ARGH!! I’m at this internet café in Perú right now. About 1/2 an hour into this entry (so about 1/2 way finished) suddenly the entire shop goes black. Great. Just frickin great. And of course I hadn’t saved anything. I groped for my purse in the dark lest it somehow be heisted in all the pandemonium that I was expecting to ensue. Instead, we all just sat there in the dark as they rooted around the shop with candles searching for the breaker. Here goes my second attempt to recount the events of May 16th.
Today was the beginning of a two-day, one-night tour to Colca Canyon, the second deepest in the world and home of Andean condors (one of the largest living birds). I’d have to say, all things considered, this venture comes out in the red at the finish line. Definitely more bad things than good. The good can still be appreciated, but I found myself disappointed far more often than delighted.
The problem? Other tourists. I’m not saying that being a tourist is necessarily a bad thing (as that would make me a total hypocrite), but I firmly believe those who are privileged enough to travel should hold themselves to a respectful and responsible standard of behavior. Many tourists aspire to such a standard; I meet them in hostels all the time. However, the kind of people you find on pre-programmed and primped tours are not generally the enlightened and respectful types whose company I much prefer. As such, I spent two days witnessing some of the most appalling and destructive tourism that I’ve ever seen.
Day one, I got up early to get my last of the week’s three showers. Breakfast at the hostel was amazing. Ham and cheese omlette with “arequipan” (a type of bread made in the city) and coffee (again!). I’m really lamenting my downward spiral into a coffee addiction. People down here look at you like you’re crazy when you turn down “café” in the morning. To avoid the stares of horror and disbelief, I’ve taken to giving in to all the offers. And I have to admit it’s growing on me. Argh!
During breakfast, I had a little chat with Marcus (the older British guy) and a young Australian couple. Got my hopes up about spending the day with the Aussies only to be shot down ten minutes later when our guide arrived with room for only Marcus and I. I had been soaking up sunlight on the roof patio enjoying my last moments of stillness before hitting the road to the canyon. I decided that Marcus really wasn’t all bad; really just your typical tourist. A truck driver for a grocery chain, he was on a three week “holiday” (as they call it). We followed the guide down to the standard transportation, chock full of passengers. The slightest touch of anxiety worked its way into my bloodstream as I realized my pack, essentially everything I own, would be riding on top of the vehicle. Problem? Uhmm… I hope not. Worries are as follows:
1) How well attached is my bag going to be when we flying across the landscape of potholes we’re sure to encounter on our journey?
2) Is the sun pounding down on my luggage going to wreak havoc on the three disposable cameras waiting to be developed? What about the film waiting to be shot?
3) If it rains, literally all of my material possessions will be soaked. Clothes, copies of documents, books, food. Not the biggest worry, but a nail-biter for sure.
Ahem. I am happy to report nothing came of items one and three. We’ll see about #2 after I pay a visit to Costco in Eugene.
We stopped several times for photo ops before we all got to stretch our legs in the first village we came to (immediately preceding the beginning of our four hour dirt road travels). It was here that I got to know Brett, the only other lone traveller in our group (besides Marcus). Five Italians, two French, Marcus, Brett, driver, guide, and me! Brett and I were equally uninterested in patronizing the sandwich/tea shop and opted for a walk down to the river. The cliffs of the arid high plain were absolutely gorgeous. We had a great chat about our similar life situations (i.e. travelling in spite of the accompanying lack of security that touring necessitates). He had given up his home and his job as a construction project manager in the middle of London’s Heathrow Airport project. We talked about how strange we both think it is that so few people believe they are capable of doing the exact same thing. Quite refreshing. True to his New Zealand nature, Brett decided he’d go for a cup of tea, so I camped myself out on the van’s roof rack against the stack of luggage and cracked my new book.
Down the road after tea-time, we had our first alpaca sighting. They are much like llamas, but smaller and better for eating, I’m told. They’ve got 1/2 the fatty/c cholesterol business that comes with beef and taste great. All the alpacas were actually in some kind of combo livestock herd with sheep and llamas being nudged down the roadside to some unknown destination.
As we passed through the pampa, we got to see several of the birds for which the reserve was created, including the basket-ball sized booby that I spotted on the return trip from the geysers in Chile. The “pampa” is basically high desert marsh. The only solid ground to stand on are tuffets of spongy moss that sink several inches when you step onto them. My parents described something similar when they went on a fishing trip in Canada several years ago. Perhaps it is the same?
I felt my lungs begin the high-elevation struggle as we slowly wound our way towards “the highest point” that our guide, Millie, had been talking about all day. 4,910 meters. 16,203 feet to us American types. I’m pretty sure it’s the highest I’ve ever been. Being at that kind of elevation makes you want to hold very very still. On the way up, Millie had been describing a popular local and tourist activity to partake in once we arrived. From the view point, three volcanoes, gods to the Andean people, stand proud in the background. You choose your god, make a wish, collect a pile of rocks, and build her or him a tribute of worship. It was uncanny all the cairns rising up like stalagmites from the earth. At one point, after scurrying up the hill towards a point of interest, I found myself ridiculously out of breath. I mentioned this to Brett as we fell into step, expecting sympathy. Instead, he put my physical experience into perspective for me by pointing out that we had only reached the half-way point for Mt. Everest. And to think I’d had lollipop dreams of climbing it all through high-school.
Having spent only ten minutes in El Punto Alto, Millie herded us back into the van to begin our descent into the mouth of the Colca valley. We arrived in Chivay, our “base camp,” where I got to try my first alpaca steak. Just as legend has it, it’s delicious. And, as promised, doesn’t even begin to resemble the slimy fattiness of beef steak. Yum! As we ate, I listened to Marcus proliferate stereotype after stereotype concerning just about any group of people he could get his hands on: Germans, Australians, Peruvians, Canadians, even Italians (remember there were five sitting not 16 inches away). This was to be the beginning of the flood of ignorance and self-importance that would follow me throughout the tour.
When our bellies were full, we checked into our hotel. I had prepared for a bare-bones venue because of the shockingly low price-tag on the tour, but instead found cozy rooms with enough blankets to warm a herd of elephants. This is one of those moments when I get to feeling guilty about all the damn privilege I have. The tour was $60 Peruvian dollars, and included twelve hours of transportation, an English speaking-guide, accommodation breakfast on day two, and a guided day hike upon our arrival to the valley. No way even $60 American dollars would get you something like that in the U.S. And to top it all off, $60 Peruvian dollars (called soles [soul-lace]) is a mere $18.50 to my pocket book. I get to feeling like such an ass. How unfair that it can be so easy for me to take advantage of something like this, whereas so many of the world’s people would be spending anywhere from a week’s pay to a year’s savings to do the exact same thing. What makes me so special? Not one damn thing. Ugh.
Brett and I spent our 30 minute group-break walking around town after lunch. It was so refreshing to finally find myself in the company of someone who seemed to be travelling responsibly as opposed to the entirely selfish self-importance that I cringe to find in so many tourists. It had been weeks since my last thought-provoking, intelligent conversation with another traveller, and the first time I’d met anyone as passionate as I was about responsible tourism. I was thrilled.
Back at the hotel, Millie was rallying the troops for our afternoon exploration into the hills around the village where terraces built for pre-Incan farming were still in use. It was so incredible to walk among such a timeless piece of the past. As we scurried along the loose hillside trail, we passed all sorts of cacti and flowers. Millie pointed out a cactus parasite and explained about the different agricultural offerings being produced right before our very eyes. As we rounded the next bend in the trail, two native girls, probably six and ten, came into view. Both were in traditional garb and had a host of beans, corn, barley, etc. to demonstrate the commodities produced by the valley. Both girls were shy, which made it particularly strange to find them there on the trail. Millie picked through their supply holding up each item for us to see. The cake-taker was this: our guide started talking about traditional dress and before I knew it was absolutely pawing the girls’ clothing as she searched for examples of the painstaking embroidery used by the native group. It was like the girls weren’t even people, but just little statues put here on the trail for tourists to oooh and ahhhh and take pictures of. Brett and I agreed later that it was nearly sickening. I don’t know why people can’t see how humiliating it could be to make your living being the poked and prodded novelty on display for whomever finds it appropriate to barge on in to your world and do whatever they damn well please. Personally, I’ve only ever had one experience like this, but it was enough to know that I would hate it.
Tangent: when I was a sea-kayaking guide on Yellowstone Lake, I had to return to the launch alone one day to retrieve the medicine of a tourist with a heart condition. As I paddled quickly past West Thumb Geyser Basin, I heard voices float down to the lake from the trails no more than 50 feet away. Among other phrases of exclamation, I heard, “Mom! Look! What’s that!” I glanced toward shore only to find that “that” was yours truly in a sea kayak. I was so stunned that I almost stopped paddling as three different groups of at least 20 tourists total hurried for their cameras to capture the supposed Kodak moment. It felt so strange to have people treat me like I was one of the park animals or an erupting geyser put on this earth for their amusement. I can only begin to imagine what it would be like to live with that every single day of your life and how drastically it could change your existence. End tangent.
Once we got back to the van after our “Let’s take pictures of all the novel natives” session, we headed for the hot springs. On the way there, Brett and I talked about similar revelations we’ve had as a result of travelling. We had similar conclusions reached through different experiences. For me, I was already aware of the gross inequality that festers in the world. But being aware of it and witnessing it first-hand in contrast to your very privileged life are two completely different things. One of my many reasons for coming here was to put myself in this situation, to show myself how terribly small my problems are. It makes the rest of my life seem so easy compared to the challenges forced down the throats of the rest of the world’s people. Brett’s recounted his similar experience after a conversation with his guide on Mt. Kilamangaro. The guide, thirty-something, wanted very badly to marry his girlfriend, but her father didn’t approve because the man didn’t own a goat. Brett said, “here I am toiling over whether or not to marry my Danish girlfriend and therefore forever choose an existence between London, New Zealand, and Denmark, and this man can’t execute the decision to marry the woman he loves.” Heavy, heavy, heavy. I will try and get down off my soap-box now, as I’m sure my sensationalist writing about adventures is far more entertaining than me ranting about the moral issues currently twisting their way through my days. On with the novel.
Once we got to the hotsprings, I changed my mind about paying the $3 (US dollars) to dive in. Basically, they were glorified swimming pools. It would have been nice to soak in the warm water, but due to my ignorance that accompanied my first stages of budget planning, I’m down to pinching pennies. I didn’t know how much bus tickets would cost, so I chose to think of them as a “splurge” expense in my budget. Little did I know I would be splurging to the tune of $80/week. I reworked my budget as soon as I realized how out of control it was, but I was already $160 too late. And I am realizing as I type that for most of you reading this, maybe that’s not a lot of money. For a young woman still reeking of her university education whose only goal is to stay as far away from a cubicle as possible, it’s a lot of money. I’d be hard-pressed to spend that much in a month in the states. I’m definitely learning a few lessons, though. And realizing even more about my privilege. #1, if you can’t estimate an expense, err on the side of caution. #2, I am very lucky to have led a life where I could just buy more food if a meal didn’t fill me up. When I first arrived, Jared was talking about getting himself down to two meals a day to save money. I thought, (food-lover that I am) that’s crazy! Food is the last thing I would give up to save money. Well, I’m down to bottom of the barrel. For the first time in my life, instead of asking myself, “what am I hungry for?” the question has become, “can I wait a little longer to eat?” At the point-of-sale, I find myself stretching every cent I can, opting often for more filling, less nutritious foods. It’s definitely a lesson in living, and I am so thankful that I’m not faced with this kind of existence in any permanent sort of way.
Ack. Sorry. Anyway, so no hot springs for me. I opted for journaling down by the river in the moonlight and watching the big dipper rise (upside down!) on the horizon. Buenas Noches!
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