Cusco, part 1: savouring the sublime

I have now landed myself in Cusco, capital of the Incas, bustling tourist town, charming old cobblestoned city that lies sprawling at the feet on Macchu Picchu like an offering at the feet of a Sun God. (Actually, I don´t know that, not having been to Macchu Picchu yet but it sounded poetic. In fact, I believe that Cusco is in fact at higher altitude than the old m.p, so perhaps I should amend to read "city that floats in the air above Macchu Picchu like an offering of grapes to a king".)

Maybe I should write no more about Macchu Picchu until I have been there and actually know where and what it is.

Riding on the Santa Ana bus to my project this morning, standing amidst Cusceño men, women, babies, bunches of flowers, bags of market produce, all staring at me silently whilst jolting up and down thanks to the pot-holed dirt road (and just imagine this scene rotated anti-clockwise, as I had to stand with my head bent so that I would fit vertically inside the vehicle), I watched as the landscape changed from one of tour company signs, money exchanges and postcard stands, into a countryside scene of rolling patchwork hills, mud-brick houses, burros (yes, the donkeys again) and dogs scavenging amongst roadside rubbish heaps with contented doggy smiles across their blinking canine faces.

I watched the scenes melt from one into another through the open window and could almost feel the land breath a rustic sigh of contentment, tinged with a hint of weariness in the eyes and slow movement of the passing villagers.

I watched all this out the window whilst being pickpocketed (I´m assuming somewhere on the bus there was also a contented pickpocketer smile, but as everybody looks at me the same way, I don´t think I´ll ever know who it was whose crafty fingers made their way into my pocket and out again without my knowledge. Even the spring flowers looked at me as if they knew something).

This did not come to my attention until much later, of course. I was too busy hanging on to the unmoveable parts of the bus (although rather like a child grasping the graspable parts of the parent, without realising that everything moves together) and eyeing the view as we all rattled along the road, men, women, children, flowers, vegetables and pickpocketer all together like a mixed bag of lollies. Dodging the wandering dogs was an attention grabber, too. Stray dogs are everywhere. They belong to nobody and rule the streets. Nobody can tell them where to go, sell them alpacca products, or pickpocket them. They can sniff bottoms or sit on a throne of garbage, whichever they please. The boys of the barrios. Queens of las calles.

There are not only stray dogs all over the outskirts of Cusco, but cows too, grazing here and there, and what always comes with these lovely velvety animals, the Splendid, Steaming Cow Pat. The impressive digestive facility of the four-stomached, grass munching, field roaming Peruvian cow is much to be admired. So much so that during a roadside stopover a lasting impression of its splendor was left as a friendly reminder on the rubber sole of our bus driver´s zapato, like the way the laundry service slips an extra business card into your bag of freshly cleaned clothes, or the stamping of your tourist card.

The Santa Ana stopped halfway up a hill so that the embarrased driver, our freshly dunged friend, could zip over to a patch of grass that those four stomachs so enjoy (in equal quarterly parts) and scrape his boot with a sitting-on-the-toilet-after-a-gianormous-meal look of concentration on his face and two bemused onlookers (being myself and Irish Kevin, the only remaining passengers at this time). Ten minutes and much more scraping later, we considered walking to our project from there but the driver promptly returned at that moment and we were again on our way.

Up in the hills, I also noticed through my observations of people walking here and there along the roadside that the stiff, coloured skirts and stockings of Huaraz have danced off with their cowboy hats and dissolved into the Andean sunset with trousers on every woman instead providing the practical comforts of the appendicular kind that always comes with a good pair of farmers´pants. (!) (Who knows, really. I don´t wear farmers´pants. Or carry a pitchfork for that matter. But the two go more hand-in-hand than puffy lime green skirts, although the latter looks cooler. Hr hrm anyway this isn´t a fashion column...)

The kitchen we are building is part of a small primary school, where probably around 90 or 100 children attend. When I say "attend", I mean running around outside flying kites and climbing all over things: the volunteers, piles of rock and dirt in the construction corner, up walls, up the soccer posts. The teachers, few as they are, round them up, and the little monkeys escape again, usually to be found back at the construction site, or again hanging off the arm of a humbled volunteer, who will typically keep a straight face but be glowing inside, like a young zoo ranger with an impressive rare bird perched on her shoulder during her very first bird show presentation. I have to admit though, the children there are very sweet with their large brown eyes, rosy bucolic cheeks and tiny flat noses. I suncream them up each day as the sun is extremely strong at an altitude of over 3,000 metres. I find the little girls quite funny. Even the incredibly timid ones aren´t afraid to climb up my sweater in search of my boobs which they seem to be curious about. They also like playing with my hair and putting it into a high ponytail. For a few minutes in the morning, the construction site is a ladies beauty parlour, with all the grooming needed to start a day of laying stones and getting covered in dust and dirt.

The walls and roof are already up (the kitchen having been started in May, I think). At the moment we are putting down stones (which some of the boys in our project team break up first with hammers and gravity), like a jigsaw puzzle or a tiled mosaic, onto the floor to form the base, which will be covered with cement on Monday.

After a morning of laying stones at high altitude I have to say I´m kind of pooped.

In the tired sense, of course.

Now, I have come to realise that hard work means being very hungry, very often. I have discovered the answer in a chocolate bar that is sold here called Sublime. On Thursday night, I filled my pockets with Sublime bars and my volunteer house and I headed out to a big and much anticipated soccer match. Peru was playing Liverpool (not the English team, but Uruaguay(!)). The night air was filled with excitement, and the streets with red jerseys and flying flags, many bearing the capital letter C in blue. Despite hints that Uruguay´s team is "mas fuerte" (stronger), I have to say that their defence was terrible and the players actually looked somewhat tired. I am not sure, but perhaps the Cusceños have an advantage when the game is in their hometown at high altitude, something that they are used to. My housemates and I enjoyed a smuggled cask of Chilean wine and partaking in the chants (laaa, laaaa...corizon...vive....something...ole, ole...) and the wave that went around and around like bath water swirling anti-clockwise down the drain. A band played, consisting of continual drumming and random sounds coming from a variety of wind instruments, no particular timing but kept up throughout the match. And there was one particular stand for the craziest aficionades of all. It was hard to take one´s eyes of them; an enormous banner rippled above their heads bearing the most famous revolutionary face in South America, Che Guavara, and the stand was a sea of red (with the occasional flicker of an orange fire). It looked like a fruit stand of excited apples shouting "me, me!".

Peru won the match, 2-0, scoring their first goal about 25 minutes in. I got my face on tv (someone back at home was watching). Of course, the peruvians were happy with the win and a long night of festivities followed.

So, after laying stones all morning I think it is time for a nice long siesta and a cup of coca mate. A sublime chocolate/peanut bar might not hurt either, for that matter.

I hope the reader is well, whoever you may be. Hasta luego!

:)