Lake Chapala and Ajijic April 2009
About 20 miles from Guadalajara is Lake Chapala. Long used as a dumping ground for Guadalajara, the once beautiful lake slowly turned toxic. Diverted water caused the lake level to drop and by 1999, when we first visited the area, it was a disaster. With the help of the UN (one of its very few successes) water has been channeled back into the lake, toxicity has been contained at the lowest level and today the lake is coming back to life, at a cost. The water has been diverted from the region of Mexico City with its 35 million people and vast agricultural fields causing tremendous water shortages but raising the lake back to a 1950s level. Trees that had grown in the wide sandy shoreline are now underwater, drowned, dead limbs testimony to the past.
The towns of Chapala, San Antonio and Ajijic are perfect examples of how Disney would have created a Mexican town. Clean streets, freshly painted buildings, lots of gourmet restaurants, one or two truly Mexican shops, art galleries, hi-end tourist shops and lots of expensive cars on the narrow but clean streets. It is truly a joy to walk around, window shopping and eating.
There is a wonderful old house donated to the community which is the center point for expats – particularly the older ones. Visiting doctors check blood pressure and give eye exams. There are numerous small fish ponds where people can sit and drink coffee, a lending library, and another area where art classes and woodworking shops exist for young Mexican children, and areas for other voluntary work by the community at large.
We had a delightful time seeing old friends we had met ten years ago when we started our adventure.
April 22 marked the one year anniversary of our return to Mexico. In the past year we have met many new people, Ted is a weekly contributor to the Puerto Vallarta Tribune and has finished his first book about our travels, now just waiting for it to be published by Amazon Books. We moved into a cute but small apartment overlooking the 5th of December area with a view to the ocean on the west and the jungle covered mountains to the north and east. We adopted a small black poodle and settled in. Now at the one year mark, the steps up to the cute apartment, four flights, have gotten just too much so we found a ground level house, much bigger with an interior garden, two bedrooms, freshly tiled and painted but no furniture. For the next few months we will be adding a table, chairs, TV, sofa, etc. but not climbing steps.
Moving was not easy but we did it. Now we had to find a place for everything. The large kitchen came with a large stove. Over the last ten years we had learned to cook whole meals on a single electric hotplate, movingd up to a two burner propane stove top and now we have a six burner range. I’m not sure I can handle six burners with only two hands. More adventure.
We had made arrangements to have a sofa set delivered on Saturday but it was delivered on Thursday. The TV and internet was to be installed on Saturday and some rustic bedside tables and dresser were scheduled also on Saturday. The furniture came, the cable didn’t.
The kitchen is large and tiled with lovely new tile but like most kitchens in the world, no cabinets. Everything is stashed under the sink and island on two cement shelves with curtains covering the openings. So on Monday, along with contacting the cable company, we purchased a five door cabinet. The doors below will have to wait.
A large outdoor area has a hook up for a washing machine but the water drain was plugged causing a small flood. The landlord’s plumber couldn’t be reached so it took a few days to find another plumber.
The street is filled with children who pass our gate and stop to pet the dog. Nights so far have been peaceful as the street is only one block long and not conducive to any speed. Children playing have been the loudest noise around. That is until 3:00 am today when a Mariachi band set up at the end of the block and played loudly for 15 minutes this morning.
So far, retirement has not been boring.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Sunday, March 22, 2009
St. Patrick's Celebration
March 2009 Melaque
We continue to live in and love Mexico. There have been some changes in the last ten years. More and more American products are available on the shelves, many new cars are on the roads, and the change I dislike most, modern clothing. Not too many years ago women wore boxy tops with colorful skirts swishing along the streets. Today the skirts have been replaced by the tightest pants in the world. It must take several people to help guide the wearer into them and more to zip them up. Cool blouses have been replaced by stretchy shirts which mold and accentuate the rolls of fat. Seems a shame that the desire to dress like everyone else has caused women to dress in the most unattractive way possible. Men also have succumbed to tight shirts, which are hot, and pull them up as far as their armpits thus showing their fat bellies for all to see and wish they didn’t.
But enough of the fashion changes. We had wandered down Mexico’s pacific coast nine years ago and stopped in a very small town, San Patricio Melaque, the day after their big St. Patrick’s Day festival honoring the town’s namesake and patron saint. We parked our RV in the Playa Trailer Park right along the beach and walked into the center of town. Trying to find a place to eat we passed a very small restaurant with maybe six wooden tables filled with eaters and a line outside waiting. The aromas from the small kitchen at the back wafted out. Not wanting to wait in line we continued walking and checking out all the other little restaurants around the zocalo, the town square, all of them empty. So reasoning that there must be a good reason for the waiting hungry, we returned and stood in line at the Restaurant Flor Morena. To our delight the food was not only very cheap, it was delicious. Now nine years later we were eager to see if it was still there. This time, we arrived for the last three days of the ten-day St. Patrick’s fiesta.
Melaque is 130 miles (215 km) south of Puerto Vallarta on highway 200, a good road with some curvy stretches through rolling hills and three gas stations within a few miles of each other about half way down. It should have taken us four hours to reach Melaque and would have if the mysterious demon in our car engine had stayed asleep. As it was, with a few stops of at least half-an-hour to satisfy the demon, who loved killing our engine for no apparent reason, we made it in five hours. After reaching town and a couple of more stops while the demon cooled we finally found the hotel where we had made reservations a month in advance and confirmed a couple of days before. Sure enough our name was on the list but no rooms were available. And being the weekend of a big party, there were no rooms available in the next few hotels/bungalows where we inquired. Finally we found a wonderful place with two bedrooms, four double beds, a kitchen, a big bathroom with hot water, TV, swimming pool and close enough to the beach to hear the surf. All for about $35 US per day.
After checking in we went into town to see what was happening. When we had been there nine years ago the streets had been torn up and new dog bone shaped blocks were being laid. Today the streets were finished and driving was smooth, at least on them. The trailer park still sits on the beach and is filled with RV’s, big and small. Shops selling beach-wear and colorful plastic toys line the streets, and the zocalo has been re-paved with irregularly shaped blocks of stone, separating raised planter areas edged with wide concrete benches upon which to sit; very clean and nice, and this time we remembered to bring our foam seat cushions along. To our delight, the Flor Morena is still open and serving inexpensive and delicious food. They have been there for the last sixteen years, diners being seated and served by owner Bety Torres Briseno and again, we had to wait for a table.
Today there were many more places to eat and along the side streets tables and chairs were set up to serve the crowds that come for the festival. Large numbers of people milled around while an uncountable number of children ran and played among the crowds. We watched as a group of boys spent several hours playing with an empty plastic bottle. Others threw objects into the air and scrambled to catch them. In front of the old church a group of assorted women, children and men dressed in red pants, red capes and white hats danced back and forth in some manner which may have been an Indian dance at one time. After seven o’clock, and every fifteen minutes, the church bells rang, followed by rockets shooting off next to the zocalo, and a bandstand was erected for the official evening’s musical entertainment.
St. Patrick’s Day is a celebration in Catholic Mexico. But unlike in the U.S. or U.K., there doesn’t seem to be any connection at all with Ireland, and there isn’t any emphasis on the color green. The only green in town was a few green banners in the church. The Indian dancers dressed in red, and the only time we saw anyone wearing green was on a handful of U.S. tourists decked out in green shirts. We asked them if they were Irish and they laughingly said No.
While searching for a toilet I went into a courtyard next to the church. There, men were preparing a large frame called a Castillo with wicker wheels and strings of fireworks. The Castillo must have been twenty feet long and topped with more wicker contraptions. About 9:00 pm it was pulled into the center of the zocalo, stood up on end, and secured by ropes to light poles. About 10:00 pm yellow tape was stretched from pole to pole, forcing the crowd back from the display. All this was done while brass bands and mariachis played at top volume all around the square, trying to outdo the band on the main stage. We saw and wondered at all the children carrying flattened cardboard boxes around.
On every night of the festival, at 10:30 the music stops and the fireworks begin. The crowd, knowing the routine, oohs and aahs in anticipation and, as on every night of the festival, with minor variations, the Castillo is set afire. The wheels spin in different whirling designs shooting sparks everywhere. The children with the boxes on their heads scurry to stand under the falling sparks, though many more seem oblivious to any danger and race around sans cardboard. As each progressively higher wheel is sent spinning, zigzagging rockets are sent into the crowd which pushes backwards with screams of joy and mock fear. Finally the top of the Castillo is lighted, releasing arms of sparking color and more rockets into the air and the crowds, and a big ball of smoking color is thrown up high into the sky with more fireworks blasting away. When the Castillo’s burden of fire is finally extinguished, kids with wickerwork bulls rigged with more fireworks race through the zocalo. Sparks fly into the crowd which runs in all directions, yelling and shrieking.
Unhappy bystanders like myself reel as young people push every which way as they follow the bulls around the square. Happy bystanders like Ted are busy trying to capture the mayhem on film. Finally, the show over, we make our way back to the hotel and a good night’s sleep. This happens every night through St. Patrick’s Day, when it is all over for another year.
We wandered around town during the days, visiting the beach a few times. At one place we stopped to eat an ice cream dish. One little boy brought his chair as close as he could to Muneca our little poodle. He kept petting her while trying to move in closer. I think he would have loved for us to have given her to him, but I don’t think his mother would have been as pleased.
As all along Mexico’s Pacific coast there are numerous bays of clean sand, sunbathers, and a few swimmers willing to brave the still chilly waters. The only things missing are seashells. Also, there aren’t any clumps of seaweed as in California, just clean sand and surf.
Along the highway the stately Primavera trees with their magnificent sprays of bright yellow flowers dot the valleys.Bougainvillea in purple, red and orange adorn many of the houses and yards. Pink flowers on smaller trees and a few yucca flowers made the whole trip a joy to the eyes. On the way out of Puerto Vallarta we stopped to take pictures of the rocks known as Los Arcos, the arches. As always, travel in Mexico brings fun and adventure.
We continue to live in and love Mexico. There have been some changes in the last ten years. More and more American products are available on the shelves, many new cars are on the roads, and the change I dislike most, modern clothing. Not too many years ago women wore boxy tops with colorful skirts swishing along the streets. Today the skirts have been replaced by the tightest pants in the world. It must take several people to help guide the wearer into them and more to zip them up. Cool blouses have been replaced by stretchy shirts which mold and accentuate the rolls of fat. Seems a shame that the desire to dress like everyone else has caused women to dress in the most unattractive way possible. Men also have succumbed to tight shirts, which are hot, and pull them up as far as their armpits thus showing their fat bellies for all to see and wish they didn’t.
But enough of the fashion changes. We had wandered down Mexico’s pacific coast nine years ago and stopped in a very small town, San Patricio Melaque, the day after their big St. Patrick’s Day festival honoring the town’s namesake and patron saint. We parked our RV in the Playa Trailer Park right along the beach and walked into the center of town. Trying to find a place to eat we passed a very small restaurant with maybe six wooden tables filled with eaters and a line outside waiting. The aromas from the small kitchen at the back wafted out. Not wanting to wait in line we continued walking and checking out all the other little restaurants around the zocalo, the town square, all of them empty. So reasoning that there must be a good reason for the waiting hungry, we returned and stood in line at the Restaurant Flor Morena. To our delight the food was not only very cheap, it was delicious. Now nine years later we were eager to see if it was still there. This time, we arrived for the last three days of the ten-day St. Patrick’s fiesta.
Melaque is 130 miles (215 km) south of Puerto Vallarta on highway 200, a good road with some curvy stretches through rolling hills and three gas stations within a few miles of each other about half way down. It should have taken us four hours to reach Melaque and would have if the mysterious demon in our car engine had stayed asleep. As it was, with a few stops of at least half-an-hour to satisfy the demon, who loved killing our engine for no apparent reason, we made it in five hours. After reaching town and a couple of more stops while the demon cooled we finally found the hotel where we had made reservations a month in advance and confirmed a couple of days before. Sure enough our name was on the list but no rooms were available. And being the weekend of a big party, there were no rooms available in the next few hotels/bungalows where we inquired. Finally we found a wonderful place with two bedrooms, four double beds, a kitchen, a big bathroom with hot water, TV, swimming pool and close enough to the beach to hear the surf. All for about $35 US per day.
After checking in we went into town to see what was happening. When we had been there nine years ago the streets had been torn up and new dog bone shaped blocks were being laid. Today the streets were finished and driving was smooth, at least on them. The trailer park still sits on the beach and is filled with RV’s, big and small. Shops selling beach-wear and colorful plastic toys line the streets, and the zocalo has been re-paved with irregularly shaped blocks of stone, separating raised planter areas edged with wide concrete benches upon which to sit; very clean and nice, and this time we remembered to bring our foam seat cushions along. To our delight, the Flor Morena is still open and serving inexpensive and delicious food. They have been there for the last sixteen years, diners being seated and served by owner Bety Torres Briseno and again, we had to wait for a table.
Today there were many more places to eat and along the side streets tables and chairs were set up to serve the crowds that come for the festival. Large numbers of people milled around while an uncountable number of children ran and played among the crowds. We watched as a group of boys spent several hours playing with an empty plastic bottle. Others threw objects into the air and scrambled to catch them. In front of the old church a group of assorted women, children and men dressed in red pants, red capes and white hats danced back and forth in some manner which may have been an Indian dance at one time. After seven o’clock, and every fifteen minutes, the church bells rang, followed by rockets shooting off next to the zocalo, and a bandstand was erected for the official evening’s musical entertainment.
St. Patrick’s Day is a celebration in Catholic Mexico. But unlike in the U.S. or U.K., there doesn’t seem to be any connection at all with Ireland, and there isn’t any emphasis on the color green. The only green in town was a few green banners in the church. The Indian dancers dressed in red, and the only time we saw anyone wearing green was on a handful of U.S. tourists decked out in green shirts. We asked them if they were Irish and they laughingly said No.
While searching for a toilet I went into a courtyard next to the church. There, men were preparing a large frame called a Castillo with wicker wheels and strings of fireworks. The Castillo must have been twenty feet long and topped with more wicker contraptions. About 9:00 pm it was pulled into the center of the zocalo, stood up on end, and secured by ropes to light poles. About 10:00 pm yellow tape was stretched from pole to pole, forcing the crowd back from the display. All this was done while brass bands and mariachis played at top volume all around the square, trying to outdo the band on the main stage. We saw and wondered at all the children carrying flattened cardboard boxes around.
On every night of the festival, at 10:30 the music stops and the fireworks begin. The crowd, knowing the routine, oohs and aahs in anticipation and, as on every night of the festival, with minor variations, the Castillo is set afire. The wheels spin in different whirling designs shooting sparks everywhere. The children with the boxes on their heads scurry to stand under the falling sparks, though many more seem oblivious to any danger and race around sans cardboard. As each progressively higher wheel is sent spinning, zigzagging rockets are sent into the crowd which pushes backwards with screams of joy and mock fear. Finally the top of the Castillo is lighted, releasing arms of sparking color and more rockets into the air and the crowds, and a big ball of smoking color is thrown up high into the sky with more fireworks blasting away. When the Castillo’s burden of fire is finally extinguished, kids with wickerwork bulls rigged with more fireworks race through the zocalo. Sparks fly into the crowd which runs in all directions, yelling and shrieking.
Unhappy bystanders like myself reel as young people push every which way as they follow the bulls around the square. Happy bystanders like Ted are busy trying to capture the mayhem on film. Finally, the show over, we make our way back to the hotel and a good night’s sleep. This happens every night through St. Patrick’s Day, when it is all over for another year.
We wandered around town during the days, visiting the beach a few times. At one place we stopped to eat an ice cream dish. One little boy brought his chair as close as he could to Muneca our little poodle. He kept petting her while trying to move in closer. I think he would have loved for us to have given her to him, but I don’t think his mother would have been as pleased.
As all along Mexico’s Pacific coast there are numerous bays of clean sand, sunbathers, and a few swimmers willing to brave the still chilly waters. The only things missing are seashells. Also, there aren’t any clumps of seaweed as in California, just clean sand and surf.
Along the highway the stately Primavera trees with their magnificent sprays of bright yellow flowers dot the valleys.Bougainvillea in purple, red and orange adorn many of the houses and yards. Pink flowers on smaller trees and a few yucca flowers made the whole trip a joy to the eyes. On the way out of Puerto Vallarta we stopped to take pictures of the rocks known as Los Arcos, the arches. As always, travel in Mexico brings fun and adventure.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Puerto Vallarta Day of the Dead
Oct. 2008 Puerto Vallarta
We’ve settled down in Puerto Vallarta for a much needed rest, the end of ten years of wandering around the world. We have a small apartment in a typical Mexican neighborhood with cobblestone streets, little shops, a market and a cemetery. Ted has been busy writing a book about our travels and joined a writer’s group that meets every Saturday. Several published authors are also regulars at the meetings.
One of the first things we did after moving in was to adopt a small dog, a black poodle named Muneca (Spanish for ‘doll’). A cute but not too bright little bundle of excitement.
For awhile we were working with a charitable group that is in the business of teaching underprivileged children math, computer and English. We learned that like all charities, the priority of the charity is to provide money for the organizers and any left over is to provide photo ops for the charity. Unfortunately, the poorest children of the neighborhood aren’t included in the program.
The Day of the Dead celebration is one of Mexico’s most loved celebrations beginning on Oct. 31 and ends on Nov. 2. Several areas of Mexico have become so famous for the celebration that tourists outnumber locals and the celebration is more show than old tradition. Traditional candy skeletons and grotesque masks sell everywhere.
Living across the street from a cemetery we were eagerly awaiting the event. In October the walls around the cemetery were painted bright white trimmed with dark green, providing a new canvas for the graffiti painters. Shrubs in the cemetery were trimmed and paths were raked clean. The cobblestone streets around the cemetery were repaired, and as Oct. 31 approached, crews from the city cleaned up any garbage and litter (the only time we’d ever seen that done in Mexico!)
Inside the cemetery, people wandered solemnly up and down the paths. Others painted the stones and the whole place burst alive with colorful round plastic hangings and paper flowers. Mariachis played from different areas, each trying to out sound the other. One group of quiet chamber musicians played near the back gate, unbothered by the Mariachis or the canned music from the front gate.
Outside the main gate, street shops sold colorful plastic hangings, paper flowers, pots of marigolds and leis. Street vendors set up juice and tamale stands. Nowhere to be found was the skeleton candy or the masks associated with the Day of the Dead in other parts of Mexico. This was a real local celebration without all the glamour of a tourist attraction, cleaning up the stone crosses, the cement slabs, laying pastel remembrances to loved ones and turning the cemetery into a lovely bouquet of life.
We’ve settled down in Puerto Vallarta for a much needed rest, the end of ten years of wandering around the world. We have a small apartment in a typical Mexican neighborhood with cobblestone streets, little shops, a market and a cemetery. Ted has been busy writing a book about our travels and joined a writer’s group that meets every Saturday. Several published authors are also regulars at the meetings.
One of the first things we did after moving in was to adopt a small dog, a black poodle named Muneca (Spanish for ‘doll’). A cute but not too bright little bundle of excitement.
For awhile we were working with a charitable group that is in the business of teaching underprivileged children math, computer and English. We learned that like all charities, the priority of the charity is to provide money for the organizers and any left over is to provide photo ops for the charity. Unfortunately, the poorest children of the neighborhood aren’t included in the program.
The Day of the Dead celebration is one of Mexico’s most loved celebrations beginning on Oct. 31 and ends on Nov. 2. Several areas of Mexico have become so famous for the celebration that tourists outnumber locals and the celebration is more show than old tradition. Traditional candy skeletons and grotesque masks sell everywhere.
Living across the street from a cemetery we were eagerly awaiting the event. In October the walls around the cemetery were painted bright white trimmed with dark green, providing a new canvas for the graffiti painters. Shrubs in the cemetery were trimmed and paths were raked clean. The cobblestone streets around the cemetery were repaired, and as Oct. 31 approached, crews from the city cleaned up any garbage and litter (the only time we’d ever seen that done in Mexico!)
Inside the cemetery, people wandered solemnly up and down the paths. Others painted the stones and the whole place burst alive with colorful round plastic hangings and paper flowers. Mariachis played from different areas, each trying to out sound the other. One group of quiet chamber musicians played near the back gate, unbothered by the Mariachis or the canned music from the front gate.
Outside the main gate, street shops sold colorful plastic hangings, paper flowers, pots of marigolds and leis. Street vendors set up juice and tamale stands. Nowhere to be found was the skeleton candy or the masks associated with the Day of the Dead in other parts of Mexico. This was a real local celebration without all the glamour of a tourist attraction, cleaning up the stone crosses, the cement slabs, laying pastel remembrances to loved ones and turning the cemetery into a lovely bouquet of life.
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
Puerto Vallarta
Puerto Vallarta April to Aug, 2008
After over 28 hours of travel time we arrived at the Puerto Vallarta airport at 9:00 P.M. on Tuesday night. First thing we found out was that there are no carts at the airport. A friendly porter with a large hand cart directed us to the baggage area, told us to wait and he would return after delivering another man to his taxi. Sure enough he did, loaded all our bags and took us to a taxi. The weather when we left Cusco had been cold, in Lima it was moderate but here, it was hot. We were by now carrying heavy winter coats and our heavy shoes, having changed into sandals in the Mexico City airport.
Reservations had been made via e-mail at the Posada Roger, a small hotel were we had stayed some 22 years earlier. As our taxi drove toward the old, old part of the city, now known as the Zona Romantica, we saw new hotels, resorts and buildings where there had been old hotels 10 years before. At the marina, four huge floating cities called cruise ships were docked. We didn’t recognize most of the area along the highway and not until we reached the Central part of the city did we begin to see old familiar sights. The streets are still cobblestone, the cathedral still dominates centro, all the houses are whitewashed with black wrought iron balconies, red and pink geraniums in pots with brilliant bougainvilleas climb over roofs, and the same bad sidewalks can break your leg if you’re not careful. We were beginning to feel comfortable. After dropping off the bags we went in search of food. Most of the tourist spots were open but some were beginning to close. We found substance, then returned to the Posada, fell into bed and slept like the dead.
The next morning we made arrangements to see a couple of apartments owned by the owner of the Posada Roger. One apartment was suitable for a month while we looked for a permanent place. We quickly discovered that the prices for everything had more than doubled in the ten years since we had left.
Ever since Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor had made Puerto Vallarta a tourist mecca in the 1960’s by carrying on their steamy affair, the city has grown. Today there is a large population of both Americans and Canadians living here, a Sam’s Club, Costco and Wal-Mart. Good medical care is available and of course, the beach dominates all. The town is lively with hundreds of sun-burned and half clad tourists walking the streets. The old part of the city has retained its charm and only a few new hi-rise condos have crept in but the hills and the new part have become filled with new and modern building. Condos surround the city, built on the hills rising in back of the old town. Brilliant bougainvillea flowers drip from everything, flame trees with fire red flowers line the streets and the little food stalls still provide tasty food at reasonable prices. Tile roofs top houses and open rooms provide ventilation. Little streets run up and down some very steep hills; parking can be a problem. The Malecon beach walk is still lined with strange sculptures and local artisans display their wares on the sidewalks. Sand sculptures sit on the sand and the air is filled with little, bright colored plastic parachutes dangling little dolls, a child’s version of paragliding.
The one bedroom apartment we rented for the month had a refrigerator and stove, a couple of pans, two plastic dishes with a scattering of spoons and forks. The first things we needed were, obviously, a fry pan, a couple of dishes and some food. We finally found the closest grocery store and stocked up for at least a few days. However, the grocery store doesn’t carry anything but food. Now our quest had to be for a few items to cook the food in and plates to eat from. Across from the Posada a sign taped to a door advertised an “estate sale, Friday and Saturday.” Good place to start. There, we picked up a coffee maker, a blender, and an indoor electric barbecue grill.
While Ted was visiting an internet, I stepped outside and began a conversation with a gentleman who lived permanently in PV (as Puerto Vallarta is known by all expats.) We were interrupted by a passing woman who began to offer lots of advice and information. We exchanged cards and began a friendship. She offered to drive us to visit Costco and Wal-Mart in order to purchase a microwave and assorted pots and pans. She and her roommate also donated towels, plastic containers and assorted kitchen items.
Riding the buses back and forth is still an adventure. Competing buses race down cobblestone streets, weaving back and forth between traffic like sport cars, trying to beat out the other buses and reach the corners first in order to snatch waiting riders. But we noticed, where before the buses had been adorned with red velvet, statues of the virgin and St. Christopher’s medals on the dashboard, dangling rosaries and pictures of the crucifixion, today there is very little of that. A few of the really old buses still have the decorations and religious items which must protect bus, driver and passengers because they look as if they’d been here since before Liz and Dick.
A lovely bridge over a meandering river bed separates the old old town from centro. At one end of the bridge is a restaurant with statues of a barely recognizable Liz and Dick in stone, homage to the people who brought PV to the attention of the world.
As we began to re-explore our new home, we found most of the city as we had left it 9 years before. We walked along the cobblestones, up the high curbs built for the rainy season and found the places of interest. On Fridays, the Mano a Mano, the local classified ads come out and we began looking for a car. We finally found VW Golf, perfect for our needs and gas savvy. Next we started looking for an apartment, always frustrating. The places we would like to have cost more than we can afford and the very cheap ones are usually not fit for living. But finally we found one, a half block from a local market with fresh fruit and vegetables, meat and fish, fresh hot tortillas and pleasant salespeople. Across from the apartment is an old cemetery with typical Mexican funerary houses, crosses and best of all, quiet residents. The main reason we took this place is the magnificent view our 3rd floor apartment affords out over the city and the distant mountains with the seashore to the left and the jungle covered hills on the right.
After locating the apartment, our next job was to travel to the U.S. to retrieve all our belongings that we had sent to our daughter during the ten years of traveling. But before we could go we needed to register the car. That meant that one of us would have to apply for tourist immigration status which takes a month. The tourist immigration we needed is
called an FM3 and in order to get it means at least three trips to the immigration office and can mean many hours standing in line or avoiding the line by arriving at 7:00 a.m.
Finally the FM3 in hand, the car registration done and a spare tire in the back, we were ready to return to the U.S. after our ten years traveling.
As it turned out, by the time we’d spent a month in the U.S. we were more than ready to return to Puerto Vallarta, to cobblestone streets, chickens bringing in the morning and a quieter pace of life. Now settled in our apartment, a new little poodle to share our life, new friends, looking forward to seeing old friends in the coming winter, we are ready to enjoy a quiet life. Neither of us is willing to say we’ll never travel again, but both are ready to stay put for awhile.
After over 28 hours of travel time we arrived at the Puerto Vallarta airport at 9:00 P.M. on Tuesday night. First thing we found out was that there are no carts at the airport. A friendly porter with a large hand cart directed us to the baggage area, told us to wait and he would return after delivering another man to his taxi. Sure enough he did, loaded all our bags and took us to a taxi. The weather when we left Cusco had been cold, in Lima it was moderate but here, it was hot. We were by now carrying heavy winter coats and our heavy shoes, having changed into sandals in the Mexico City airport.
Reservations had been made via e-mail at the Posada Roger, a small hotel were we had stayed some 22 years earlier. As our taxi drove toward the old, old part of the city, now known as the Zona Romantica, we saw new hotels, resorts and buildings where there had been old hotels 10 years before. At the marina, four huge floating cities called cruise ships were docked. We didn’t recognize most of the area along the highway and not until we reached the Central part of the city did we begin to see old familiar sights. The streets are still cobblestone, the cathedral still dominates centro, all the houses are whitewashed with black wrought iron balconies, red and pink geraniums in pots with brilliant bougainvilleas climb over roofs, and the same bad sidewalks can break your leg if you’re not careful. We were beginning to feel comfortable. After dropping off the bags we went in search of food. Most of the tourist spots were open but some were beginning to close. We found substance, then returned to the Posada, fell into bed and slept like the dead.
The next morning we made arrangements to see a couple of apartments owned by the owner of the Posada Roger. One apartment was suitable for a month while we looked for a permanent place. We quickly discovered that the prices for everything had more than doubled in the ten years since we had left.
Ever since Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor had made Puerto Vallarta a tourist mecca in the 1960’s by carrying on their steamy affair, the city has grown. Today there is a large population of both Americans and Canadians living here, a Sam’s Club, Costco and Wal-Mart. Good medical care is available and of course, the beach dominates all. The town is lively with hundreds of sun-burned and half clad tourists walking the streets. The old part of the city has retained its charm and only a few new hi-rise condos have crept in but the hills and the new part have become filled with new and modern building. Condos surround the city, built on the hills rising in back of the old town. Brilliant bougainvillea flowers drip from everything, flame trees with fire red flowers line the streets and the little food stalls still provide tasty food at reasonable prices. Tile roofs top houses and open rooms provide ventilation. Little streets run up and down some very steep hills; parking can be a problem. The Malecon beach walk is still lined with strange sculptures and local artisans display their wares on the sidewalks. Sand sculptures sit on the sand and the air is filled with little, bright colored plastic parachutes dangling little dolls, a child’s version of paragliding.
The one bedroom apartment we rented for the month had a refrigerator and stove, a couple of pans, two plastic dishes with a scattering of spoons and forks. The first things we needed were, obviously, a fry pan, a couple of dishes and some food. We finally found the closest grocery store and stocked up for at least a few days. However, the grocery store doesn’t carry anything but food. Now our quest had to be for a few items to cook the food in and plates to eat from. Across from the Posada a sign taped to a door advertised an “estate sale, Friday and Saturday.” Good place to start. There, we picked up a coffee maker, a blender, and an indoor electric barbecue grill.
While Ted was visiting an internet, I stepped outside and began a conversation with a gentleman who lived permanently in PV (as Puerto Vallarta is known by all expats.) We were interrupted by a passing woman who began to offer lots of advice and information. We exchanged cards and began a friendship. She offered to drive us to visit Costco and Wal-Mart in order to purchase a microwave and assorted pots and pans. She and her roommate also donated towels, plastic containers and assorted kitchen items.
Riding the buses back and forth is still an adventure. Competing buses race down cobblestone streets, weaving back and forth between traffic like sport cars, trying to beat out the other buses and reach the corners first in order to snatch waiting riders. But we noticed, where before the buses had been adorned with red velvet, statues of the virgin and St. Christopher’s medals on the dashboard, dangling rosaries and pictures of the crucifixion, today there is very little of that. A few of the really old buses still have the decorations and religious items which must protect bus, driver and passengers because they look as if they’d been here since before Liz and Dick.
A lovely bridge over a meandering river bed separates the old old town from centro. At one end of the bridge is a restaurant with statues of a barely recognizable Liz and Dick in stone, homage to the people who brought PV to the attention of the world.
As we began to re-explore our new home, we found most of the city as we had left it 9 years before. We walked along the cobblestones, up the high curbs built for the rainy season and found the places of interest. On Fridays, the Mano a Mano, the local classified ads come out and we began looking for a car. We finally found VW Golf, perfect for our needs and gas savvy. Next we started looking for an apartment, always frustrating. The places we would like to have cost more than we can afford and the very cheap ones are usually not fit for living. But finally we found one, a half block from a local market with fresh fruit and vegetables, meat and fish, fresh hot tortillas and pleasant salespeople. Across from the apartment is an old cemetery with typical Mexican funerary houses, crosses and best of all, quiet residents. The main reason we took this place is the magnificent view our 3rd floor apartment affords out over the city and the distant mountains with the seashore to the left and the jungle covered hills on the right.
After locating the apartment, our next job was to travel to the U.S. to retrieve all our belongings that we had sent to our daughter during the ten years of traveling. But before we could go we needed to register the car. That meant that one of us would have to apply for tourist immigration status which takes a month. The tourist immigration we needed is
called an FM3 and in order to get it means at least three trips to the immigration office and can mean many hours standing in line or avoiding the line by arriving at 7:00 a.m.
Finally the FM3 in hand, the car registration done and a spare tire in the back, we were ready to return to the U.S. after our ten years traveling.
As it turned out, by the time we’d spent a month in the U.S. we were more than ready to return to Puerto Vallarta, to cobblestone streets, chickens bringing in the morning and a quieter pace of life. Now settled in our apartment, a new little poodle to share our life, new friends, looking forward to seeing old friends in the coming winter, we are ready to enjoy a quiet life. Neither of us is willing to say we’ll never travel again, but both are ready to stay put for awhile.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Lima, Peru
April 18, 2008 Lima, Peru
In Cusco we had the choice of a good road bus- 36 hours, or an iffy road- 22 hours (if the road was open,) or third- a 1 hour flight to Lima. We took the flight. Our hotel in Lima had sent us instructions for the person waiting to pick us up. “Make sure and check the I.D. number!” I wondered just how many people would be waiting with our name that would hustle us off to God knows where and rob us. Our flight was met by Edwin, with the proper I.D. and soon our entire luggage went into a taxi for the 20 mile ride to the hotel, “Hostel de los Artes” in Central Lima. This turned out to be a charming old hotel with an indoor patio, TV in a common area and free internet. Added bonuses were the private bathroom and a good mattress. Since Lima Centro is inhabited by poorer people, crime can be a problem. At the corner of the block was the Central Police Station and both sides of the street were filled by police eating, talking on mobile phones or just getting their cars washed; the street was very safe.
One thing we’d noticed about Peru was how food was prepared. It is almost never served hot, just room temperature. Buffets can be breeding grounds for bacteria or worse. As a consequence, Ted (who’ll eat almost anything) developed a bit of traveler’s diarrhea. After two days, a few doses of Bactrim soon had him up and about again but with no desire to eat much of anything. The area around the hotel had at least a dozen Chinese restaurants called Chifa restaurants. None of them served food anything like Chinese elsewhere in the world. Bad! Bad! Bad! But cheap. There was one great seafood place where the food was good but relatively expensive. We found one restaurant that served omelets for breakfast, not typical. Peruvians, like most of the people in the world, eat the same things for breakfast, lunch and dinner, all inedible as far as I am concerned.
Lima is a city of 7.5 million people, an old, dirty place with a few lovely plazas and many old buildings built in the old Spanish mode. Since the city has suffered numerous earthquakes, most of the buildings are about 100 years old. Our hotel and other old buildings have signs posted stating Tremor Safe. All over the city there is road construction going on which compounds and creates traffic jams. On the main or large streets there are four lanes of traffic. Buses only in the center two lanes and all other vehicles in the two outside lanes. Drivers prefer to drive at full speed, sliding to a stop only when the light is fully red not merely orange. As soon as the light turns green for the pedestrians, people run across like crabs on a beach, because very quickly the light turns red and the rows of charging cars and buses spring like greyhounds from the gate at the starting bell, honking at any stragglers in the crosswalk. We watched as one person; helping a blind man cross the street, pulled him the last few feet. As the cars careen around corners they blast their horns at all pedestrians crossing. Old and young alike, learn to run crossings. We didn’t actually see any accidents but I assume they pick the bodies up fast so as not to hinder the traffic.
Miraflores, an upscale beach community that long ago merged into Lima proper, is full of lovely homes, large hotels and numerous shopping malls. Burger King’s, Kentucky Fried Chicken, and numerous fast food places. It is lovely, expensive, and bathed by costal fog; cold at this time of year. Cliffs of land butt up to the shore and it is necessary to take a car or taxi down to the water or climb many steps down. The Pacific Ocean is so calm, with only a few swells, not really waves, lapping the shore. Beach sand isn’t sand, it is gravel. A park like area with several soccer courts and a few grassy places has been built on the shore and we watched as groups of soccer players kicked the ball around and a couple of would be surfers tried to ride the swells, such as they are. After wandering around and buying just “one more souvenir,” we returned to Central Lima, the broken sidewalks, lounging people and dirt.
Like all of South America, they love their statues and monuments to heroes of past wars on charging horses and of course, copies of old Greek or Roman figures. We walked around a beautiful park, completely fenced and closed so no one could enter and were reminded of an old joke. This park is yours, no running, no walking on the grass, no pets, no picnicking. Enjoy!
There is a long pedestrian only street between the two main plazas, filled with shops, lovely old buildings, fast food places and hundreds of Lima’s middle class buying or selling wares. It is a poorer version of Florida Street in Buenos Aires. At one end is a lovely park with the Cathedral, the Bishop’s House, a Government Building, a large arched building with museums and other display areas, coffee shops and several Army Tanks with armed military. It is a strange feeling to walk around a grassy park on a warm and beautiful Sunday, families with babies in strollers, lovers kissing, children skating and a tank with armed military on the ready.
Finally after two weeks in Lima, 6 months in South America, and 10 years on the road, it was time to settle down somewhere and return to a somewhat more traditional way of life. So we decided to head for Mexico and Puerto Vallarta.
Our flight from Lima to Puerto Vallarta ended up being over 28 hours mostly spent sitting in airports. The first airline we took was Taca to Bogotá, Colombia, a 2 ½ hour flight, where, for some unknown reason (maybe we looked old and pitiable) we were bumped up to Business Class. Real luxury with food served with wine, real cloth napkins and large and roomy seats. What a difference! Only problem was that, for customs reasons, we had to collect our luggage at the end and go through the entire rigamarole of Colombian customs inspection. We arrived at 12:15 A.M and found an airport with an army of cleaning crew and workmen. The waiting lounge is on the second floor but there are no public elevators and only one, closed, escalator. Behind glass doors there is an elevator for the handicapped and, by then, I felt we qualified. We talked a guard into letting us and our two carts full of luggage use it. We might have been able to sleep away some of the 8 hours there except for the welding, sawing, hammering, and vacuuming being done at night when the airport is nearly empty. In addition, though the temperature outside in Bogotá was near freezing, the A/C was on full blast as well. A handful of travelers, including us, tried to stretch out on the very uncomfortable wooden benches; the floor was more comfortable, at least until the vacuuming crew got to work. One restaurant where they charged the customary ridiculous price of $3.00 for a small bottle of water (like all airports) was open all night.
Finally it was time for the second leg of our journey on Mexicana Airlines to Mexico City, but at least our luggage would be automatically transferred to Puerto Vallarta and not need to be collected by us. But by now, we were carrying our heavy winter coats along with camera bags, assorted other bags, and finally our heavy winter shoes. Leaving Colombia is a chore in itself. First through immigration, then the customary security check where they saw something in my bag. After pulling my bag apart, they searched my little cosmetic bag and found the dangerous weapon, a two inch, hair thin, eyeglass screwdriver that had slipped through un-noticed by all the other airlines. Also, Ted’s two half-used bottles of water were confiscated. Now maybe, if we were terrorists, I could have overpowered the pilot with my mini-screwdriver and Ted could have mixed up some sort of bomb but it really is insane. Next we had to walk through the “screening room” which is a line up of armed police where we were patted down looking for what? That was only the beginning. Passports are checked as we boarded the plane which is logical. But why must we show the passports on exiting the plane? Could we have sneaked on sometime during the flight? Or maybe changed seats with a terrorist somewhere over Colombia?
Finally, after a flight of 5 hours we arrived at our second stop, Mexico City, which has an airport the size of many small towns, all behind glass and no air-conditioning or even a single fan though the temperature here was in the high 80’s. After going through passport control, we walked the several miles to gate 15 for our connecting flight. No signs, no information in any language and no clue about what was going on. After asking a man sitting at an unmarked desk, he sent us on to area “B”. There, everyone on a connecting flight sits around until the flight is announced over the loudspeaker system. It was already quite warm; some could even say “hot” and of course, we were dressed for cold Andean weather. The altitude was causing Ted’s barely calmed intestinal tract to writhe and coil like a ball of snakes in the sun. The eight hours before our next flight slowly crept by; our departure time was scheduled for 8:10 p.m. for arrival time 9:35 in Puerto Vallarta. Each gate at the airport feels like a mile from the next. We couldn’t find out which would be our departure gate until 7:45! I looked at the miles we would have to run, the pile of hand luggage, including the very heavy so called laptop computer, our coats and shoes and Ted trying not to vomit, and arranged for a wheelchair, if not for Ted, then for the stuff we carried. Finally at 7:45 our gate was announced. Gate 27, the last gate, at least five city blocks away with five minutes to board. Ted climbed into the wheelchair and I piled most of our stuff onto him. A young man pushed him as I followed along to the last flight of the day.
Finally we were airborne for an hour long flight. Arriving in Puerto Vallarta at 9:30 pm we had a grand surprise. Baggage claim was only a 2 minute walk from the gate and we didn’t have to go through any kind of customs at all. Also, Ted’s gut had stopped writhing. A short cab ride later and we were at our hotel the Posada de Roger about 28 hours after we’d left our hotel in Lima; the end of our last and single worst, day of traveling in 10 years.
In Cusco we had the choice of a good road bus- 36 hours, or an iffy road- 22 hours (if the road was open,) or third- a 1 hour flight to Lima. We took the flight. Our hotel in Lima had sent us instructions for the person waiting to pick us up. “Make sure and check the I.D. number!” I wondered just how many people would be waiting with our name that would hustle us off to God knows where and rob us. Our flight was met by Edwin, with the proper I.D. and soon our entire luggage went into a taxi for the 20 mile ride to the hotel, “Hostel de los Artes” in Central Lima. This turned out to be a charming old hotel with an indoor patio, TV in a common area and free internet. Added bonuses were the private bathroom and a good mattress. Since Lima Centro is inhabited by poorer people, crime can be a problem. At the corner of the block was the Central Police Station and both sides of the street were filled by police eating, talking on mobile phones or just getting their cars washed; the street was very safe.
One thing we’d noticed about Peru was how food was prepared. It is almost never served hot, just room temperature. Buffets can be breeding grounds for bacteria or worse. As a consequence, Ted (who’ll eat almost anything) developed a bit of traveler’s diarrhea. After two days, a few doses of Bactrim soon had him up and about again but with no desire to eat much of anything. The area around the hotel had at least a dozen Chinese restaurants called Chifa restaurants. None of them served food anything like Chinese elsewhere in the world. Bad! Bad! Bad! But cheap. There was one great seafood place where the food was good but relatively expensive. We found one restaurant that served omelets for breakfast, not typical. Peruvians, like most of the people in the world, eat the same things for breakfast, lunch and dinner, all inedible as far as I am concerned.
Lima is a city of 7.5 million people, an old, dirty place with a few lovely plazas and many old buildings built in the old Spanish mode. Since the city has suffered numerous earthquakes, most of the buildings are about 100 years old. Our hotel and other old buildings have signs posted stating Tremor Safe. All over the city there is road construction going on which compounds and creates traffic jams. On the main or large streets there are four lanes of traffic. Buses only in the center two lanes and all other vehicles in the two outside lanes. Drivers prefer to drive at full speed, sliding to a stop only when the light is fully red not merely orange. As soon as the light turns green for the pedestrians, people run across like crabs on a beach, because very quickly the light turns red and the rows of charging cars and buses spring like greyhounds from the gate at the starting bell, honking at any stragglers in the crosswalk. We watched as one person; helping a blind man cross the street, pulled him the last few feet. As the cars careen around corners they blast their horns at all pedestrians crossing. Old and young alike, learn to run crossings. We didn’t actually see any accidents but I assume they pick the bodies up fast so as not to hinder the traffic.
Miraflores, an upscale beach community that long ago merged into Lima proper, is full of lovely homes, large hotels and numerous shopping malls. Burger King’s, Kentucky Fried Chicken, and numerous fast food places. It is lovely, expensive, and bathed by costal fog; cold at this time of year. Cliffs of land butt up to the shore and it is necessary to take a car or taxi down to the water or climb many steps down. The Pacific Ocean is so calm, with only a few swells, not really waves, lapping the shore. Beach sand isn’t sand, it is gravel. A park like area with several soccer courts and a few grassy places has been built on the shore and we watched as groups of soccer players kicked the ball around and a couple of would be surfers tried to ride the swells, such as they are. After wandering around and buying just “one more souvenir,” we returned to Central Lima, the broken sidewalks, lounging people and dirt.
Like all of South America, they love their statues and monuments to heroes of past wars on charging horses and of course, copies of old Greek or Roman figures. We walked around a beautiful park, completely fenced and closed so no one could enter and were reminded of an old joke. This park is yours, no running, no walking on the grass, no pets, no picnicking. Enjoy!
There is a long pedestrian only street between the two main plazas, filled with shops, lovely old buildings, fast food places and hundreds of Lima’s middle class buying or selling wares. It is a poorer version of Florida Street in Buenos Aires. At one end is a lovely park with the Cathedral, the Bishop’s House, a Government Building, a large arched building with museums and other display areas, coffee shops and several Army Tanks with armed military. It is a strange feeling to walk around a grassy park on a warm and beautiful Sunday, families with babies in strollers, lovers kissing, children skating and a tank with armed military on the ready.
Finally after two weeks in Lima, 6 months in South America, and 10 years on the road, it was time to settle down somewhere and return to a somewhat more traditional way of life. So we decided to head for Mexico and Puerto Vallarta.
Our flight from Lima to Puerto Vallarta ended up being over 28 hours mostly spent sitting in airports. The first airline we took was Taca to Bogotá, Colombia, a 2 ½ hour flight, where, for some unknown reason (maybe we looked old and pitiable) we were bumped up to Business Class. Real luxury with food served with wine, real cloth napkins and large and roomy seats. What a difference! Only problem was that, for customs reasons, we had to collect our luggage at the end and go through the entire rigamarole of Colombian customs inspection. We arrived at 12:15 A.M and found an airport with an army of cleaning crew and workmen. The waiting lounge is on the second floor but there are no public elevators and only one, closed, escalator. Behind glass doors there is an elevator for the handicapped and, by then, I felt we qualified. We talked a guard into letting us and our two carts full of luggage use it. We might have been able to sleep away some of the 8 hours there except for the welding, sawing, hammering, and vacuuming being done at night when the airport is nearly empty. In addition, though the temperature outside in Bogotá was near freezing, the A/C was on full blast as well. A handful of travelers, including us, tried to stretch out on the very uncomfortable wooden benches; the floor was more comfortable, at least until the vacuuming crew got to work. One restaurant where they charged the customary ridiculous price of $3.00 for a small bottle of water (like all airports) was open all night.
Finally it was time for the second leg of our journey on Mexicana Airlines to Mexico City, but at least our luggage would be automatically transferred to Puerto Vallarta and not need to be collected by us. But by now, we were carrying our heavy winter coats along with camera bags, assorted other bags, and finally our heavy winter shoes. Leaving Colombia is a chore in itself. First through immigration, then the customary security check where they saw something in my bag. After pulling my bag apart, they searched my little cosmetic bag and found the dangerous weapon, a two inch, hair thin, eyeglass screwdriver that had slipped through un-noticed by all the other airlines. Also, Ted’s two half-used bottles of water were confiscated. Now maybe, if we were terrorists, I could have overpowered the pilot with my mini-screwdriver and Ted could have mixed up some sort of bomb but it really is insane. Next we had to walk through the “screening room” which is a line up of armed police where we were patted down looking for what? That was only the beginning. Passports are checked as we boarded the plane which is logical. But why must we show the passports on exiting the plane? Could we have sneaked on sometime during the flight? Or maybe changed seats with a terrorist somewhere over Colombia?
Finally, after a flight of 5 hours we arrived at our second stop, Mexico City, which has an airport the size of many small towns, all behind glass and no air-conditioning or even a single fan though the temperature here was in the high 80’s. After going through passport control, we walked the several miles to gate 15 for our connecting flight. No signs, no information in any language and no clue about what was going on. After asking a man sitting at an unmarked desk, he sent us on to area “B”. There, everyone on a connecting flight sits around until the flight is announced over the loudspeaker system. It was already quite warm; some could even say “hot” and of course, we were dressed for cold Andean weather. The altitude was causing Ted’s barely calmed intestinal tract to writhe and coil like a ball of snakes in the sun. The eight hours before our next flight slowly crept by; our departure time was scheduled for 8:10 p.m. for arrival time 9:35 in Puerto Vallarta. Each gate at the airport feels like a mile from the next. We couldn’t find out which would be our departure gate until 7:45! I looked at the miles we would have to run, the pile of hand luggage, including the very heavy so called laptop computer, our coats and shoes and Ted trying not to vomit, and arranged for a wheelchair, if not for Ted, then for the stuff we carried. Finally at 7:45 our gate was announced. Gate 27, the last gate, at least five city blocks away with five minutes to board. Ted climbed into the wheelchair and I piled most of our stuff onto him. A young man pushed him as I followed along to the last flight of the day.
Finally we were airborne for an hour long flight. Arriving in Puerto Vallarta at 9:30 pm we had a grand surprise. Baggage claim was only a 2 minute walk from the gate and we didn’t have to go through any kind of customs at all. Also, Ted’s gut had stopped writhing. A short cab ride later and we were at our hotel the Posada de Roger about 28 hours after we’d left our hotel in Lima; the end of our last and single worst, day of traveling in 10 years.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Peru and Machu Pichu
April 6, 2008
Our first tour was a 9 hour, butt numbing, motion sickness inducing roll down to the Sacred Valley around Cusco. The first stop was at Pisac, a typical Andean village where a Sunday market, all merchants selling the same items, winds its way through the small town and up the hills. Further up the hillside are the ruins, a defense area where the farmers could take cover. The hills are crisscrossed with the old Inca trails which visitors (not us) can walk up and down. At the top of the mountain are several Inca temples, the sun, the moon and other old buildings. Unfortunately, no one knows what all the buildings were originally used for and the names we have were given by the Spanish and may have little or nothing to do with the actual buildings.
The Sacred Valley of The Incas is a wonderfully pastoral place with fields planted and cared for, with grazing cattle, sheep, pigs and llamas, surrounded by snow capped mountains and watered by numerous rivers. The great Urubamba River begins here, rushes madly down to the Amazon basin and eventually feeds into the Amazon River on its way to the Atlantic Ocean. We stopped here, at the town called Urubamba, for a delicious buffet lunch, eating in a lovely garden, warmed by the sun.
On the way up the mountains toward Machu Pichu is the old town of Ollantaytambo, 2600 meters above sea level, (8500 ft.) one of the main defenses of the Inca Empire. It is impressive because it is built going straight up the side of the mountain. Looking around, houses and temples are built on adjoining mountains, half way up the sides. Visitors (again, not us) climb up a very steep hill on pathways set on the terraces. At the top is the temple of the sun, formed by six rectangular monoliths with a weight of 50 tons each. All the stones were brought from a quarry 3 ½ miles away by humans. A very cold wind was blowing and after climbing through a few streets, we took refuge in a restaurant. The last part of the trip consisted of going back to town and the hotel.
On Wednesday we took the city tour, visiting the cathedral built on the bases of the Inca Palace. Some of the palace rooms were incorporated and used to house the clergy. The Spanish were convinced that Spanish construction methods were better than the Indian, so they built the church, courtyard and other rooms in the European manner. The Inca walls were built to form a 15 degree slant and withstood the constant tremors for at least 600 years. A large earthquake in 1650 demolished the church but left the Inca portions undamaged. A second earthquake in 1950 finished off several other churches in the area -and the Inca palace still stands.
About a mile outside and above Cusco are the ruins of Sacsayhuaman (known affectionately as “sexy woman”). Three massive walls running parallel to each other on ever higher levels were laid in 22 zigzags in such a way that any attacker could be detected immediately. The biggest stone is 25 feet tall and weighs 361 tons. According to archeologists, it took an army of 250,000 men to drag the stones, place them and cut and fit all the adjoining stones during the 75 years of construction. Under some of the stones there is a tunnel that connected the walls to the fortress. The name Sacsayhuaman means “head of the Puma”, and from above, it does look like a Puma head with the zigzagging walls being the teeth.
Local Indian women in traditional dress, with a small herd of Llamas and Alpacas will pose for pictures, hoping to get a few cents from visitors. Of course, I had to pet the animals, take pictures and paid my few Soles for the privilege. Alpacas have fuzzy faces and Llamas have clean faces. Both kinds are not as soft as the cleaned and brushed skins for sale in all the shops. And both kinds will spit in your face if you try to get them to do something they don’t want to do, just like their cousins, the camels.
A few miles away and 3715 meters above sea level (12,260 ft.) is the “red fortress”, Pucapucara, an Inca military fort constructed on red earth, with terraces, stairways and enclosures where travelers and their animals could rest.
The last stop was at Tambomachay where the Inca took advantage of natural caves and rock formations to create a cult place dedicated to water with a fountain bubbling out of the hill into three Inca built falls and stone channels.
Our final trip was to the famous Machu Pichu. The first part of the 4 hour train ride was an engineering marvel, a set of remarkable switchbacks which enabled the train to rise several thousand feet from the station in Cusco to the top of the surrounding mountains before plunging down to the Sacred Valley through a series of narrow gorges and defiles cut by the Urubamba River, with sheer cliffs rising on either side for several thousand feet, and the river itself a swirling mass of white water roiling down the precipitous slope and around massive boulders fallen from the heights above.
From Cusco’s elevation of 3700 meters (12000 feet or so), we dropped down to about 2000 meters (6000 feet) into a cloud forest filled with orchids, bromeliads and ferns. It was a rainy day and clouds hid the tops of the mountains; the lushness of the valley as wonderful as any we’d seen in Costa Rica (or anywhere else for that matter). When we finally disembarked in Aguas Calientes it was raining a fine spray. Hundreds of hawkers met the train, each holding rain ponchos in every color possible. We declined the ponchos and boarded a bus for the final climb to the top of the mountain and Machu Pichu, a 30 minute ride winding up more than 2000 feet above the Urubamba river which flowed around between gigantic, roundish peaks, each thousands of feet high and looking like nothing so much as titanic stalactites (or stalagmites, we can never remember which is which.) These peaks are a biological wonder. Isolated from each other, the smaller fauna of each are developing into separate and distinct species.
Arriving at the top we looked for our guide who quickly passed us over to an English speaking guide. Following her through the entrance gate, we worried that we might have to hike some distance but were delighted when a short walk brought us right into the ruins. Looking around at the ruins, some covered by clouds, and then the surrounding mountain tops, one could only stand in awe at the location.
Built sometime around 1400 AD, in an almost inaccessible location, the city was abandoned only about a hundred years later, possibly to make sure that it was never discovered by the Spanish Conquistadores, which it never was, and for 500 years it lay in ruins, overgrown with vegetation and invisible. It wasn’t until July 24, 1911, when the American historian Hiram Bingham, taking a shortcut to the Inca ruin of Vilcabamba, stumbled upon some building stones rising above the jungle. Intrigued, he started digging around – and the rest is history, not to mention Peru’s single biggest moneymaker, hosting 1500 visitors a day and more than 3000 during the high season at an average cost of some $200 per day per visitor, not including hotels, meals, souvenir sales, etc.
The ruins themselves scale right up the mountain with several large buildings perched on adjoining mountains. We followed our guide as she explained that Machu Pichu was only a religious center where about 500 priests lived. The Inca kings lived in Cusco, probably visiting only for religious ceremonies. Of course, this is all rank speculation. To this day, no one really knows what Machu Pichu was really for.
After climbing up and down the ancient stairways to various parts of the ruins, we were completely exhausted and happy to re-board the bus back down to Aguas Calientes and lunch. . We wandered around the small town which seems to be 50% restaurants and 50% souvenir shops. Every thing is set up for the million visitors; clean and orderly. Lunch, a buffet, was good and, now rested and full, we walked back to the station to wait for the train home which, after having seen the ruins, was an interminable 4 hours through the darkness of night.
Our final day in Cusco was spent visiting the beautiful plazas and the charming, narrow, cobblestone streets of the center of town, the large churches around the plazas, the high end shops and the many small tourist shops along the side streets. While we were eating lunch, a group of unhappy workers marched through the streets, around the plaza and finally stood on the city hall steps, calling for something or someone. We never did figure out what they were demanding and after about an hour, they melted away.
Cusco is a very charming city and the tourist industry is very well organized, leaving nothing to chance and ensuring that the visitor has seen it all in comfort. (except for the lack of sufficient oxygen.) Happily though, the next day we boarded our flight to Lima and blessed Sea Level.
Our first tour was a 9 hour, butt numbing, motion sickness inducing roll down to the Sacred Valley around Cusco. The first stop was at Pisac, a typical Andean village where a Sunday market, all merchants selling the same items, winds its way through the small town and up the hills. Further up the hillside are the ruins, a defense area where the farmers could take cover. The hills are crisscrossed with the old Inca trails which visitors (not us) can walk up and down. At the top of the mountain are several Inca temples, the sun, the moon and other old buildings. Unfortunately, no one knows what all the buildings were originally used for and the names we have were given by the Spanish and may have little or nothing to do with the actual buildings.
The Sacred Valley of The Incas is a wonderfully pastoral place with fields planted and cared for, with grazing cattle, sheep, pigs and llamas, surrounded by snow capped mountains and watered by numerous rivers. The great Urubamba River begins here, rushes madly down to the Amazon basin and eventually feeds into the Amazon River on its way to the Atlantic Ocean. We stopped here, at the town called Urubamba, for a delicious buffet lunch, eating in a lovely garden, warmed by the sun.
On the way up the mountains toward Machu Pichu is the old town of Ollantaytambo, 2600 meters above sea level, (8500 ft.) one of the main defenses of the Inca Empire. It is impressive because it is built going straight up the side of the mountain. Looking around, houses and temples are built on adjoining mountains, half way up the sides. Visitors (again, not us) climb up a very steep hill on pathways set on the terraces. At the top is the temple of the sun, formed by six rectangular monoliths with a weight of 50 tons each. All the stones were brought from a quarry 3 ½ miles away by humans. A very cold wind was blowing and after climbing through a few streets, we took refuge in a restaurant. The last part of the trip consisted of going back to town and the hotel.
On Wednesday we took the city tour, visiting the cathedral built on the bases of the Inca Palace. Some of the palace rooms were incorporated and used to house the clergy. The Spanish were convinced that Spanish construction methods were better than the Indian, so they built the church, courtyard and other rooms in the European manner. The Inca walls were built to form a 15 degree slant and withstood the constant tremors for at least 600 years. A large earthquake in 1650 demolished the church but left the Inca portions undamaged. A second earthquake in 1950 finished off several other churches in the area -and the Inca palace still stands.
About a mile outside and above Cusco are the ruins of Sacsayhuaman (known affectionately as “sexy woman”). Three massive walls running parallel to each other on ever higher levels were laid in 22 zigzags in such a way that any attacker could be detected immediately. The biggest stone is 25 feet tall and weighs 361 tons. According to archeologists, it took an army of 250,000 men to drag the stones, place them and cut and fit all the adjoining stones during the 75 years of construction. Under some of the stones there is a tunnel that connected the walls to the fortress. The name Sacsayhuaman means “head of the Puma”, and from above, it does look like a Puma head with the zigzagging walls being the teeth.
Local Indian women in traditional dress, with a small herd of Llamas and Alpacas will pose for pictures, hoping to get a few cents from visitors. Of course, I had to pet the animals, take pictures and paid my few Soles for the privilege. Alpacas have fuzzy faces and Llamas have clean faces. Both kinds are not as soft as the cleaned and brushed skins for sale in all the shops. And both kinds will spit in your face if you try to get them to do something they don’t want to do, just like their cousins, the camels.
A few miles away and 3715 meters above sea level (12,260 ft.) is the “red fortress”, Pucapucara, an Inca military fort constructed on red earth, with terraces, stairways and enclosures where travelers and their animals could rest.
The last stop was at Tambomachay where the Inca took advantage of natural caves and rock formations to create a cult place dedicated to water with a fountain bubbling out of the hill into three Inca built falls and stone channels.
Our final trip was to the famous Machu Pichu. The first part of the 4 hour train ride was an engineering marvel, a set of remarkable switchbacks which enabled the train to rise several thousand feet from the station in Cusco to the top of the surrounding mountains before plunging down to the Sacred Valley through a series of narrow gorges and defiles cut by the Urubamba River, with sheer cliffs rising on either side for several thousand feet, and the river itself a swirling mass of white water roiling down the precipitous slope and around massive boulders fallen from the heights above.
From Cusco’s elevation of 3700 meters (12000 feet or so), we dropped down to about 2000 meters (6000 feet) into a cloud forest filled with orchids, bromeliads and ferns. It was a rainy day and clouds hid the tops of the mountains; the lushness of the valley as wonderful as any we’d seen in Costa Rica (or anywhere else for that matter). When we finally disembarked in Aguas Calientes it was raining a fine spray. Hundreds of hawkers met the train, each holding rain ponchos in every color possible. We declined the ponchos and boarded a bus for the final climb to the top of the mountain and Machu Pichu, a 30 minute ride winding up more than 2000 feet above the Urubamba river which flowed around between gigantic, roundish peaks, each thousands of feet high and looking like nothing so much as titanic stalactites (or stalagmites, we can never remember which is which.) These peaks are a biological wonder. Isolated from each other, the smaller fauna of each are developing into separate and distinct species.
Arriving at the top we looked for our guide who quickly passed us over to an English speaking guide. Following her through the entrance gate, we worried that we might have to hike some distance but were delighted when a short walk brought us right into the ruins. Looking around at the ruins, some covered by clouds, and then the surrounding mountain tops, one could only stand in awe at the location.
Built sometime around 1400 AD, in an almost inaccessible location, the city was abandoned only about a hundred years later, possibly to make sure that it was never discovered by the Spanish Conquistadores, which it never was, and for 500 years it lay in ruins, overgrown with vegetation and invisible. It wasn’t until July 24, 1911, when the American historian Hiram Bingham, taking a shortcut to the Inca ruin of Vilcabamba, stumbled upon some building stones rising above the jungle. Intrigued, he started digging around – and the rest is history, not to mention Peru’s single biggest moneymaker, hosting 1500 visitors a day and more than 3000 during the high season at an average cost of some $200 per day per visitor, not including hotels, meals, souvenir sales, etc.
The ruins themselves scale right up the mountain with several large buildings perched on adjoining mountains. We followed our guide as she explained that Machu Pichu was only a religious center where about 500 priests lived. The Inca kings lived in Cusco, probably visiting only for religious ceremonies. Of course, this is all rank speculation. To this day, no one really knows what Machu Pichu was really for.
After climbing up and down the ancient stairways to various parts of the ruins, we were completely exhausted and happy to re-board the bus back down to Aguas Calientes and lunch. . We wandered around the small town which seems to be 50% restaurants and 50% souvenir shops. Every thing is set up for the million visitors; clean and orderly. Lunch, a buffet, was good and, now rested and full, we walked back to the station to wait for the train home which, after having seen the ruins, was an interminable 4 hours through the darkness of night.
Our final day in Cusco was spent visiting the beautiful plazas and the charming, narrow, cobblestone streets of the center of town, the large churches around the plazas, the high end shops and the many small tourist shops along the side streets. While we were eating lunch, a group of unhappy workers marched through the streets, around the plaza and finally stood on the city hall steps, calling for something or someone. We never did figure out what they were demanding and after about an hour, they melted away.
Cusco is a very charming city and the tourist industry is very well organized, leaving nothing to chance and ensuring that the visitor has seen it all in comfort. (except for the lack of sufficient oxygen.) Happily though, the next day we boarded our flight to Lima and blessed Sea Level.
Bolivia, end
April 3, 2008
Bolivia is a very interesting country geographically, from the Atacama desert, the endless salt flats, Lake Titicaca and finally La Paz, built in an old volcano crater. It has been raped by its powerful neighbors and outside invasions for centuries and has lost more than a third of its land. Today, completely landlocked except for a small corridor to the sea available only on loan from Chile, is dependent on tourists and the income from the illegal drug trade. Rich in natural gas, for some reason, it has refused to sell it internationally. We watched as a long line of Bolivians waited to fill their propane tanks. Propane gas sells for about 75 cents a gallon in Bolivia but a few miles north, in Peru it sells for 15 dollars a gallon so much of the gas is siphoned off to the black market, leaving less for the Bolivians.
The Bolivian air force has planes left over from the Korean War era and if Bolivia should want to purchase a new plane, Chile would take that as an “act of aggression” and line the borders with military personnel. Same for Brazil, Peru and Venezuela. Coca, the main income producing crop in South America, due to the pressures of the US war on drugs, has been moved into an area that is guarded by well armed guerrillas from Venezuela and Colombia, and large swatches of the population are slowly being armed with guns being smuggled in from Venezuela.
Most of the rural population, and those without skills who have moved to the cities, have not progressed in education or sophistication for hundreds of years. Still paying homage to the ancient gods, fearful of cameras and without modern convienieces, they live much as they have for hundreds of years. Throughout the country, there are very few TV antennas. Whole villages are cut off from the modern world.
Those that have moved to the city and found employment are dissatisfied and in La Paz, at least once a day, sometimes three times in a day, the city is brought to a standstill as protestors block main streets with parades or sit down demonstrations called “manifestaciones”. The government has no history of stability with 175 presidents in 175 years and a reputation of corruption, and seems to be unable to make any changes that affect the people positively.
We talked to an older, educated man who lived in Europe for many years, and he is convinced that there will be a civil war within a couple of months and is prepared to defend his home and family with a gun. As I watched the hundreds of tourists climb the hills and shop in the thousands of handicraft shops, I tried to imagine gun fighting, death and destruction in the streets. I couldn’t! That way of life may be real to the people of Iraq or Pakistan, but not to modern Westerners. He also is convinced that the U.S. will send an army down at the first sign of trouble. I’m not so sure. Bolivia is a Christian country and a democracy, so we can’t bring either “the true God” or democratic deliverance to them. As a god-fearing, drug using nation, I don’t think that many Americans would be in favor of another war in a hopeless situation.
To Cusco:
So, with all this on our minds, we left Bolivia, the most interesting country in South America and the cheapest place so far on this continent, and headed into Peru by bus. At the border, everyone disembarked from the bus, walked into the Bolivian immigration office for an exit stamp, walked a few meters more to the Peruvian immigration office and were issued a 90 day visa in about three minutes. The streets of Desaguadero, the border crossing town, were filled with bicycle driven carts, a sort of tuk-tuk as in Asia and India, transporting all manner of items, as well as passengers, around town. In front of the Peruvian immigration office sat a row of money changers busy changing Bolivianos for Soleis, Peruvian money.
As we drove through the country side for the next nine hours, we noticed that most of the village and farm houses had metal roofs, unlike the thatch roofs of Bolivia. Except for that, the houses looked the same. Large farms cut up the valleys and climb the hills, with thousands of grazing sheep and cattle. As we approached Cusco, the landscape changed from the flat plateau to steep, green and lush mountains with the glaciers of the Andes rising behind. Picturesque villages and farms in the valleys with workers in the fields or herding sheep or cows along the side of the road, made for a lovely sight.
However, the roads so far in Peru were dotted with potholes and in need of repair. All along the roads in Bolivia and in Peru, the houses are little cube like structures of raw brick with all the top floors unfinished. Even in La Paz, the houses climbing up the hills were built the same way. Finally reaching Cusco after a 12 hour bus ride we found it to be a modern city with many single family homes, beautiful flower filled yards, pastel stucco with tile roofs and very few rural ladies or street stalls. There are numerous market streets leading off the main boulevard but the boulevard itself is strangely free from tourist shops.
We had contacted a hotel on the internet and they sent someone to the bus terminal to pick us up. Good thing as the hotel isn’t really a hotel, rather a private home on the second floor with five rooms on ground floor, each with private bath, a small heater, a common area with a mini kitchen and two tables with chairs. There is no sign outside and we would never have found it on our own. There is no reception and the owners upstairs were there to greet us. Because we were so tired, they ordered a delivered Pizza. The next day we discovered that many of the restaurants are closed during the day making it difficult to buy lunch. Early in the morning two men from a tour company showed up, giving us information on the available tours. I had marked 9 different ruins that we might be interested in. We signed up for three tours that would take us to each place, including a day trip to Machu Pichu by train. At one time there was a cheap local train to Machu Pichu but that has been discontinued. Today the “backpackers” train costs $99.00 each and the luxury “Vista Dome” costs $148.00 roundtrip. There is an even more luxurious train, the “Hiram Bingham” named for the discoverer of Mach Pichu, which is made up of nothing but dining cars. It also features live music, hot towels when you board, and any kind of gourmet food you’d care to order, prepared by internationally trained chefs. All this for a mere $625. Not bad for a round trip of 8 hours! Also, the entrance fee to the ruins is $50.00 each. Our total cost for three tours: $540.00, still less than the “Hiram Bingham” and that included several meals, bus transfers, and all the entrance fees. The tour man also arranged for our flight tickets from Cusco to Lima. The three tours did include all the ruins and valleys in the area so we were able to see all that we wanted.
First about tourists in Cusco. Over a million tourists visit Cusco every year. The industry is run very efficiently. Someone from the “Visitor’s Information” office is at the bus station or airport to greet arrivals, help with luggage and go with the visitors to their hotel. After seeing them to their rooms, they set up an appointment with the tour companies. Early the next morning, the tour company makes arrangements for visiting each of the ruins and the city tour. The tours could be done without the tour companies but are more difficult and take more time. The tourist busses line up and leave from the Plaza de Armas every few minutes, each full with their load of passengers and a local guide. When the tour is long, meals are included at very nice restaurants. Finally, the tour company sends a taxi for departure from Cusco and the person who greeted the tourist at the bus station is there to see him off at either the bus station or the airport. Everything is arranged to insure that the visitor is comfortable, sees everything and has had ample opportunity to spend lots of money in the local community.
Climbing the surrounding hills, the city itself is very pretty, clean and charming with cobblestone streets, walls made of old Inca stones, lots of eye catching merchandise, friendly people and every class of restaurant possible, lovely gardens with well kept flower plots, fountains sparkling in the sun, impressive old churches and a history complete with greed, power, rape and ravishment. What more could a visitor want, besides, at 12,000 ft., more oxygen!
There are four classes of visitors. First the “do it themselves” backpackers who go on local buses and arrange lodging on the fly. Most of them end up on the arranged tours anyway. Second are those, like us, who stay in budget hotels and take the Backpackers train and all the tours. Third are those with more cash who take the Vistadome train, and finally those with gobs of money who stay in the 5 star hotels and take the “Hiram Bingham Train” at $625 a day, per person.
The Inca Ruins.
The Incas themselves were late comers in the New World, lasting only a hundred years before the Spanish arrived. Compared with the Aztecs and the Mayans, they were less advanced. They didn’t develop writing or as fine an architecture but had gold and silver in abundance. They had developed a good army and controlled a huge area from Ecuador to Chile, always having to defend themselves from the fierce Indians of the Amazon Basin.
As far as archeologists can determine, they had a religion full of myths, mysticisms and miracles, not too unlike the religion brought over by the Spaniards with a belief in the afterlife. Indian tribes that had been conquered by the Incas were more than willing to join the Spanish and overthrow the hated rulers. But like the Indians to the north, they knew excellent real estate. The locations of the cities are some of the most beautiful in the world, from large food producing plateaus to tropical rainforest valleys to breathtaking heights. A vast network of paths and troops of runners insured fresh fish from the sea and rivers, produce from many different locations, and gold aplenty to decorate themselves and their houses. All these places had been inhabited for centuries by different Indian farming tribes who hadn’t developed armies capable of defending themselves from the Incas. Only the fierce, head hunting Indians in the jungles could or did resist.
The Inca rulers lived in Cusco, in a large valley surrounded by vast growing areas. Since they imported so much, a network of relay stations was developed, each about 6 miles apart, the distance a runner could make easily where another runner would take over. Llamas did most of the transport but unlike donkeys, would not carry heavy loads so necessitated many animals. Llamas also provided food and warm clothing.
The buildings of un-mortared stones, some weighing over 50 tons each, had to be quarried and transported by human effort. These huge stones made up the bases of the walls. The higher up the wall construction went, the smaller the stones and these were worked into more or less square shapes without the use of metal tools. The magnificent walls with huge rocks were built in the valleys taking advantage of natural outcroppings and caves. Most of the defensive walls were built in the Cusco valley, some with three sets of walls as high as 50 feet. The better, square cut stones, were later pillaged and used by the Spanish to construct the churches and homes they built in Cusco and other towns. One marvels at the incredible workmanship which fit the stones together so closely that mortar was not needed; which was a good thing since they never invented it.
What they did invent, though, was a system of building which canted the walls at a 15 degree angle to each other, perfect for preventing collapse during the frequently violent earthquakes which pummel the region regularly. In many places, you can see where the stones have separated, often leaving large gaps between, yet the walls have remained standing.
Bolivia is a very interesting country geographically, from the Atacama desert, the endless salt flats, Lake Titicaca and finally La Paz, built in an old volcano crater. It has been raped by its powerful neighbors and outside invasions for centuries and has lost more than a third of its land. Today, completely landlocked except for a small corridor to the sea available only on loan from Chile, is dependent on tourists and the income from the illegal drug trade. Rich in natural gas, for some reason, it has refused to sell it internationally. We watched as a long line of Bolivians waited to fill their propane tanks. Propane gas sells for about 75 cents a gallon in Bolivia but a few miles north, in Peru it sells for 15 dollars a gallon so much of the gas is siphoned off to the black market, leaving less for the Bolivians.
The Bolivian air force has planes left over from the Korean War era and if Bolivia should want to purchase a new plane, Chile would take that as an “act of aggression” and line the borders with military personnel. Same for Brazil, Peru and Venezuela. Coca, the main income producing crop in South America, due to the pressures of the US war on drugs, has been moved into an area that is guarded by well armed guerrillas from Venezuela and Colombia, and large swatches of the population are slowly being armed with guns being smuggled in from Venezuela.
Most of the rural population, and those without skills who have moved to the cities, have not progressed in education or sophistication for hundreds of years. Still paying homage to the ancient gods, fearful of cameras and without modern convienieces, they live much as they have for hundreds of years. Throughout the country, there are very few TV antennas. Whole villages are cut off from the modern world.
Those that have moved to the city and found employment are dissatisfied and in La Paz, at least once a day, sometimes three times in a day, the city is brought to a standstill as protestors block main streets with parades or sit down demonstrations called “manifestaciones”. The government has no history of stability with 175 presidents in 175 years and a reputation of corruption, and seems to be unable to make any changes that affect the people positively.
We talked to an older, educated man who lived in Europe for many years, and he is convinced that there will be a civil war within a couple of months and is prepared to defend his home and family with a gun. As I watched the hundreds of tourists climb the hills and shop in the thousands of handicraft shops, I tried to imagine gun fighting, death and destruction in the streets. I couldn’t! That way of life may be real to the people of Iraq or Pakistan, but not to modern Westerners. He also is convinced that the U.S. will send an army down at the first sign of trouble. I’m not so sure. Bolivia is a Christian country and a democracy, so we can’t bring either “the true God” or democratic deliverance to them. As a god-fearing, drug using nation, I don’t think that many Americans would be in favor of another war in a hopeless situation.
To Cusco:
So, with all this on our minds, we left Bolivia, the most interesting country in South America and the cheapest place so far on this continent, and headed into Peru by bus. At the border, everyone disembarked from the bus, walked into the Bolivian immigration office for an exit stamp, walked a few meters more to the Peruvian immigration office and were issued a 90 day visa in about three minutes. The streets of Desaguadero, the border crossing town, were filled with bicycle driven carts, a sort of tuk-tuk as in Asia and India, transporting all manner of items, as well as passengers, around town. In front of the Peruvian immigration office sat a row of money changers busy changing Bolivianos for Soleis, Peruvian money.
As we drove through the country side for the next nine hours, we noticed that most of the village and farm houses had metal roofs, unlike the thatch roofs of Bolivia. Except for that, the houses looked the same. Large farms cut up the valleys and climb the hills, with thousands of grazing sheep and cattle. As we approached Cusco, the landscape changed from the flat plateau to steep, green and lush mountains with the glaciers of the Andes rising behind. Picturesque villages and farms in the valleys with workers in the fields or herding sheep or cows along the side of the road, made for a lovely sight.
However, the roads so far in Peru were dotted with potholes and in need of repair. All along the roads in Bolivia and in Peru, the houses are little cube like structures of raw brick with all the top floors unfinished. Even in La Paz, the houses climbing up the hills were built the same way. Finally reaching Cusco after a 12 hour bus ride we found it to be a modern city with many single family homes, beautiful flower filled yards, pastel stucco with tile roofs and very few rural ladies or street stalls. There are numerous market streets leading off the main boulevard but the boulevard itself is strangely free from tourist shops.
We had contacted a hotel on the internet and they sent someone to the bus terminal to pick us up. Good thing as the hotel isn’t really a hotel, rather a private home on the second floor with five rooms on ground floor, each with private bath, a small heater, a common area with a mini kitchen and two tables with chairs. There is no sign outside and we would never have found it on our own. There is no reception and the owners upstairs were there to greet us. Because we were so tired, they ordered a delivered Pizza. The next day we discovered that many of the restaurants are closed during the day making it difficult to buy lunch. Early in the morning two men from a tour company showed up, giving us information on the available tours. I had marked 9 different ruins that we might be interested in. We signed up for three tours that would take us to each place, including a day trip to Machu Pichu by train. At one time there was a cheap local train to Machu Pichu but that has been discontinued. Today the “backpackers” train costs $99.00 each and the luxury “Vista Dome” costs $148.00 roundtrip. There is an even more luxurious train, the “Hiram Bingham” named for the discoverer of Mach Pichu, which is made up of nothing but dining cars. It also features live music, hot towels when you board, and any kind of gourmet food you’d care to order, prepared by internationally trained chefs. All this for a mere $625. Not bad for a round trip of 8 hours! Also, the entrance fee to the ruins is $50.00 each. Our total cost for three tours: $540.00, still less than the “Hiram Bingham” and that included several meals, bus transfers, and all the entrance fees. The tour man also arranged for our flight tickets from Cusco to Lima. The three tours did include all the ruins and valleys in the area so we were able to see all that we wanted.
First about tourists in Cusco. Over a million tourists visit Cusco every year. The industry is run very efficiently. Someone from the “Visitor’s Information” office is at the bus station or airport to greet arrivals, help with luggage and go with the visitors to their hotel. After seeing them to their rooms, they set up an appointment with the tour companies. Early the next morning, the tour company makes arrangements for visiting each of the ruins and the city tour. The tours could be done without the tour companies but are more difficult and take more time. The tourist busses line up and leave from the Plaza de Armas every few minutes, each full with their load of passengers and a local guide. When the tour is long, meals are included at very nice restaurants. Finally, the tour company sends a taxi for departure from Cusco and the person who greeted the tourist at the bus station is there to see him off at either the bus station or the airport. Everything is arranged to insure that the visitor is comfortable, sees everything and has had ample opportunity to spend lots of money in the local community.
Climbing the surrounding hills, the city itself is very pretty, clean and charming with cobblestone streets, walls made of old Inca stones, lots of eye catching merchandise, friendly people and every class of restaurant possible, lovely gardens with well kept flower plots, fountains sparkling in the sun, impressive old churches and a history complete with greed, power, rape and ravishment. What more could a visitor want, besides, at 12,000 ft., more oxygen!
There are four classes of visitors. First the “do it themselves” backpackers who go on local buses and arrange lodging on the fly. Most of them end up on the arranged tours anyway. Second are those, like us, who stay in budget hotels and take the Backpackers train and all the tours. Third are those with more cash who take the Vistadome train, and finally those with gobs of money who stay in the 5 star hotels and take the “Hiram Bingham Train” at $625 a day, per person.
The Inca Ruins.
The Incas themselves were late comers in the New World, lasting only a hundred years before the Spanish arrived. Compared with the Aztecs and the Mayans, they were less advanced. They didn’t develop writing or as fine an architecture but had gold and silver in abundance. They had developed a good army and controlled a huge area from Ecuador to Chile, always having to defend themselves from the fierce Indians of the Amazon Basin.
As far as archeologists can determine, they had a religion full of myths, mysticisms and miracles, not too unlike the religion brought over by the Spaniards with a belief in the afterlife. Indian tribes that had been conquered by the Incas were more than willing to join the Spanish and overthrow the hated rulers. But like the Indians to the north, they knew excellent real estate. The locations of the cities are some of the most beautiful in the world, from large food producing plateaus to tropical rainforest valleys to breathtaking heights. A vast network of paths and troops of runners insured fresh fish from the sea and rivers, produce from many different locations, and gold aplenty to decorate themselves and their houses. All these places had been inhabited for centuries by different Indian farming tribes who hadn’t developed armies capable of defending themselves from the Incas. Only the fierce, head hunting Indians in the jungles could or did resist.
The Inca rulers lived in Cusco, in a large valley surrounded by vast growing areas. Since they imported so much, a network of relay stations was developed, each about 6 miles apart, the distance a runner could make easily where another runner would take over. Llamas did most of the transport but unlike donkeys, would not carry heavy loads so necessitated many animals. Llamas also provided food and warm clothing.
The buildings of un-mortared stones, some weighing over 50 tons each, had to be quarried and transported by human effort. These huge stones made up the bases of the walls. The higher up the wall construction went, the smaller the stones and these were worked into more or less square shapes without the use of metal tools. The magnificent walls with huge rocks were built in the valleys taking advantage of natural outcroppings and caves. Most of the defensive walls were built in the Cusco valley, some with three sets of walls as high as 50 feet. The better, square cut stones, were later pillaged and used by the Spanish to construct the churches and homes they built in Cusco and other towns. One marvels at the incredible workmanship which fit the stones together so closely that mortar was not needed; which was a good thing since they never invented it.
What they did invent, though, was a system of building which canted the walls at a 15 degree angle to each other, perfect for preventing collapse during the frequently violent earthquakes which pummel the region regularly. In many places, you can see where the stones have separated, often leaving large gaps between, yet the walls have remained standing.
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