Reeds!

Hello everyone!

I went to Laka Titikaka. I have seen a lot of reeds. There are, in fact, whole islands made of reeds, which float about on the surface (although they cheat a bit by anchoring them down) and the people live an almost entirely reed-based existence.

Except for all the tourists, of course.

Have some pictures of some reeds:

P.S. Puno is a shithole. Never go.

Lording It Over Them All

The Sun struggles over the ridges of the Andean hills and spills down their slopes, light snagging on tree tops, and illuminates the edges of the expertly-cut stones of Machu Picchu. The city, still standing but for the thatched roofs, nestles amongst these hills like a filigree ornament on a velvet gown. Unlooted, untainted, the site is every bit as spectcular as even the most vociferous archaeologist can pronounce.

The gates have just opened, and the first tourists are making their way through. You’re one of them. What are you doing? Gazing in awe at the mortar-free stones, exactly cut to fit together with no support but their own weight? Marvelling at the crisp clean lines of the maize terraces, tumbling down the hillside? Watching the rays of light slice through the faint mist and glance off the sundial at the centre of the hill?

Of course not. You, like all the other idiots at the summit at this time, are pelting along the roads, over the walls, through the houses, at top speed without so much as a second glance at the mysterious buildings, now-deserted but soon to be inundated with camera-toting tourists. Why? You want to climb Waynapicchu, of course!

This is the stereotypical tourist photo of Machu Picchu, and that big hill at the back which looks like a nose (yes it does) is Waynapicchu. Pretty much everyone you speak to who has been to Machu Picchu quickly tells you that you simply must climb it. What they don’t tell you is the hell you have to go through in order to achieve this.

The site gets 10,000 visitors a day, and there are 400 tickets for the big slippy hill. They give them out as the gates open at 6:00, on the other side of the site to the entrance, just for a laugh. The first bus from the town beneath leaves at 5:30.

But, of course, you have to get on that first bus. That means you have to start queueing at 4:00. Not too bad? Well no, but you see some people don’t want to chance the bus. They walk up to arrive before the first bus gets to the gates. Which means that everyone wanting a ticket has to do the same. That 1h30 up steep steps, in the pitch black, at 3:30.

The sweat was literally dripping from my neck, my legs screaming (not literally) in agony and lungs ruggedly gasping as yet another fitter person passes me by. One more ticket that I can’t have. Absolute hell. It was 5:10 when I got in the queue. 50 minutes of sweat cooling on my body before the gates open and runfortheloveofgodrun!

I got ticket number 22. There’s a picture of me in the photo section just after, skanky and glistening. I was so proud of my ticket, as I collapsed on the Incan grass and tried to rub the feeling back into my legs.

It was at that point that I remembered that that ticket, that ruddy ticket, entitled me to climb yet another fecking bleeding hill.

Machu Picchu, Peru - Saf

Ridiculously Accurate Sign

Who needs this much detail?

To Cusco: 112.286 km
To Machu Picchu: 1.762 km
Altitude: 1859.82 m above sea level

I wonder whether they measure from the top or the bottom of the lettering?

Salkantay, Peru - Saf

A Plea

Dear Mummy,

It’s been three days since you started walking to Machu Picchu, on the hardest route offered by the tour guides. You have climbed 1600m, gasped for breath at altitude, fallen and twisted your ankle. Your legs set solid every time you sit down and if you put your feet down too hard you can feel the blisters shifting. Last night you ’slept’ in a tent whilst it was -15 degrees Celsius outside, and your stomach has gone on strike and refuses to digest anything. You are wearing revolting clothes, covered in dust and now monkey poo from that little sod who climbed into your coat to go to sleep earlier. The dirt is ingrained into your hands, and in order to get around at 1:00 am you have to twiddle the knob on your wind-up torch constantly.

So why are you going out clubbing, instead of keeping me warm and cared for? Why? How can that ever be a good idea?

Cusco, Peru - Greg

Our Friend Michael

Okay, so it´s now been 24 days since Michael Jackson popped his little sparkly clogs. That´s 24 days in which I have heard at least one of his songs playing, often more than three. Just sat around in bus stations, taxis, blaring out on the street…

I bet Earth Song has had more air time recently than it ever did before.

Yet More Sand

I don’t know how many of you are well-acquainted enough with what I’ve been up to to remember the Namibian Quad Bike Incident, but for those who do you’ll be pleased to hear I’m in a dune-based adventure sport area again (the big sandy things, not the space-wormy things). For those who don’t; I fell off, a lot, at speed. In fact, I tore a huge hole in my trousers, got a few bruises and smashed my crash helmet, so I got to wear the instructor’s one for the rest of the ride.

Common sense might tell you that sand probably isn’t my medium. A knowledge of my own imbecility will further tell you that I wouldn’t let this deter me from yet more Adventure Sports*. Anyway, I went sandboarding.

The ride up there was terrifying, in a dune buggy made almost entirely out of roll bars where I dug my toes under the seat in front and clung on to the back of it as we were hurled around, and over, the dunes. Have I mentioned that they’re big? They’re big. When I manage to nick Leanne’s camera, there will be photos (a degree of rationality told me I would fall onto mine and smush it).

Luckily the nice man running it realised that as a group we were massively incompetent (as four plus four dentistry students from Newcastle) and so he thought that we should probably boogie-board for most of the time. This is where you lie face down on a sandboard, hold onto the foot restraints and go down a big hill head first, like sledding. This pleased me a lot. There was less far to fall.

And you know what? It was actually quite fun! After the first little hill, where you realised that rolling off wasn’t too painful, the rest were just great. The last one was a bit difficult, but that was primarly because it was so big that you ran out of scream way before you reached the bottom, so had to decide whether to breathe in and scream again, or just kind of tail off as though you’d fallen asleep.

We did get to sandboard, of course, but only on a little hill. We also had to face backwards, so that when we feel we hit the dune, not masses of open air. Here is a picture of me sandboarding with some degree of competence:

And here is one of me moments later:

Huacachina, Peru - Saf

* I am dubious as to whether they are either. ‘Adventure’ implies something that hundreds of white westerners haven’t done before, and ’sport’ implies some degree of ability.

Photo Update

I’ve been getting complaints that there aren’t enough photos of me up on the site, so have put a big selection up now. They are in no particular time order, and some are quite old. I tried to get a range of all times and emotions, from Male Model pose in glorious Sun:

To inopportune moment whilst bobbing on a boat:

Enjoy!

Lima, Peru - Saf

P.S. There is sod all to do in Lima.

Embrace the Technology

The windswept Peruvian coast, aside from being a truly horrible place, has been home to fishermen for hundreds of years. Come see, little tourist, how they use their bizarre little fishing wire to hook single animals at a time, caring not for exploitative Western fishing techniques. See how the local women wait on the shoreline, collecting the catch in their traditionally-woven blankets for cleaning and skinning. See the men astride their little straw boats, shaped like donkeys, all made using ancient techniques which have served them to this day.

No, no, don’t look over there at the interior of a broken boat. Well yes, it does look a bit like it’s made out of polystyrene and aluminium, and then covered with straw. That’s not important. Would you like to buy an old shaman charm carved into half a seashell on a necklace?

Huanchaco, Peru - Saf

A Big Grey Desert

…And Peru is ugly! We came in from the North and have hugged the coast all the way down to Lima and beyond. Sounds nice, doesn’t it? Well, you’d be wrong. The whole thing is a huge, dry, barren desert.

And not even desert in the fun big-heaps-of-yellow-sand way; this stuff is grey and dusty and seeps into your clothing so before long you end up looking like a Dickensian extra. The sea moves between being as flat as a mirror, with no clear divide between its dull grey expanse and the dull grey cloudy expanse of the sky, so it looks as though boats are smply floating in mid-air, to turbulent and blustery.

And it’s still cold of course. Can’t be forgetting the cold.

I think I like Peru much less than Ecuador, even though we were only in the former for a week and we have a month here. Hopefully at some point we will see some green things, but after hundreds of kilometers of grey I am beginning to give up hope slightly. Still, the locals are interesting, and have ingenious ways of trying to nick baggage (lying on the floor ‘asleep’ on overnight coaches and running their hands under the seats is a new one on me).

Oh, and L’s sister has joined us, so we all feel a bit better about our Spanish and quite excited at getting to show her things we had gotten a little bit too used to. I sort of feel bad now that the first hostel we took her to was full of cockroaches, with no lights in the bathrooms and a big metal grille you had to hammer on to be allowed out.

Trujillo, Peru - Greg

Cuy

One of the things that people who have been to Peru always get asked is, did you eat guinea pig? Generally speaking, this sparks a long conversation about whether or not the participants would or would not eat a variety of animals, quickly moving from the few who have had snails to sogas or horses, before invariably ending with someone saying “You know, in China they cut the top off a live monkeys head and you eat its brains”.

Well, for reference I have not had guinea pig in Peru - I got it in Ecuador. Here is a picture of me lording over my victim.

But what does it taste like? Guinea pig, you cretin. It is very fatty, and has tiny amounts of furry crackling, and is kind of a cross between rabbit and pig I suppose, but kind of not. L dared Mummy to eat an ear. I do not know why she ever thought she would win that bet.

Loja, Ecuador - Greg