Eyes on the Alps once more

This is my first entry written from Switzerland, Europe, the Northern Hemisphere. Still faced with recurrent sickness and general weakness after three days in hospital, I decided to abridge my trip by two weeks. I knew I wasn't going to heal in Ayacucho, and, worse, could infect the children. So after a pretty grueling journey-- I spent 12 full hours in Lima airport, come to me for any information on flights or cafes-- I finally reached Switzerland.

This amputated return definitely is not representative of the three amazing, challenging and varied months I spent in South America. From studying verbs in Quito to hiking up Machu Picchu, I've fallen pretty brutally in love with the continent. Although I only discovered Ecuador, Peru and Bolivia, I've never felt so entranced by a language, an incredible mix of cultures and devastatingly beautiful scenery. I know I'll be back. In a month, I'll begin working in Argentina, which will be a wholly different experience, but one I am already awaiting (and crossing my fingers that the rugged football team triumphs in the World Cup).

After so much time on the road, I feel both the urge to and the impossibility of summing up my trip. As with most travelling, I feel my horizons have been vastly opened, as has my self-knowledge. Rarely have I felt so amazed, so challenged and so blessed. Oddly, the best way to describe my trip is through the metaphor of Avatar. Yes, the Hollywood blockbuster. Here is why:

1. The first time I saw Avatar, it was with my lovely host mother in Quito, Ecuador. She was aghast that I hadn't seen it yet, so invited me to a fancy multiplex to indulge in the 3D adventure, complete with popcorn and coke. It was comfortable, familial and fun. This basically sums up my leisurely stay in the Ecuadorian capital, where I had a daily routine that swayed between my adorable host family, language school and friends.
2. But my second viewing of the film was quite different. During the 10 hour bus trip from Trujillo to Lima, the bus assistant switched on the tiny TV screen to show us Avatar. I was sitting with a Peruvian friend I had met that same day, and we watched the German-subtitled film as we cruised through the Peruvian desert. This showing is symbolic of my month spent criss-crossing Peru: always in movement, often with a foreign tint (german subtitles= hordes of tourists) and a bumpy yet enjoyable ride.
3. I'm not sure my third witnessing of Avatar even counts as such. In the volunteer house in Ayacucho, one of my Peruvian roommate was film-obsessed. So one night, as I lay huddled in my sleeping bag, coughing and feverish, he decided to watch the film. I attempted to watch too, but my ears were ringing and I ended up fast asleep. Sadly, this is representative of my last two weeks in Peru-- I was basically too sick to enjoy anything.

A few of my favourite pictures from the trip:



Mountains hiding Machu Picchu, Peru, taken on Day 3 of my trek. Called 'apus' in Quechua, which means 'sacred mountains', their size, intense green and stoic silence indeed appeared sacred. I was constantly stunned (probably the most overused word on this blog) by the natural beauty of the Andean region.




Nuns watching a religious procession in Cuenca, Ecuador. As I was present during Semana Santa, the holy week leading up to Easter, I witnessed many, many scenes of worship. It was humbling to see the strength of the devotion of nearly an entire population. Also fascinating was to see how the Catholic faith is intertwined with the traditional Inka one, in a mixed form called Andino.



One of my favourite encounters during my travels. This typist in Trujillo, Peru, works every day in front of the court house, writing up letters for people in need. He has been doing so for 18 years. His stare was almost as intense as the speed of his fingers on the typer.




What can I say, kids are adorable. This little boy was being wheeled around the market in Otavalo, Ecuador by his mother.



A quiet street in Copacabana, Bolivia, a charming town basking on the side of the incomparable Lago Titicaca.


Thank you for taking the time to read this blog-- and indeed this novel-sized post. I deeply appreciated it. Un beso, Alejandra.

Pills and co.

I never imagined blogging about the rowdy scene inside a Peruvian doctor's waiting room, but imaginable circumstances have granted me this special insight. I fell ill on Friday, first a common but violent stomach bug. It slowly generated into a cough, cold, fever, shivers, nausea, dizziness and general incapacity to do anything. So I finally decided to get an appointment with the doctor who visits the kids where I work-- so, yes, a pediatrician. It had been a while.

As in the majority of places, the benches were filled with unwell kids and anxious parents. Oh, and the well siblings who had discovered the candy sold in the waiting room. Incongruity number one-- if you wanted a chocolate bar to assist your lengthy wait, just go up to the nurse with your coins. But she may be too busy watching the telenovela projected in their little office. That said, Pedro's moving ploy to win Francesca back was quite captivating.

The staff was actually extremely efficient and capable despite the seeming lack of order. I have an acute sinusitis, former stomach bug and skin rash from the dust here. As we're changing seasons, the nights are extremely dry and many other have fallen sick as well. I'm still not thumping with energy, but am casting my vote in a fix before I feel like I really won't have contributed any work here.

Overheard in Ayacucho

As I was walking home from-- where else -- the pharmacy, a few kids approach me: "Could you use this bamboo stick to help us make that fruit fall from the tree?"

Lost in Translation

Fellow volunteer, about her childhood: Cuando era niño...
Erm, that would be niña.

Vocabulario

LECHE DE TIGRE-- Tiger milk, anyone? Sorry to disappoint, but this juice contains neither milk nor tiger. It's lime juice-based, and used in ceviche, the national seafood dish.
CHINO/A, CHINITO/A-- Chinese, or little Chinese. It doesn't matter if your ancestors hail from Japan or Indonesia, if you have a trace of Asia still visible, your nickname is predestined. The term definitely does not have the pejorative connotations that it has in many other languages.

The wisdom is on the wall

"We don't know each other."

Power of la pelota

On Friday, when strolling around Ayacucho, I spotted the panini sticker collection album for the World Cup 2010 on sale. I know, it's lame. But I bought it, and suddenly at least seven little kids came rushing down and asked if they could stick the photos in for me. Of course I let them-- but also teased them a little as Peru didn't qualify. It was truly hilarious as the swarm seemed to emerge out of nowhere.

Marketed prison

The artisan market of Ayacucho is housed in an ancient prison, that has been significantly spruced up since its former usage. There are still towering iron gates and high walls, but the alpaca ponchos are definitely new. That said, I could possibly pass an eternity meandering through the stalls...

Tourist fever

It had to happen. But being hit, full-swing, by a severe case of the gringo-illness wasnt fun. Two days of no talking due to an incapable throat(may have relieved some people, no food and basically no walking. Of course, this happened the same day as I was asked by another volunteer if I had fallen sick here, and semi-proudly answered that I hadn't. But, with a little determination-- and a lot of antibiotics-- I think I'm on the mend.

Details of Ayacucho

This city is wonderfully charming, both in the center and the outskirts-- though vastly different. It's core is well-groomed, colourful and lively. But as soon as you crunch yourself into a cramped bus to climb the sloping hills that hold the city captive, the scenery changes dramatically. The ride turns into a roller coaster, as the roads have more potholes than cars. Farmers regroup to sell their produce-- also known as potato-- by the side of the dusty streets. Old men linger at the portals of their homes, watching something (have yet to discover) during the afternoon heat. Sheep use the alleys as catwalks, prancing down without any owners in sight.







Sunday animation in the center-- dancing to cumbia, of course.

The wisdom is on the wall

"Socios del olvido." "Members of the oblivion."

Ubiquitous unit

I've been visiting the children of the home every day this week, often reading stories or playing games. The ubiquity of the mother-father duo has been apparent to me for a long time, but its force is dawning on me more and more. On Wednesday, we decided to play a board games with some of the children. One of the younger boys picked up a card that requested 10 words beginning with the letter 'm'. He immediately began chanting "mama, mama, mama." Later that same day, I realized who the real heroes of the house are. Harry Potter and Mowgli are the most popular characters among both the pequeños and the grandes. The absence of parents in both stories is definitely valorizing for the children. But its sometimes hard to know how to navigate other tales-- "Jack and his father go to the zoo"-- where the family core is prominently featured.



Sunset above the kids' drying laundry.

Lost in Translation

Me, teaching a fellow volunteer 'salutation to the sun,' a yoga step: Pon tu piedra izquierda mas arriba.

pierna= leg.
piedra= rock

Of course, he moved his left rock up.

Would a shop by any other name sell as well?

Shops, stalls and wheelbarrows ladden with goods fill the streets of Ayacucho. Their owners are clearly creative, as their titles reveal. A few of the top hits:



His last name means shoemaker and he owns a shoe store. Sometimes life is too perfect.



King Burger? Wait, isn't it the other way- no. No, King Burger rules this city.



'Spa Top Model'. It's a very exclusive place.



'Pagamonedas' casino.



'Papal center 'John Paul II'. And what does it boast? A cellphone store. Confused.

Ode to community living

I am sharing a little casa of joy with fellow volunteers during my month in Ayacucho. We have a messy, sunny courtyard, a temperamental gas stove and a store above us. But that definitely doesn't suffice to understand this special house. A few of the highlights:

- There is a public pay phone tacked onto the wall on the street-side of my ground-floor bedroom. Wait, let me repeat that: there is an incessantly-used phone less than three metres from my bed. Every morning, I wake up to its charming ring. The typical suspect is a man who adores yelling in Quechua at 7 in the morning. Of course, he only has piles of 10 cent coins, so a lovely cling-cling chimes in to his Quechuan yells. Granted, I'm exaggerating a little-- but not much. I know half the neighborhood gossip thanks to the phone though, which is a definite perk.



Call me on my pay phone.

- We have a "family" meal every night at 8, on the large outside table under which our two dogs snooze. It's always at least quadrilingual, mostly amusing and often delicious.

- Washing my hair is now equivalent to seeing the world upside down. As the outside shower's water seems to emerge from invisible glaciers, I can't bear to shampoo my hair there. Therefore, the sink provides me with a welcome change of vision and a possibly helpful, possibly harmful backstretch.

Despite its incongruities, life in the casa is lively, welcoming and varied.

Lost in translation

Swedish volunteer, hungrily watching as I prepared guacamole: Tengo hombre!

Tengo hAmbre: I have hunger.
Tengo hOmbre: I have a man.

Frying up a Peruvian storm

Rarely have I wondered what the kitchen of a Peruvian restaurant resembles. And even more scarcely have I imagined myself in one, chopping potatoes, scrubbing bowls and churning soup. Well, yesterday, all my unimagined dreams came true. The children's home I am working for recently opened a small cafe in an attempt to provide some steady revenue for their project. A few volunteers assist daily in the kitchen, to boost the desired success of the restaurant.



Sopita for all.

Poor Peru. Any one who has ever been in a kitchen with me knows how dangerous that situation can be. My last encounter with my home microwave was a little too ablaze for its liking. I was making cookies but the butter was rockhard-- ergo why not zap it a few seconds to melt it a little? Turns out the aluminium foil covering said butter didn't respond too well... but the fire was small and easily extinguished. I miraculously avoided any major faux-pas in this restaurant. I did however spill a little chicha-- a sweet, corn-based, purple drink-- in the green soup. Thankfully the purple quickly dissolved and no complaints floated back to the kitchen. It was actually quite a tiring afternoon, as speed and efficiency are constantly required, but still quite fun.

Later, I and another volunteer were on duty to cook up a succulent dinner for the dozen other volunteers. As good Peruvians, we headed to the market to secure the fresh ingredients required-- namely avocado for my "specialty," guacamole. "Aguacate" was the word used for avocados in Ecuador, but got me nowhere here. We spent about 10 minutes trying to explain what vegetable we were seeking. I picked up eggplant to vaguely indicate the shape, kept pointing at lettuce for the colour... eventually half the women in the market had gathered in a kind attempt to guide us on our quest. And then, at last, in a corner: avocados! Or palta, as I now will never ever forget.



No avocadoes yet.

As you may have gathered, it was a day placed under the cooking Gods, which aided me in my so-far unaccomplished New Year's resolution of learning how to cook.

Tentative first day at the casa

Taking a side road towards Ayacucho to finally escape the tourist highway that Peru sometimes resembles was definitely a necessary step. But traipsing around gorgeous citadels wasn’t painful. Life in Ayacucho is far more real, although I of course still remain in a vastly more comfortable situation than the majority of people here.

My first day at the casa was messy, uncertain and of little impact. It’s termed a casa here, instead of an orphanage, as the majority of the 28 kids housed there still have family, albeit often estranged or incapable of caring for them. The children are divided in three groups—the little ones, the eldest and the handicapped. There is nearly the same number of señoritas, or caretakers, who seem to be constantly running after the rowdy kids.

As there are nearly ten volunteers rotating their time to be with the kids at all times, they have understandably become blasee about the coming-and-goings. Especially the brief interventions of the well-meaning travellers who sometimes don’t speak Spanish and only stay a few weeks. Every time I acknowledge that i am only staying a month, i feel the coolness of the organizers. I’m trying to find a meaningful project to contribute despite my lack of real skill or time.That said, i completely understand—when working with children who have a history of abandon, the constant shuffle of volunteers is not ideal.

I definitely spent a lot of time shuffling yesterday—energy is one characteristic the toddlers do not lack. From playing in the dirt to running after some of the chicken in the yard, they were adorable if at times difficult to handle. After my session, i discussed some of the children with the coordinator, who informed me of some of their deeply chilling pasts... Much remains to be navigated—from understanding the individual kids to exploring the peculiar hierarchy of the organization, and only hope to be able to contribute a grain.

VOCABULARIO

PAPA—When making mud cakes with a few of the children yesterday, I asked one if he could make a bowl. “Papa,” he answered, to my confusion—as he was either referring to potatoes or the pope, neither of which seemed right in context. Turns out “papa” or “papayuca” is a way of saying “easy.” I should have guessed that a country that claims more than 4000 different types of papas would consider them easy…

HIJO/A POLITICA—Literally one’s son or daughter, politically speaking. Used to describe family ties where blood ones are absent…

Vendedores

You would have to block your eyes, ears and nose to possibly ignore the throngs of vendors that line the ancient streets of Ayacucho. "Un sol, un sol, un solcitoooooo" ("one sol (currency), one sol, one liiiiittle sol") they call out as corn boils, chewing-gum lies or breads pose beneath them. A few of my favourites.

Best fruits ever. It's going to be brutal to return to hard pears.

Next to the main square.

Kids with some candies (it was Sunday.)

Sandals made out of tires-- recycling done right.

Lost in Translation

Volunteer discussing her upcoming busride to Lima: I'm going to pack a few guaguas in my bag for the ride.

Guagua= baby in Quechua.

Half-shocked, half-confused, I asked her what she meant. It turns out that little breads are called guaguas. Aha.

A Sunday in Ayacucho

No, I'm not going to recount how I went to mass. However, I did go walking with a fellow volunteer to visit another orphanage in the mountains, before returning to the city, and FINALLY indulging into being a full-fledged tourist in Ayacucho. Meandering the streets, markets and churches is truly invigorating. Not much to report, so I'll let the city explain itself through pictures.

Outskirts, during our walk.

Plaza de Armas.

Main drag.

In front of one fo the 33 churches.

Door to the market.

Vocabulario

INVASION-- I'm sure even those with minimal Spanish can decipher the literal meaning of the word invasion. But here, the term is coined to describe the shanty-esque houses that sprout up around major cities-- especially in Lima-- despite the fact that its tenants have no legal claim to the land.
WAIKI-- Brother in quechua, used affectionately between both genders (it seems? unless i'm completely crossing the line). Now also slangily used to describe the many Peruvian artisans who traverse the country selling bracelets and rings.

Overheard in Ayacucho

"Look what you did, you just scared the gringita (little gringa)"

-Older woman to a vendor who had abruptly set off firecrackers in the covered market I was perusing. He then apologized and offered me a purification session, using the traditional tool of an egg to cleanse a person. I politely declined.

Ayacucho

The Andean city of Ayacucho rests about halfway between Cusco and Lima but feels completely cut off from either of them. It stretches out at 2700 metres and bustles with surprisingly strong activity. After spending far too much time in English- infested hostels, the wildly untouristy town of Ayacucho is extremely refreshing. Claiming 33 churches, the city also has a vibrant market and some decent ruins around it. So far, I havent seen any of this, although I arrived relatively early yesterday. I went straight to the house that hosts various volunteers, who I will be working alongside during a month in an orphanage. The house boasts a freezing outdoor shower, common bedrooms and a great mood.

Before even seeing one of the churches, I was selling cake in the street. We prepared a large bakesale to raise money for the orphanage. Quite a success, as we hid the burnt dough with powdered sugar. We baked more than 7 massive desserts, so after a while we became very creative in our attempts to sell them. "Cake that repels mosquitoes!". And a little later "Cake against jealousy". And, triumphantly, "anti-aging cake!". It was actually only peach- flavoured, albeit delicious.

Here a few pictures of the little of the city I've feasted upon so far (and the cake preparations.)

The outside of the orphanage.

Ayacucho, prime spot to view sheep in pebble-filled streets.

Preparations under the sun.

19 hours of joy

In the hit-parade of fantastic bus rides, the 19-hour trip from Cusco to Ayacucho stands out. It began nicely-- retractable seats, leg room, friendly assistants. But the last few hours to reach the isolated Ayacucho were rather memorable. Primarily because the weak bus had to snake around vertiginous mountain roads-- that had no barriers. As I was sitting by the window (which I always do to protect my bag while I attempt to sleep) I had a wonderful view of the cliffs we zoomed over. Every time we reached a corner-- approximately every 30 seconds-- the driver would cheerfully honk to warn any upcoming traffic of our arrival. I also averaged a seizure nearly every minute... Possibly to distract the customers from the danger sprawling below us, the assistant put on a video. My excitement mounted. What would it be? An old classic? A Mexican comedy? No. No, no. It was a collection of the best bull attacks on innocent people during the last bull run in Ayacucho. Everyone seemed to find the scenes of men dangling from angry bull horns hilarious, but it was a little lost on me...

Overheard in Cusco

Context: I am currently reading A Hundred Years of Solitude (in Spanish). I'm more than 200 pages through the 500-strong book-- which sounds impressive but isnt as I haven't grazed it in more than a week. Nevertheless, I was lugging it around Cusco when I forgot it on an ATM. Classic.

When I rushed back, I asked the security guards: Have you seen my book, A Hundred Years of Solitude?

Guard, jokingly: Nope, but I got 200 years of solitude right here with me.

Me: Well, clearly I have more than 200 years of stupidity too.

Turns out they were storing it in the back room.

Ayacucho

Tonight, I'm hopping on a bus to reach Ayacucho, the mountain town where I will spend the next month volunteering in an orphanage. The ride will take 18 hours. Wish you were there.

The Inka Trail

The four trek, following a 49-kilometer long, century-old Inka path to reach the famed Machu Picchu, will forever be one of the most moving, intense and gorgeous experiences of all my travels in this continent. Valleys, peaks, stars, lagoons, temples, llamas, tents, stairs, jungle, sun, and, yes, Machu Picchu are etched in my mind-- and muscles. It wasn't nearly as challenging as I had dramatically conjured in my mind. Although difficult, the sheer beauty that constantly surrounded me unfailingly pushed me forward. The trek was one of the most spiritual and rewarding endeavours I have ever completed. Below is a day-by-day account, if you're bored.

Inka Trek- Day one- discovery

Wake-up call: 4:15 in my hostel, which my roommates loved.

Altitude: From 2380 metres (pshhhh.... nearly sea-level) and gently upwards to our campsite at 3550 metres.

Emerge from bunkbed. Take backpack. Put on hiking shoes. Sleepwalk out into the darkness. Get on bus. Travel two hours. And arrive. Arrive in a beautiful, intensely green valley from which our 13 member-strong group departed for our Four day trek to the famed Incan citadel. But honestly, as marvelled as I was by the scenery, the agency astounded me. We had more than 20 porters, mostly from the mountain town of Pisac, to carry bags stuffed with pans, tents, food and chairs to provide us with total luxury for four days. It wasn't the tough idea of trekking I had envisioned. According to new regulation, each individual porter can "only" carry 25 kilos perilously on his back. As the average height seems to hover around 1 metre 55, seeing the men zoom up the windy slope is awe-inspiring. We could never possibly complain once we saw their stamina and strength. Or their sandals-- very few of them had hiking shoes. This was the first hike our guide undertook since Machu Picchu reopened on April 1st. I asked him what he and the porters did during that painful period. "took a holiday in the Carribean," he dryly replied.

We hiked for about seven hours through sloping valleys, visiting ruins and villages along the way. The Inkan Trail felt more like a highway initially-- there were about three other groups sharing the path with us, and numerous stands providing trekkers with chocolate and water. It was a lovely, easy way to begin the adventure...

Our group, muscles still unworked.

Lush valley.

Amassing quite a collection.

Little girl and her baby, no, wait, dog, who we met along the way.

Ruins. Ain't nothing compared to what's next...

Inka Trek- Day two: up... up.... UP!

Wake-up call: 4:55 am.

Altitude: From Wayllabamba campsite at 3550 metres, up to Warmiwañuska pass at 4200 metres and down to 3600 metres at Runquracay campsite.

This day loomed the fiercest. Nearly ten hours of hiking from one campsite to another. Reaching the comfortingly-named 'Dead Woman's Pass' at 4200 metres. Enduring four hours of straight uphill to reach said peak. So. Was it hard? Technically, yes. I decided to pay a porter to carry my massive backpack -- which included sleeping bag and matress- for this challenging day. If I hadn't, it would have been awful. But it was the most inspiring, astonishing and revealing days I have ever lived. During the steep ascension, we stopped every 100 metres to acclimate to the high altitude. While we lumbered up, tiny porters with enormous backpacks nearly sprinted past us. Llamas trotted by and local woman bypassed us on the way to their villages.
After the four hour ascension, we arrived-- and sprawled out-- at Dead Woman's Pass, amazed at the views stretched out all around us. We then trotted down for about two hours to reach our lunch stop, which was beautifully set out by the porters next to a stream. Again, we were spoiled by platters and platters of food-- and dessert! After lunch, we had another steep hike, during which we passed an ancient lookout post, a murky lagoon and, finally, the last peak before our glorious descent. By this point, all the other groups were behind us-- hurrah-- and the Inka road was ours. It was extremely mystical, magical, spiritual to be in the midst of such quiet yet strong beauty.

Daybreak at the camp.

Llama gallop.

The real heros-- los porteros.

Some great climber.

Quiet lake.

Inka Trek- Day three, the mighty jungle

Wake-up call: 5 a.m.

Altitude: Runquracay campsite, 3600 metres down to Wiñaywayna campsite, 2700 metres.

A very mellow day-- comparatively speaking-- which began early and oddly. I awoke before 5 am, and walked to the bathroom to brush my teeth, with my trendy head lamp guiding my way in the morning darkness. Upon arriving, I realized there were three porters, from another tour group, sleeping on the flat floor in front of the bathroom. It was quite a shock, as I had just emerged from a warm sleeping bag stuffed in an equally comfortable tent. Again one of the disturbing paradoxes... The trek began-- downwards, thankfully-- through the thick and pretty jungle. We played the game Twenty Questions pretty much incessantly. Among the top picks: The sky, Jesus, a llama, Obi Won Kenobi (spelling?), Whitney Houston and the Emperor Atahualpa.

We arrived at Wiñaywayna campsite around 1p.m. It was our first encounter with electricity, cement and so.many.other.backpackers since the beginning of the trip. Definitely the least pleasant area, but the warm showers were a welcome perk. Wiñaywayna is the name of an Inka ruin thankfully a few minutes away from the campsite, and it means "Forever young" in Quechua. Yes we sang the song non-stop once we learned its significance. The ruins-- or "important archaeological site, don't say ruins," as our tour guide stressed-- are probably my favourite so far. A Temple to the Rainbow (yes, the Inkas spearheaded the gay pride movement) looks out over dangerously vertical agricultural terraces that overlook apus (sacred mountains). The peaks are overgrown by the jungle, and there are waterfalls everywhere. I just sat. For at least an hour, trying to digest so much beauty. Later, after a ridiculously over-the-top meal, our group played cards and we shuffled back to our tents at the ripe time of 9pm to gear up for the final day...

Easier to trudge down.

Our faithful poles, our sturdy Inkan wall.

At Wiñaywayna.

Apus, or sacred mountains, basking under the fleeting sun.

My favourite site, Wiñaywayna.