These terraces were built by cultures long before the Incas and are obviously still in use. My mind marveled at all the stones it took to build the millions of walls...
Several shoulder-side stops offered incredible views of the valley. In the background is the shallower start of the Colca Canyon, where Chivay hides.
The Spaniards plan was to string church-centered settlements up the river, which they did, but eventually its use as a route to Cusco waned. Since then, however, the canyon has had many names: The Lost Valley of the Incas, The Valley of Wonders, The Valley of Fire and The Territory of the Condor. Arguably the deepest canyon on Earth, it has even been called one of the Seven Natural Wonders of the World.
As we continue toward deeper depths, Rio Colca appears closer, still carving out its masterpiece. At this lookout, Nuri, our top-notch guide with five years experience in this valley, points out the small lake, and its shape: a map of Peru.
Volcanoes are still near, and earthquakes occur often as well as landslides, but ancient terraces teeter on cliff sides, risking their own existence, and defy the odds while the river is resting in the high dry early winter season.
Ahead, the cliffs rise and resist the persistent river which snakes through the eroded silt like an anaconda in the reeds. A rugged tunnel bores through the rock leading to the perch famous for gazing at the amazing Andean condors...
But, before barging on to today's first highlight, we stop for some quick camera clicks at another valley village. As usual, the bells of sillar steeples commissioned by conquistadors ring over the adjacent Plaza de Armas. And, although it is very early in the morning, the sun's warmth just turning up, the entire square is filled with a flurry of fanfare: children dancing around the fountain to the music of a blown-speaker boom-box blaring Peru's top tourist hits, smiling vendors pointing at and holding up their colorful goods, and ladies in layers of woven dresses and embroided vests tugging sparkling llamas or sporting magnificent birds of prey--all on display, for a tip, for the barrage of tour buses that will pass through over the new few hours...
The galloping girls are adorable, and the clothing gorgeous, but again that awkward feeling returned: is this authentic or artificial? It's both. To be honest, Peru is doing an admirable job of meeting the insatiable demands of the exploding tourist industry, opening its sacred doors to the gaping eyes of often superficially appreciative strangers, and improving infrastructure accordingly. And, although the most famous places are already super-saturated with tourist services, it is obvious that they appreciate good business sense, making sure that quality, safety, and dependability are emphasized, ensuring the continued growth of their primary industry. It's symbiosis at it's highest form.
But, I still prefer pictures with realism--like this little girl, taking a seat, probably just sick and tired of dancing every day at dawn. This is real; not done to earn a tip for tourists. Similarly, the flowers, thatch roof and volcano rest obliviously behind. And, although she shared a real smile after this shot, I handed her some soles--as culpable as any visitor for her plight and pleasure--before she could even count the coins, three of her cute colleagues came over and captured the gratuity for the collective community coffers, and skipped off to the next nearest tourist who was dangling a camera while digging in their deep pockets for a few cents. Me and this little lady traded two understanding half-smiles as we parted, waving thank yous.
This picture was 'stolen'. It was taken from inside our shuttle bus, safe from outstretched hands and expectant eyes, and perhaps a bit more genuine than ones we happily posed and gladly payed for. The birds were beautiful, the llamas indifferent, the women competing, cooperating and comparing, but the children still dancing in circles...
Two tourist vets with pets strike a pose in their pretty outfits. Two types of hats are common in Peru--the broad brim style seen here and the bowler more common closer to Bolivia. Our guide, Nuri, explained their origins. Certain pre-Colombian cultures like the Aymara and Quechua had great religious respect for surrounding volcanoes, which understandably appeared to have god-like powers: giving life to land, erupting in anger, and having cosmic connection to the heavens. The cultures practiced skull deformation based on the appearance of important nearby mountain ranges--one preferring wide, the other tall. Having the matching head shape symbolized your ancestry. But, when the Spanish arrived, they banned this 'savage' tradition. So, like many oppressed people, both cultures found acceptable alternatives to keep their beliefs subtly alive, utilizing hat styles that achieved the same effect!
Owls are always alluring, but especially to my Hogwarts-happy wife. I may be braver when it comes to food, but Leandra has definitely had more exotic animals on her body. This is a Great Horned Owl, a legendary nocturnal predator in North and South America, and one of several amazing avians we'd eyeball today...
Not horns, the ear-like protrusions are just feathers which increase auditory sensitivity. Owls hunt nocturnally being armed with stereo-hearing and binocular vision!Nuri calls us back to the bus, and announces our next stop: Cruz del Condor!
Half an hour later we're among the first tourists to arrive--vendors are already lined up ready to sell, and visitors are giddily getting ready with cameras, clothes, sunglasses and sunblock. Two large rock outcroppings dominate the upper viewpoint, where a cross stands and a plaque resides...
Here, we stand 1,200 m (3,960 ft) over the river bed below. People start scrambling to get a prime spot on the rocks or a place along the ledge. Steps and trails connect the higher and lower vantages. Everyone strains with anticipation into the vast canyon walls below, not really sure what to look for, other than some big birds!
We mosey down below for a comfy seat on the stone wall along the lower ledge. Then, the sunny mob's murmur is broken by an excited yell which is quickly shushed into a whisper, follow by gratuitous amounts of pointing, camera grabbing and lens twisting...We scan the canyon, leaning over, looking up, down, all around the canyon with necks on a swivel...
And, then, we sit it. BEHOLD! The magnificent Andean condor of Peru!...
Wait a second. Is that it? It doesn't look that big. No, that's a Band-tailed Sierra-Finch...I think.But then, moments later, another wave of oohs, ahhs, and wherewherewhere's ripple through the frantically pointing crowds. A huge raptor majestically cuts through the sky, riding the climbing currents of the canyon walls. BEHOLD!! The mystic Andean Condor of the Incas!...
Floating in front of the fabulously fractured mountains, the condor appears with it's speckled feathers, it's white breast, and...it's...eagle-like beak...wait, what the?!
Although this is a gorgeous bird and picture--makes us look like National Geographic photographers, doesn't it?--this is a White-throated Hawk, again, I think--I had to do a lot of research to figure out what all these birds were! You can never find a good ornothologist when you need one! This grand raptor, closely related to the eagle and vulture family, shares the skies with the condor. And, after spying a rodent, snake or lizard on the cliff walls, it put on a diving display for us, stopping mid-air, tucking it's wings, then strafing out of sight below...
When the first condor appeared it was far below in the canyon, small like a far off plane, disappearing and reappearing between the extruding scrub-covered precipices. Apparently they roosted just below our viewpoint, and with each added degree on the sun's warming inclination crawling down the canyon wall, more condors awoke and warmed their wings on the rising thermals. Hugging the rocks, gaining elevation with each pass, more and more condors rode the invisible escalator until they were passing just below us, then at eye level, then above us, zooming over our heads, sometimes literally within arm's reach, craning their necks, looking sideways out of their beady eyes, like we were colorful and interesting but equally unimportant...and inedible...for now...
Click the comics to see the condors as closely as we did...
Keep clicking!
We watched them come for hours. The crowds wowed and whooped with every swoop. Without question, this was one of the most amazing winged wildlife experiences that many of us have ever had, and possibly ever will...And then, it was time to board the bus.
Again, on the return trip, we ran into some traffic. A little honking, moo-ing, baaa-ing and barking later, we rolled on....
As an experienced guide--and a lover of history as well as birds--Nuri made sure we got to Cruz del Condor first for prime seats and a full show from preview to encore. So, earlier in the morning, we had skipped several stops, that we could now visit leisurely. At one roadside vista, while we soaked up memories of more terraced slopes, Nuri bought a cactus fruit to share with our group; it's speckle seeded limony flesh was deliciously juicy and sour. A kilometer later, parked at another roadside vista, Nuri spun us around and pointed up...
Hidden in the cracks of the crags were beehive, bird-nest like bundles of rock glued into the cliffs. They were 'hanging' tombs made of stones and muddy mortar, where bodies buried in the fetal position--along with presumably useful possessions--were prepared to be 'reborn' into the next world...
One prominent person, probably a chief or priest, was protected in a private chamber painted red to signify societal rank. The ancient dye bleeds down the bedrock. These tombs were unfortunately raided long before modern archeologists could study the now lost contents...A few dusty curves later, we stopped at another town, where a cloudy white chapel served as backdrop for a Black-chested Buzzard-eagle, the biggest eagle species in Colca Canyon.
Its grey blue plumage and uniqueness made it a magnet for tourists who happily tipped its owner...who, at the time of this photo, was across the street getting a cool beverage; the bird never lost sight of him knowing he would also return with another meaty morsel.
Back in Chivay, we had another tourist buffet, accompanied by an acoustic version of El Condor Pasa. I hummed Paul Simon's lyrics in my head,"I'd rather be a sparrow than a snail, yes I would, if I could...," then snapped a shot of Leandra and Nuri chatting.
After eating, we'd be back on board, retreating from Chivay to Arequipa. As we waited in our bus for Nuri to collect co-travelers from their hotel, I clicked a picture of a little shrine, which, I'm guessing, is blessing this gas pipe. You'll find little saintly shrines in the most unlikely places in Latin America--most often we see them every kilometer or so along the roads. It was about this time that Leandra and I came up with an idea...Our itinerary had us heading back to Arequipa, a five hour drive, where we would promptly catch another bus to Puno, a six hour drive, half of which would be back-tracking the return from Chivay! So, we decided to ask Nuri if it was possible to get off the bus once we reached the main highway junction, and avoid hours of going in circles. Nuri said, "Sure, we'll drop you at the police check-point and you can flag down a public bus." Thinking about this option--getting let out in the middle of the mountain pass and traveling with locals and without luxuries--sounded like some real backpacker adventure to us, exciting...and maybe risky.
As we rounded the plaza, we grabbed a last picturesque glimpse of town and said adios to Chivay...
As we wobbled over potholes leaving town, I snagged a photo I had been hoping for since we arrived: all over town, old stone and earth walls were topped with what I called 'organic barbwire', little cacti who's seeds were incidentally hidden in the original muddy mortar. Like little prickly cheerleaders, this chorus line of cacti seem to kick, wave and shout goodbye...Two hours later, we approached the low-oxygen outpost where every truck and tour-bus had to stop and let a soldier look at his clipboard and touch the tip of his cap before proceeding...
Our guide whispered to the driver who promptly pulled over. And, to the surprise of several people aboard, Nuri announced, "We're stopping to let Adam and Leandra off," and she slipped out to brief the border soldier to help us with our plan. After exchanging cordialities and warm salutations with our now former comrades, we lugged our bags onto the dust...
Reloaded, Nuri and gang waved us good luck and thumbs up. We humped our packs across the highway. Exchanging sign language and guttural sounds, we communicated primitively with the policeman that we wanted the next bus to Puno. He understood. As we watched specks on the horizon grow into cargo trucks or fancy chartered buses, we mutually stared with some locals--a storekeeper, some truckers, shepherds, and other travelers--who were lingering around the few small structures sitting fifty feet off the road. Some folk, with multiple fabric bundles or large plastic bags stuffed with who-knows-what, looked like they had the same plan as us, and when the first public bus squeaked to a cloudy stop with a big hydraulic sigh, they rushed up, a man rushed out opening the cargo hatches, and by the time we realized what to do, they were loaded up and rolling, the last person's foot hopping up the steps as the bus revved ahead. As they left, a lady selling snacks jogged alongside in her thick skirts and petticoats, throwing a drink to a man hanging an arm out of the rear window; he threw some coins into the dust, she picked them up, then turned and followed some fellow sellers back toward the roadside shelters.More or less lost by the whole process, standing there in the dusty exhaust cloud, with our fancy backpacks and first-world ski jackets, we looked at the border patrolman. He looked backed, shook his head, and said something that we tried to look up in our Spanish-English dictionary. So, we waited for the next bus...
It was still early afternoon, but the sun was low and it got cool quick at these altitudes. A freight truck pulled up. The policeman made him pull off into the dust. The driver got out, and both men sort of disappeared behind the truck to settle some hidden 'transportation' legal issues. We were standing there alone when the next bus came...
This time, without hesitation, or the help of our cop, we hunched our bags to the door as it opened, and said, "Puno? Puno? A Puno?"
"Si si,"said the driver, as the bag man hopped out to open the hatches for other locals loading up their burdens. Keeping our packs with us, we climbed up and twisted through the thin door separating the driver's cockpit from the passengers. What we found was a full bus, some seats holding three instead of two, and a few people already standing in the aisle. Several curious stares came from those with chairs. The bus's locomotion began before the notion of six hours standing on a crowded bus had crystallized...
But, moments later, the man next to me pointed forward, and I carefully turned to see the baggage man in the open cockpit portal, giving me the 'get down' signal, his hand open, palm down, moving it in repeated downward motions. What did he want me to do? But, then someone grabbed my backpack, passing it forward to the man, then pointing and gently pushing me toward him too. Apparently he was summoning me forward. Was I being robbed? Did we do something wrong? Were we being kicked off? As me and my backpack slipped down the tiny stairs into the cockpit, I saw the same thing happening to Leandra behind me in the aisle...
At that moment, we didn't know why. Were they after something we had like money, a ring or a camera? Was it because Leandra is so pretty? Was this standard procedure when the bus is overcrowded? Were they just curious about us? Or, were they just being friendly and helpful to two people who are obviously strangers? We didn't know, but in retrospect, it seems that their intentions were nothing but pure kindness. They were inviting us to ride up front with them! Stashing our bags in the corners, and pushing cushions under our butts and behind our backs, they gave us the best seats on board, with broad open views of the Andean lands buzzing past. This is how we met Bernardo, the luggage porter and ticket taker, Carlos, the veteran driver, and Antonio, the new driver. Soon we got more comfortable with our circumstances. We tried some of our newly learned Spanish, and they dusted off some English from their schooldays. Leandra shared some chocolate and crackers, and I took pictures and let them see. We all started smiling. Occasionally, the bus would stop, and passengers would embark and exit, Bernardo and Carlos taking bags and tickets--like the locals, ours were 15 soles each. And, as the sun drooped, and the mountains turned pink, we joked about roadside dogs being puma, "Mira! Una Puma! No, solo un perro!", and this quickly became one of the best and most adventurous parts of the trip...
Even during daylight, Carlos, a decade long bus company veteran, above, kept a vigilant eye for possible obstacles on a highway that was either monotonously straight or dangerously windy, but either way deceptively capable of hiding an animal or person on the shoulder, or ice or a boulder rolled onto the guardrail-less road. We giggled at the llama crossing signs. Meanwhile, Antonio, the first year driver, also stayed fixated on the path as his hands gently turned the the steering wheel back and forth, keeping the bus true against a strong crosswind...
We were headed for Lake Titicaca, six hours to Puno, the Peruvian town where the train from Cusco meets the west end of the world's highest navigable lake. As we left the open straightaways and started winding slower into some hills, we saw some strange pink spots on the surface of a small unnamed lake...
Click the comic to zoom in!
Further down the road, Lake Sillustani, filled with islands, chilled in the setting sun with a small bridge visible at it's west end. A mother opened the cockpit door and asked for a pitstop--this cross country bus doesn't come with a bathroom. So, where the highway crossed the water, Antonio stopped the bus, a half-dozen men 'got some fresh air' and 'inspected the tires', while I snapped a shot of my wife, our driver, a high Andean lake, and some higher Andean peaks...Soon it was dark, and long stretches of inky blackness would be interrupted by a street light, a bus stop, and a quick passenger coming or going into the eerie night. About an hour outside of Juliaca, we came to a town's edge, where huge piles of soil were blocking the road--apparently, a festival, a celebration of some saint, was happening--and all traffic, regardless of size, was being diverted down the dirt roads that ran around this pueblo. So, with Carlos spotting--and Bernardo just smiling at Leandra and I--Antonio started guiding the bus forward into its own headlight haze. Earthen walls and mud houses appeared in the periphery, with young girls in doorways looking upset, holding buckets, throwing wash water on the street to keep the wheel-whipped dust down. Dogs would launch out and bark. The bus, creeping and crawling, bobbed through the back roads of town for twenty minutes before rediscovering pavement, dropping into second gear and grinding on toward Puno. We looked at each other with a "whoa", and Bernardo smiled at us again...
Two hours later, we were in Puno. We crept into town down steep city streets. We had read and heard that this town was fairly dull--a few hostels and hotels, a couple restaurants, and little nightlife or cultural attractions, only being notable as a port into Lake Titicaca. We arrived at the bus terminal, stepped off thanking our new never-to-be-seen-again friends, and, went inside to try and figure out lodging. Looking weary and like neon gringos, a woman approached us offering a hotel, but being leery foreigners, we declined, only to find all the kiosks closed and the woman still with us. She asked again, and we looked at each other. "Why not?"
Again, it was paranoia for nothing. She took us by taxi to a lovely hotel and arranged our tour package for tomorrow: the Floating Islands of Uros plus bus tickets to Copacabana, Bolivia! We flopped off our backpacks, asked for a map, and hiked the two blocks to the Puno nightlife strip...
First we found one of Puno's two town squares and softly lit obelisks, topiaries, and, of course, a church.
A pedestrian street connecting both plazas was filled with curious tourists and waiters summoning you to scan their menus and sample their food. As in Paracas, the standard strategy was, "Free Pisco Sours!" Dozens of police were present to give comfort to travelers and protect the national treasure of tourism.
More pruned plants and monuments marked a second park guarded by another aging House of God. However, after a day filled with beautiful birds and bouncing buses, sun and dust, and miles of horizontal and vertical displacement, a little hedonism was needed. Thanks to a barker with two free-drink coupons, we found a trippy little hippy bar, its walls covered with intoxicated scribblings, where we ordered the perfect potables and provisions after another wonderful day: beer and pizza! With a boat trip on Lake Titicaca tomorrow there was no need to risk a pesky stomach disorder by ordering something exotic, like a guinea pig...at least not yet.
No comments:
Post a Comment