.50-6.50) at most local restaurants.  It’s also quite easy to get pizza and Italian food, although the results can be questionable.  I have had really good luck with Mexican food and Mediterranean food here, for some reason.

The coffee, on the other hand, is generally terrible.  Eighty percent of the time you are served some form of instant coffee instead of something that is actually brewed.  The problem is that all of the coffee gets exported to Europe and the US because we are willing to pay more for it.  Then Nestle turns it into instant crap and sends it back over here.  Fucking capitalism…

How is the music?  Here’s a sampling of what I hear every day:

• ·         Asia – Every other day.  I never thought “The Heat of the Moment” would have staying power.
• ·         Frampton Comes Alive! – Every fucking morning.  The guy who lives below me uses it as his wakeup call.  I may buy him some new speakers so it at least doesn’t sound like a kazoo tune. (While cleaning the apartment today, I let fly my entire Yes collection - oh yes, I do - hoping it would spur a revival.)
• ·         “Total Eclipse of the Heart” in Spanish – Weekly!  And, strangely enough, most of the time coming from a Chinese restaurant. (The “Chifa” is as common here as in the States.)
• ·         “Wonderwall” (Oasis) and “Zombie” (The Cranberries) – Daily.  Clearly, these two songs are the only significant British contribution to pop music over the past 25 years.
• ·         Manu Chao – Also daily.  I used to dig it.  Now…
• ·         The same 5 “hot” dance tunes – 3 times a day, at a minimum.  One is Lady Gaga.  One is a Latin remake of a bad dance tune from the US.  The other three are pure Latin genius.  The bridge in my favorite one goes, “…I’m trying to find the words to describe her without being disrespectful…She’s a SEXY BITCH, SEXY BITCH [BOOM BOOM BOOM]…SEXY BITCH, SEXY BITCH…”  Seriously, who writes this shit?

The biggest issue that I have with the music here is simply the volume.  Every restaurant and shop have crap speakers that sound like bleating fucking sheep, cranked up beyond what is reasonable.  And they seem to either take great offense or show a complete lack of comprehension if you ask them to turn it down.  I guess there’s no appropriate translation for subtle…

How much does it cost to live there?

I started out my trip with a goal of trying to live on an average of US $30-35/day.  There are certainly “splurge” (i.e. tequila-fueled) days, but I’ve been pretty well behaved for the most part.  Here’s an outline of my daily budget:  [Costs are listed in Peruvian Nuevo Soles, which convert to roughly S/3 = US $1.]

• ·         Apartment – S/10
• ·         Phone – S/3
• ·         Internet – S/1
• ·         Breakfast – S/10
• ·         Dinner – S/20
• ·         Water – S/1
• ·         Smokes – S/5
• ·         Drinks – S/40
• ·         Misc. – S/20

Total:  S/110 per day (or roughly US $37)

(Yes, mom, I realize that 1/3 of my budget is set aside for alcohol.)

How is your Spanish?

I would have preferred to spend some time working on my Españolish before I left, but circumstances (and my new-found tequila habit) prevented it.  But, like most places, with a little knowledge, a lot of humility, and timely usage of hand gestures, there are always ways to communicate.  More than many places I have traveled, people here are more than patient with communication, given you are the same; you get what you give.

If you have other questions, shoot me an email and I’ll try to get to them in my next post.

After a week of sleeping in until Noon (I guess last year’s insomnia problem is licked – I highly recommend quitting your job), I figured out what the main issue is with the apartmento:  no fucking coffee.   Nahoko set me up with a little butane camp stove and then I found a funky Peruvian coffee pot and a stupid-looking mug and…presto!  First morning, I made it up at 9 am for yoga and the second I was up at 7 am to do some writing.  Twenty soles I should have spent two weeks ago…

I was fortunate enough to meet a group of guys who wanted to go on a motorcycle trip through the Sacred Valley.  I haven’t been on a proper motorcycle for a good 20 years, but it’s just like riding a bicycle, right??...  We rented 250cc trail bikes for only US $30 for the day and headed out.

As a bit of background, you should know that there are no traffic signals, no stop signs, and no real traffic control systems of any significance here.  Basically, driving in South America is like an endless game of chicken.  Use your horn early and often.

We visited an Inca agricultural site at Tipon and then made our way through the valley on mostly deserted highway – San Salvador, Pisac, Calca, Urubamba, and Maras.  (I just really like the way those towns sound and needed an excuse to include them…)  There were certainly several dodgy moments with the collectivos barreling down the middle of the highway and tourist busses taking the inside lane on tight corners, but the real danger was the fucking cows.  I swear to you that I watched a bull hide behind a bush and then jump out at Paul just as he drove past.  I just about fell over myself I was laughing so hard; I didn’t think the damn things were sentient.

Between Maras and Cusco, we took a little-used dirt road that ran through indigenous farms and homes.  The kids would run outside to yell and wave at us as we roared by.  Cool experience.

(Yes, mom, I did dump the bike on a sketchy gravel downhill.  Twice.  Fortunately, the only thing hurt was my ego…and the bike.  I had to pay a whopping US $20 extra for annihilating the fenders.)

I’ve quickly made friends with cool group of people – Brits, Aussies, Americans, Canadians, Russians, Germans, Argentineans, and Peruvians.  Some are here for an indeterminate period, some have been here longer than they can remember.  But you never have to ask them “why.”

Last night I was invited to a birthday party for Paul, a Brit who is marrying a local Cusco girl in a couple of months.  There were 20 people there and I was greeted by all as if I was an old friend, even by the few I hadn’t already met.  I was speaking to Alex, another Brit who has been in Cusco about as long as I have, and we both found it remarkable how quickly we were able to find such a warm, inclusive, intelligent, and diverse group of friends.

I find that I need more sleep than usual here.  I believe that the altitude makes the body work just a little bit harder to eat, to walk, to breathe.  But, at the same time, there is a palpable energy in The City of the Gods:  There is always the sound of a marching band practicing in the distance.  There are always kids in the plaza practicing their tribal dances and marching steps.  There is a parade or indigenous celebration 300 days each year.  There are, quite literally, fireworks every morning and every night.  There is the constant flow of different tourists and you find yourself trying to guess by sight where they might be from.  There is the sound of 100 different languages, all at the same time.

It’s easy to see why so many people never leave.

Cusco III

I returned to Cusco (~350,000 people, ~10,800 feet) ecstatic to finally be on my own schedule.  The prior six weeks had been amazing, but also exhausting trying to keep the train on the tracks…to put it delicately.  Time to settle down for a bit, right?  I made it to town, dropped my bag at the (really fucking cold) hostel, and headed out to catch up with a couple of friends at a local bar, The Lost City.  I’ve never really played Texas Hold ‘Em, but was talked into a “friendly” game with two gringos, an Argentine, and two Peruvian locals.  Two hours later, I’m up 150 soles and buying drinks.  Twenty minutes later, Michael, the owner of the bar, closes up shop and convinces me we should be smoking pot while we play.  Four buy-ins later, the game mercifully comes to a close…

But…the good news is that I met Lawrence from St. Louis at the game.  He’s lived in Cusco on and off for 14 years and was in the process of giving up his current apartment.  My friend Nahoko had located a nice place 2 blocks off of the Plaza de Armas for around $300/month.  Not bad.  Lawrence’s place, just a few blocks up the hill, was only 250 soles/month (around $80).  Bad ass.  The only problem is the hike up to San Blas…it’s only 4 blocks from the Plaza de Armas, but 4 vertically painful ones, especially since I’m not even close to acclimating to the altitude here.

The weather is beautiful here, but also harsh.  Almost year-round, it is 70 degrees in the day and 20 degrees at night.  (I knew I’d regret not making space for the damn Michael J. Fox puffy vest.)  Every day, there is always a trip home somewhere between 6-8 pm to completely re-dress;  the temperature will drop by 30-40 degrees in that timeframe.  The current getup is shorts and a t-shirt in the day and long johns, llama sweater, and chicken hat at night.  The days are most always clear and sunny but the nights are crisp…again, to put it delicately.  At least the chicken hat is good for making new friends…

I have yet to see a heater in any of the apartments, hostels, or guesthouses in Cusco, so the getting in and out of bed process is always a mental grind.  I just had to take an hour off of the writing project to try and plug all the gaps in my door and window with newspaper and electrical tape.  Work with what you have, right?... (Apparently, they have never heard of weather strips or sealing foam here.  All the doors and windows are drafty as hell.)

Part of the appeal of Cusco is the interesting mix of people.  There is a constant flow of touristicos from all over the world on their way to Machu Picchu and other local attractions.  There is also a sizeable number of ex-patriots who have settled here for some months or years.  I’ve been dating a local Peruvian, so I spend significant time attempting to communicate with her friends and family in my impressive Españolish.  It improves daily…but slowly. 

The process of outfitting my new apartment with essentials – sheets, pillows, towel, shower curtain, cleaning supplies, liquor cabinet – took almost an entire day.  There is no Target or Fred Meyer here, so I had to find my way to individual shops that sold what I needed.  Instead of being spread throughout the city, the retail strategy here is that you always go to the same place to get certain things.  There will be one entire block of shoe stores and then the next block is nothing but plumbing supplies.  Once I picked up sheets and pillows on Mattress Store Street, I had to take a cab back to drop those off and then head back and try to find the next thing.  There were many helpful store owners who gave me directions to find what I needed, but, of course, I didn’t understand a fucking word they were saying.  The shower curtain was the most difficult…I would have never guessed I needed to go to the Plastiqueria.

I then spent 5 hours in my Cleaning Bandito outfit (I knew the bandana would come in handy down here) scrubbing spider webs and dust out of the place.  I don’t think anyone had really cleaned here in a few years and I would start coughing as soon as I walked in the door.  I also tossed out about 60 gallons worth of garbage that Lawrence left behind.  Thanks, buddy.

I was not aware before I moved in that the water in San Blas is turned off every day from roughly 1-6 pm.  Yesterday I was in the shower (with a head full of shampoo) and the water simply stopped coming.  I also was unaware that Rolando, my Argentinean neighbor, has made low-pitched howling sounds when he is alone since he was a child and it’s become a subconscious verbal tic.  I can’t really explain the sound in words other than to say it’s like living next door to a humpback whale.   I’ll get back to you on whether I adapt or simply lose my mind; I don’t think there will be a middle road.  Regardless of the difficulties (and the unrelenting cold), it’s still incredibly rewarding to have “my own space” after a couple months of being a vagabond.

Nice llamas, eh?

Come by for a drink anytime (pisco and pineapple juice, of course).

The shower (when there is actually water) has a heater wired directly into the shower head.  No, Dad, it is not in any way safe.

I’ve been dying to catch a local futbol match, so I made plans to meet 8 others from The Lost City on Sunday afternoon for ceviche and the game.  Although I was not really a fan previously, I had by far the best ceviche I’ve ever had and we sat around for three hours soaking up the sun, eating, and drinking beer.  Unfortunately, the game was cancelled because the players hadn’t been paid in three months and they decided to strike.  Equally unfortunately, that team was one game away from being demoted from the Peruvian First Division to the Second Division, so the walkover win for the other team means we may not have any good futbol here for a while.  And yet, that seems such a good analogy for how things seem to run around here.

Now that I’ve settled in a bit, I’ll likely stay in Cusco for a month or two and try to get some writing done.  It’s less expensive (and less stressful) to be in one place than to be traveling every few days.  It’s also a hell of a lot easier to develop some human relationships so you don’t feel completely untethered.  After some time here, I’ll be moving south to see Bolivia and then on to Chile, hopefully in time for better beach weather.

Arequipa/Colca Canyon

The cold bug that hit me in Puno proceeded to kick my ass for 10 days.  It got so bad (I know you want to know how bad) that I had big green boogers coming out my eyeballs.  One night, I had to get up and wash my face in order to open my right eye; it was completely glued shut.  Dad called it the “diesel snots” because of the horrible emissions from all the old busses and broken-ass collectivos around here.  Whatever the fuck it was, I’ve never seen shit like that come out of me before.

By the way, Arequipa (~1 million people, ~7500 feet, Rubble Alert Level: Sunshine!  No problemo!) has a beautiful Plaza de Armas, of course.  Despite my condition, we did manage to get in some sightseeing, shopping (bleh), and futbol before taking off on a tour of the Colca Canyon.

The Colca Canyon (according to our guide – he is likely lying) is the deepest in the world at 1800 meters/5900 feet, about 200 meters deeper than the Grand Canyon.  Our first stop was a pass at 16,000 feet, certainly the highest I have been (except for with the French guy in Mancora), but it was not nearly as painful by bus as it was on foot with a punch-drunk Czech in tow.  We paid a visit to “the highest baño in the world” (surely, this is bullshit) and used our well-practiced “No gracias,” and “Maybe later!” on the indigenous locals.  They were impressed.

After a month in Peru, I was finally given the “how to macerate coca leaf” demo, as opposed to using the coca tea and lozenges that I’ve been voraciously consuming.  The leaves need an agent to activate the alkaloids inside, and what is most commonly used is either potash or sodium carbonate (i.e. Tums).  The flavor is not exactly righteous, but the effects are amazingly real for reducing the effects of the altitude.  You also get the fancy numb mouth sensation that comes with other drugs that some people might be using.  (Mom, I know what you’re thinking, but coca leaf is considered a sacred plant here and is about as close to cocaine as a coffee plant is to a double caramel macchiato.)

We then stopped for an interesting evening in the dusty little town of Chivay (~5000 people, ~12,000 feet,  Rubble Alert Level: Fuscia – if I wasn’t stranded on this fucking tourist bus, I would surely run away.).  We bailed out on our lame tour group and went out to party on our own.  One important side note here is that, 90% of the time, if a drink is not on the menu, they have no fucking idea how to improvise.  So, instead of trying to convince the restaurant to put the pisco in the pineapple juice (this is the go-to drink for me in Peru, by the way), we just ordered pineapple juice and then ran to the store next door to get our own pisco.  We finished the first bottle walking around Chivay (this took approximately 7 minutes), and picked up a second one to take back to the hostel for a nightcap.  Except that the second bottle went down far more smoothly than the first and we were also out of juice.  (Is this the miracle cure I’ve been seeking?)  Back in to the clothes and back down to the corner store, where Dad announced, “We’re back!!” to belly laughs from the entire family working there. I tried to get the mother figure to exchange hats with me, but she wasn’t having it.  At least I got this…

A 5 am wake up call, moldy bread and instant coffee for breakfast (seriously), and we’re off for another 3-hour dusty diesel snots bus ride to the Condor Cross overlook.  (Why do I feel like this is my new destiny?  A year of fucked up bus rides?  I chose this??)  The place was literally crawling with touristicos, but that didn’t even register when the condors started swirling directly overhead.  Apparently (again, could be tour guide propaganda) the only larger flying bird is the albatross.  Surreal experience; it’s like they knew we were coming and were waiting to show off.

It was a long ride home, but we went back the same way we came…time for Xanax and a dust mask.

The architecture of Arequipa is quite stunning because of all the white stone mined from the surrounding hills.  It’s kind of like Minas Tirith, but without the orcs and that pesky eye of Sauron thing.  (Thank el baby jesus for that.)

One of my favorite parts of this journey is running into fellow travelers that we have met along the way.  In Arequipa, we watched futbol with Ken, a Brit who roomed with us in Mancora.  (The bastard still owes me a tequila from the US v England game, but I couldn’t stomach it this time around.)  We had dinner with Tom from Slovakia who hung out with us in the Sacred Valley.  And, on the street, we randomly bumped into Orlando  from LA who had drinks with Dad and I in a bar in Cusco.  There is a different spirit in those who are on the road and you connect in a way that is so much different from our lives in the “real world.”

As our week in Arequipa comes to an end, what was once a cloud of fear has now become my sole focus:  I haven’t spent more than two hours alone in more than 6 weeks and I am about to chew my fucking arm off.  Yes, it will be difficult to be completely alone.  Yes, I am lucky to have family here.  But family is family.  And what was once a scratch becomes a gash becomes an open sore becomes a severed limb, if you’re not careful.  I am SO ready for everyone to go home and to get some time to figure out why the hell I am here.  We had a great, relaxed time our last two days in the city and were able to close on the highest of notes.  While Holly, Dad, and Nan took the arduous plane ride from Arequipa back to Coeur d’ Alene (36 hours…yipes…), I popped two halcyon (thanks Dad!!) and jumped on the night bus back to Cusco.