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Other entries in Cusco

Sitting pretty in the Inca City

It's a short hop in daylight hours to Cusco/Cuzco/Qosq'o and shortly after two pm we roll into the tourist haven, or at least its bus station, which is short on ruins and temples, but nonetheless impressive in its own way. As we emerge from our metal carapace, I'm amazed to see no peddlers, brokers or beggars pile up against the bus' sides in an attempt to relieve us from our cash as we step, half-stunned into the sunlight. The amazement is short-lived, however, as no sooner have we set foot inside the terminal proper than the hordes desend. Proffering pamphlets and outbidding one another with more and more freebies and perks, the hostel-pigeons won't let up until we've escaped to the temporary sanctuary of the bathrooms, and take up as quickly again, once the sound of flushing abates. Irritating as this is, there's no denying the attractiveness of some of the offers, and we duly select a place offering a kitchen, hot en-suite showers and low, low rates at its central location. As we follow in the wake of our captor, a hundred new hands reach out, desperately offering free breakfasts, taxi rides and shoe-shines for the same price. The taxi driver asks for four soles, so we keep walking, figuring the price will drop the further we move from the exit of the terminal. It does, by about a sol every ten metres, and the short walk gives more hawkers the chance to press the flesh with glossy brochures. The door of a three-sol cab opens as a whistle and two fingers summons us to a rock bottom fare, whose lowered windows allow another half dozen fists to hail flyers down into our laps. Buried under an avalanche of paper, we point forwards and the driver rolls off, narrowly avoiding the last few die-hards who are flinging themselves into the roads brandishing wads of cardboard advertising weekends in Swiss chalets for a dollar. Or something along those lines, I may be exaggerating that last bit slightly.

Halfway to our hostel of choice, we discover what appears to be the best offer of the lot and kindly request the cabbie to make an about face. He does, on the proviso that we chuck another sol his way, which is fare enough. As we cut through the city centre, on the steps of the central plaze, we spot a couple of familiar shapes. On our insistence, the beleagured driver grinds to a halt and we pile out, running up the steps to greet our friends from Puno - two Americans, a Swede and a chap from Barcelona. They're staying in a dorm in a hostel downtown, which has two spare beds, so we promise to call round later once we've made some sort of a decision. Not wanting to harass our chauffeur any further, we continue on to the last destination we had agreed on. No sooner have we taken our bags out of the boot than a guy comes haring over towards us from the hostel immediately across the road from the one we'd more-or-less settled on. He's offering the same, and as he has blocked our passage, we reckon we might as well have a peek rather than go to the effort of trying to refuse politely or beating him to death with one of his own limbs and stepping over his gorey corpse. There's little to choose between the two places, neither of which has a double-bed, but given the eerie silence of the many unoccupied rooms, we wonder if it might not be a better idea to hang the luxury and bunk in with the Titicaca gang for a bit of a laugh in southern Peru's most happening city. Another quick taxi ride later and we're there. It's more spartan than the previous lodgings, but there's definitely more of a buena onda (vibe) here.

All settling in, showering and dining done, the moment had come to test the theory about drinking for nichts in Cuzco. Town was starting to fill up and the first drink-pushers were out in force. Many false promises were made of gratis booze, along the lines of "Come in for happy hour, get three drinks for the price of one, and at eleven you get a free cuba libre". Sounds reasonable, if you're unaware that drink prices are quintupled in Cuzco centre, so as to make the fleecing seem like a bargain when they throw in a few freebies. Not wanting to sit through three hours of soul-draining reggaeton and an interest-free match on the big screen, nor several sol-draining rounds of happy-hour quaffing, we hummed and hawed until actual tickets for free cocktails were thrust our way. Like the happy-go-lucky, walk-over-the-sick-and-dying-to-get-a-freebie, tramps we are, we casually strolled out once the glasses were drained, and into another watering hole with the same hopeful promise of a spirit mix in exchange for our continued loyal custom. And out again into the street. This might sound like incredibly bad form, but rest assured that none of the bars we visited were in any danger of going bust or gathering dust, as willing punters were laying down hard currency left, right and centre everywhere we went. Suckers. Once the match ended, the fun began. From the stifling confines of Mama Africa, we hit the streets and the cold air, to be swarmed by a multitude of ticket-toters, pulling and dragging us towards their bars. Carole was swept off on a wave of hawkers, pulling her arms in opposite directions, commanding her to come and sup at the table of the on-the-house drinker. Kicks and slaps nearly had to be thrown to restore some kind of order (I'll have six pisco sours, no ice), and we somewhat nervously climbed the steps to Mythology, as the melee continued behind us. Each of the next four places we visited (one of them twice, as they seemingly hadn't learned the harsh economic lesson of throwing buns to bears) was playing the exact same music mix, with a twenty-minute loop delay, so we kept hearing the same three or four tunes over and over, and the liquid kept a-flowing. We retired shortly after one a.m., not a cent out of pocket, but exhausted from occasional dancing and the exertions of fending off the armies. Definitely one of the weirdest nights ever.

Plans were forming for visits to Machu Picchu and the eating of cuy, or guinea pig, a local speciality. Further plans were forming for a party in the woods, on an invitation from a bad juggler in Mama Africa. As MP is a bit of an undertaking, and a hefty smack on the travel budget, we wanted to bide our time to see if cheaper methods of travel were forthcoming, and in the interim some of us made a day trek to some more local, more affordable, but infinitely less impressive ruins. We spend a day half-heartedly admiring some Inca shower cubicles, a pre-Colombian sports stadium and some sort of rock thingummy which looked like the kind of place Tupac Amara's kids might have bunked off to for fags and cider during school hours, plus the admittedly more intriguing site of Sacsahuaman, where the colourful festival of Inti Raymi is carried out to this very day. Well, not exactly this very day, as it's in June, so we only saw rows and columns of intricately manoeuvred rocks, which had been displaced without the use of the wheel, or a JCB.

Back at the hostel, after a delicious slap-up meal of garlic trout, a note awaited with directions to the farm in the mountains where the party was taking place for the next couple of days. It was 8.03 and the last bus was scheduled for 8.00. Carole wasn't in the best of health after some dodgy juice down t'market and I was hesitating about making a dash for a possibly late bus, when who should show up but Flora, our French friend from Vilcabamba (and latterly Huacachina). She'd been off on some whirlwind romantic adventure up and down the coast with an Austrian met in the dunes and had been in Cuzco for a few days, checking into the hostel we'd turned down in favour of the noisy dorm about an hour after we'd left it. Her experience of Machu Picchu had been less than stellar and she was on her way to Bolivia the next day. Her arrival seemed like an omen, so I skidaddled to the bus stop in time to see them closing up after the last bus, which had left at 8.30. Rats! I asked the stationmaster which route the bus was taking and, after padlocking the main gate, he took me to the street, hailed me a cab and told the driver where to catch up with the departing bus. Five minutes and two soles later, the cabbie pulled in front of it, lights flashing and horn honking, as it was about to leave its next stop. Thanking him profusely for his escapades, I boarded a bus crammed to bursting with people, chickens and massive sacks of grain and rice. Squashed against the front door, the overhead bar came in handy as said door opened twice while rounding corners on the descent. A milestone had been reached - absolute maximum capacity on a Peruvian bus. Demoralised villagers saw their please for passage refused as the last bus was just too full. An hour later, as some space in the passageway, and eventually even a seat freed up, I set about deciphering the cryptic map and directions scribbled hastily on a cigarette packet, and came to the conclusion that I should wait until after Pisaq and then hop off at the first petrol station beyond the hamlet of Q'oya. The ticket-checker helpfully told me there was no such station, but thankfully the girl beside me assured both him and me that there in fact was, and offered to tell me when to alight. Sorted. From the station, I could see the house, but no the pathway to it, so I clambered over a wall and trod through a sodden field up to the mud-brick farmhouse, lit by a single bulb and a fire glowing in the hearth. Twenty-four hours of partying with no neighbours and the most awesome views of the surrounding mountains later, hosted by a man who makes drums skinned with roadkill, and didgeridoos on command and we made the pilgrimage back, abandoning half our party to continue the fiesta into the following day, to sleep, perchance to sleep some more.

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