There’s a stark, immediate disparity in the scenery between Colombia and Peru. All the lusciousness I waxed lyrical about in previous entries gives way to dusty deserts and crammed settlements of orange brick as soon as we touch down in Lima. As a general rule of thumb, thus far at least, the place is far more arid. Maybe Ecuador bridges the gap. Hopefully one day I’ll find out.
We were told by a few people to not bother with Lima, but we really rather loved it. All this goes to show is that you can’t trust anyone ever. Granted, we stuck around Miraflores and Barranco for the most part — safer, more affluent areas that cater to the backpacker community. But we did spend an entire day in the historical centre, where our walking tour guide gave us the rundown of Peru’s fight for independence, key figures, urban architectural traits, the role of the church and more. The main square with the Government Palace was beautiful. Apparently the police permit visitors to the square super sporadically on account of its being a protest hotspot, so we got lucky. Our group was full of good souls and we stuck in the area for a while, munching some lunch, perusing some art museums, and visiting the spooky catacombs.
Let's talk about pisco sours. They’re delicious and they’re dangerous. Taste like lemonade but they’re strong, and the deception endures until you’re too far gone. We had a right night we did. Must have had 6+ of them each. Shots n all. It went south. Ended the evening poking Georgie’s lunch down the tiny shower drain, rubbing her back and convincing her that it’d all been a good idea. The next day she threw up around 20 times. Couldn’t keep down water for pete’s sake. Or for anyone else’s sake. I spoke to some locals at the hostel and even they were like ‘oh nah, you stop at 2 pisco sours for sure’. Good to know. They’ve got egg white in them so that probably contributed to the day’s staggering ennui, but you’ll be pleased to learn we’ve avoided salmonella thus far. This complete write-off meant we had to stay an extra night. Lol.
What else of Lima? We watched a rap battle for like half-hour on our first night, but couldn’t gauge the quality of the ad-libbed insults so we just rolled with the rest of the crowd when they went ‘ooohwah’. There are loads of cats just going about their days in Parque Kennedy. There are cool cafes by the bucketload and the roads are chaotic and everyone seems to be somewhat in a rush. Men with calculators and stacks of banknotes offer semi-legal currency exchange outside banks.
The bread and cheese game in Peru is infinitely better than anywhere else we’ve dipped our toe in the past two months. This is an astonishingly welcome discovery. The food in Peru lives up to its billing, too. Very good flavours and variations, from chifa (Chinese Peruvian fusion) to creamy chicken, and from the most delicious ceviche to fried fish. We hugged the Atlantic coastline for our first week, so there was mucho fresh seafood in and around our faces.
One day, we had:
Leftover pizza for breakfast.
Fresh ceviche and stunning cucharitas de causa at a spot called Canta Ranita — this was recommended to us by a fella from Lima we’d met in northern Colombia. Unreal shout. What a place.
Ham and cheese sandwiches for dinner.
How’s gainful employment?
Dusty brownish dunes with half-baked huts. Just the most arid land on the outskirts of Lima, awash with pale greys and mucky whites and all the rest of the uninspiring palette but right next to one such stretch is a sprawling green meadow dotted with little pots of flowers — a cemetery. A remarkable juxtaposition.
Incomplete heady thought: The extreme modesty of some communities we flick past points to a certain deprivation. But what’s to say the people are suffering? Their way-of-life is most likely all they’ve ever known, and has perhaps not shifted dramatically since the time of their ancestors. They do what they have to. Sometimes they do it with a smile on their face and sometimes other emotions prevail. Just like the rest of us, no?
Honestly, these entire blogs should really be devoted to views from bus windows. Further on we pass industrial plants chucking out white smoke, beyond which the silhouette of layered dunes sit resplendent against the bright blue sky.
Alas, the bus trips end and we eventually have to stop gawping and thinking in order to mooch, gawp, think, and discuss.
Paracas is a very twee coastal town, but there’s plenty going on. We spent a couple of days there. One morning we caught a boat out to Isla Ballestas (allegedly ‘the poor man’s Galapagos’, though I’ve evidently not the funds to comment on the comparison). It was pretty stunning, to be fair. First, once the boat passes the port on the peninsula, there’s a big, mysterious, ancient geoglyph on the side of the Andean sand, shaped like a candelabra or a trident. Pretty gnarly, and as close as we got the enigmatic nature of the Nazca Lines. The island(s) were about 15 minutes further to the wavering blue horizon — we saw a heap of sea lions, pelicans, other indigenous birds, and a few penguins clinging to sheer rockfaces. Further down the Paracas coastline we spent a while staring at a whole bunch of Flamingoes. Fascinating creatures.
We also rented a sand buggy and spent two hours coasting around Paracas National Reserve where stunning sheer sandstone cliff faces draw your eyes down to red-sand beaches. The water’s pretty wild but we made out a dolphin going about its business. We take turns driving this spluttering thing and occasionally the accelerator gets stuck at full tilt, which induces mild panic and much laughter. Because this was all very naturally beautiful and adventurous and cultural, it was only fair we followed it with a visit to this inflatable park on the water, hopping off obstacles onto pelican shit or into grubby water. Class.
From Paracas we catch a bus slightly inland. As we near Ica there’s a ginormous cemetery with stacked graves, each a square of maybe 30x30cm, resembling high-rise flats. Others, the more opulent, apparently, resemble small British holiday homes by the coast. Huacachina is a ten minute TukTuk from Ica, but you lose pretty much every sense of city in that time. It’s a very small, very remarkable oasis in the middle of gorgeous, undulating dunes. Look it up. Or wait two secs there’s a photo. Both good options.
We stay a bit out of the main ‘town’ at a colourful, beautiful hostel fashioned from upcycled materials; this means we’ve gotta walk up the road like 10 minutes to the oasis each time we so fancy, and one such time we take a hard right as we reach a big dune, opting to scramble up it on all fours, our sandals on our hands for greater traction. Now I honestly don’t know how Jesus did 40 days and 40 nights in this environment because 3 minutes in we were shagged. It was very hot and very hard, but we made it to a false peak and then to an actual peak, but then we had to carefully traverse a sandy ridge to another opening above the town, before a final ascent to a quite remarkable vista. In total I reckon we were walking for about 90 minutes, but you wouldn’t have known it by the state of us when we eventually scrambled down for a late lunch.
The next day we went out in a tour sand buggy with a big phat dirty engine that took us on a wild ride of blind dips and crazy turns on the dunes. At first, when a child so happened to be in the tour group, we’d groaned and looked at eachother as if to say ‘ah well there’s our chance of speed and adrenaline gone’. What fools we were. Driver didn’t care one iota. Flung the thing around good and proper. A Peruvian mother clung to Georgie’s arm with intense grip rather than utilising the hand rail provided. We also tried our hand at sandboarding which, despite initial apprehension at the giddying steepness, proved to be good old fashioned, gravity-supported fun. Sand in the ears, behind the ears and up the arse.
From here we’re 17 hours onboard the bus to Cusco. It’s less a sleep and more a series of naps. Smells a bit. Latin American culture is so so strange with regard to playing stuff out loud on your phone. Have I covered that before? A complete and sweeping inability to read the room. One time the guy across the aisle from me was doomscrolling and giggling until like 2am, full volume. Entirely mad.
When I wake we’re weaving through a wild valley pass, the bus swinging round corners of near full u turns for a stretch*. It’s mental. Georgie takes this opportunity to have a rather unfortunate case of motion sickness. Bless both her cotton socks and the double plastic bag catching the spew.
*Now, I was a wee shite in school but I obviously paid attention in the Geography lesson about Oxbow Lakes cos I’m thinking that if there were a few years’ major erosion here by freak incident you’d have an oxbow road, and drivers would just be rounding the perpetual roundabout enjoying the views over parched brown ridges.
Cusco is absolutely class. It’s a portal to the Sacred Valley, to otherworldly terrain, and to esteemed wonders, but it’s also a really rather mint city in its own right, with a burgeoning food scene, quaint streets, bustling squares and all the rest of it. Native women in traditional dress masquerade llamas and lambs for photos with tourists, but just how good that is for the animals remains a mystery. In other news, a guy meticulously scrapes stuff off the advertising board at a bus stop.
Back in Huacachina, completely by happenstance, we’d re-run into this fella called Finn, who we initially met in Panama City, and who is a certified legend in at least three continents. He was now with his girlfriend, Dekota, and she was similarly fantastic. We spent a fair time with them in Cusco during our first stint in the city, including an outlandishly beautiful day at Humantay Lake. We rented a taxi and the drive there was three hours but the bloke’s car kept on overheating so it took us longer, and then there was a road closure and a re-route and other fun skirmishes. The hike itself wasn’t that long, but the altitude was a bit punishing, so we stopped and gasped and re-started until we reached the lagoon. Then, the very dense and chilly clouds opened themselves up to us, and we were treated to some freezing rain. All this served to do was usher in about three hours of sublime sunshine, snowy peaks and warmth. Here are some photographs.
Otherwise, those first three days in Cusco were spent acclimatising to the altitude, strolling around second-hand clothes stores for hiking gear, checking out boutique stores we could afford nothing in, and absolutely immersing ourselves in the sounds, smells, sales, flavours and fun of San Pedro market. Textiles, oils, bread, cheeses, chocolates, spices and winterwear dominate one end of the massive hall; at the other, heaps of Peruvian aunties summon you to their metre squared kitchen space and benches. The food is outstanding and fresh and cheap and yet to wreak major havoc with our insides. We ate soup quite regularly, including this delicious chicken broth noodle soup with corn at the Sunday market when we arrived. Lomo saltado is another pick of the culinary bunch — grilled beef and vegetables with a salty, fragrant sauce. Tried Alpaca, is that bad? Tastes kinda like pork but juicier. There’s a meat aisle at San Pedro as well, but it’s a little unnerving on account of cow noses and big hearts and piles of tripe and other miscellaneous, dark red bundles of gloop that we have no doubt consumed in some capacity.
Anyway, all this continued marvellous investigation of alternative life just bubbled and broiled away as we counted down to the four day Inca Trail trek.
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