Cusco to Rio
First, an apology. For those of you who have not yet slipped into a coma over the lyrics game (remember that?) and who scoured the last e-mail looking for something familiar, I have to admit that I... eh... forgot to put one in! However, after reading it over, I found a few words near the start that I'm going to pretend were put there on purpose. By way of compensation, this week's is an absolute doddle and in a spooky way, has a link back to the last one. Clever, eh?
"Yeah, very good Neil," I hear you say. "Now shut the f#ck up and tell us about the rest of South America." Okay okay, no need to be so pushy! Jeez!
I'm a little reluctant to leave Cusco, but I've got a week to travel overland in a sort of u-shaped route around the Andes to get back to Lima before I move on elsewhere. Little do I know that this journey is going to encompass some of the best and worst bus journeys I've ever experienced in my life.
Bus No.1 - Cusco to Puno
For fifteen pounds, I enjoy a pleasant eight-hour trip through the mountains which stops off at various points of historical and cultural significance. The bus is only about a quarter full so there's plenty of time to stretch out and doze on and off.
I've come to Puno because it's the main Peruvian port on Lake Titicaca, one of the highest lakes in the world. For you stats fans, it sits at 12,500 feet, almost three times the height of Ben Nevis and covers an area about a fifth the size of Scotland. It's a gorgeous day when I undertake the day trip on the slowest motorised boat in Christendom.
The boat trip makes two stops on the lake. First up are the floating Uros islands, islands made out of reeds by the locals that literally float. I'm impressed with this rustic way of life and the need to constantly maintain and repair their living space until someone tells me that most of the people live on the mainland and come over every day to sell their tourist bits and pieces. They've also got solar panels to power their coloured televisions so they're not roughing it too much.
The second island stop is at Taquile, a lovely, small island that looks like it would be right at home in the Mediterranean housing Captain Corelli. We get to hike around and over it, stopping for lunch in a little village whilst being told of the unchanged way of life the islanders have led for hundreds of years. It's interesting to note that the men wear different coloured hats here depending on whether they're married or single which makes things a lot more straightforward down the dancing on a Friday night.
Bus No.2 - Puno to Arequipa
The receptionist at my hostel in Puno promises me a fast and trouble free journey to Arequipa as I hand over my 30 soles (around a fiver) for the ticket. These terms are obviously relative in Peru because the five hour journey lasts six and a half but seems twice as long as that. Every inch of the seats and floor space is packed with people, bags, screaming babies and barking dogs. At every stop, the hawkers get on to try and sell their food, water and toilet rolls(!) and there seems to be border patrols every time we cross from one region or county to another. It's warm and stuffy throughout until the passenger door breaks and swings open when we round a particularly sharp bend. I'm gripping the arm rests too tightly to join in the spontaneous applause.
In the Inca language of Quechuan, Arequipa apparently means "okay, let's stop here" and it has exactly that kind of feel to it - a place to stop and recover from long, arduous journeys, but no more. It's redeeming feature is that it sits at the foot of five dormant volcanos which dominate the skyline at every turn. On that first, frazzled evening, I can't recall why I wanted to come here in the first place. I wander aimlessly looking for the central plaza, get lost in the back streets and fail to spot another 'western' face. Am I the only visitor here? Sprint back to the hotel before finding out the hard way.
Next day is great though. It's the Sunday before Lent and all over the Americas, festivals, carnivals and fiestas are in full swing. I eventually find the central plaza, a stunning architectural success made of beautiful white stone with a massive cathedral at one end and balcony restaurants galore. I wile away the afternoon watching gangs of kids pounce on each other and unsuspecting tourists with buckets of water and cans of spray cream or wooshy, wooshy cream as my pal Bruce would say!
Bus No.3 - Arequipa to Nazca
Despite my experience in Puno, I believe the hotel manager in Arequipa when he tells me it’s a twelve-hour bus ride to Nazca near the coast and best to book the overnight service. When it leaves at six in the evening I am lounging in luxury. The seats are huge, comfortable and reclining and would make Captain Kirk or Jimmy Saville proud. There's a meal service, a television and video and I discover that the secret of enjoying a Steven Seagal movie is to watch it in a language you don't understand. It makes perfect sense.
Imagine my surprise then when I get woken out of my peaceful slumber by the bus hostess at two in the morning to be told that we're pulling into Nazca. WHAT THE F…?!? I've no accommodation booked and the 'bus terminal' is just a wall with the bus company name painted on it. The rubble strewn street is full of half completed (half demolished?) buildings and wouldn't look out of place in a CNN report from Iraq.
Fortunately, a local amigo comes running up with a tattered hotel brochure in his hand and says he'll take me to "nice place". I've little option but to trust him so I get in the back of a car with him and his pal and head off. From my recollection of the town map I studied earlier I think he's heading in the right direction... but then he does a U-turn. F#CK!!! In the back seat, my heart is thumping and my mind is racing with questions. Where can I hide my money? Can I use this pen as a weapon? Who'll play me in the Crimewatch re-enactment? Have I got clean pants on? Did I leave the iron on at home? Thankfully, it works out okay. I get a very basic room for the night, prop my backpack under the door handle, sleep with the light on and then move to a nicer place first thing in the morning.
I've come to this place to see the "world famous" Nazca Lines. (Hands up if you've heard of them?) They're essentially a collection of large drawings and geometrical shapes that somebody, somehow, sometime scratched into the desert sands and rocks for some reason. There're lots of theories as to why they're there, my favourite being the "greeting and landing strip for aliens" hypothesis.
Best way to see them is from the air so I take a bumpy, early morning flight in a four-seater plane (I was in the co-pilot seat!) and they are impressive, I suppose. Can't shake the nagging feeling though that they could be touched up and redesigned every evening when the tourists go home.
Bus No.'s 4, 5 & 6 - Nazca to Lima
THIS is the day from hell!
The first thing I did when I arrived in Nazca was reserve a seat with the same luxury bus company to take me to Lima on the day that I'm due to fly to Brazil. I turn up in the morning on time to pay for my ticket with the secret hope that a couple of Jean-Claude Van Damme movies might be part of the package. And that's when I get the news...
Shrug! No bus today! Tomorrow? Maybe, who knows! Blah, blah! Politicia situationa! Etc.! Adios!
Standing in the rundown street I'm stunned. Shocked and stunned. I've got ten hours to travel 450 kilometres before I have to check in for my flight to Brazil. At first I consider the possibility of chartering the four-seater plane all the way to Lima. Then I discard that and decide that I'll just buy the plane and fly/drive it myself. Then I decide to ask someone what my options are.
A travel/tour company tells me that there is a major transport workers strike all over the country today (I know what they gave up for Lent. B#stards!) and my only option is to get on one of the local minibuses to the next town, Ica, and then see if I can pick up a connection from there. And so it goes.
Get a seat on a packed little bus to Ica and then stand in the aisle for over an hour on the next bus to Pisco. Just miss a connection there to Lima but get a seat on the next one for the painfully slow last leg to Lima. All of this hopping on and and off would be bearable if the view along the way was worth seeing. However, it's just an endless, scrubby, parched, desert wilderness with little signs of life anywhere.
But guess what. I made it through the wilderness, somehow I made it through and nine and a half hours later, I tumble out of a taxi at Lima airport, exhausted, dehydrated and absolutely filthy... but overwhelmingly happy and relieved. And on my way to Brazil.
Arriving in Rio de Janeiro, I warm to the place immediately. Perhaps it's the cloudless sky that allows uncluttered views of the city, mountains and beaches on the approach to landing. Or perhaps it's the three gorgeous girls who fight over themselves to offer me their taxi service as soon as I emerge from the airport baggage hall.
"We take you anywhere you wanna go sir," they all cluck at once.
"Really," I reply with a raised, Roger Moore eyebrow. "Anywhere?"
My hotel is a mere two blocks from Copacabana Beach and after getting settled and unpacked (a rare luxury) I go out exploring. After weeks of talking Spanish, it takes me a moment to adjust before slipping effortlessly into fluent Portugese.
Neil: "De onde eu Starbucks por favor?"
Local: "No Starbucks aqui, senor."
Neil: "EH? Brazil! All that coffee! And no f#cking Starbucks? Christ!"
Local: "You wanna go Christ the Redeemer statue?"
Neil: "Forget it."
I'd love to tell you that I've been to see all the sights; wandering through the downtown museums, driving around the poorer favella areas and dancing in a backstreet, underground samba club till four in the morning (I was back at the hotel by 3.30) but did I mention that I'm only two blocks from the beach? And the beach at Ipanema is only five minutes down the road. Before I go a-walking there, I consult the necessary checklist to see if I fit the bill.
Tall? - from a certain point of view, I suppose.
Tanned? - Definitely!
Young? - Still in my thirties, does that count?
Lovely? - Too modest to say.
I did take the cable car ride up to the top of Sugar Loaf Mountain for the view of the city and on Sunday night I saw a local football match (soccer to you Americans) at the famous Maracana stadium. The game was between two teams I'd never heard of, Botafogo and Fluminense, and at first I think it's a contest between a couple of Amazonian diseases. ("Yeah, I had a wee touch of the botafogos but a bout of penicillin cleared it right up!") It ends in a no scoring draw but the atmosphere is fantastic, just a goal or a sending off short of riot police, tear gas and a referee with a price on his head!
I've really enjoyed being in Rio. It's far more modern than anything I encountered in Peru, can be noisy and quiet in the space of a few minutes and is a place I'd love to revisit in the future with a bunch of friends. And the coffee they DO have is very good.
So next stop is New York, the big apple, 'A' number one, top of the list, king if the hill etc. I wonder if they have Starbucks there?
Till then.
Love, Neil x
First, an apology. For those of you who have not yet slipped into a coma over the lyrics game (remember that?) and who scoured the last e-mail looking for something familiar, I have to admit that I... eh... forgot to put one in! However, after reading it over, I found a few words near the start that I'm going to pretend were put there on purpose. By way of compensation, this week's is an absolute doddle and in a spooky way, has a link back to the last one. Clever, eh?
"Yeah, very good Neil," I hear you say. "Now shut the f#ck up and tell us about the rest of South America." Okay okay, no need to be so pushy! Jeez!
I'm a little reluctant to leave Cusco, but I've got a week to travel overland in a sort of u-shaped route around the Andes to get back to Lima before I move on elsewhere. Little do I know that this journey is going to encompass some of the best and worst bus journeys I've ever experienced in my life.
Bus No.1 - Cusco to Puno
For fifteen pounds, I enjoy a pleasant eight-hour trip through the mountains which stops off at various points of historical and cultural significance. The bus is only about a quarter full so there's plenty of time to stretch out and doze on and off.
I've come to Puno because it's the main Peruvian port on Lake Titicaca, one of the highest lakes in the world. For you stats fans, it sits at 12,500 feet, almost three times the height of Ben Nevis and covers an area about a fifth the size of Scotland. It's a gorgeous day when I undertake the day trip on the slowest motorised boat in Christendom.
The boat trip makes two stops on the lake. First up are the floating Uros islands, islands made out of reeds by the locals that literally float. I'm impressed with this rustic way of life and the need to constantly maintain and repair their living space until someone tells me that most of the people live on the mainland and come over every day to sell their tourist bits and pieces. They've also got solar panels to power their coloured televisions so they're not roughing it too much.
The second island stop is at Taquile, a lovely, small island that looks like it would be right at home in the Mediterranean housing Captain Corelli. We get to hike around and over it, stopping for lunch in a little village whilst being told of the unchanged way of life the islanders have led for hundreds of years. It's interesting to note that the men wear different coloured hats here depending on whether they're married or single which makes things a lot more straightforward down the dancing on a Friday night.Bus No.2 - Puno to Arequipa
The receptionist at my hostel in Puno promises me a fast and trouble free journey to Arequipa as I hand over my 30 soles (around a fiver) for the ticket. These terms are obviously relative in Peru because the five hour journey lasts six and a half but seems twice as long as that. Every inch of the seats and floor space is packed with people, bags, screaming babies and barking dogs. At every stop, the hawkers get on to try and sell their food, water and toilet rolls(!) and there seems to be border patrols every time we cross from one region or county to another. It's warm and stuffy throughout until the passenger door breaks and swings open when we round a particularly sharp bend. I'm gripping the arm rests too tightly to join in the spontaneous applause.
In the Inca language of Quechuan, Arequipa apparently means "okay, let's stop here" and it has exactly that kind of feel to it - a place to stop and recover from long, arduous journeys, but no more. It's redeeming feature is that it sits at the foot of five dormant volcanos which dominate the skyline at every turn. On that first, frazzled evening, I can't recall why I wanted to come here in the first place. I wander aimlessly looking for the central plaza, get lost in the back streets and fail to spot another 'western' face. Am I the only visitor here? Sprint back to the hotel before finding out the hard way.
Next day is great though. It's the Sunday before Lent and all over the Americas, festivals, carnivals and fiestas are in full swing. I eventually find the central plaza, a stunning architectural success made of beautiful white stone with a massive cathedral at one end and balcony restaurants galore. I wile away the afternoon watching gangs of kids pounce on each other and unsuspecting tourists with buckets of water and cans of spray cream or wooshy, wooshy cream as my pal Bruce would say!
Bus No.3 - Arequipa to Nazca
Despite my experience in Puno, I believe the hotel manager in Arequipa when he tells me it’s a twelve-hour bus ride to Nazca near the coast and best to book the overnight service. When it leaves at six in the evening I am lounging in luxury. The seats are huge, comfortable and reclining and would make Captain Kirk or Jimmy Saville proud. There's a meal service, a television and video and I discover that the secret of enjoying a Steven Seagal movie is to watch it in a language you don't understand. It makes perfect sense.
Imagine my surprise then when I get woken out of my peaceful slumber by the bus hostess at two in the morning to be told that we're pulling into Nazca. WHAT THE F…?!? I've no accommodation booked and the 'bus terminal' is just a wall with the bus company name painted on it. The rubble strewn street is full of half completed (half demolished?) buildings and wouldn't look out of place in a CNN report from Iraq.
Fortunately, a local amigo comes running up with a tattered hotel brochure in his hand and says he'll take me to "nice place". I've little option but to trust him so I get in the back of a car with him and his pal and head off. From my recollection of the town map I studied earlier I think he's heading in the right direction... but then he does a U-turn. F#CK!!! In the back seat, my heart is thumping and my mind is racing with questions. Where can I hide my money? Can I use this pen as a weapon? Who'll play me in the Crimewatch re-enactment? Have I got clean pants on? Did I leave the iron on at home? Thankfully, it works out okay. I get a very basic room for the night, prop my backpack under the door handle, sleep with the light on and then move to a nicer place first thing in the morning.
I've come to this place to see the "world famous" Nazca Lines. (Hands up if you've heard of them?) They're essentially a collection of large drawings and geometrical shapes that somebody, somehow, sometime scratched into the desert sands and rocks for some reason. There're lots of theories as to why they're there, my favourite being the "greeting and landing strip for aliens" hypothesis.Best way to see them is from the air so I take a bumpy, early morning flight in a four-seater plane (I was in the co-pilot seat!) and they are impressive, I suppose. Can't shake the nagging feeling though that they could be touched up and redesigned every evening when the tourists go home.
Bus No.'s 4, 5 & 6 - Nazca to Lima
THIS is the day from hell!
The first thing I did when I arrived in Nazca was reserve a seat with the same luxury bus company to take me to Lima on the day that I'm due to fly to Brazil. I turn up in the morning on time to pay for my ticket with the secret hope that a couple of Jean-Claude Van Damme movies might be part of the package. And that's when I get the news...
Shrug! No bus today! Tomorrow? Maybe, who knows! Blah, blah! Politicia situationa! Etc.! Adios!
Standing in the rundown street I'm stunned. Shocked and stunned. I've got ten hours to travel 450 kilometres before I have to check in for my flight to Brazil. At first I consider the possibility of chartering the four-seater plane all the way to Lima. Then I discard that and decide that I'll just buy the plane and fly/drive it myself. Then I decide to ask someone what my options are.
A travel/tour company tells me that there is a major transport workers strike all over the country today (I know what they gave up for Lent. B#stards!) and my only option is to get on one of the local minibuses to the next town, Ica, and then see if I can pick up a connection from there. And so it goes.
Get a seat on a packed little bus to Ica and then stand in the aisle for over an hour on the next bus to Pisco. Just miss a connection there to Lima but get a seat on the next one for the painfully slow last leg to Lima. All of this hopping on and and off would be bearable if the view along the way was worth seeing. However, it's just an endless, scrubby, parched, desert wilderness with little signs of life anywhere.
But guess what. I made it through the wilderness, somehow I made it through and nine and a half hours later, I tumble out of a taxi at Lima airport, exhausted, dehydrated and absolutely filthy... but overwhelmingly happy and relieved. And on my way to Brazil.
Arriving in Rio de Janeiro, I warm to the place immediately. Perhaps it's the cloudless sky that allows uncluttered views of the city, mountains and beaches on the approach to landing. Or perhaps it's the three gorgeous girls who fight over themselves to offer me their taxi service as soon as I emerge from the airport baggage hall.
"We take you anywhere you wanna go sir," they all cluck at once.
"Really," I reply with a raised, Roger Moore eyebrow. "Anywhere?"
My hotel is a mere two blocks from Copacabana Beach and after getting settled and unpacked (a rare luxury) I go out exploring. After weeks of talking Spanish, it takes me a moment to adjust before slipping effortlessly into fluent Portugese.
Neil: "De onde eu Starbucks por favor?"
Local: "No Starbucks aqui, senor."
Neil: "EH? Brazil! All that coffee! And no f#cking Starbucks? Christ!"
Local: "You wanna go Christ the Redeemer statue?"
Neil: "Forget it."
I'd love to tell you that I've been to see all the sights; wandering through the downtown museums, driving around the poorer favella areas and dancing in a backstreet, underground samba club till four in the morning (I was back at the hotel by 3.30) but did I mention that I'm only two blocks from the beach? And the beach at Ipanema is only five minutes down the road. Before I go a-walking there, I consult the necessary checklist to see if I fit the bill.Tall? - from a certain point of view, I suppose.
Tanned? - Definitely!
Young? - Still in my thirties, does that count?
Lovely? - Too modest to say.
I did take the cable car ride up to the top of Sugar Loaf Mountain for the view of the city and on Sunday night I saw a local football match (soccer to you Americans) at the famous Maracana stadium. The game was between two teams I'd never heard of, Botafogo and Fluminense, and at first I think it's a contest between a couple of Amazonian diseases. ("Yeah, I had a wee touch of the botafogos but a bout of penicillin cleared it right up!") It ends in a no scoring draw but the atmosphere is fantastic, just a goal or a sending off short of riot police, tear gas and a referee with a price on his head!I've really enjoyed being in Rio. It's far more modern than anything I encountered in Peru, can be noisy and quiet in the space of a few minutes and is a place I'd love to revisit in the future with a bunch of friends. And the coffee they DO have is very good.
So next stop is New York, the big apple, 'A' number one, top of the list, king if the hill etc. I wonder if they have Starbucks there?
Till then.
Love, Neil x
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