From Peru

Greetings from Arcadia,

I was in Peru for a total of two weeks, and it felt like longer. A lot longer. I fell in love with Chile pretty quickly and completely, so Peru had the hard task of being runner up to a fantastic Chilean adventure. It’s a bit of a love/hate story, but I saw some truly incredible things there. With the notable exception of the airport…in fact, let’s start there.

It’s January 18, 2018. It’s 2 a.m. I am sitting in a Starbucks cafe inside the Lima airport, carefully thinking over every life choice that has led me to this moment. Cursing myself a bit. Cursing airports and airplanes and everyone who looks in my sad, sorry direction. I picked up a stomach bug, and without putting too fine a point on things, I spent a lot of time in bathrooms my last couple days in Chile, including my final night there not sleeping in my lovely, warm bed. So, by the time I flew from Punta Arenas to Santiago to Lima (with a toddler behind me kicking the seat every 30 seconds or so), I had pretty much decided to skip my flight to Cusco and come straight home. The only thing that stopped me is knowing that at that exact moment, my beautiful, beautiful bed was disassembled in a trailer on its way to Utah. There really was no home to go home to at that exact moment. Our home in Kalamazoo was echo-y and empty, and cold. And even if I flew straight to Utah, there would be nothing there but an empty house there too.  

Sitting in the Starbucks, listening to jaunty covers of classic Christmas music, I was running on no sleep in the last 40 hours, dehydrated, nauseous to the point where I genuinely couldn’t figure out if I was starving or about to throw up, and terribly missing my home, my bed, and a place where I can drink the water without filtering it. After realizing I couldn’t eat even a quarter of the cold, stale blueberry muffin, I gave it up and went to sleep on the floor in front of the check-in counters, along with the rest of Peru (judging by the hordes of people camped out in front of the counters), who were waiting for the check-in to open.

I won’t completely relive the whole saga of getting from Lima to Cusco, partly because it’s actually really boring if you weren’t there dealing with it, and also because I’ve blocked some of it out of my memory. Suffice it to say that it was a Groundhog Day-like travel nightmare, where speaking no Spanish was a serious handicap, especially since these were domestic flights where most of the passengers were Peruvians, and the all-important announcements were made in Spanish over a crackling PA speaker. Plane #1 took us from Lima to Cusco, then turned around over Cusco and went back to Lima because they couldn’t land with the weather conditions. Plane #2 never left the runway, but we sat in it for a couple hours anyway, maybe just to keep it company for a little while? Plane #3 got us to Cusco, finally, and by that point I am not exactly sure how I was still standing and walking around. I overpaid for a taxi, made it to the Airbnb, took a freezing cold shower, went to bed, and didn’t wake up for 14 hours.

Days 2 through 4 were spent trying to recuperate, and also acclimatize myself to the altitude. Cusco is at over 11,000 feet of elevation, and my sea-level dwelling body was feeling the effects every time I tried to climb stairs or exert myself. And there are a lot of stairs here, a lot. I was staying in the San Blas district, which, like most neighborhoods in Cusco, is tucked into the side of a steep hill. Despite the cold showers in my Airbnb, its main virtue was its proximity to lots of stores, shops, and little cafes (with WiFi). So, I ventured out to find places to eat and didn’t do much else. Sometimes it’s harder to give yourself permission to relax than it is to push yourself to your limits. Although getting from my room to grab a bite to eat and back was sometimes as much as I could handle, given the altitude.

Thankfully my quiet time was interrupted by the arrival of a friend of my Airbnb host’s, Elouise, who came to Peru looking for textiles for her U.K.-based import business. She was nice enough to invite me along to the Pisac market with her, and I got to learn more about traditional Peruvian weavings and rugs from an expert (who showed me the difference between the loads of tourist junk they sell and the more authentic pieces). She was accompanied by her happy-go-lucky baby, Jessie, who was delighted to be jolted around in a stroller over the stone paths in the market. I enjoyed looking around the market, but had a hard time finding anything redeeming about the hippy culture that is endemic in Pisac. They are everywhere, and shamanic shops are on every corner. We stopped for a break in a vegan restaurant that was packed to the brim with hippies, which is where I learned that Pisac is something of a staging area for ayahuasca tourism in Peru. While Elouise took care of Jessie, I sat quietly listening to the self-indulgent drivel of a couple of young American tourists who were dressed in their best hippie gear and talking a lot about “purging negativity.” I was glad to get back to Cusco and leave the hippies to their hacky-sack and ayahuasca.

During my down time, I booked a tour of Machu Picchu, Pisac, and Ollantaytambo with a local guide, Alain, who is a Peruvian native. He grew up in a small, poor village, one of nine children. His first language is Quechua, and he started his own tour company after years of working in the industry. Alain is very soft spoken, but brimming with interesting facts, and clearly steeped in the respect and traditions of his upbringing. Despite the fact that I booked a very last minute itinerary, Alain managed to pull off a fantastic tour on very short notice.

The only noteworthy thing that happened on the way to Machu Picchu was the fact that I missed my train by about 30 seconds. My driver got me to Ollantaytambo (the jumping off point for the trains that go to Aguas Calientes, the town just below Machu Picchu) at 11:14, and my train was supposed to leave at 11:15. By the time I ran into the station, they had already closed the doors and wouldn’t let me on. I fretted for about 10 minutes until I realized that a large group of Koreans were making their way toward another train. I put on my nicest smile for the platform attendant, and thankfully there were empty spaces, so they let me on the train. The train ran alongside a raging river that Alain later told me is called Wilcamayo, meaning “Sacred River.”

Upon arrival in Aguas Calientes, we had exactly five minutes to get from the station to the bus stop, to hop on the bus that would take us up to Machu Picchu. My guide, Alain, hustled me through the crowds, and we jumped on in time to make our way up to the BIG ONE, Machu Picchu. I don’t think I really thought about the fact that this was a huge, bucket list moment until we made our way around the final hairpin turn and saw the first glimpse of the terraces. It lives up to the hype, guys. I wasn’t sure, in fact, I was worried it would be an overblown touristy pile of rocks, but it is really, really something.

Alain kept saying how lucky we were with the weather, and I was in complete agreement. It couldn’t have been better weather – not raining, not too hot, breezy, and the clouds were open enough to see the whole site plus the surrounding mountains. This is fairly rare in the rainy season, and I felt incredibly lucky to be able to appreciate the site in its full glory. And because we missed the crowds in the morning (which are much heavier because everyone wants to be there for sunrise), I got to take in the sights in relative peace and quiet.

I won’t go into the details of the tour, because you really need to be there and hear it for yourself, but there is something about walking around there, climbing down steps and using the perfectly placed handholds carved by Inca stonemasons (and probably used by thousands of Inca over the years) that gives you the shivers. There really aren’t enough superlatives, and in any case I am not a skilled enough writer to sum up a place that defies explanation. I saw quite a few people walking around without a guide, and I have to say, I felt sorry they were missing out on the amazing details I got from Alain. I think it really would have been just a beautiful pile of rocks if I hadn’t heard all the interesting history and architectural details from someone who knows the place really well. I could have stayed up there for hours just drinking in the view, but eventually we made our way back to the bus that took us down the mountain. But just before we left, a beautiful rainbow appeared over a nearby peak. I normally don’t see rainbows as signs of anything other than a particular weather pattern (we saw so many rainbows in Patagonia that I just stopped taking pictures…they are almost ubiquitous there). Maybe it was Alain’s earlier explanations of how the Inca see the mountains as deities, or how they infuse symbology into everything they do, but this time the rainbow felt like a sign, or maybe just the mountain waving goodbye.

The next day we bustled out of Aguas Calientes under a cloud of rain and made our way to Ollantaytambo to see the ruins there. Somehow the rain stopped just before we pulled up to the site, and it became so brilliantly sunny that I ended up with a sunburn. The site wasn’t half as interesting or as beautiful as Machu Picchu, and I started to fear I was getting sightseeing fatigue, wondering if we should just skip the next stop at Pisac. I am eternally grateful we pressed on because the terraces at Pisac are awe-inspiring. I enjoyed climbing around the site and hearing more about the history, but really, the view was so stunning I could have stayed for hours just looking out over the valley. Alain somehow pulled a rabbit out of a hat and we got to take in all three sites in beautiful weather, and with few other tourists because we came just before the crowds from the buses showed up, so we were able to enjoy the majestic sites in relative solitude.

After a stomach-turning ride back to Cusco, I said goodbye and called a wrap on my short but beautiful tour of Peru’s Sacred Valley. After being awoken at 4 a.m. the following morning by what sounded like rifle fire (but what was actually fireworks), followed around 5:30 a.m. by a full-on parade and marching band that made its way through the quiet little side street I’m stationed at, I spent the whole day doing laundry (very, very slowly drying all my clothes one by one under the radiant heater).

The next day I was on my way once again, this time to the Ancash region of Peru, a major trekking destination for most, but a kind of spontaneous side trip for me. I saw a couple pictures of the mountains and decided, with a few days notice, to book a stay there to see it for myself. I made my way to Huaraz by way of an overnight ride on a gigantic double-decker bus that wound its way through the narrow and twisty road between Lima and Huaraz. Despite a cushy seat that reclined almost completely flat, I had a hard time sleeping in the claustrophobic cabin, with its weird blue lighting and extremely humid, sweaty air; I felt like I was in a really clammy tanning bed hurtling through space. The town of Huaraz will never win any prizes for architecture or urban planning, but its chief claim to beauty comes from the backdrop of the Cordillera Blanca and Cordillera Negra mountains surrounding the valley, and the incredible sunsets I witnessed every night I was there.

Did you know that different countries in South America have their high season and low season for tourism in the same month? I learned that relatively obvious lesson almost immediately in Huaraz, because despite the fact that this is high season for tourism in Patagonia, it’s rainy (low) season in Peru, and in Huaraz that means that I was quite literally the ONLY guest at the Santa Cruz Hotel. It also means that most of the typical tours and treks are not operational this time of year. So, while I tried in vain to find someone that might be able to organize a short horseback riding day trip to one of the beautiful mountain hotspots, I mostly just ended up walking around Huaraz, getting strange looks from the locals as Google navigated me down some sketchy back alleys on my way to find one of the dozens of tour operators in town. I finally found a day trip that was already scheduled to head to Lake Paron on Monday, and I jumped on it.

I scheduled the trip with an agency run by a Belgian woman named Marie and her husband David, a local Peruvian, both of whom ended up joining the day trip. So, the Sprinter van was relatively lightly packed with me, the driver Juelize, Alfredo the guide, a pair of unfriendly young Germans who looked at me like I had two heads after I introduced myself, Marie, David and Leo, a precocious 7-year-old who was accompanying them on this outing. The only good thing that can be said about the three hour journey from Huaraz to Lake Paron is we survived without losing a wheel or other critical mechanical function whilst jolting up a seriously rocky and rutted narrow track to the lake (if there were such a thing as rally racing for Sprinter vans, Juelize would be a serious contender).

Once at the lake, shepherded by Alfredo, everyone headed for an upward-leading path toward “Mirador,” which I assumed was probably a lookout point on the hill, but actually turned out to be a lookout point on a really steep hill overlooking the lake. Now is the time that I tell those of you who don’t already know that I have a fairly crippling fear of heights. Anything beyond the first three or four steps of the ladder and I’m out. I also do not enjoy being scared; I have never liked roller coasters, scary movies, haunted houses, or any other “entertainment” designed to make you pee your pants. The climb to Mirador combined the former two things with a high-altitude-induced chest tightness and inability to breathe properly that made the climb a hellish nightmare. At 4,200 meters (over 13,700 feet), Lake Paron is the highest I’ve ever been in my life (aside from the luxuriously oxygenated cabin of an airplane). Alfredo encouraged me to keep going, and after the path degenerated into a pile of loosely stacked boulders that I was encouraged to climb over, I seriously questioned if my judgement was being clouded by altitude sickness. After tempting me with just “2 minutes more,” Alfredo and I arrived at the overlook, and I got busy enjoying the view I’d earned after a half hour of sheer terror.

And, wow, what a view. The mineral-laden glacial waters of Lake Paron are a deep turquoise color that subtly changes with each shift of the high, fluffy clouds we were lucky enough to have overhead on that day. Once again, I was gifted a rare day of sun, breezes, and open views of the stunning peaks and beautiful scenery. Marie assured me that this was a rarity and luxury to have such calm and open weather in rainy season, especially in the Cordillera Blanca which is known for extreme weather changes. After the climb back down from Mirador, we took an old, heavily-patched inflatable kayak out onto the lake and paddled around for a little while, getting to see the beautiful Piramide Peak a little closer. A little while longer of admiring the scenery, and we were back in the van, jolting back to Huaraz.

Of my five full days in Huaraz, I only did any real adventuring on one of them. I struggled with feeling lethargic, and not excited about venturing outside the bounds of my room. When I did venture out, I felt self-conscious (being approximately eight feet taller than the average Peruvian woman – or man – and sticking out like the proverbial sore thumb); I really just wanted to disappear into the background. I was frustrated that I couldn’t connect with people because of the language barrier, so it really felt like I wasn’t connecting with the country either. Although I do enjoy solo travel some of the time, and am learning to love it more, in Huaraz I was not enjoying being alone. In fact, a lot of Peru was a lesson in dealing with frustration with myself and guilt for not doing and seeing more.

I apologize for ending on a bit of a sour note, but I have to be honest, and I don’t want to paint an unrealistically rosy picture of this whole adventure. Bottom line, despite seeing some unforgettable landscapes and experiencing a noisy, chaotic, beautiful country all by myself for the first time, I didn’t love Peru and I was not at all sorry to see it in the rearview mirror. But I have some exciting things planned for Ecuador and am ready to jump into the last round of my South American adventure. My post about Ecuador will probably be written from my new home in Utah, since I’m headed back for a few weeks to unwind and prep for the next leg of my journey. I’m looking forward to spending my first night in my new home, hugging my pups (and husband, of course) and being able to cook my own food and sleep in my bed again.

Yours on planes, trains, and buses,

Sarah