Peru
Well, I'm back, and the plane didn't crash, and I wasn't kidnapped by guerillas, and I didn't miss my flight and have to live in an airport for eight days, or anything of the other things I foresaw happening. I did, however, get a case of what one of my traveling companions charmingly called "the cruds." Was that an overshare? No, I think it falls under the heading of a PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT. Ladies and gentleman, boys and girls, when traveling to Latin and South America, BE VERY VERY CAREFUL what you eat. I don't know how it happened - I was brushing my teeth with bottled water, saying "sin hielo" all over town...It happened anyway, and was NO FUN AT ALL.
Peru is a beautiful country. Let me get that right out of the way. We're talking some of the most gorgeous natural scenery I've ever seen in my life. Up in the Andean highlands, where we were most of the time, it is truly phenomenal, and the Incan ruins...well. As we approached Macchu Pichu, my sister teared up, and, to be perfectly honest, my contacts may have been bothering me a little. Seriously, the pictures don't lie: it's glorious. Respect the Inca, man! They were pretty hard-core and awesome; aquatic, agricultural, mechanical, and civil engineers who built earthquake- (and, as it turned out, Spanish-) proof buildings long before the invention of reinforced concrete. Who knows what they would've accomplished if the damn conquistadores hadn't shown up? You know how they know Macchu Pichu was never discovered by the Spanish? No church. The first thing the Spanish did every place they went (besides, you know, the killing) was tear down the temples and priests' homes and build a church. Cuzco alone - the capital of the Incan empire and the "navel of the world" - has over 350 churches.
(That was a little tour guide-y, wasn't it? Sorry.)
Since my clueless visit to Mexico at 16, this was my first trip to a Third- sorry, "developing" country. (I know, the terminology's changed, but is it any less pejorative to talk about a country like you're leaning over its crib: "Aren't you a good country? Aren't you coming along so well yes you are yes you are! What a good little country you are yes yes yes!")
What it boils down to is: Peru is (insert your own modifier here) poor. Dirt-, ass-, really really fucking. Of course, tourists are kept away from those areas and every place we stayed was really nice, but if you just look out your bus windows, you can't help but notice the kind of abject poverty most people can't even imagine. Out of the cities, away from the lack of running water and electricity, away from the packs of dogs rooting through open dumpsters, you can almost pretend it's pretty or quaint, that kind of subsistence lifestyle. In the cities, not so much. Without all the green fields and mountains to soften it, it's just dirt and desperation and sewage and poor.
I am pretty disappointed in myself that in this modern era, at this point in my life, I speak only one language. Oh, the guilt! I'm a horrible stereotype of an American...I mean, we'd be shocked if German tourists staggered around the US expecting everyone to speak German! It should tell you something that I was the chief translator for our little band of travelers, which made us officially pathetic. Despite the presence of tour guides, we really did need more than a four-year-old's grasp on numbers and foods. I had secret hopes that my little brother - the one actually IN Spanish classes currently instead of half-remembering basic phrases from ten years ago - would step up, but no such luck. Ma mere kept busting out the French instead, K would start a sentence and then look at me, and Little Bro wisely kept his mouth shut the entire time. Linguistic difficulties aside, I can think of no one I'd rather travel with than my family. We had a great time with each other, really. Between us, we had five packs of cards, which were put to good use in The Never-ending Contract Rummy Tournament. I won't tell you who won, except to say victory needs no translator. (Me, bitches! IT WAS ME!!!)
Up until the last day of our trip, I would've said that I love Peruvians as much as I loved the country. Almost uniformly, people were kind, helpful, generous, hard-working, patient with my hopeless high school Spanish, and well-informed. Then my mom was pickpocketed on the streets of Cuzco. We were crossing the street near a marketplace and a few people stopped in front of us. One woman spat on her, another pointed upward to make her think it was a bird, while a third upzipped her money belt (hanging around her neck - uncool) and stole about 100 soles (35 dollars). You know how one event can taint your impressions and memories? Riding back to the hotel, everything seemed dirtier, the people meaner and more slovenly, and I was well and truly done with the place. Bah. It's unfortunate that that's the lasting memory of our trip when all the rest was so fantastic. Instead, I'll just focus on one of the more surreal musical experience of my life, from our arrival in Cuzco -you just haven't lived until you've heard "My Way" performed on traditional Inca pipes. Rock on.
Peru is a beautiful country. Let me get that right out of the way. We're talking some of the most gorgeous natural scenery I've ever seen in my life. Up in the Andean highlands, where we were most of the time, it is truly phenomenal, and the Incan ruins...well. As we approached Macchu Pichu, my sister teared up, and, to be perfectly honest, my contacts may have been bothering me a little. Seriously, the pictures don't lie: it's glorious. Respect the Inca, man! They were pretty hard-core and awesome; aquatic, agricultural, mechanical, and civil engineers who built earthquake- (and, as it turned out, Spanish-) proof buildings long before the invention of reinforced concrete. Who knows what they would've accomplished if the damn conquistadores hadn't shown up? You know how they know Macchu Pichu was never discovered by the Spanish? No church. The first thing the Spanish did every place they went (besides, you know, the killing) was tear down the temples and priests' homes and build a church. Cuzco alone - the capital of the Incan empire and the "navel of the world" - has over 350 churches.
(That was a little tour guide-y, wasn't it? Sorry.)
Since my clueless visit to Mexico at 16, this was my first trip to a Third- sorry, "developing" country. (I know, the terminology's changed, but is it any less pejorative to talk about a country like you're leaning over its crib: "Aren't you a good country? Aren't you coming along so well yes you are yes you are! What a good little country you are yes yes yes!")
What it boils down to is: Peru is (insert your own modifier here) poor. Dirt-, ass-, really really fucking. Of course, tourists are kept away from those areas and every place we stayed was really nice, but if you just look out your bus windows, you can't help but notice the kind of abject poverty most people can't even imagine. Out of the cities, away from the lack of running water and electricity, away from the packs of dogs rooting through open dumpsters, you can almost pretend it's pretty or quaint, that kind of subsistence lifestyle. In the cities, not so much. Without all the green fields and mountains to soften it, it's just dirt and desperation and sewage and poor.
I am pretty disappointed in myself that in this modern era, at this point in my life, I speak only one language. Oh, the guilt! I'm a horrible stereotype of an American...I mean, we'd be shocked if German tourists staggered around the US expecting everyone to speak German! It should tell you something that I was the chief translator for our little band of travelers, which made us officially pathetic. Despite the presence of tour guides, we really did need more than a four-year-old's grasp on numbers and foods. I had secret hopes that my little brother - the one actually IN Spanish classes currently instead of half-remembering basic phrases from ten years ago - would step up, but no such luck. Ma mere kept busting out the French instead, K would start a sentence and then look at me, and Little Bro wisely kept his mouth shut the entire time. Linguistic difficulties aside, I can think of no one I'd rather travel with than my family. We had a great time with each other, really. Between us, we had five packs of cards, which were put to good use in The Never-ending Contract Rummy Tournament. I won't tell you who won, except to say victory needs no translator. (Me, bitches! IT WAS ME!!!)
Up until the last day of our trip, I would've said that I love Peruvians as much as I loved the country. Almost uniformly, people were kind, helpful, generous, hard-working, patient with my hopeless high school Spanish, and well-informed. Then my mom was pickpocketed on the streets of Cuzco. We were crossing the street near a marketplace and a few people stopped in front of us. One woman spat on her, another pointed upward to make her think it was a bird, while a third upzipped her money belt (hanging around her neck - uncool) and stole about 100 soles (35 dollars). You know how one event can taint your impressions and memories? Riding back to the hotel, everything seemed dirtier, the people meaner and more slovenly, and I was well and truly done with the place. Bah. It's unfortunate that that's the lasting memory of our trip when all the rest was so fantastic. Instead, I'll just focus on one of the more surreal musical experience of my life, from our arrival in Cuzco -you just haven't lived until you've heard "My Way" performed on traditional Inca pipes. Rock on.