On Sunday, 6th September at 7:30am, I sipped coca leaf tea in a small café on Clle Plateros near the plaza in Cusco, listening to a Simon and Garfunkel song that was playing softly on the radio in the background, and explaining to an elderly frenchman on the bench next to me that I saw them in concert in July. I was waiting to meet up with a group to go on a three-day rafting expedition on the Apurimac river (one of the best white-water rafting rivers in the world). We were to meet at 8am, so I was a little early. Alain, the Frenchman, explained to me that he had first come to Peru in ´68 and that there were no tourists in Peru at that time, save for a small number of drifting hippies. I imagined what it would have been like, travelling at a time when there were no mobile phones, no facebook, no lines of tourists and flashing cameras, no big bus or tour companies. Of course, there are benefits to living in this day and age. Had I been born in Australia or New Zealand back then, I might not have ventured on trip like this, unless I had money and an independent spirit.
There were about 18 of us in total, plus the guides. About half were Israeli, and a New Zealand couple, a couple from Tassie, a couple from Poland, a kiwi girl on her own, a British guy, a Danish guy and myself. All around my age, and an awesome crew. We started with a bus ride of several hours then had a nice lunch by the river, where we got our gear ready. We got ourselves into groups, 6 people per boat. Our guide was Joselo, a bit of a cheeky monkey with a long pony tail. It is so hard to describe the trip...the Apurimac river is absolutely stunning...it gushed and roared as we navigated the most wild of the rapids (the class Vs), and flowed and golden and green in silence in the quieter parts, swirling and carrying us gently downstream. A canyon wall rose metres on either side...we passed waterfalls...and swallows and dragonflies skimmed and dipped the water. Large boulders and smaller rocks piled on either side of the river at the foot of the canyon, and in parts where the river was too difficult to pass through, we left our boats with the guides and clamboured over the boulders, meeting the boats further along where it was safe to continue.
The river cast a spell on me. I found myself falling deeply in love with nature and drawing energy from her that I have never felt before. It was one of those feelings of being truly alive...
The camping was stunning. We set up our tents on the sandy river banks and camped under trillions of stars. On the second night I slept on a big smooth rock, that curved up on four sides to form a sort of natural bedroom, protected from the wind, the sky full of stars as the ceiling. During the night, I needed to pee really badly. I realised I didn´t know how to get down from the rock, so I climbed up a bit higher and squatted on the edge. I think peeing on the top of a boulder in the Andes at night would have to be the strangest, most surreal sensation I have ever experienced. My hair blowing wildly in the wind; the ragged, black mountain peaks silhouetted against the midnight blue sky, on such a starry, starry night, and my pee trickling down the rock to join with the raging river, I felt like some kind of river goddess, or maybe a half condor woman (?!)...it was very strange!
The river's daytime brillance, and the sky that night, reminded me of a poem that is one of my Mum's favourites, by Gerard Manley Hopkins, 'Pied Beauty':
Glory be to God for dappled things—
For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;
For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches' wings;
Landscape plotted and pieced—fold, fallow, and plough;
And áll trades, their gear and tackle and trim.
All things counter, original, spáre, strange;
Whatever is fickle, frecklèd (who knows how?)
With swíft, slów; sweet, sóur; adázzle, dím;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is pást change:
In the morning, we had pancakes with condensed milk for breakfast. It was so good. I was really energed for a third day of rafting. Changing into my wetsuit, though, I discovered the price I had paid for a beautiful campout under the stars: about 200 sandfly bites on my legs and ankles...
So, the rafting was fantastic, but moving on to the cat in the pub incident. A day before my rafting trip, Saturday morning, I was enjoying a big breakfast in the Real McCoy, which is the English pub where gringos flock to for vegemite toast, pancakes and Earl Grey tea. I was talking to my Irish friend Dave whom I met in Lima and was keen to watch some soccer that morning with Marcus and David, his travelling buddies. Suddenly, a friendly-looking black cat, identical to my cat at home Phoebe, jumped up on my lap, lured by my bacon. He was purring and sniffing the air, pawing playfully at my jeans. I stroked his head and played with him for a while, because he was so cuddly and affectionate. After a while, my face started becoming really itchy and my breathing quite fast. I asked Dave if his breathing was fast too, because I thought it could have been the altitude, which makes a person easily puffed. He said no, and maybe I should go to the bathroom and check out my face. Anyway, into the bathroom I hastily went, and saw that my face had broken out in hive-like bumps. I couldn't stop coughing, either. Now, it happened to be the Day of the Tourist, and the town was filled with tourists, locals and processions. The friendly owners of the pub called the doctor, but he took a while to arrive because it was simply impossible to enter the plaza de armas in a vehicle. When he did arrive, the condition had got worse and he informed me in a serious tone that I was "entering into an asthma crisis". The cat was swept up in the owners arms and shoved into a cupboard where he lives amongst a soft nest of cushions and blankets. A big needle came out. "That´s not going into my arse, I hope" I said, knowing full well where it was going. (There is only one way it is done in Peru.) Dave looked completely freaked-out. I was laughing, probably out of nervousness (I remember getting my brain scans back when I had an aneurism early last year, and finding myself laughing in the same way). Although, the situation was pretty amusing. Bending over in the tiny pub toilet with my pants down, I duly received my dose of steroids, giggling ferociously and gasping for breaths of air.
My poor bum! And my poor face. It was as puffy as a bowl of honey puffs.
Going back home to retrieve my asthma medication proved rather difficult. I couldn´t get a taxi; as they were all full, because of Day of the Blimmin´Tourist. The processions, with their trombones and trumpets and clarinets honking noisily, were completely blocking the road. And every road I turned down to get away from them, in search of a taxi, they seemed to follow me, in the way that the monster comes after you in PacMan. The sun was beating down; it was an incredibly hot day. My breathing wasn´t good. I called my roommate Brooke, and she agreed to pack a bag with my medication and meet me in the Plaza with it. However, the phone cut out before we could agree to an exact meeting place, so I decided the best thing to do was to go home, and continue my search for a taxi. Finally I found one and waved it down. When I got to the house, Brooke, bless her alpacca socks, had already left to find me. So back to the Plaza I went. I found her in the Real McCoy, the original source of the incident, and we indulged in a big plate of nachos and laughed about the whole thing. I parked myself on the sofa in the pub where I remained stationary all afternoon, and I even let the dear cat stretch across my legs and share in my laziness; I don´t bear a grudge.
The month of September passed really quickly. Lots of progress was made on the kitchen, and we were served our daily dose of chaos by the little kids in the school: more little footprints in the cement, lots of chasing around after the wheelbarrow we bought Marco, squeals emanating from within, and the constant cries of "empujame gringita, empujame gringita!"´s of the little girls on the swings (this means, push me gringo!). The project has been a lot of fun. We plastered, tiled, painted, grouted, filled in holes. At the end of the day, we barricaded the door so that we would not end up with more little footprints, which seemed to work pretty well.
I can´t really describe literally everything that has happened in Cusco. I´ve made a lot of friends, been out enjoying the salsa scene, ferreted around in the marketplace, that sort of thing. I can, though, mention a couple of random things that remind me of everyday life in Cusco:
* Trying anticucho on the street stall at night, near my house
* Football games
* Going to the zoo
* Ceviche and chicha morada with the crew at a local joint behind our house
* Going to visit Brooke at the hospital, and eating her hospital food and her cake
* Finishing all of Kevin´s meals
* Dancing salsa with Jose at the club with the creaky wooden floor that bounced up and down, and the live band
* Kevin´s awesome ceviche, and Brooke´s amazing macaroni cheese
* The day we had lunch with all the teachers at the school, and they put on 1980s disco music to eat to
* Going out for 'forest food' with Maritsa and her cousins, and being served a pile of meat that included a small, hairy paw in the middle of my plate!
And then there was the day I became a god-mother! To cut a short story long, a small boy at the school, named Luis, had injured his face quite badly (his father Toribio said he fell out of a window). One of the kind volunteers, an elderly gentleman named Michael from New Zealand, ensured he got some medical attention and asked me to translate for himself and for Toribio when they met to discuss the x-rays, as Michael didn´t speak any Spanish. I was happy to, but I was very surprised when we asked to be Luis´s godparents and to come to the baptism on the weekend. The next-day, Toribio brought two bead bracelets that he had made, and put them around our wrists. I was a bit reluctant but also touched so I agreed. On Saturday morning, 19 September, Lola (the girl who cleans the house) woke me up early for the baptism practice. I had my doubts; but I had given my word that I would be Luis´s god mother, and that I would be on the steps at the plaza at 9:45am. I had been out dancing and had a headache; I wished I could be a fairy mother, so I could just magic myself there, and lie in bed for longer. When I got there I saw Toribio crossing the road, and Michael with his floppy bush hat and bag of baptism gifts. I wondered if Toribio had walked. It takes him two days to walk from his village.
Toribio kissed us all and kept repeating the word "compadres". He seemed really happy. We went over to the Santiago church, and went into an office where the Padre made us repeat parts of the bible. It was quite boring, actually. I hadn´t had much to do with the Catholic church before, and not much desire to, what with its stance on homosexuality and contribution to the spread of AIDS. (I hope this doesn´t offend anyone, seriously.) But the church means a lot to the people of Peru, being an enormous part of religious and social life, and I was impressed to learn that the Catholic churches were happy to encourage the Incan belief in workshipping the sun, moon and other deities. They have a great belief in worshipping nature, particularly the land and the river that provide for them. The church never destroyed these beliefs, and somehow the two religions existed together, many people converting to Catholicism but keeping their ancient beliefs and worship practices.
The actual baptism was really nice. First, we attended the misa - mass - Michael and I, Toribio and his young wife Victoria, Brooke, Marco and his family, and of course little Luis. The mass went for quite some time. The church was full. The dim light and all the candles made me sleepy, and I distracted Luis with lollies. These things must be really tedious for children. The baptism itself was quite short. All I really had to do was hold a candle. Afterwards, we took some photos, and went out for cake to celebrate, as is the tradition. Michael read out a speech which he had had translated into Spanish, and the family were really happy. Victoria, Luis´s mother, is a Quechuan woman, meaning native to Peru and a speaker of Quechua. She dresses in the traditional stiff, colourful skirt, round hat and her hair in two long plaits, tied at the end with pom-poms. She doesn´t speak any Spanish or English, so we just smiled at each other a lot. It was a lovely night. Luis is very affectionate and jumps into my arms when he sees me. I am going to miss him a lot.
Next time I see Luis, he will have grown up...When is someone going to invent a magical medicine that stops that from happening...!?
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