Cusco, the Great Inca City

 

We spent a whole 13 days meandering through the wonderland of Cusco and the famous Sacred Valley. Even though this was where the bullying of touts and price gouging was the worst, we were still wowed with every site.  Cusco itself is an incredible city, built from huge rocks cut long ago buy the Incas, many walls and buildings still in tact from those Pre-Columbian years.  There are cobbled alleyways and pedestrian streets zigzagging up and down every hill.  Elaborately carved balconies and window-shutters adorn many of the buildings. There are hundreds of manicured plazas surrounded by ornate stone churches.  We spent 5 days just wandering through this Inca city in awe.  And there are amazing and well maintained Inca structures in the hills overloooking the city including sacred fountains (of youth and cleansing),  moon temples, mummy preparation complexes as well as a giant temple/fort made of giant rocks, precisely cut and fit together without any kind of mortar to create layers of zig-zagging walls, designed both to represent the god of lightning and defend the city of Cusco from enemy armies. This last one, by the way, was called Sacsayhuaman (pronounced “sexy woman”!).

 

Cusco was an expensive place to sleep and eat, but to our delight (and destruction) it also had several great happy hours, which we more than tood advantage of! On our first night there, instead of eating dinner, we had our first Bloody Mary in over a year (and it was delicious).  For dessert we went to a different bar with a later happy hour for rum and cokes. The next night we followed suit at a few other bars switching to Caipairinhas, Pisco Sours, and Mojitos…a dangerous combination – ask Kristian for more details on that one, if he can remember!

Isla del Sol, Lago Titicaca

 

I feel like Brook Sheilds in the movie “Blue Lagoon”. We are alone on a quiet beach under the ruins of an acient temple used by people whose entire race disappeared long ago. We have set up camp and stripped naked to lie on the pebble shore and bask in this rare warmth. Here in the rainy season at 3,800 meters (approx 11,000 ft) above sea level the air over and around this lake is usually a freezing, wet wind. But now, the heat of the afternoon sun has burned off all the clouds and for a brief time its a tasty warm on our white, spongy skin. We have to be carefull, however, bucause at this altitude there is not much atmosphere between us and the sun to protect us from its burning rays. After baking a while, the idea of swimming gets planted in our brains and we finally brave the icy water. The lake is so cold that its as if the surface has frozen over into a thin layer of ice that I can´t mentally or physically get through. But when I finally do take the plunge, this mental barrier shatters and the underwater world of Lake Titicaca is mine. My whole body buzzs iwth aliveness and then goes numb. But for a second this body buzz merges with my mind in an alertness more whole and intense than ever before…

Or perhaps, rather than the stars from the Blue Lagoon, we are Adam and Eve…. We are, in fact, on the very island where the Incas believe that Virachocha, the God who dcreated their people, was born. In fact, the sacred rock from which Viracocha rose from the earth is perched on the hill directly above our little beach. It is also said that during the “great flood” the sun and the moon took refuge in this same rock and for this the island was named….

The evening brings a spectactular storm of thunder and lightning of all forms, appearing without warning from every corner of the heavy sky. For hours we watched in awe as it advanced slowly towards us from across the lake. When it finally hit, our languid lake became alive wilth wind-driven waves. In the air, fat raindrops flew from every direction, pelting our tent like bullets adn giving birth to a hundred little streams, cascading down the steep hill, flowing under and around our tent towards the lake. The storm was so intense that it not only came through the floor of our tent, but infiltrated my dreams as well… nightmares that our tent was being carried way in the rising tide…

By sunrise the storm had gone and the sky was clear just long enough for us to pack up our sopping stuff and start our trek across the island before raining anew. We hike across the spine of this lake lizard, along the island´s center ridgeline over rolling hills for 2 and a half hours before reaching the other end. About midway we came across yet another most isolated and random kiosko, selling a variety of hot drinks and beer…but we resisted our temptation to be patrons of this crazy café and continued on our merry way. It was mostly sunny, offering splendid views of all the little inlets and their spackling of villages below. Once we arrived at the end of the road, at the port town of Yumani, we congratulated ourselves with a cerveza at a hilltop café. Then a young entrepreneur and future marketing executive named Alexandra (9 years old) reeled us into her mom´s dockside eatery, dramatically describing every dish in detail, while she pulled us along by the hand, shaving off the price more and more with every step down the hill. In the end we had a fabulous lunch for 10 bolivianos ($1.15) each, including french fries, rice, and the best trout dish I´ve tasted yet – “Trucha ala Diabla” – while we sat just a few meters above the port, spying on all the activity of locals and tourists coming and going from the mainland.

 

The Ubiquitous Kiosko

You can always count on finding a kiosko to buy a beer, cookies or even agua caliente for your mate tea, just about anywhere you go in Argentina. You could be deep into a hike in the woods in Patagonia and out of nowhere you come upon a farm house with a kiosko in the front yard. You could be lost in the far reaches of the deserted altiplano where all you see are barren plains and fluffy llamas, but just when you feel a hint of cotton mouth there is a kiosko amongst a handful of camouflaged adobe huts. You could be camping in a seedy municipal campground on the edge of a grimy, hopeless town and at midnight realize that you don´t have enough food for your next 3 days of cloud-forest camping but never fear because there is a maxi-kiosko across the street which is technically closed but again no worries because the owners, without anything better to do, are still hanging around and happy to sell you more pasta and powdered soups than you know what to do with. In Bolivia as well we realize, you could be backpacking in the rain for days on an ancient and little used Inca trail from high tundra to thick rain-forest and still manage to squeeze in a pau hana cerveza at the end of each day, thanks to the ubiquitous kiosko. And you could also be back in Gualeguaychú, pedalling up the river under a sweaty sun and spot a kiosko past the bushes on the left bank… and then of course be obligated to pedal your bicibarco up to the bank, leap off with a few pesos in hand, run barefoot across the grass and buy a bien fría Quilmes from the owner even though he is in the middle of his lunch with his wife around back, then jump back in the boat for one final vuelta in the Huck Finn river before returning the empty bottle and catching the current back to the dock. You gotta love the kiosko.

The Days of Good Beer

Argentina is not known for it’s beer. It has decent, cheap, light, beers; and sweet, cheap, body-less, dark, beers; but for the most part, nothing special. Mendoza has a handful of microbreweries. All of them except for one produce what might be likened to pee. I’m no snob either, I’ll drink just about anything. Sometimes I would marvel at how long it had been since I had a beer, but when you think about all the wine, it all makes sense.

The one good brewery in Mendoza is called Jerome’s and it’s up in Potrerillos, or El Salto, to be exact. This is, even after these past few days, the best beer in Argentina. The trouble was, you had to drive some 68 km to the brewery to drink the beer and we did not have a car, plus, the stuff wasn’t cheap. Regardless, every time we were in the neighborhood, we paid a visit to Eduardo at his brewery in the Andes and drank some of his fine cerveza. Our last trip up there, the day after our full moon rafting trip, Eduardo rewarded our repeat patronage with free beers for us and our friends. I don’t understand why his beer was not sold in Mendoza. He is even looking into exporting to a couple of markets in the US; maybe Colorado (hopefully) and Oregon.

These past few days we have had an abundance of micro-brewed beers. Here it’s called cerveca artesanal. Here, they use the word artesanal a lot. I would even go as far as to say that it is overused. I mean, come on, how can you have an artesanal car wash or dry cleaning? Our luck started in the Swiss Colony near San Carlos de Bariloche. Oh, before I forget, I should mention that these days of good beer have also been marked by tasty food from fairs. Argentina has tons of ferias, or artisanal fairs, and we have been to too many. The one in El Bolsón is the best by far.

Piltriquitrón

Is a lovely little refugio on a hill of the same name which overlooks the pleasant pueblo of El Bolsón which is kind of a hippie hangout, known for good, fresh, organic, fruits, berries, vegetables, and beer. It´s not as tricky to say as it looks: ¨pill-tricky-tron.¨ We got lucky hitching a ride on the way up with an ecologist and his family. The hike from the end of the road was a steep 45 minute climb to the refugio where a group of about 18 would also be staying the night. We just happened to choose the busiest night that the refugio had seen in probably years! We would all squish in attic, two to a mattress for the night. We had great views of clouds and sun rays hitting the valley below. The people who manned the refugio cooked dinner, made hot drinks, and even brewed their own cerveza. Granted, it was not the best beer I ever had, but due to the unique circumstances surrounding it’s consumption, I thoroughly enjoyed it. Same with the pizza we had for dinner. The next morning, we snuck out of the sack without waking the other sardines, to get an early start on the summit. We made good time through howling winds to the cloud covered peak. Oddly enough, and to our good fortune, there was a part of the peak that was completely sheltered from the wind. We were able to relax and enjoy our trail mix as the view repeatedly opened and closed. We passed the big group heading up as we were on our way down. At the refugio, we warmed up with an absolutely lovely mug of hot chocolate. We stopped at the carved forest on the way back to the road, where artists turned the remains of a forest fire into a sculpture garden with their chainsaws. We didn’t get lucky with a ride on the way down and had to walk the 13 kilometers back to town.

Photo set for this post is here.

Swiss Colony

We visited a Swiss Colony where we witnessed the making of curanto, which is meat, sausage, potato, squash, and veggies buried in the ground under branches, leaves, and the Argentine flag. It was an interesting comparison to the Hawaiian Imu. Unfortunately, it was kind of expensive and we didn’t try it. We had delicious trout empandadas and mediocre fried bread with ham and cheese inside, and a pastry with vegetables inside. The highlight, though, was the artesenal beer. The dark one reminded me of Oregon Black Butte Porter. The lighter colored beer was also excellent.

Starting Off Heavy

We are carrying some of the weight of having lived in an apartment for the last ten months. We had begun the process of evacuating our apartment weeks before our first family members came to visit back in September. Thanks again family for taking so much of our stuff back to the States. Unfortunately, neither of us are as good at paring down our stuff as we would like. Yeah, I’m a pack rat, I know. Plus, I’m sensitive to over-consumption which I see as wasteful and having an aggregate negative impact on the naturaleza which I so love to enjoy. I don´t think that people should refrain from having things, just that they should be aware of the impact of their purchases. For example, a washing machine or an oak dining room table are nice things to have. For me, however, getting a new thing if I already have one that still works, or because it is old, or I don’t like the color anymore, or some such nonsense, is not a luxury I bestow on myself lightly. We did our best to find appropriate new homes for all of our things that would not be making the onward journey with us. When we passed our balcony bar and stools on to one of our neighbors, I almost shed a tear. That was probably the epitomal piece of furniture we had and a pivotal part of our lives in the apartment. Update Feb 20, 2007: Pablo informs me by email that he is enjoying mucho the bar and that with it, he is the envy of the building. Gotta love those friendly, dramatic, Argentines.

We leave the house with tons of crap (actually good stuff, some from our families): beef-jerky, craisins, yogurt covered raisins, good, cheap, backpacking foods from Mendoza: trail mix, dried mushrooms, sun dried tomatoes, powdered soups, a mountain of teas, coffee, vitamins, blank CDs & DVDs, neck pillows, a beach towel, etc. This is just a sampling of the lighter stuff. We also had the big old Dell Inspiron 5000 laptop with external DVD/CD burner and spaghetti tangle of cords. Plus three bottles of wine and another small bottle of sweet dulce de leche liqueur that Marí Carmen gave us as a going away present. Everybody in the world knows that glass bottles of liquids do not make for a comfortable backpacking experience. However, two of the wine bottles are from Ana & Roberto’s (part of our Mendoza family) bodega, another going away present. The three bottles will not last more than three nights. The first one was enjoyed within hours of our departure from Mendoza on our overnight cama bus to Neuquen. Another bottle tomorrow night in Junín with our diner of brown rice and left-over chili, over conversations with Argentines from other parts of the country, mostly Buenos Aires, enjoying their vacations. How appropriate that we will enjoy the third red wine given to us by Roberto at a place (Lago Paimún) and in a manner (under a starry sky) that he suggested.

Incapable of Change

Argentina suffers from a bizarre cultural phenomenon wherein nobody ever has change. One day, recently, I went to purchase a couple of 30 centavo tortitas with a 2 peso bill. “Do you have anything smaller?” asked the cashier. I did not. “Take them…” she waved me off, “just take them and go.” I left with my two warm little biscuits that I didn’t have to pay for because the task of coming up with $1.40 in change was just too daunting. This situation repeats itself every day all over the country. Here, the act of making a purchase is viewed by the vendor as a collaborative process. Many of the kiosks even hang up signs that say “Please collaborate with the change” or even “There is NO Change”. Even in the supermarkets, the checkout clerks will inevitably ask the purchaser if they have some coin or combination of coins and smaller bills; anything to minimize the amount of change they have to give you after your purchase.

Yesterday we went on a wine tour and at the end of the tour, decided to purchase a bottle. One would think that the idea behind getting people to come to your bodega and giving them a free tour and wine tasting would be to sell them bottles of your wine. We selected a 2002 Cabernet Sauvignon for $15.50. We went to pay for the bottle with a $100, which is the default bill provided by the ATMs. She was unable to sell us the wine because she could not make change. She asked if I could come up with the exact amount between my wife and the two friends we brought with us. Between the four of us, we actually could have done it, but then we would have been screwed for the rest of the day. Already we did not know how we were going to get back on the bus.

The Bus. What is it with public transportation that people are always trying to take a good, working system, and smash it into the ground? So, the entire network of Mendoza city busses recently adopted a policy of not giving change or accepting paper bills. What are they thinking? They are throwing gasoline on a fire. Yesterday, on the way to catch the bus to the bodega, the headline on the local paper read, “Bus companies have amassed $240,000 pesos during November since deciding not to give change.” I thought I was being proactive by taking a bunch of different denominations of coinage with me to the bus stop. With four of us, it shouldn’t be too hard, everything should add up to five and change and we’ll be on our way. That was before I knew that they now require each rider individually to put at least the proper amount of coins into a little box that gives you a little, paper ticket. “Is this a transfer?” asked our visitor, Jason. “No,” I said, at a loss, “It is Argentina.” So, with far, far more planning and preparation than went into the Iraq war, we managed to extract enough change from the change deficient Argentines to get us four gringos back and forth to the bodegas of Maipu. It was truly a battle. Shame we can’t enjoy our victory over a bottle of wine.

Turkey Day

With a few minor substitutions; like beer-up-the-butt chicken for turkey, cherry sauce for cranberry sauce, and our familia Mendocina for our natural ones, we brought to Mendoza a lovely Día de Gracias. The day also served as our going away party for our Mendocina sister, Lula, who was subsequently leaving to entertain offers to play professional handball in Spain and work in Andorra where she can have a blast while earning a bunch of Euros.

An Occasion to Dress Up

Our secret plan to subvert the staid and steady Argentine culture with frivolity and mayhem was a smashing success. Halloween is not celebrated here, although many are aware of it’s existence. We were concerned, at first, about the success rate that we might have what with all the questions and concerns about dressing up we were receiving from our invitees. I thought they wouldn’t really get into it, but boy was I wrong. Rather than being timid about the putting on costumes, everyone put a lot into their costumes. It was as if the human desire to dress up as something you are not, to escape who you are supposed to be, had been repressed, and we opened up the floodgates. It was fun chatting and dancing and drinking. We even had two jack-o-lanterns. One was mine and a guy from Montana (the state) brought and carved the other one. I guess the repressed need to hollow out a squash and carve a face in it is not as deep as the one to costume up.

Nothing kicks a Halloween party into high gear as much as the arrival of the transvestites. These guys, like the rest, made their costumes from scratch. The kitty-cat, in particular was quite elaborate. The karate boys (not transvestites) put on a good showing as the Powder Puff Girls. Our Mendocina sister, Lula and Danish friend, Astrid, tried to drain everyone of their blood. And like the good Argentines we strive to be, we stayed up all night until the sun of the following day shone brightly enough to evaporate those feisty vampires.

These two photos, as well as some of the others in the photo set on Flickr are courtesy of Astrid who appears above as the vampire with a goofy hat. Thanks Astrid!