I Am Writing on the Difficult Day After Our Return from Peru. (Both Irving and I Are Coping

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January, 2013

I am writing on the difficult day after our return from Peru. (Both Irving and I are coping with stomach disorders.) This morning I awoke to “Bird Note” on NPR [National Public Radio] and listened to a recording of birds at dawn. I was disturbingly disoriented, for during the last three weeks I have been getting up to the sounds of birds calling each other across the first streaks of morning light. It took a long, odd minute or two, however, to realize that I was once more in bleak Buffalo where any self-respecting bird would be in hiding.

The journey began in Lima. We arrived at our hotel at 2 a.m. and lay down briefly, for a “city tour” was to begin at 5 a.m. Half the population of Peru lives in Lima, so you can imagine what a crowded place it is. We passed by the usual colonial churches and a cathedral where we descended into catacombs once used to care for and bury lepers (the priests sprinkled lime over their bodies to prevent the stink from rising to the area of worship above). The altar is wood covered in gold stolen from the Incas. We walked passed old Moorish wooden balconies, as well as the usual imported Starbucks, Kentucky Fried Chicken, Fridays, and all the technology and use of English that goes with “civilization.” All I really wanted to do was to find a place where I could replace the reading glasses I had left on the plane (major disaster), but none was available on the spot (I would have had to wait three days).

When our Lima guide looked at our subsequent itinerary, he blanched and said, “Not many people go to these places.” That should have been a warning. With a couple of exceptions (Cusco and Macho Piccho), what followed on the rest of our travels was more adventurous than ever before. We exceeded our reputation; it is amazing we are back alive after nine flights, treacherous long journeys through rain and mud on winding, narrow mountain passes, and traveling for nine hours in large canoes down rapid, rain-swollen rivers that meet the Amazon. All this and more were awaiting our naïve selves. Wherever we went Black Vultures hovered nearby, perched on roofs, and waited for us to expire.

The following early morning we took a plane to Cusco, a lively colonial city and one of the two tourist places we visited. The tourists, I should mention, were mainly young people who take months out of their lives and stay in hostels. After swooping down in sweeping curves over snow-capped mountains, red tiled roofs, and narrow streets we landed at 11,000 feet. (By the way, many of the airports in Peru have been closed because of too many accidents caused by landing in the midst of mountains.) One immediately feels strange and longs for coca tea and coca leaves to help alleviate the breathlessness, headaches, and lethargy. Visitors sit in hotel lobbies looking green and defeated. A lonely, middle-aged man from Montreal attempted to adopt us. We were too tired to oblige. He takes pills for altitude; we pretended we were doing well, but going up a few steps to our room felt awful. Even in the Franciscan Cathedral, an elderly lady seated among the shadows at the back gave away coca leaves and cans of oxygen. I succumbed and asked for coca tea. That first evening we ate at Don Thomas, a restaurant close to the hotel. Here were some surprises. The menu was extraordinary: roast guinea pig (a traditional dish – but one which unfortunately straddles the plate looking like one’s pet with its head still on, even though the fur has been singed off) and alpaca steak. Irving shamed [bullied] me into trying it – it was lean and good. But most extraordinary of all were the English translations of dishes: “filet of river in dice white bottom” – I think actually that phrase rather describes our trip.

[Irving hates the hotel room, sleeps not at all (breathless, noise rises from the street: dogs bark, people drunk, and car alarms go off all night); I give him half a beta blocker to calm him down; the next night we change hotels to a quieter place right on the large, wonderful square, and with an elevator!] Since we only had a day and a half here, we started immediately on a “city tour” in which we entered the San Franciscan cathedral, a nunnery, and a museum displaying Inca pottery and gold. The second day we visited the Inca ruins just outside the city (but higher at 14,000 feet) where we saw places where the Incas had mummified their leaders and where the last war between the Incas and the Spaniards had been fought. Fortunate not to be caught in the rain, we walked (slowly) along paths, by flowers that were now blooming because of the rainy season. The precision with which the Incas fitted stones together as well as the zig-zag walls were miraculous. Too tired after all this visiting, once back in Cusco we walked around the bustling and extensive Cathedral square and adjoining smaller squares before settling on a tiny Italian restaurant to eat spaghetti. Stomachs are beginning to respond to alien “whatevers.” That evening repacked (I was and still am so sick of zippers and pockets), and took out what we will need for just two days in Machu Picchu. One is allowed only a small bag on the special train going there. One takes a bus to the train station a thousand feet higher than Cusco. On the way to the train I saw a pack of at least fifty dogs on a garbage pile.

The train ride was marvelous. When it periodically stopped, women approached the train to sell narcissus. From the windows I gazed at raging rivers, clouds passing through the hills and mountains, mud, as well as at the beginning of the difficult Inca trail. The train meandered for three and a half hours through fertile valleys and finally descended on zig-zagged tracks to a village through which the train tracks run and where narrow dirt streets take one to a hotel. Our room was pleasant. Rather than pictures on the wall, there were written quotations from the writings of people such as Pasteur, and on the shower curtains were inscribed instructions about saving towels. The place was all hills. To carry goods from the train into the village, people pushed carts and wheelbarrows, across bridges, and up ramps on the sides of the streets. In the evenings, and much to my delight, children collapsed empty liter plastic bottles and sat on them so as to slide down these ramps. In the small village square where elderly residents sit was a Christmas tree made of green liter plastic bottles. Everything has steps: small shops, streets, the hotel, and even a small movie house – straight out of cinema paradiso. We started choosing the places that had the least steps.

The next morning we took a bus up winding roads to Machu Picchu itself. Before coming, we had been a bit snobbish and had told friends that this was an “obligatory” stop. Well, it was anything but that. We soon lost our false superiority. We were completely overwhelmed not just by the ruins but also by the setting: the tall exceedingly steeply forested mountains that closely surround and sometimes rise a thousand feet up above the site as well as the distant mountains and the changing skies enthralled us. The experience was like being in a basin. On the first day we went around with our guide, and had a delicious buffet at a restaurant just outside the entrance. The site is extensive and, of course, layered. Steps and terraces take one round and about, up and down. The second day was even better visit; we went by ourselves. Miraculous for the rainy season, the weather was clearer than usual. Irving wandered a bit by himself and then sat “under the thatch” (all these structures originally had thatched roofs), an area with a long bench shielded by a thatch roof. One meets extraordinary people there. Together we met a square, wind-burnt man from Newcastle. He had left to escape coal mining and was now on a long motorcycle journey from Alaska down to Patagonia; I also saw the most elegant Japanese man in my life, as well as all sorts of Peruvians who nodded and smiled as if to say, “this is wonderful.” While Irving walked around the more level places, I decided to try and climb up high to the Inca Bridge. Without a guide, I mistakenly chose the more difficult route. The intense sun beat down. Coupled with the altitude, its rays made me dizzy. I persevered, however. One step at a time, I got up to the quarry, the guard house (met some French dancers who took my picture while I jumped as high as I could on an overhanging ledge – I was ridiculously attempting to copy what I had seen them do more elegantly). I then proceeded on a path up to the end of the Inca trail. On the way down (this time the less difficult route), a man stopped me to say that Irving was fine and was probably on his way out. Have you ever tried to find somebody in such an extensive area? Do you know how many people wear red jackets? I went through the gates, but no Irving. Instead, I became entangled within a documentary film crew. I returned to “under the thatch” while nervously searching for Irving as best I could with my eyes. Finally, I caught sight of a figure with Irving’s unmistakable gait. Relief. We walked in another flatter area together. At every turn there was a new splendid panoramic perspective. Reluctantly after several hours we left, and late in the afternoon took the bus back.

The following day I got up very early and walked down the valley by following the raging river where I saw a flock of mealy parrots. I walked along train tracks, passed women weeding the tracks, and reached the entrance of a botanical garden. Worried about time, I walked slowly back up the hill (was not as breathless as I feared I might be), and met Irving at the hotel. Together we went to a part of the village through which the train runs. Suddenly the heavens opened. The rain came crashing down, so we ducked (literally!) into a café and sat for an hour while waiting for the torrent to stop. It did not, so we went through a market and bought two ponchos and made it back to the hotel in time to catch the train back to Cusco where we did little more than collect our bags and prepare bags for the next step: the jungle. And here is where the adventures really begin.

Early in the morning (around 8 a.m.) the guide (“Libio”) and the driver picked us up. When we crossed the street to the van, I noticed huge packages of goods and even a generator packed on top and covered with blue tarpaulin sheets. My heart sank. Why do we need all this, I wondered. We were soon to find out.

The long ride to the Amazon Basin began. We passed through the busy morning traffic of Cusco and then on to a winding paved road, which goes up across a mountain. We stopped at a most modest café in an Andean village (working men were eating their lunch) and had a cup of coca tea. I went to a toilet, modestly hidden behind a canvas bag curtain, in a dirt courtyard where there was also a cage of guinea pigs waiting to be eaten as well as a cow. Back in the van, we continued up the mountain until we reached some circular burial places, which had once housed the mummies of a pre-Incan culture. A child in bare feet climbed up the hill to sell me a bracelet. We stopped in the midst of clouds to eat a boxed lunch (too cold to get out of the van). Now it was time for what is known as the “ecological toilet.” Continuing on our way, we soon came to a halt. The road had become a single track: no mountain villages in view. A large truck with a family, animals, and miscellanea was stuck. We could not pass; we waited. Eventually out came a wooden ladder from the truck and down climbed the family from under the blue tarpaulun to stretch their legs. After about twenty minutes, the repairs were made. The truck moved and so did we. As we rounded a curve, I suddenly caught sight of a man playing a full-size harp on the side of the road. No dwelling, no other people were around. What is this: an apparition? I wondered if some Peruvian guardian angel had come down to protect us. We needed it.

When we proceeded and went up yet another mountain pass, the rock falls and mudslides increased. Eventually we turned off onto a dirt road, which was supposed to take us over another mountain pass. This one was something else. It was single track, narrow, full of mud, and waterfalls every few kilometers. It was like driving in a riverbed with crumbling sides. For several hours we proceeded slowly. Inevitably we came to a complete sudden halt when we met a large truck either coming around the bend or a broken down truck right in front of us. Occasionally, the stuck truck managed to slide to the side, so we could go around it with our back wheels dangling over a thousand or so foot drop. On one occasion we halted abruptly when we came across a truck (the kind one finds on superhighways) with a broken axle stranded in the middle of the “path.” Were we going to be there for days? The driver and guide got out to help. This is where the guide taught me the phrase: “For every problem, there is a solution” – how true this turned out to be. We watched them slide precariously under the truck’s carriage with ropes. After about forty-five minutes, the truck moved tentatively forwards, and we crept around it in the rain. The guide looked anxiously out of the window to make sure we were not going over the mountain edge. Carrying on we actually drove through a waterfall, all the time winding through the cloud forest, and hoping all this would soon come to an end.

By five we actually reached our destination at a lodge in the cloud forest. We had been on the “road” since 8 that morning. We were the only ones there. Exhausted, Irving stumbled to his room, but I went on with the guide to a wobbly, slippery platform from which one could view the famous Peruvian bird (often hard to see) called the “Cock of the Rock.” I was thrilled to see these brilliant red, puffed birds carrying on their courting ritual. I saw both the male and female of the species. Satisfied, I hobbled back to the lodge, which was beautifully located. A tall waterfall was on both sides of it and the raging waters ran immediately below our room. At first, Irving and I thought there was a small earthquake because the room swayed from side to side. The motion, we found out later, was within ourselves. We were figuratively still on the winding roads. The couple who managed it were pleasant people. They cooked a meal for us (unfortunately the man had bronchitis – the guide had brought him an antibiotic). We had the place to ourselves. I had been promised hot water for a shower, but somehow that did not happen. Everything was damp; we crept into bed under double blankets and hoped for the best. The electricity went off a ten. Just as well, for we had to leave at 6:30 a.m. the next day.

The following morning, we got back into the van and back on to the slippery mud roads, through waterfalls, but this time we were going down the mountain pass. I saw a group of ornithologists walking the road with their binoculars in hand. I envied them a bit. As we traveled down, the temperature increased. We stopped at a Coca “plantation” where the coca leaves dried on plastic sheets placed on the side of the dirt road. Our guide bought bags of coca leaves (one for the river pilot, and another for the driver – so neither would fall asleep). We met a woman who kept a pet spider monkey, a capybara, a sloth, and coati mundi (all of whom played with one another). While there a squirrel monkey climbed up Irving’s walking stick while a peccary tried to find its way between Irving’s legs. By mid-day we arrived at Atalaya, the river village. Waiting for us was a long canoe with a cloth roof, a cook, a river pilot, and his assistant (a young boy who had the strength and quickness of an athlete) – all in bare feet. The generator, the food, the luggage, the water we would be drinking for the next four days (no wonder we are both sick), and ourselves with the guide were placed on to the boat and we were off. For nine and a half hours we traveled down the Madre de Dios River. (The pilot chewed coca throughout.) The surface of the River is like an accordion or a piece of corrugated iron; it is difficult to navigate because of the uneven riverbeds and irregular depths as well as the strong currents that form rapids. From time to time, the pilot’s young assistant had to push us off banks with a long pole – that is until it snapped in half. I think I saw only three other boats during our entire trip, and they were local craft. It was becoming increasingly clear that we were certainly not doing what most tourists do. During the river trip, the torrential tropical rains came. The cook quickly passed us tarpaulin covers. We hid under them while listening to the thundering rain pounding over our heads. As we went down this wide unyielding river, we saw only a handful of dwellings and passed by a few banana plantations.