Chile! We thought not to make it this far, but- oh! yes we have. It is a glorious place (all 15 km I have so far explored). With a lot of trouble, we took a rickety old, wooden train from Tacna, Peru to Arica, Chile last night. The locals were mighty hesitant to let us aboard and tried many distractions as reasons for us not to purchase our tarjetas. However, after much persistance, hours, help from the local tourist agency, and depression (since we had traveled hundreds of miles and spent much money for this purpose) we finally succeeded in our 7th form of crossing borders.
Among these methods are: by plane to Guatemala (not very original), by shuttle into Honduras (not reccomended), by bus through Nicaragua and into Costa Rica (mediocre), by sail boat to Cartegena, Colombia (eventful), by foot into Ecuador (surprisingly easy), and by Riverboat into Peru (exceptional).
In the hustle of tourism in Miaflores I felt constantly flustered, confused, and lost. Manuel was sick with the after effects of bad food and dehydration, and the only thing I remotely enjoyed was the small freedom of roaming a foreign city on my own for the first time. I chatted with many artesan merchants, bought a few things I didnt really want (urgh), and was constantly romanced by Peruvian men. After four nights of this, and with the completion of St. Patrick´s day festivities, we had a plan. To take a bus to Pisco (South, on the coast of the Pan American highway) and then hop another bus to Santa Ines, half way East towards Ayacucho. From there we wanted to take the back roads South-East towards Cuzco, and hopefully bipass the Santa Semana maddness. Turns out, we were shit outta luck.
Pisco has had a devestating Earthquake. It is littered with refuges and rubble. Everything in it has tumbled down. And there are no morning buses towards Ayacucho. And we got food poisening, again.
So we jumped a Southbound bus to Ica (thanks for the pills Debbie!), then another (running after it, then jumping, actually). Ended up in Nasca. Not such a bad town. Blistering hot, with dark rocks of desert, mountains, and the infamos Nasca lineos. We stayed at The Way Inn with pretty piscina, yummy frutas desayuno, and very friendly staff (whom I expect had a bit of desert spirit and magic in their blood). We bypassed the offers of flying over the desert with a tour guide, and instead opted to see the lines from the mirador built by a woman who dedicated her life to decocding the reason behind these massive works of art. As it was now the end of Semana Santa buses were becoming difficult to come by, and we ended up paying Colombia standard fees to 15 hour journey to Arequipa, the Southernmost large city of Peru.
The bus was not clean of course, and the service was not accountable for our outragesly priced tickets, but in a way it was fortunate to awake throughout the night as the full moon was reflecting along the coastal desert beach. Illuninating the crash of waves upon the red sand in the still and lonely looking night.
After a lengthy and loud dissagreement with the PERRA at Tambo Viejo hostel (NOT RECCOMMENDED), we found ourselves wandering cluster-fucked streets of Easter touristos in the heart of Arequipa. Then came upon the Hostal Regis, with friendly enough Peruvian host in a four story victorean house. It was prime spot to ignore our hell of being stuck in a city overrun with shoppers and religious fanatics. It was also a beautiful veiw of the nightly procession of Jesus on the cross, the local preist and accomplises, and the Virgen Mary and the whole town of morning locals and candles.
It was another six hour journey across the desert to Tacna, at the border of Chile, a pleasant enough town where we enjoyed our afternoon Easter feast of Chocolate cake and Pina Coladas to the waitress´s tsk tsk tsking. There is a nice Plaza de Armas, with fountains and vine covering canopies. And the 5 sole train museum is absolutly wonderful as I got to climb around on decomposing cabooses and box cars; Peek inside 1930´s dining cars; Open the coal gate to the steam engines; I even found a rotting cat (but I dont think that was part of the display).
Upon our entry into Chile, I immediately noticed the change in scenery. The rocks of the desert were bigger, the ocean flowed nearby, and the peublos bordering Arica are much more enchanting. Instead of the dusty, half- finished haze of concrete, and protruding-skyward steel rods, of Peruvian villages: there were grids of widely spaced picket fenses. The houses had rooftops, and there were gardens, channels of palm trees, eucalyptus, and and flourish of hibiscus flowers in every color!
The Peruvian woman across from me in the tiny passenger carriage, made me well aware of the nightmarish culture I was fleeing; With her disapproving sneer, and overly dramatic protest to my knee against her skirt, and refusal to awknowledge my existence with my initial attempt at ¨Hola¨. Immigration was done at the train stations, so everything went fairly smoothly (aside from Uely-s missing tourist card, found only a little late) and we were out on our first Chilean street before dark.
We marched across the highway a little apprehensive (since someone had stolen 100 soles from me amidst the chaos of the mornings train station attempt) and flagged a taxi driver. We have very little information on Chile (aside from my own hurried notes jotted down off other traveler´s blogs), let alone any understanding of the city Arica´s layout. The Cabbie was extremely kind (as has been every Chilean cabbie since), and when I pointed to my scrawled handwriting and simultaneaously pronouced , ¨Calle Maipu o Sotomayor, Por favor¨, he was kind enough to let us know that we needed no taxi and pointed us the 2 blocks in the right direction. We stomped along, hustling for fear of the darkness approaching, and found ourselves as audience to yet another kind Chilean. Upon our remark of ¨muy caro, neccesito 5 mil para noche¨to her US dolar priced establishment, she recommended us to a Hostel Americanas not half a block down the street. It is a colorful, fair priced, family-run establishment with cocina, television (yeah, starting to miss that stuff again), and hot water in a private bathroom. My reccomendations.
In our first hour of exploring Chile we had already encountered more friendly, helpful, and caring people than our full month stay in Peru (excluding the Jungle which is farther from civilisation and a different region from Peru in my mind). There is a wonderful balance of tipico style restaurantes and markets in Arica, juxtaposed by a full walking strip -free of cars- and lively with European style cafes, streep performers and and salads galore! It is such a shame that our return ticket is out of Lima, as we are down to 2 weeks remaining until departure, and not one tiny bone in my body wants to set foot back in Peru (despite having skipped the renouned Inca cities of Cuzco and Macchu Picchu).
Showing posts with label Miaflores. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Miaflores. Show all posts
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Saturday, March 15, 2008
Trails End
Only moments ago I stepped into the raucous of Lima, Peru. After adventuring in the jungle for nearly a month, being back on a bus for fifteen hours was tortuous. Ah! The crisp fresh air of a lancha at sunrise, and the beauty of lightning storms through plump la selva clouds. The monotony of hiking through mud ridden- mosquito infested forest, and coursing back and forth over flooder river terrain. We were paddled up stream though one of the longest rains of Lagunas ´reckoning. Seven straight hours the drops pelted out of the sky, natives conjecturing, ¨mucho lluga, mucho!¨and then smiling at me listfully with the pride of the forest in their forceps and mind.
We left Iquitos on a Thursday evening after spending the previous night on the town with my friend Nara (a local to Iquitos whom I met on the Rio Napo) walking the Plaza de Armas, admiring the fountains along the river, feigning some interest in street performers and Michael Jackson impersonations, and questing through the Artisans market for an old shaman with porcupine quills and Siete Reices. We feasted upon a tipica jungle chicken dinner, fire roasted and served with a multitude of sauces. Then, later a welcomed visit with her family. Sitting in the dirt on a noisy sidestreet in the warm late night air. Discussing English and Spanish phrases, a tearful goodbye amongst a friendly invite to return with full lodging and meals included. Then, spending Thursday fully stocking up for a pleasant boat trip downstream to the small village of Lagunas on the border of the Picaya-Samiria reserve.
We had Uely´s daybag stocked on rum, local beverages, pineapple juice, peanut butter, jam, knife, lighters, bowls, cups from Popayan, spoons, my mother´s spanish dictionary from college, our South American Handbook for inspiration, and his journal for memories sake. We lounged quite giddy and content, as this boat was a palace compared to the one on the Napo. It towered a full story higher, and another lancha longer. It had space enough for my stretching and dancing in the early mornings. The bathrooms were usuable and there were even shower heads.
Then-
IT WAS GONE. From right under our hammocks. Urgh. Rattas. Theifs. Everyone around us saw it happen, and no one said a thing. Shrugging their shoulders, laughing at my horrid gringa-speak as I inquired, ¨Rattas tomar nos bolsa- Por que no dices me?¨Not a friend in sight.
Hence, a grim, but adventurous journey to Lagunas, we spent our time trying not to sulk as we kept full guard over our remaining belongings and shared a melancholy mediocre book for distraction. And tried not to think about Uely´s irreplaceable journal and the Peurto Rico rum that walked away (it is a brilliant solution to killing whatever lives in the river water cuisine served on board). Also, we had positioned our hammocks on the top deck with only a tarp cover above us. The nightly storms raged at all angles, and we were glad to have our luggage wrapped in a heavy duty garbage bag with 15 liters of water on top for better keeping.
We found ourselves in Lagunas late Saturday night, and were immediately befriended by Clever, who happened to not only have been raised in an indigenous village in the surrounding jungle but was wise with medicinal knowledge carried on from his father. We hired him as our guide a very agreeable rate that is unheard of in Iquitos. He took us into the forest for three days and two nights. Which was more than enough time for me in the deep jungle. Mostly because I got another bout of food poisoning. Can you imagine the misery of my being sick on a tiny three person paddle boat for 6 hours? Yet, this was still an experience to remember the rest of my life.
The beauty of the small silent crevices penetrated by the slow dipping tempo of the wooden paddles. The bright jungle birds, large eagles, black vultures, soaring in the air. Plantain palms, huge Ceiba trees, root masses protruding out of vines and flourishing like chunks of snarled witch hair in the water current. The brown river growing steadily higher, the night sky overreaching our heads, the sky lighting up with thunder. The exotic smells and sounds of unhindered wilderness. Monkeys of their many sizes colors and shapes constantly darted through the treetops. Us- turning our heads at the sound of kerrrrpluunck! and crrrraack! to see them stuffing their faces in sublime satisfaction of lazy siesta haze. The constant threat of piranhas swimming in swarms below. The caimen, turtles, tarantulas, and oh yes- about fifty varieties of mosquitoes. There were the obstinately hungry ones, appearing like those in California, yet more vicious and desperate. Cunningly clever in their achievements on my flesh. Then in the heat of the afternoon they flew grandly about my face in hysteria. Larger, with bright blue and yellow coloring. The evenings were infiltrated by armies of these beasts in every shape and size. My legs are quite a pocked wonder.
Clever, I think, was sad to see us go, though his ego said otherwise to his friends and family. Small side gestures and laughing of ¨touristas¨¨gringos¨you´d think I would be used to it by now. However, Clever decided to join us at the docks with rum and mandarin treats. He saw us off like a true Father figure, helping with our bags, waving, and one last offering for aiuawska, which we have not partook in.
Uely had decided to splurge and surprised me with first class tickets to Yurimaguas. A whole new world with dinner served at a table with plates and cutlery, even tea cups. We decided it would be best to make headway for Lima as we are missing some futile supplies (try hiking through a hot, dusty foreign town slum with no address of where to go, and taxi drivers who cant understand your accent ¨hospedaje-hotel-hostel-residencia-resturante-catedral, por favor?¨). The journey to Lima was not uneventful. However, the only part I feel worth mentioning is the collectivo from Yurimaguas to Tarapoto.
The usual- being pulled by multiple persons in different directions before I have even climbed out of the tiny motortaxi. "Tarapoto!Tarapoto!Tarapoto!Tarapoto!" they exclaim. I give a tiny, discreet nod of my head, while glancing sideways to see what Uely makes of this. We had been headed for a bus station....Our bags are hoisted- flung- onto the top of a pile of other cargo. The usual chickens, parrots, cola, and square-plaid-waterproof bag covers. One man even carries baby turtles in his pockets, which he occasionally spits on for comfort. The children are gathered around him, guessing prices he might fetch for them at market in Tarapoto. The drive is somewhat paved to begin with, but our truck was not in such good condition. There was first a long wait for someone willing to pay twice as much for indoor seating before we could leave, then a flat tire, then another half hour wait for the construction of a toll booth. Then an hour and a half stop to replace the damaged tire in some small sleepy jungle town with an excellent restaurant that actually served us beans! All this in the first 60km.
On the road again- no more pavement now, though there is definite progress underway as the construction was so fresh the red dirt wasnt even a smidgen compacted on the ´roadway´.´We twisted and turned, I practicing patience, bending my knees to keep steady on the bumps and twists, reminding myself that I was about to embark on a series of bus journeys, so I should be ecstatic that I am doing pli`es in the back of a dusty Toyota pickup truck. The canyons stretch a good 100 feet below us in a flurry of green and red jungle abyss. Above was the other 200 feet of mountain about to crumble back down and heal her wounds. I could hear my Dad telling me no when I was five, ¨no, it isn't safe to ride in the back of a truck.¨ The beauty of tropical waterfalls falling through the roadways, under makeshift cement bridges, then cascading the rest of its way down the canyonside. All around, the rich red earth freshly exposed and breathing the misting sun spotted air. Out ahead, a long caravan of traffic; Many collectivo pickups, vans, freighter trucks with multiple cars too large for California laws; A flourishing rainbow of bananas, red jungle fruits, Peruvians, soda pop, and personal baggage in baskets, coffee sacks, and bamboo structures. If only I had my camera ready and also a third hand- to steady the jostle! Past every group of construction workers a large holler, whistle, ¨hey! Gringa!¨Uely got a ¨Buy a sombrero¨ for his T shades in harsh, vowel-laden, Peru-Inglais. I griped the unsteady rail so hard that I got blisters, yet found myself safe and bored in a dusty dry town called Tarapoto before two in the afternoon.
Two long bus rides overnight, and lot of waiting, and additional hassle having no guidebook for addresses to give cabbies, I now find myself in a gringo infested abode in the heart of Miaflores, Peru. Here is where there are DVDs, internet, traffic, and bitchy girls who give me smack for ordering a beer at one in the afternoon. As if I know what time it is after all that! Heh.
We left Iquitos on a Thursday evening after spending the previous night on the town with my friend Nara (a local to Iquitos whom I met on the Rio Napo) walking the Plaza de Armas, admiring the fountains along the river, feigning some interest in street performers and Michael Jackson impersonations, and questing through the Artisans market for an old shaman with porcupine quills and Siete Reices. We feasted upon a tipica jungle chicken dinner, fire roasted and served with a multitude of sauces. Then, later a welcomed visit with her family. Sitting in the dirt on a noisy sidestreet in the warm late night air. Discussing English and Spanish phrases, a tearful goodbye amongst a friendly invite to return with full lodging and meals included. Then, spending Thursday fully stocking up for a pleasant boat trip downstream to the small village of Lagunas on the border of the Picaya-Samiria reserve.
We had Uely´s daybag stocked on rum, local beverages, pineapple juice, peanut butter, jam, knife, lighters, bowls, cups from Popayan, spoons, my mother´s spanish dictionary from college, our South American Handbook for inspiration, and his journal for memories sake. We lounged quite giddy and content, as this boat was a palace compared to the one on the Napo. It towered a full story higher, and another lancha longer. It had space enough for my stretching and dancing in the early mornings. The bathrooms were usuable and there were even shower heads.
Then-
IT WAS GONE. From right under our hammocks. Urgh. Rattas. Theifs. Everyone around us saw it happen, and no one said a thing. Shrugging their shoulders, laughing at my horrid gringa-speak as I inquired, ¨Rattas tomar nos bolsa- Por que no dices me?¨Not a friend in sight.
Hence, a grim, but adventurous journey to Lagunas, we spent our time trying not to sulk as we kept full guard over our remaining belongings and shared a melancholy mediocre book for distraction. And tried not to think about Uely´s irreplaceable journal and the Peurto Rico rum that walked away (it is a brilliant solution to killing whatever lives in the river water cuisine served on board). Also, we had positioned our hammocks on the top deck with only a tarp cover above us. The nightly storms raged at all angles, and we were glad to have our luggage wrapped in a heavy duty garbage bag with 15 liters of water on top for better keeping.
We found ourselves in Lagunas late Saturday night, and were immediately befriended by Clever, who happened to not only have been raised in an indigenous village in the surrounding jungle but was wise with medicinal knowledge carried on from his father. We hired him as our guide a very agreeable rate that is unheard of in Iquitos. He took us into the forest for three days and two nights. Which was more than enough time for me in the deep jungle. Mostly because I got another bout of food poisoning. Can you imagine the misery of my being sick on a tiny three person paddle boat for 6 hours? Yet, this was still an experience to remember the rest of my life.
The beauty of the small silent crevices penetrated by the slow dipping tempo of the wooden paddles. The bright jungle birds, large eagles, black vultures, soaring in the air. Plantain palms, huge Ceiba trees, root masses protruding out of vines and flourishing like chunks of snarled witch hair in the water current. The brown river growing steadily higher, the night sky overreaching our heads, the sky lighting up with thunder. The exotic smells and sounds of unhindered wilderness. Monkeys of their many sizes colors and shapes constantly darted through the treetops. Us- turning our heads at the sound of kerrrrpluunck! and crrrraack! to see them stuffing their faces in sublime satisfaction of lazy siesta haze. The constant threat of piranhas swimming in swarms below. The caimen, turtles, tarantulas, and oh yes- about fifty varieties of mosquitoes. There were the obstinately hungry ones, appearing like those in California, yet more vicious and desperate. Cunningly clever in their achievements on my flesh. Then in the heat of the afternoon they flew grandly about my face in hysteria. Larger, with bright blue and yellow coloring. The evenings were infiltrated by armies of these beasts in every shape and size. My legs are quite a pocked wonder.
Clever, I think, was sad to see us go, though his ego said otherwise to his friends and family. Small side gestures and laughing of ¨touristas¨¨gringos¨you´d think I would be used to it by now. However, Clever decided to join us at the docks with rum and mandarin treats. He saw us off like a true Father figure, helping with our bags, waving, and one last offering for aiuawska, which we have not partook in.
Uely had decided to splurge and surprised me with first class tickets to Yurimaguas. A whole new world with dinner served at a table with plates and cutlery, even tea cups. We decided it would be best to make headway for Lima as we are missing some futile supplies (try hiking through a hot, dusty foreign town slum with no address of where to go, and taxi drivers who cant understand your accent ¨hospedaje-hotel-hostel-residencia-resturante-catedral, por favor?¨). The journey to Lima was not uneventful. However, the only part I feel worth mentioning is the collectivo from Yurimaguas to Tarapoto.
The usual- being pulled by multiple persons in different directions before I have even climbed out of the tiny motortaxi. "Tarapoto!Tarapoto!Tarapoto!Tarapoto!" they exclaim. I give a tiny, discreet nod of my head, while glancing sideways to see what Uely makes of this. We had been headed for a bus station....Our bags are hoisted- flung- onto the top of a pile of other cargo. The usual chickens, parrots, cola, and square-plaid-waterproof bag covers. One man even carries baby turtles in his pockets, which he occasionally spits on for comfort. The children are gathered around him, guessing prices he might fetch for them at market in Tarapoto. The drive is somewhat paved to begin with, but our truck was not in such good condition. There was first a long wait for someone willing to pay twice as much for indoor seating before we could leave, then a flat tire, then another half hour wait for the construction of a toll booth. Then an hour and a half stop to replace the damaged tire in some small sleepy jungle town with an excellent restaurant that actually served us beans! All this in the first 60km.
On the road again- no more pavement now, though there is definite progress underway as the construction was so fresh the red dirt wasnt even a smidgen compacted on the ´roadway´.´We twisted and turned, I practicing patience, bending my knees to keep steady on the bumps and twists, reminding myself that I was about to embark on a series of bus journeys, so I should be ecstatic that I am doing pli`es in the back of a dusty Toyota pickup truck. The canyons stretch a good 100 feet below us in a flurry of green and red jungle abyss. Above was the other 200 feet of mountain about to crumble back down and heal her wounds. I could hear my Dad telling me no when I was five, ¨no, it isn't safe to ride in the back of a truck.¨ The beauty of tropical waterfalls falling through the roadways, under makeshift cement bridges, then cascading the rest of its way down the canyonside. All around, the rich red earth freshly exposed and breathing the misting sun spotted air. Out ahead, a long caravan of traffic; Many collectivo pickups, vans, freighter trucks with multiple cars too large for California laws; A flourishing rainbow of bananas, red jungle fruits, Peruvians, soda pop, and personal baggage in baskets, coffee sacks, and bamboo structures. If only I had my camera ready and also a third hand- to steady the jostle! Past every group of construction workers a large holler, whistle, ¨hey! Gringa!¨Uely got a ¨Buy a sombrero¨ for his T shades in harsh, vowel-laden, Peru-Inglais. I griped the unsteady rail so hard that I got blisters, yet found myself safe and bored in a dusty dry town called Tarapoto before two in the afternoon.
Two long bus rides overnight, and lot of waiting, and additional hassle having no guidebook for addresses to give cabbies, I now find myself in a gringo infested abode in the heart of Miaflores, Peru. Here is where there are DVDs, internet, traffic, and bitchy girls who give me smack for ordering a beer at one in the afternoon. As if I know what time it is after all that! Heh.
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