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Peruvian wrap-up

You see the strangest things on buses, and the road back from Aguas Calientes was a prime example. Once, on the road from Cabanaconde, a young lad got on and sat beside me, asking if I'd pay his fare. I told him to tell the conductor he didn't have any money and he'd be alright, which he did, and he was. Then came the questions, mostly about Enrique Iglesias. Having grasped that Quique and I hailed from the same continent, it stood to reason that I would know just about everything about him, from his sleeping habits to favourite song to his plans for travel in Peru. Having provided him with the very little information I could recall/invent about the Hispanic heart-throb, my travel companion seemed amazed by the fact that singing and dancing was actually a paid job for the swoonsome Spaniard. ("No but, what does he do for work?") Having exhausted my limited knowledge of all things Iglesian, and a fair deal of my patience, the kid moved onto local artists, milling through a good hundred cumbia and reggaeton bands, amazed at my ignorance of all things musical and Peruvian. He was utterly stumped though, when I showed no recognition of Miguelhacksen, and seemed relieved on my behalf when I finally understood he was quizzing me on the erstwhile King of Pop.

"He has sex with children, you know"
"Er.. allegedly"

It was time for films now, an area in which I exhibited a much greater understanding of the main players. Though we both agreed that Terminator was a classic and Titanic a bit crap round the edges, one thing was truly puzzling my seatmate, who had now guzzled the remaining litre of my ultra-fizzy Real Cola - if Braveheart was dead, which I assured him he was, for many a century now, how the blazes had he managed to make that film about Jesus only last year? The line between films and reality being Dougalishly blurred, I could only shrug and put the whole mystery down to a trick of the camera. Before he got off the bus, he managed to stump me in return, with the classic question: "Are there many gringos in your country?".

On the way from Puno to Cuzco, a little girl got on and showed me her wares - some water, some cola and some chocolate. Having just eaten a couple of pies and slugged a bottle of orange juice, I was in no need for her refreshments, but she wasn't taking no for an answer. Having cycled through her three available products, she simply began over and over again.

"Cola?"
"No gracias"
"Agua?"
"No gracias"
"Chocolate?"
"No gracias"
"Cola?"
"No gracias"
"Agua?"
"No gracias"
"Chocolate?"
"No gracias"

When it became clear that I wasn't just pretending and really wasn't going to purchase anything, she retreated to her seat and began to stare.

"Malo! Malo! Malo!" she began to half-whisper, half-hiss. I tried to ignore her Children-of-the-Corn-like chant, but there was something undeniably eerie about the whole thing, and so I asked her why she thought I was so evil. "Because you won't buy anything". Fair enough, the poor kid is not old enough to grasp the whole concept of supply-and-demand, and is using the only tools at her disposal to try and make a few soles, namely her cute appeal, insistence and creepy intimidation techniques. I told her not to worry, plenty of other people would want water and chocolate, but that she might have more luck if she was more friendly and smiled at people. She thought about it for a second, and nodded, then smiled demonically at me and began again, "malo! malo! malo!"

To reach Cuzco by what we now call the Chileno trail, due to the large number of trekkers from Santiago and Valparaiso who take the round-the-mountain cheapo track, we first had to walk ten or so kilometres down the train track, to where the rail ends and the road begins, at a hydro-electric station. From here, trucks depart every couple of hours to the vilagette of Santa Teresa. The truck actually stops beside a river, which must be crossed by means of a small box suspended on an oft-repaired rope, tugging and teetering to safety at the bottom of a steep hill, on which is perched the hamlet. There are only two things of note in Santa Teresa - the juice shop and the road to Santa Maria, two winding, bobbling hours away in a van. Having agreed on a price, the three of us, plus five Chileans we met while waiting for a truck sat and waited for the guy to leave. When it transpired that he was in no hurry to do any such thing, we asked when we might expect to take off. "When the rest of you come". We counted ourselves and assured him we were all present, then realised he meant "when any other gringos in the vicinity find their way here at some stage during the day". We eventually left, having acquired an Argentino-Australian couple to boost the numbers and sat back to enjoy the glorious scenery in the afternoon sun.

Santa Maria, whose location I've never yet found on any map, is about seven hours from Cuzco, and has two shops selling cold beer, and a restaurant selling Turkish rice, a speciality of the area unheard of around the Bosphorus. The three hour wait was passed trying in vain to play bongo drums and harmonicas and discussing chemistry. We hopped aboard the 9.30 bus and settled down to try and sleep. The cramped seats, freezing wind through jammed-opened windows and petrol fumes from a large hole in the floor were doing a good job of banjaxing that plan when a kerfuffle broke out amidship and hoots and yells forced the driver to pull over and switch on the lights to reveal a stunned-looking man soaked in his own blood teetering in the aisle. Apparently he had started rooting about in some bags in the overhead racks, to the displeasure of the owner, who had socked him one, showing impressive aim in clocking the fumbler's nose in the pitch dark. Insincere apologies were issued and the bus set of once more. For an hour, at least, until we once more pulled to a halt so the police could board and raid some bags, obviously on a tip-off. They confiscated about six small bags of coca leaves, about one-fiftieth of the required amount to make a gramme of charlie, but just over the legal limit for possession. No arrests or warnings were issued, and presumably the booty has now been sold on to unscrupulous manufacturers of blow. A little later, as Carole reached down to take her shoe, she met a hand wriggling about. It belonged to a woman who was crawling about on hands and knees, apparently looking for her sandals. As her sandals were on her feet at the time, I think she was lucky to escape without a kick in the snout.

We got to Cuzco at 5ish, and stayed to sleep on the bus until a reasonable hour to go look for a bed. With most of the passengers gone, double seats were now freed up for a nap, and sleep came quickly. Then went just as fast, when the previously immobile hessian sack of the lady in the opposite seat started wriggling and going cock-a-doodle-doo every two minutes.

We spent the last day wrapping up various administrative odds and ends and booked a bus for Copacabana, a coldish spot far south of Havana, across the Bolivian border.

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