Louise (my pink suitcase, for new readers) and I set off at 05:15 last Tuesday at a brisk pace to be at a pick-up point almost 2km from me. All went well and we left Lima just after 07:00. Deborah was our guide, a very friendly, concerned and efficient Peruvian lady.Our first stop was breakfast, and that was when I realised that I was part of the tourist-clan. Queuing for breakfast, watching a man riding his horse up-and-down and playing a game involving a guinea pig chosing a numbered box to win a prize… 
They breed some guinea pigs there, it is a popular Peruvian dish, cuy al horno (fried whole, head, feet and all). I haven’t tried it, although I have had some other tasty dishes, such as palta a la reina (avo filled with chicken, potatoes and cheese), rocoto relleno (stuffed peppers), alpaka steak and alfajores (two biscuits with dulce de leche in between). Two other local dishes are lomo saltado (stirred fried meat & vegetables on chips, with a pyramid of rice) and ceviche (marinated raw fish). On our way to Paracas, our first stopover for the night, we were shown the slave tunnels on Hacienda San Jose, a colonianal plantation founded in 1688. By 1811, two estates had been combined and over a thousand slaves were working there. Slavery was abolished in 1854. They eventually murdered the last owner on the steps of the manor house, and today it is a hotel. There are 17km of tunnels, starting from the courtyard of the house and having steps up into the master bedroom (one can only guess why), and running from one plantation to the next and even to the Pacific Ocean. It is thought that apart from servicing the household, slaves were smuggled in through the tunnels to avoid being taxed for them. There were rooms leading off the tunnels that were used to isolate the sick slaves coming in from the boats (leaving them there to die), to punish slaves, and to keep men that were strong and healthy to procreate. Well that is what we were told. Today there is a strong Afro-Peruvian culture in the Chincha area as a result of the fusion of the cultures, especially music, dancing and art.
Paracas is a holiday town for Peruvians, with bikes, quad bikes and kitesurfing activities, as well as boat trips to the Ballestos islands where there are sea lions, penquins, dolphins and whales (I didn’t do the trip as I had seen all the boats heading out to the island when I was flying over on my way to Lima. It just seemed too touristy and expensive.)
The sea in Paracas is very polluted, not just full of seagrass, and I was not enticed to swim but the locals clearly thought differently. The National Reserve to the west of the town is a square shaped desert peninsula with spectacular views from various lookout points. Camping is allowed close to the beaches, and according to Deborah, is very popular during summer. I was filled with awe – the desert and the ocean, together as one. I thought of what I often experience in the Namib Desert, of wanting to dissolve into the sand, becoming part of it. And which I do when I dive into the ocean, submerged in the water. Both simultaneously, almost too much!
The above beach is called Playa Roja (red beach) as the small rust coloured stones that make up the beach are as a result of the waves pounding on the cliffs of Punto Santa Maria, picking up small amounts of the red rock which over time have been deposited by the receding tide to create the beach.From there it was a few hours to Huacachina, a small oasis town surrounded by towering dunes. I was expecting it to be in the middle of the desert, but Ica, the fourth biggest city in Peru, is just on the other side of the dune.
Ica, I must admit, is in the middle of the desert. I didn’t know that virtually the whole southwestern part of Peru is desert, both dunes and hard desert. I saw some of it when flying to Lima, but driving through it by bus makes one realise the vastness and barenness of it all. I couldn’t stop taking photo’s, most of which I had to delete later as they were either blurry or had light reflections or marks from dirty bus windows. 
Ica is known as the wine and pisco capital, where this Peruvian national drink is mostly made. Pisco is similar to our witblits, distilled from grape juice, with an alcohol content of 48%. It is served as pisco sour, a cocktail made up of pisco, egg white, syrup and lime juice. Delicious and could become addictive! We stopped at one of the oldest vineyards for a tour and wine and (pure) pisco tasting. The grapes have a high sugar content as the climate is hot and dry, and fermentation takes only two weeks. Peruvians like their wine sweet or semi-sweet, not dry at all. The methods used on that specific estancia are very traditional: they do not use a press, but trample the grapes and fermentation takes place in earthen jars.
On our way to Araquipa, we passed Nasca and stopped to view some of the Nasca Lines from a tower next to the road. Some of these lines were formed over 2000 years ago, and there are different theories as to their existence, varying from indigenous people using them as places of worship, to an alien airport. Quite intriguing, as I was following our route on Maps.Me and could clearly see the geometrical lines crossing each other and the shapes that have been identified, such as the tree, lizard, hand, etc. This one is the tree:
We arrived in Araquipa at 05:30, and I had to wait until 08:00 to book into my room that I had reserved through Airbnb, so I went to the main town square and had a very expensive breakfast in the only open restaurant. Plaza de Armas is one of the most beautiful squares I’ve seen, with many restaurants on the balconies of the old buildings surrounding the square.
Santa Catalina Monastry close the square is well worth a visit. Founded in 1579, it was only recently opened for public viewing and is known for its colourful architecture and intriguing past. The nuns had little ‘houses’, belonging to them which they could sell to other nuns, so it is like a town within the securing walls. There is a communal washing area for clothes and a huge undercover bathing area.
I had booked a room through Airbnb, just to have some time away from the group and to be able to some exploring on my own. In this way one discovers many local things, such as kiwicha, which is sold as a nourishing drink full of proteins, minerals and other nutrients. Kiwicha was grown and used by the Incas, but the Spanish prohibited them from eating it during their rule, can you believe it!
My host had given me some tips on what to explore, and I ended up taking a local bus where I saw a touching exchange of products between these two women – the one took a small bag of prickly pears from her big bag, handed it to the other one, who in exchange took out a huge piece of cake from hers and handed it to the first, both smiling shyly at each other. And yes, it is lucern in the blue plastic.
The bus dropped me in an isolated village, no-one in sight, and I ended up walking 5km through barren mountains to a waterfall deep in a ravine, having a refreshing swim and standing under the fall.
I bought their traditional rice-icecream from a vendor on my walk to a viewpoint from where I could see the two volcanoes, one of which I believe is still active. 
Our next stop was Puno, which lies next to Lake Titicaca, 3 800m above sea level. On our way there we stopped at another small lake, also very high, and I had my first experience of being affected by the high altitude. I felt very light-headed and had a headache, so went to sit in the bus. I was holding my head in my hands, eyes closed, when I had a halucinating flying experience, quite exciting! Altitude sickness is no joke, and although I have managed to avoid the full impact, I think lower altitudes suit me better. Lake Titicaca is the location of the second chakra of the earth and therefore a very special place. I was rather taken aback by the decay, poverty and pollution – the part of the lake next to the city is só polluted, it smells like a sewage plant. We visited the man-made floating islands and were shown how the islands are made, and we were given ‘reed bananas’ to eat. The outer skin of the root of the reed is peeled back, and the juicy bit eaten. They use the reeds for everything: building the island, their houses and boats. These days they have synthetically constructed bathrooms with showers, hot water and chemical toilets, using solar panels to heat the water and produce electricity.
I didn’t stay in Puna but took the overnight bus to Cusco, from where I leave tomorrow to go to Quillabamba. I have a volunteer job there for the next month, working at an institute that does art, music, dance and theatre therapy with children and young people. Cusco has many beautiful old buildings, churches and narrow cobbled streets, and is full of tourists planning their Machu Picchu trips. I’ve just spent the day relaxing and walking around a bit, nurturing my altitude dizziness by drinking lots of tea made with coca leaves. I succumbed and bought some, after reading that the leaves themselves are not bad, it’s when chemicals are added and they are powdered that it becomes the drug cocaine. Locals chew the leaves a bit, move the wad to their cheeks and keep it there, occasionally chewing and spitting. It is said that it prevents altitude sickness – who am I to query such a strong belief and custom that has thrived for centuries. They also sell coca toffees and chocolates, which I haven’t tried.
There are many artisan shops in all the cities, and people come to your table in restaurants to sell their products, but because of lack of space (Louise is bursting ar her sides as it is) and having many months of travelling ahead, I have not bought anything. There is also só much more that I have experienced, but this blog has become rather lengthy, so till next time (which I promise will be shorter), take care.
About 100km before Mendoza the first vineyards started appearing, bright green after the dreary landscape, in a valley which produces most of Argentina’s wine, noticably Malbec. Walking into Mendoza from the bus station was like entering a forest, lush and cool, the trees forming a canopy of foliage, the buildings dwarfed by their size. There are many wild mulberry trees with huge leaves, their fruit staining the pavement, but also plane and other trees. The air was filled with the sweet scent of the flowers of the syringa trees, and the pavements were smooth and wide – Louise (my pink suitcase) had a joyride!
We found this guy cooking hamburger patties on the rocks, which, to judge by all the burnt out fires, happens there quite frequently. There were a group of children who were being shown how to do it as well.
Then came the fun part: absailing down, 3 sections, the longest one about 70m. I loved it!
There are beautiful parks and ponds, and walking streets with shops, but I really have to choose better times of being in a city centre. Everything closes and people and cars disappear between 13:00 and 17:00, and then come back to life, reaching a peak around 20:00.
The painting in the middle is of Titi in the workshop, and it was a unique experience to be standing in the exact same workshop, everything kept as it was at the time of Gabriel’s death.
Gabriel then took in a woman to do the housekeeping, and her son, Luis Hourgas, became the only student he ever had. The house was often the gathering place for artists and intellectuals of the town, and one could easily imagine the conversations that took place there.
He had never married and his sister, also unmarried, took it upon her to care for him after their parent’s death in 1919. As one enters the house, one is enchanted by his music which fills the rooms. He had many well-known friends, such as Picasso, Dalí, Vázques Díaz and others, who had all made caricatures of him that hang in the passage. Picasso also made drawings of costumes used for one of his operas. Some fellow composers:
This following sculpture of La Falle, ‘The Creative Inspiration’, was made by Luis Hourgas, the student of Gabriel Dubois – quite uncanny for me to have just heard of him.
The elongated window seen in the photo was designed for La Falle to be able to see the mountains while he worked. He also had another window from which he could view the chapel on a hill that he and his sister often attended, his health and weather permitting.
Che’s full name was Ernesto Guevara de la Serna, the last part being his mother’s surname. Despite his health problems, he led an active life taking part in different sports, thus ‘acquiring a spirit of discipline and self-control‘, alias the brochure. Evidently he was a playful and intelligent child, who shared many adventures with his friends. He was an avid reader of well-known authors from an early age, as can be seen from the children’s books lying on his desk in his bedroom.
After school he went to study medicine in Buenos Aires, but interrupted his studies to do a 4 000km bicycle tour of northern Argentina, during which time he became aware of the social inequality in the country.
After returning to Buenos Aires, he embarked on a another tour, this time of Latin America, on a motorbike with a friend, Alberto Granado.
After reaching Venezuela, he returned to finish his medical studies, as he had promised his mother. This he did in less than a year, qualifying as physician at the age of 25. He and a childhood friend, Calica Ferrer, made a second trip through Latin America, travelling through Bolivia, Peru and Ecuador, where they parted ways. Ernesto went to Guatemala, where he met a Cuban Ñico López, who gave him the nickname Che, and a woman who became his first wife, Hilda Gadea. He left for Mexico, where in July 1955 he met Fidel Castro from Cuba, and enlisted as a field doctor in his future guerilla expedition.
Che left Cuba in 1965 to join forces with guerrillas in the Congo, but left after 7 months, as their disorganization, mass desertions and tribal divisions led to failure. He went to Bolivia to lead the revolution in that country, but was wounded, captured and interrogated on the 8th October 1967, and shot dead on the 9th October. His body was only found 30 years later in a communal grave in Bolivia.
The cathedral next to it was well worth a visit, as always.
There is tranquil man-made lake where I had my sandwich, watching some dragonflies mating, one immediately afterwards being caught by a frantically hungry bird. Shocking, to say the least. I felt sorry for the other one, who was hovering around the death scene for a while, until it too was caught. Oh well, such is life in the animal kingdom.
That strange big building on the right is part of a complex that was built for their bicentennial celebrations of in dependence on 9th July 2016. I’ve thought about that, the fact that Argentina has been independent for over 200 years, and South Africa only for 58 years – there’s hope for us!
In 1810 Buenos Aires was the capital of the Viceroyalty of the Rio de la Plata, which included Argentina, Bolivia, Paraquay, Uruqauy and parts of Brazil. The war for independence was started with a week long revolution in Buenos Aires from 18 – 25th May 1810, on which day viceroy de Cisneros was removed from power and a local government, called the Primera Junta was estsblished. The problem was it had only representatives from Buenos Aires and when other cities of the Viceroyalty were invited to join, war broke out as they were opposed to what had happened in Buenos Aires. The War of Independence was from 1810 to 1818, with a formal Declaration of Independence being issued at the Congress of Tucumán on 9th July 2016. The Argentinian Civil Wars between the Federals (who had declared independence) and the Unitarians (who opposed it) lasted from 1814 to 1880, when peace was finally reached.
In 1583 land was given to the Jesuits in Córdoba and the complex that was developed is now called the Museo Histórico de la Universidad Nacional de Córdoba. From here they oversaw all their conversion activities across central and northwestern Argentina, as well as the farming they had started to help fund their projects. One main project was that of the National University of Córdoba, one of Latin America’s oldest universities. The Iglesia de la Compañia, which forms part of the museum complex, was built in 1640 and is the oldest surviving Jesuit temple. This complex, as well as the estancia (farm) built in Alta Gracia, a town 25km from Córdoba, was declared a World Heritage Site in 2000.
The hall at the university that was used for presentation of dissertations is both impressive and intimidating. The student stood on a raised podium in the middle of the hall, with his godfather in a carved high chair below him:
The family sat to the left:
And the professors sat to the right:
One of the courtyards of the university:
In 1989 a Jesuit crypt was unearthed and partially restored. This underground site was a novitiate where new Jesuits were trained, until they were expelled from the country in 1773.
I visited the Genaro Pérez museum, an art museum housed in an old mansion, with old and new works, most interesting. Some well-known Argentinian artists’ works are exhibited, such as E
But good fortune was shining her light on me, as it just so happened that there was a shortcut back from exactly that point. 3km later I was at the foot of the mountains, and realised that my way was UP, 3km of mountain pass. I walked past an adventure farm, a cherry orchard
and berry farm, and I was just about to give up, when the welcome sight of water came into view. Dique, by the way, means dam, not lake…
I walked a little way up the river that feeds into the dam, made me think of Jonkershoek, the babbling sound of water running over rocks and stones.
I had packed some rolls and fruit, and after a well-deserved lunch I headed home along a track that was clearly marked on the municipal map as well as on MAPS.ME. I should have realised something was wrong when I came to a place where a bridge used to be, but no longer was:
I saw that there was a path down the side, so other people had met with the same trouble. This process repeated itself several times, sometimes with missing bridges, and sometimes with overgrown plants or fallen trees. I was wondering if the track was going to take me back to town, when I saw some houses and a gate that said ‘no entry’. It was loosely fastened with a piece of wire, so I just opened it and went through.
I heard voices and saw some people, so I got scared and decided to bundu bash up the side of the mountain that had been turned to charcoal by a fire the previous weekend. Easy to climb up, not many shrubs left, yet some black stalks often blocked my way. When I got to the top, there were of course more hills, and a dirt track in the distance. Not for me, so I decided to go down again and face whoever was at the first house, asking permission to pass. I was almost at the bottom when I realised that people were coming down the path, and I scurried to get onto the path before they got to me, so that they wouldn’t know I had been trespassing even more by climbing up the hill. I clumsily fell into the way of the leader of a group of about 25 youngsters, and scrambled to my feet, feeling as stupid as a naughty child, blustering half-Spanish excuses. The guy could speak English, and very kindly informed me that it was quite okay, I could follow the path past the house and follow the dirt track back to town. I thanked him sheepishly, and when I had passed all 25 youngsters with as much dignity as I could muster, I started looking at myself and realised that I was covered in soot from the burnt bushes. Black streaks covered my hands, arms, legs, clothes and I suppose my face too. I felt like the proverbial chimney sweep who had fallen into the fire-place in a cloud of soot. Moral of the story: never climb a burnt hill. Even my hat had black marks on it. Was I happy to see La Cumbre!
On Sunday Lucia told me that the sunsets at the flying club were quite spectacular, so I decided to walk there. She never mentioned the distance: 2km along the highway and then another 2km on a dirt track. All the way there I was thinking that it turns dark after sunset, and 4km is a long way to cover. A band was playing at the restaurant at the airfield and there was quite a jolly crowd gathered. Not many planes, but some kites and gliders.
I had my beer and left early, to catch the light, and then I decided to hike. Just my luck: I was given a lift by a couple who were going back to Córdoba, so they dropped me at the intersection on the other side of town and I ended up walking 2km anyway. Sometimes I wonder at the picture I’m presenting: old woman walking along a highway/dirt track/mountain pass, alone, with a huge hat and rucksack. Life lesson?? Doubtful…
When Louise and I (for new readers: Louise is my ‘companion’, my very pink suitcase on wheels) arrived at the plaza last Sunday evening at about 21h30, I was dumbstruck. All the restaurants were brightly lit, sidewalk tables and chairs filled to capacity, loud live music everywhere and people, young and old, strolling around. I thought I’d landed in Paris! There had been a religious celebration that day, which accounted for the presence of so many people, but it has not been much different every other night. I have loved having a beer or glass of wine at one of the restaurants after my work shift at the hostel, reading my book or just watching people go by.
I filled my days with long walks on different roads out of town, or exploring the town itself and doing some wine tasting at the different bodego’s (wineries). 
I joined up with some English speaking guests at the hostel to visit a site where there are 3000yr old rock paintings done by the original people of the area, the Diaguites, and later by Inca’s who travelled through, or settled as their empire extended beyond the Peruvian borders. (The Inca’s annexed the area during the 15th century imposing their language, religion, art and government on the Diaguites.) 
The rock paintings, which were often symbolic, were also used to inform the Inca’s when they should be on the move to be in time for the trade that occurred further south before the rainy season started. (Yes, that ís an ostrich – for a moment there I thought I was back in South Africa).
There is an excellent wine museum, partly in a new building, and partly in the Enchanted Winery, an old family owned winery that had been replaced with another new building. The walls are covered in poetry about the earth, water, sun, air and wine, reflecting the respectful and romantic approach that is maintained towards the cultivation of wine in this region. Vines were brought to the Calchaqui valley in 1556 by the Spanish Conquerors, who came from the north (Chili and Peru). Huge clay pots were used for the fermenting process and subsequent storage. 
The above reminded me of a thought that I had had when living amongst the vineyards outside of Stellenbosch years ago. I was taking a walk in the vineyards one day, when something I had been thinking about made me laugh out loud. The grapes were full and ripe, just about ready to be picked, and it suddenly occurred to me that my laugh might be caught up and stored in the grapes, and some day, someone might be taking a sip of wine and suddenly laugh without reason – my laugh, stored as ‘memory’ in the juice of the grapes. Possible, why not?
Here are some photo’s of other places and buildings of interest. I was astounded by the amount of graves of small children in the graveyard.
One of the artisan markets, with woven and knitted items made from llama wool:
These old Ford and Chev bakkies (trucks) are everywhere, still very much in use:
Obviously the above is nót a Ford or Chef – or maybe it was the forerunner??
I have to share an emotional moment I had yesterday morning. I was leaving the hostel on a walk, when I literally stopped ‘to smell the roses’ – a deep crimson rose, of the kind that is deliciously fragrant. As I inhaled, I was jolted by immediate memories of my mother’s garden on our farm, Blaauwkrantz. So strong were these memories that tears welled up in my eyes, and I just could not pull myself away from that rose. I kept on pushing my nose into it, inhaling as if I could conjure up the real setting. It is said that smell is directly linked to the memory centre in the brain – well, I can most certainly vouch for that!
We had to walk about 500m to the following scene, where many colours were visible in the formations:
I was told that the red indicates the presence of iron, green is copper, brown is sinc, blue is cobult, yellow is sulphur and white could be salt or gypsum.
The site just before the Devil’s Throat is called the Amphitheatre, and has a marvelous acoustic. There was man playing a traditional flute, a beautiful haunting sound filling the huge space, sending shivers down one’s spine. It was our last stop, and quite a few of the tourists sat down in the ‘theatre’ and shared their mate (tea).
Each bend in the road opens up another breathtaking view, and about half way through we stopped at an artisan shop for some wine tasting and ‘selfies with llamas’ – what people find amusing never ceases to amaze me. The wine was excellent though, I sampled the sweet torrentés, very fruity and aromatic.
Another soul enriching experience. I am so blessed. At one point, in a crevis in the green rocks, I spontaneously dropped to my knees, feeling deep and humble gratefulness and respect for Mother Earth, in all her glory. Pachamama came to mind, without me even quite understanding the meaning of the Inka earth/time goddess. It was just there.
Mella Madness 