On the road again

After the relative peace and tranquillity of Mancora and Huanchaco, arriving in Lima was more than a little overwhelming. An insane melting pot of historical beauty and garish neon, cloistered monks strolling the monasteries and lycra-clad crypto-whores prowling the bars, it was noisy, dirty, edgy, and pretty damned threatening. And, quite bizarrely, I loved it.

We spent the morning of our first and only full day in Lima’s Museum of the Nation, a sprawling, six storey affair housed in an impressively brutal, angular building. For the most part, it was a pretty uninspiring affair, crammed full with the usual traditional ceramics, average local art and badly translated historical info boards. But a lift up to the sixth floor takes you to the photographic exhibit ´Yuyanapaq. Para Recorda.´

Curated and funded by Peru’s Truth and Reconciliation Commission, this sprawling, beautifully hung collection of images tells the sorry tale of twenty years of savagery that blighted Peru from the late seventies through to the close of the twentieth century. As a band of fanatical, murderous Communists in the Shining Path waged war against a corrupt Government with a brutal streak, Peru’s populace was caught in the crossfire. Stadiums became Government torture chambers, while no street, school or church was safe from the disgusting brutality of the terrorists. Emerging from a few hours inside the exhibit, the laughing school kids outside seemed somehow all the more special, the sun all the  brighter; though poverty is endemic and wounds clearly remain, it is nothing short of a miracle that the country has managed to move on from these horrors with such apparent speed.

Lima’s centre, with its wealth of colonial buildings and slew of increasingly impressive plazas, is truly something, as are the catacombs that run under the Church of San Francisco a short walk always from the main square. Walking amongst the bones in what was the cities first Catholic cemetery was an eerily pleasant experience, made all the more memorable as the incense and music from the mass taking place above us drifted down. A brief stop-off for a fabulous Pisco Sour at the Morris Bar – where the drink was created – took us through to meal time, which took us through to bed.

The town of Pisco, home of the national, titular drink, was devastated by an earthquake a few years back. If you believe the guidebooks, or judge a town by the number of gringo bars and pizzerias it has, then you'll give the town a wide berth. Personally speaking, I found the place a joy. For the first time since landing in South America, we were in the sort of dusty, ramshackle, insanely alive town I'd imagined before we set off. Worth the journey in itself? Possibly not, but an experience nonetheless. It also  a perfect spot to lay your head before visiting the Ballestas Islaands. The 'poor man's Gallapegos' were an absolute joy; a veritable cornucopia of stunning, craggy islands, multi-coloured birds of every description and an embarrassment of seals, the highlight was my first ever glimpse of a penguin in its natural habitat.

Our next stop, Nazca, had the same dusty, exotic charm of Pisco but with the added bonus  of a charming central square and a number of decent eateries. The delights here were two-fold; the first being my cut-throat shave in a backstreet barbers with no running water, the second being Lou's trip in a four seater plane to see the mystical Nazca Lines. Louise described the experience as 'amazing, though vomit inducing'. I was torn between admiration for my wife's bravery, and utter bafflement as to why anyone would take part in an activity that regularly carries delays as a result of planes failing basic safety checks.

En route to this desert town, we took a stop at the Huacachina oasis. Though now circled with juice bars and a few restaurants, it was quite something to see our first actual desert oasis. Though not enough to make us join the locals and take a dip; while charming on camera, and from a distance, close up, the pool stank like tramp during a heatwave.

Our time in Arequipa was split either side of a night in the Colca Canyon, spotting condors and cooking, eating and playing chess with a local family in a mud-floored kitchen. Arequipa itself was a treat, with a magnificent, palm strewn central square, best viewed from the top of the splendid cathedral. Any visitor frustrated by the erratic opening hours of the cathedral proper should pay the ten Soles fee to enter the fantastic, but poorly advertised, museum. Not only do you get the wonderful views from the roof, but get to see some obscenely lavish religious artefacts; my personal favourite was an unspeakably lavish, and vulgar, crown of thorns in pure gold. You've really got to love the Roman Catholic sense of priorities, especially in a country with such grinding poverty.

Most Peruvians are able to rattle off an array of stats about the awe inspiring Colca Canyon, most of which serve primarily to underscore how much bigger it is than its Grand American rival (it's more than twice as deep). It takes something to steal the glory from the amazing scenery, but that's just what the pair of condors taking their morning flight did. Majestic, graceful and far closer than we thought they'd be, they pirouetted like first-flush lovers against centuries old crags and a powder blue sky. Sheer magic.

A visit to Cusco is pretty much guaranteed to take your breath away; if the cobbled streets, colonial grandeur and sense of infectious fun don't do it, the altitude will. It felt as if we had been on a tour of increasingly fabulous colonial cities and towns, each besting the last for sheer grandeur, finally reaching a crescendo in Cusco. From the pigs heads hanging lose in the local market to the seemingly never ending stream of street celebrations and protests, Cusco is a city that charms you with its beauty, seduces you with its history and utterly knackers you out with its sense of fun. Even the weird smell of shit and eggs in our hostel bathroom and the slightly annoying offers of weed and coke from obvious Police stooges. Obviously, Lou and I ignored all these things, as after two nights in the city, we were boarding a bus for Ollyantaytambo, and with it the Inka Trail. Which is where we'll see you next.

Toodle pip,

Luke and Louise

(Posted by Luke)