Mella Madness

Happy New Year to all of you! May 2020 be one of those remarkable years for all, may the joys be many and the sorrows few, and may you all be blessed with an abundance of love.

I reluctantly came back from Peru, a dramatic country with contrasting landscapes and lively people, to a hot and steamy Córdoba. I had stupidly booked a flight back with a stop-over in Santiago (Chile), and even more stupidly at 20:20, so a flight of 4hrs took me 11hrs, in the dark, with no views. In my defence, LATAM had advertised the time as 08:20pm, and I obviously hadn’t see the ‘pm’…Travelling down south from Córdoba the landscape seemed so ‘ordinary’, as in ‘familiar’. After the starkness of the desert and the lushness of the jungle, worked fields of various kind of crops reminded me of food production and fuctionality. Fields and farms to the left, mountains to the right. Slowly the landscape changed as we left the fertile valley,  and suddenly it was like my beloved Karoo, koppies and all, even poplar-lined farmhouses.

We had this one crazy police stop, where quite a few youngsters were asked to step out of the bus and line up with their bags. A police dog then sniffed at all of the bags and yanked one out. The poor guy had to stand in public view while the police unpacked his whole bag, just to reveal nothing. I have no idea what thát was about. After a night bus I spent the following day in Neuquen, the ‘capital’ of Patagonia (I was told). An impressive city, after so many miles of nothingness. It is in a river valley where mostly apples are grown, and seems to be expanding rapidly, judging by the malls and high-rise blocks of apartments going up.I was intrigued by this following sculpture, a homage to whoever built the railway line (that is no longer functional):The following day I was on my way to San Carlos de Bariloche, or Bariloche, as it is popularly known, with a very friendly and talkative Spanish lady (and grandmother) next to me in the bus. She had me practicing my Spanish for quite a few hours. We exchanged phone numbers and have been in contact since. Inis – she lives in Playas Doradas on the East coast and I might visit her there (see the strain of speaking Spanish on my face.Bariloche, a little Switserland in the northwest of Patagonia, and gateway to the south. The most beautiful lakes, forests and mountains, with zilions of trails, overnight camping spots, cycling, horseriding, sailing, kayaking, paragliding and many more activities.  I was persistant in the finding of volunteer work here, and was accepted at Hostel Punto Sur, right in the heart of town, with friendly and supportive owners, Martin and Marina. The work is scheduled in 8hr shifts for 4 days, and then 3 days off, which gives me time to explore towns close by, or do one of the overnight stays in a cabin in the mountains. In winter the mountains are snow-covered and skiing is a great attraction. According to Marina, the Argentinias come here in winter mostly to see and enjoy the snow. The Europeans are the ones who come to ski.  I’ve climbed several hills with great views of the lake, Lago Hauma Haupi, and wildflowers along the way, much to my delight.

Martin and Marina presented us with an asado (braai/barbeque) on Christmas eve. Two kinds of sausages and three kinds of beef, with lettuce and tomato salad and bread. Martin had made a delicious chimichurri that we draped over the meat and bread. Here’s a recipe I found on the internet, but according to Martin, common vinegar and sunflower oil work best:

INGREDIENTS

So, after that horrific road trip, I had a relaxing few days in Atalaya. Jennifer’s response to my blog was perfect and much appreciated:

Hi Meryl, I read your post is very interesting. When I’m read I smile because I remenber when I said you that this road is dangerous and you said me very happy “is not problem”
But is important that you doing this travel, because now you know the really kind of life that have diferents persons in this country, and the reason that some persons never go to other places, (it’s espensive, dangerous or other). All the time is imposible to have a good or confort travels, but this experience you never forget and pls never repeat.

As you saw in the previous blog, the motor-taxis in Atalaya are different than in Quillabamba, because the roads are worse and people use them to transport their goods. They have a carrier at the back, and charge a standard rate of 1 sol (R4,50). You don’t ask, you just pay.I walked around town, ate at local restaurants for 5 soles, visited a few places out of town and spent a lot of time sleeping and relaxing, especially as it rained for a certain part of the day every day. Nobody speaks English at all, which was good for practicing my Spanish.The above photo was taken at Sapani, a resort that normally has crystal clear pools, but was flooded after the rains.The motor taxi I took out there had to cross streams like this twice. I had to move to the corner if the back seat, to put some weight on the back wheel for better grip. We made it through both times. My proud driver:Some houses in the forest:The houses are all built of wood, in a specific style, and on my trip through the jungle I saw signs of deforestation, especially high up on the flat part if the mountains.I saw the full moon rise on my first night in Atalaya, over the Tambo river, which joins the Urubamba (the same one that passes Machu Picchu and Quillabamba), becoming a torrent of water of which I took a picture from the plane when flying back to Lima (the window of the plane was extremely dirty or perished or something, all my photo’s were flops).I badly wanted to see the Urubamba at Atalaya (on the photo it is the stream furthest left), so decided to take a boat. After much asking around, I finally found the place from which to depart, but we went to the opposite bank of the Tambo, from which I had to take a motor taxi overland to a little village on the banks of the Urubamba.At least I saw it, full of wood, plants and debris after two weeks of rain in the area, I was told. I loved walking through the little town, saw some youngsters playing soccer in a mud field on the square (more falling around in the mud than kicking the ball) and going for a swim in the river after their game. An older man was selling chickens that he was carrying around in heavy wooden crates, calling out as he was walking down the street. He stopped every now and then, wiping sweat from his brow, but would scuttle away when a potential buyer would beckon him.The night before I left a friend asked me what my general impression of Peru was. I had returned to Lima and wrote the following:

“Good question. Here in Lima (especially Miraflores, which is a modern, perfect and expensive suburb), the contrast between the rest of the country and here is starkly evident. However, as I flew in from Atalaya, I saw the size and poor section of Lima too. About 10m people live here, one third of the population.

My sense of Peru is that the rural towns and people are isolated. Distances are mucho and transport is difficult, and so their traditions and culture live on, especially food, dances, festivals and the traditional textile industry. One ‘modern’ thing that is noticeably present, is cell phones – and like everywhere else, people are addicted to them.

The people are friendly, sincere and not at all touristy, except in Cusco and Lima. They do not bother you and don’t charge more for taxis or at the food stalls, just because you are a ‘tourist’. Everyone seems to be accepted, confident and happy, and as a traveller I was accepted and welcomed as a person wherever I went. There is tolerance for most things, accept for pedestrians. Cars take preference, and beware if you dare try and cross the road in front of one, the hooter will blast you back on the sidewalk!

Interestingly enough, courtesy for them in restaurants means not to bother you at all. The menu is brought, order taken and delivered, and that’s it. If you need anything else, you ask, and when you’re done, you ask for the bill – la cuenta por favor.

Unfortunately there does not seem to be an environmental consciousness as yet. People throw things out of car windows and in the street, do not recycle and distribute plastic bags for everything you buy. Plastic straws are still used. I saw a video clip this morning of waves full of plastic bottles on a beach south of Lima, horrific. They come down rivers after rain and pollute the sea. It was mentioned that the government is trying to pass legislation to diminish the use of plastic. There is hope!”

Muchas gracias Peru, it was a memorable experience!

It’s a dangerous route. That’s what Jennifer said, but I assuredly replied ‘no problema’. Which was wrong anyway, it is ‘no hay problema’. Had I but known what was to come…

I left Quillabamba at 10am on Monday morning in a Toyota 4×4 twin cab, the only vehicle able to travel on those roads. This I only realised later. Toyota hit a real bargain there, I only saw one Nissan. I’m not one for detail, but by some stroke of luck I noticed the Nissan sign on the 2nd vehicle that I had to take that day. More of this later.

I soon realised we had a cowboy driver and as I usually do in these kind of situations, I sit back, relax and leave it up to God to get me safely to wherever I need to be. He must have placed at least four gaurdian angels around the bakkie (truck) that day to assure a safe passage.

The road was as scary as the one to Santa Theresa on our way to Machu Picchu. Narrow tracks high above the Urubamba river, no protection and sheer drops. Graders were removing landslide rocks and mud, big trucks would block our way and similar bakkies would regularly come from the front. No-one was passing us, but we were passing many, racing along at breakneck speed.

I had just finished taking a video of the road when we rounded a blind curve and a bakkie was coming directly at us. Our driver swerved to the right (right side of the road driving here), which was the edge, and brakes screeching we halted with one wheel over the edge and the left back wheel in the air. (I was sitting behind the driver, so was furthest from the precipice, ha-ha). No time for fear, strange as it may seem, just a sense of “are we really going to go over te edge? And how will that be?”. No-one said a word, we just all scrambled out of the bakkie as fast as we could, kind of waiting to see if it would fall. It didn’t, and the men got onto the running board on the side to get the wheel down, and the driver reversed to safe ground. I touched his arm and said ‘muy bien’ (very good), but his only reaction was vamos (let’s go). I did notice him heaving a huge sigh, though.

A few hours later a second incident occurred. I had noticed that the driver had slowed down considerably and was feeling relieved, when I heard screeching brakes (again, as Forest Gump would say) as we rounded a curve, and for the second time we headed for the edge. He had fallen asleep and was just going straight ahead. This time I leant forward and said ‘fokit’ (excuse the verb) and everybody looked at me as if though I were mad. I live to tell the story, so yes, the gaurdian angels were working overtime. We were halted by a pile of dead grass and branches on the side of the road, and again we scrambled out. Well, at least I did, the rest were giving each other quizzical looks. I stayed out of the bakkie until they had pushed it back on the road. I was not much help, and by then I felt like walking…

We arrived at Pichari at 7pm, where I had intended to spend the night, but when one of the other passengers (a man and his 2 sons were travelling with us) heard I was going to Atalaya, he suggested I go with them to Ene (which was an hour away), and further on to Atalaya the next day. I duly decided that it would make the journey shorter the following day, so I joined them in thé Nissan (I referred to earlier, which I noticed). It was a really nice driver, Ronnie, and he safely got me to Ene. I had obviously not understood everything, as the father and sons got off before Ene. So I was expecting them to arrive at Ene at 6am the following morning, in time for us all to go with Ronnie to Atalaya. With this in mind, I assured Ronnie that my moleta (suitcase, Louise) could stay on the bakkie, and I booked into the most miserable hostel ever, with a shower and toilet that were extremely unhygienic. The room had no window, but there were openings at the ceiling and hardboard walls, which made it completely un-soundproof. A TV was blaring until about 12pm, the cocks started crowing at 3am, and a radio or TV was turned on at 3:30am. Thus not much sleep. I killed a few cockroaches when I dressed at 5am (in the same clothes I had worn the previous day, as I had left Louise on the bakkie). One had even gotten into my vanity bag, in spite of it being on a chair.

I set out to explore the very tiny village before going to the terminal (taxi rank) to find Ronnie.

I waited at the terminal for a while, hoping that I was at the right place. No sign of Ronnie or the other three. Eventually I spotted the Nissan amongst about 15 other Toyota bakkies, and Ronnie asleep on the driver’s seat. Thank goodness for the Nissan, I would not have found him if not for that. Louise was happily dozing on the back seat, and I thought all was well, until Ronnie managed to persuade me that I was not travelling with him, but had to take another bakkie. When I fetched Louise from the backseat of his bakkie, he was most surprised – he had not known it was mine, and would have taken it back to Pichari. Again the gaurdian angels, seeing to it that he was also at the terminal at 6am (in a Nissan)!

This time we had an excellent driver who managed to avoid any incidents. He seemed to be involved with everyone along the way, stopping whenever someone was in trouble. I was sitting in front in the middle, on top of gears and the handbrake with the woman next to me spreading out even more when she fell asleep, really leaning onto me. Every now and then I would shove her hard, and she would slightly adjust her position. In spite of this, I enjoyed most of the trip. Kaby (driver) decided I could speak Spanish after a few broken sentences on my part, so we conversed in a manner, mostly monologues from his side. The road was bad, and we were averaging 20km/hr, which made the hours stretch before me like far-spaced stepping stones.

We stopped for breakfast at a place along the road, and I saw the men going towards the forest to relieve themselves. When I asked about el baño (bathroom) I was pointed in the direction of a pathway in the forest, to discover a sheet of plastic hanging between the trees, behind which was a pit ‘toilet’.

We came accross an accident where two bakkies had collided, but fortunately no one was hurt.

The guy in the previous photo with the rolled up T-shirt is Kaby. I point this out because it seems to be the habit here for men to roll up their T-shirts like that, quite peculiar.

We had to cross a river on a barge, which reminded me of Malgas. It’s such a short stretch, but a woman was offering things for sale. She lives on the other side, and she and her child jump on for each crossing. We had lunch there, and this time the toilet was just behind any shrub.

Along the way I looked at my ticket, only to discover that it was nót for Atalaya, but Satipo. On arrival there at 14h00 I was told that it was another 7hrs to Atalaya. I had started arguing about the price, because I was under the impression it was 1 or 2 hours, when I was thus informed. I was dismayed, but after a coffee and egg sandwich accross the road, I was ready to leave at 15h00. It took the driver another hour to get everything loaded at various places in town, and by the time we left, there were 5 of us inside the bakkie, and 5 more on the back, plus the luggage, spare parts, vegetables and heaven knows what else, completely overloaded.

The distance to Atalya is 222km, and we covered the first 70km in 45min on a beautiful new and broad tar road. We took 9hrs to do the rest!! The road was horrendous to say the least, very often just a 4×4 track with holes, stones, mud, water and trees accross the road. It felt like an African safari trip in the jungle – I suppose it wás a jungle trip, except it was South America, and that makes it even more exotic. I realise that now that I have recovered, but ooh boy, was I zonked!

The driver was obviously exhausted too, and sometimes stopped to wash his face or just walk around for a bit. One such time I managed to walk away from the vehicle and the blaring music that all the drivers play continuously, to listen to the sounds of the jungle – indescribably beautiful! I wished I could be sitting next to a campfire somewhere, listening to night sounds rather than having to travel any further.

We arrived in Atalaya at 02h00, after having started at 06h00 – 20hrs of shaking and bumping around. I did not have a booking because I had not had WiFi the previous night. I gathered up my belongings and Louise and I continued our journey down a paved road, which soon became a dirt road, and I had to carry her. By then I was operating on adrenaline so managed quite well.

This was the hill we went down with, and then along the street with dogs barking and Louise with a high pitched squeal in one of her wheels. (By the way, the plastic on the front of the motor taxi, as they are called, is to protect the driver from rain.)

Was I happy to see this hotel sign! I booked in, for the first time in a hotel, without asking the price, just happy to be alive and keen to have a clean room with private bathroom. Unfortunately no hot water, but Atalaya is very hot and humid, so no hay problema. As it turned out, the gaurdian angels had one last task, and that was to ensure that it was a very cheap, but spotless, hotel, only 35 soles p/n (R160), as I discovered the next morning.

Needless to say, I am flying to Lima tomorrow, no more bad roads in the jungle for me.

The place that has been me casa for the past month. A place that is always filled with music, people and creative noise, being a centre for art related activities such as ballet, piano and guitar lessons, painting and crafting, and cooking lessons. The classes are mostly for children, but include some adults too. Anyone and everyone is welcome. I have written about the inspirational work done by Darsy and Jennifer, but would like to add some pictures here.

The dress in the last picture was made for friend’s little girl, Andrea, for a festival event. It is entirely made of magazine pages that Jennifer and her friend patiently folded night after night.

The volunteers join the family for lunch every day, and Darsy is an excellent chef. Quillabamba celebrated its 101th year of existence on the 29th November and the whole weekend was filled with celebratory events such as parades marches, bands playing and many food and artisan stalls. We had a special lunch as well, pollo el horno (fried chicken cooked in a wood stove). Somebody once asked Darsy for the recipe, and he said that the secret was playing Peruvian music to the chicken for 2hrs before cooking it. It works!

The month passed in the blink of an eye, and I am left with incredible memories of sharing, laughing, exploring, working, enjoying and so much more. I even had therapy sessions with two boys and did two constellations, deriving much satisfaction from being able to contribute in a different way. Quillabamba, a town previously completely unknown to me, has come alive and become part of my life experience thanks to Darsy, Jennifer and their three children Derjath, Jesse and Jareth. Derjath taught us to samba, and when I go back to Lima, I will be more knowledgeable when I join the dancers in Miraflores!

The two other volunteers, Jay (French) and Gabriela (Brazilian).

Machu Picchu or not? A question that had not even crossed my mind until I arrived in Lima a month ago.  Out of the blue, as I was walking through a park, it occurred to me that nót going to Machu Picchu was actually an option. Various reasons led to this, the main one being that many Peruvians have not been there, either because they cannot afford the trip, or because it just has not been on their agenda. And I am in Peru to interact with people, to gain an understanding of them and their culture, and if visiting Machu Picchu is not thát important to them, why should it be to me? This conclusion was strengthened by the maddening hype in Cusco of tourists, tour operators and -guides, all focussed on Machu Picchu.  I happily avoided (or ignored if not possible to avoid) them all, focussing on markets, buildings and my upcoming trip to Quillabamba, quite impressed with myself and my decision. I have to admit that I was not feeling well as result of a stomach infection (don’t drink ANY unbottled water in Peru, not even from a waterfall far removed from towns) and slight altitude sickness, so contemplating a trek up a mountain to view 500 year old ruins was not the most appealing idea.

On my arrival at Quillabamba, a volunteer at QuillArt (the art institute where I’m doing volunteer work) told me of her trip to Machu Picchu from here, the local way. Jennifer, my host, enthusiastically joined the conversation, extolling the incredible beauty of Machu Picchu and expertise of the Inca’s. I was persuaded, and promptly bought my online ticket, which cost $65. I later discovered that the tickets on the government website, http://www.machupicchu.gob.pe, were $20 cheaper, ugh! Only 2500 people are allowed to enter per day, and only 400 may climb Huayna Picchu, the peak that forms the backdrop to the citadel. I read that UNESCO is considering declaring Machu Picchu an endangered World Heritage site because of the many tourists and to prevent mismanagement.  In the late 1990’s the Peruvian government approved the building of a cable car and 5-star hotel, including a tourist centre with boutiques and restaurants, which was fortunately stopped as a result of protests against it. In 2018 negotiations were re-opened for the building of a cable car to encourage Peruvians to visit the site.

Too much effort to write it all in my own words, so here is some information I found on MAPS.ME:  “Machu Picchu was constructed as an estate for the Inca emperor Pachacuti (1438–1472). Often mistakenly referred to as the “Lost City of the Incas”, it is the most familiar icon of Inca civilization. The Incas built the estate around 1450 but abandoned it a century later at the time of the Spanish conquest. Although known locally, it was not known to the Spanish during the colonial period and remained unknown to the outside world until American historian Hiram Bingham brought it to international attention in 1911“.

Okay, info done, so last Saturday another volunteer here (Gabriela), Derjarth (Jennifer’s 17yr old son) and I started out from Quillabamba in a minivan filled with a lot of locals. Derjarth had never been to Machu Picchu, but had been to Santa Theresa, our first stop (49km), and had warned us about the precarious road along the mountain tops, with sheer unprotected drops down to the river below. Suffice it to say that had I had a fear of heights, I would have preferred to walk…

At Santa Theresa we had to take another taxi to Hydroelectrica (10km), where the road stops. The only way to get to Machupicchu Pueblo, or Aguas Caliente as it is also called, is by train or walking the 11km. We opted for the second – a fairly easy walk along the railway-line and Urubamba river through a green and lush canyon.  We were in high spirits, the weather was perfect, cloud cover but no rain, and we could see Huayna Picchu, even spotting some people and buildings at the top.
We arrived in Machupicchu Pueblo at about 2pm, only to discover that we had about another million steps to climb to our very quaint, clean and cheap hostel.


Machupicchu Pueblo is 2km from the starting point of the climb up to Machu Picchu.  Everybody, apart from the people doing the Inca Trek or similar hiking trips, passes through there, staying at least one night.  It is the most touristic town in Peru, of that I am sure, and every house offers accommodation. Restaurants, souvenir and artisan shops, all other kinds of shops, markets and coffee shops abound.  The train and a river run through the middle of town, with bridges connecting the two sides. I was wondering about the buses that are available to transport people to and from the main gate at the top of the mountain, as there are no roads leading into the town. Evidently they were brought in by train, and are not allowed into town further than where the railway-line crosses the road.


The hostel was willing to serve us breakfast at 4am, a hearty meal of bread, butter, jam, eggs and coffee, to which I added a cup of strong coca tea for that energy boost I knew I was going to need. We started out on the first 2km trek at 4:15am, in darkness and pouring rain, not talking much. People were passing us at full speed all the time, and I wanted to tell them it was not a race, but thought better of it and kept my thoughts to myself. We were stopped at the bottom gate, where for some reason or other they had to check our passports and tickets. We waited in the queue for about 20 min before they opened the office, which meant that we got to the top after 6am, the time that the gates open. By then busloads of people had been dropped, but it was still okay.


The path is paved with rock steps and goes straight up, wheras the buses take the zig-zag road. As dawn started breaking the rain eased up a bit and the view became more and more breathtaking.


By the time we reached the top, I was soaked, a mixture of rain and sweat, but the view made it all worthwhile. I will let the pictures speak for themselves.


Machu Picchu has a perfect location in a big bend in the Urubamba river with sheer cliffs forming protection on 3 sides. The remaining side had only two entrances, one the Inca trail and the other the Inca bridge, which is a kilometer or so to the west of the ruins. One is not allowed to walk onto the bridge (thank goodness, as you can see from the photo), but how the Inca’s managed, heaven knows.I have the greatest admiration for the Inca’s and what they managed to accomplish so many years ago. It is sad that they only occupied the citadel for about 80 years, but a good thing it was not discovered by the Spanish, else it might have been destroyed as many other buildings were. It was slightly discomforting to have to walk along designated one-way pathways, even having signs saying: ‘don’t stop, keep on moving’.  Made one feel a bit ‘sheepish’ and pressurised.

For me, ultimately, it was an unforgetable and exalting nature experience, one that literally made me feel on top of the world.

I’m blessed, that’s for sure. By the moon this time, again!! I don’t plan these things, they just work out this way. There are many planned viewings of the full moon rising, but the unexpected ones are the blessings. Times that I can remember:

• Unexpected full moon rising over Karoo koppies on our way to the farm, huge and very close over the vast expanse of Karoo vlaktes, reminding me of the greatness of the Creation.
• Ngorogoro crater in Tanzania, going out of our hotel in the freezing cold to look at the moon, to discover a full moon rising over the tip of the crater with a telescope placed readily at hand. We had not planned to be in the crater for full moon, it just happened.
• Stepping out from my hostel into a completely crazy, filthy, overcrowded street in Yangon, Myanmar, not knowing where to go or what to do, seeing the full moon rise to my right, and just walking in that direction, merging with the crowds. Discovering the most wonderful local food made in huge pots on the sidewalk, talking to interesting people, and generally feeling alive and well.
• Humahuaca, about which I wrote in a previous blog. Having the full moon rise unexpectantly from behind the Andes mountains after a taxing day, stopping me in my tracks on the dirt road close to where I was staying (on the wrong side of the river).
• And here in Quillabamba, Peru, where I had arrived for my next volunteer job. I always feel strange and isolated on arrival, take time to adjust and relax. My teeny little room (without a window) is on the 2nd floor, off a deck that overlooks the tree covered mountains. I had gone in search of a grocery store and was going to my room when I noticed the light of the rising moon behind the mountain. And it dawned on me: full moon!!! Blessings blessings blessings. I sat on the deck for an hour with a cup of coffee, chatting to a friend on WApp and allowing myself to just be me, without the pressure of self-inflicted expectations. It felt good. The next day I was told Quillabamba means ‘Valley of the Moon’…

Getting to Quillabamba from Cuso meant traversing a 4000m mountain with a bus, which sometimes took the hairpin-bends at 40 -50km/h. I was unperturbed, going from side to side to catch the best view from the windows, often having to grasp at the armrest of the seats to prevent myself from being flung down the isle. The rest of the passengers were all sleeping!Going upAt the top, black soil turned up in the lands.Altogether different landscape on the other side, lush and green. Quillabamba is on the edge of the Amesone forest.The river is called the Urubamba, and runs through the Sacred Valley which is at the foot of Machu Picchu. Quillabamba is 2hrs north of Machu Picchu, and can be seen in the far distance of the above photo.My Workaway volunteer work for this month is with Jennifer, her husband Darsey, and three children. They run an art institute which they started 3 years ago, and offer guitar and piano lessons, ballet, drama, cooking and art for small children and adolescents. Evidently Jennifer arrived here with nothing but a pot for boiling rice and her rucksack, and started the business from the room she had rented and was living in, converting it to a studio during the day. Her story is inspirational, as she had to persuade reluctant fathers that art in its various forms was an important part of a child’s development. Today they have a thriving business with many children participating and they are involved in community activities and festivals.Gabriella (the other volunteer from Brazil) and I have our rooms on the 2nd floor, with a bathroom and a deck overlooking the mountains. The family occupy the 1st floor (or 3 rooms, the other 2 are classrooms), and the kitchen and 3 more classrooms are on the ground floor. Free board and one meal is provided, work is from 4 – 8pm on week days and the rest is free time to relax and explore. The family are all keen on the interchange of cultures, cooking and language and to have us take part in their activities. They have opened their home with warm hearts and are really want us to see as much of the area as possible. Jennifer speaks English, and I’m working hard at my Spanish to be able to communicate with the rest of the family. Apart from helping with the little ones, I am teaching English to her daughter and some friends, amidst much fun and laughter.One of the good things about living with a local family is that one is able to do things in a non-tourist way. A trip to one of the many beautiful waterfalls in the area is done with a group who was started by an enthusiastic nature lover, and who go on excursions every weekend. The price is 20 soles instead of the 100 or 200 soles that tour guides would have asked. Dogs and children are part of the group, and we all got thoroughly soaked in a proper jungle downpour on the way back.We had parked at a ‘lodge’ and trout farm, so before we started our trek up the mountain to the waterfall, we watched lunch being caught in one of the ponds. A scrumptious meal of trout, chips, salad, sweet potato and duca awaited us on our return, undercover and dry.There are two clear blue swimming pools close by to where we stay, much to my delight in this sweltering humidity. It rains every night, seldom during the day, and often thunderstorms. Life in this undiscovered gem of a town is slow-paced, local and lekker. Zillions of the cutest little 3-wheeled taxi’s abound, riding up and down the streets all day long, with a flat rate of 1 and a half soles. I’m going to pack one in Louise to take home, I love them!One of the girls that attend the English classes invited us to her school a few days ago, as they were having an exhibit of different kinds of traditional foods. It was supposed to start at 10am, but by 12 noon the judges were still walking around (evidently not uncommon according to Peruvian standards) and we decided to go for a swim instead of waiting to buy or taste the food. It all looked delicious, excepting for the guinea pig.There are two guinea pigs running around in our backyard, but Darsey has assured me that they are pets, not to be eaten, thank goodness!Yesterday Gabriella and I went to another waterfall close by, taking a small bus from the taxi rank after having stood through a fighting match between the various drivers. Quite overwhelming, but that is how it is done, according to Jennifer. We had the waterfall to ourselves for about an hour, but a group of school children from Araquipa arrived and entertained us with their splashing and antics, just as children everywhere do. Afterwards we just stood next to the road and hitched a ride back to town for 5 soles, the going rate.

Oh no, I’ve become a tourist!  Being on a bus with 40 English speaking people (from different countries) was quite a shock after going solo for such a long time.  Peru Hop is a company that was started by a couple of young men 6 years ago, and has been extended to include Bolivia. They have a planned route that is repeated every day, so you can literally hop off and -on at any one of the towns en route and stay as long as you want to. They stop at places of interest along the way, and have a 6-day recommended itinerary from Lima to Cusco, which I followed. It meant sleeping on the bus for 2 nights, which is a pity as I suffer from FOMO (fear of missing out) and didn’t like missing out on landscape changes.  It did, however, save on accommodation.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.

Flying over the Andes was not at all what I expected it to be. When the pilot asked everyone to take their seats and fasten their safety belts as we were going to ‘fly over the Andes’, I looked out of the window, expecting to see towering mountain peaks (more than what I had seen up to that point). The cloud cover we had been flying over the previous 30min had disappeared, and I had been seeing some mountains before the announcement.

The scenery slowly changed to flat areas covered in salt pans, with very little snow on a few faraway peaks. There was hardly any turbulence, so the seatbelt instruction didn’t really make sense to me.

We flew for an hour and suddenly the sea was there, with a cloud cover, and only then did I realise how high the mountains had been. Thrilling!! It must have been somewhere in the northern part of Chile, because we still had another 2 hours of flying before we reached Lima.

Airports have a way of bullying one into rapid decision making. Or at least, that is how I experience it. I am usually unprepared – I don’t have the local money on me, I don’t know what kind of transport I’m going to use, I don’t know where my Airbnb location is and I don’t have WiFi. I need time to sit and think and plan these things, but the only time I’m given is when I go to the toilet before collecting Louise. You are rushed through the line at customs, you are rushed at the counter where you want to draw money, only to be told they only accept debit cards. You are hailed by at least 3 booths selling taxi tickets on your way out of customs clearance (where they’ve confiscated your apple you accidentally forgot in your rucksack). Once you’ve paid for the taxi, using your credit card, you are escorted to a taxi driver who swiftly walks you to the exit. By now you realise you’re holding your breath, you are sweating profusely and your head is spinning. ‘Stop!’, I feel like shouting, but the guy won’t understand me anyway. So I just stop at an ATM and quickly draw money, not having time to consider the amount and not having had time to do the conversion to rands, only having just found out what the currency and exchange rate is. (It is sol (plural soles), and S1 = R4,40 more or less.) One good thing is the taxi driver is very kind and polite, knows exactly where he is going, is not cheating me as I’ve already paid, and delivers me right to my doorstep. Phew, in one piece! (if not peace…)

Along the way I noticed differences – the buildings are more square and stark, no curves, balconies or overhangs. The people are different, darker and square-faced, a lot of them. And I realised I was missing Argentina… Gosh, can one become só attached to a country in 3 months!

That was all 6 days ago. Lima has impressed me as a vibrant city – modern, yet aware of its history and preservation of historical buildings and cultural centers. There are lush green parks everywhere, good public transport and very busy streets (both vehicles and pedestrians). The most important square in Lima Centro, or Downtown as it is called, is the Plaza de Major de Lima, where the presidential palace, townhall, cathedral and bishop’s home are.

The area to the north of the square is the old Spanish quarter where the streets are narrow, houses and shops are colourful and many tourists wander in and out of artisan shops and restaurants.

I went on a city bus tour and we visited the Museo y Catacumbas del Convento de San Francisco de Asis, an 16th century old monastry and cathedral with catacombs under both of them. Creepy, all the skulls and bones, but the interior of the buildings are serene and beautiful. Taking pictures is prohibited in the monastry and catacombs, but I sneaked one of the library, an impressive room.

Lima is divided into several districts, each with their own local municipality. Two of the popular districts are Miraflores and Barranco, next to each other, both with a seafront, both with a lively nightlife in the parks and on the streets. I haven’t been out much at night, but the vibe in these two areas is such that one feels completely safe, and buses home are accessible and easy to catch.

Last night the church on Kennedy square in Miraflores was open and a soloist was singing while communion was being served, hauntingly beautiful. I sat listening for a while, carried away.

When I went outside, there was a demonstration against the way chickens are being slaughtered, with people holding computers showing the gruesome atrocities of the process. Funny, nobody would come close to the demonstrators, as if one could only watch these things from a distance.

Fifty meters further, in the park, locals were dancing their own version if the salsa or samba, with onlookers seated in a little amphitheater. There was an older man dancing so well and having such fun, that when he was left stranded without a partner, I went down the steps and asked him to dance, people cheering. I can’t do samba/salsa/whatever to save my life, but caught up in the rhythm and gaiety of the moment, I just danced away, doing my own thing. He thanked me genuinely and with so much enthusiasm that I almost believed him… But it was fun!

A great attraction in Lima is the Parque de la Reserva, the waterpark. There are 12 fountains, and in the evening they have a spectacular music and light show. Everybody seemed to be there the evening I went, creating a festive atmosphere. The next day was Halloween, a public holiday here, as they celebrate both Halloween and Criollo (Creole) music, so everybody probably wás there. Children and young people are allowed to play in certain fountains, and they were really making a game of it. I was shivering for their sakes, but they were clearly enjoying themselves.

I haven’t really indulged in local cuisine, but I discovered a Criollo restaurant just accross the street from where I stay that serves the most delicious fish soup. It is called sopa pesce (fish soup) but is more like a chowder, filled with chunks of fish, prawns herbs and other goodies, excellent, and very cheap!

Incidentally, I had a discussion with my hosts, a young and hard-working couple, about the meaning of Criollo, and they tried to explain to me that it is a way of doing things rather than a ‘something’. I investigated, and discovered the the word is used for people who are born of European parents, but not on the European continent. In Latin America, that would apply to Spain and Spanish. The people born in Spain are considered to be peninsulares, and during Spanish rule they were given preference in government and official positions. The Criollos, born here, were however the ones who led the countries to independence, and subsequently held official positions.

In Peru, specifically, criollo is often used as an adjective and describes a certain spirited way of life. Someone is muy criollo (very Creole) if they express these ways. The ways are the following:

• speak wittingly and persuasively on a wide range of topics
• turn a situation to one’s advantage
• be masculine (macho)
• exhibit national pride
• participate in fiestas and other sociable activities with certain gusto

I can vouch for that, much of this is what I have been experiencing here.

There is a wonderful undercover local market close to me, with mostly food stalls, but also flowers and general items. It is very colourful and crowded, I love it.

I was meant to fly back to South Africa today – I cannot believe the three months have passed so quickly. I had to change my ticket yesterday, which turned out to be a gruelling and intense experience. Originally I was told that I would have to pay $200 (USA) penalty if I changed the ticket, but because LATAM airways had delayed flights (twice) on my inbound flight, I could twice change my ticket without penalty. I used one before I left SA, but to try and persuade the man on the other end of the line that I had one change left, was a marathon task beyond my capabilities. (I had kept contact with Julian, the on-line guy who originally changed my ticket in SA, and had consulted him about the current change. He was the one who told me I had an extra change available, that was why I was so adamant about the penalty. He also told me there was a cheap flight available on the 6th April 2020 for only $39 extra.)

After an hour and a half of talking, waiting, explaining, waiting, giving information, waiting, trying again, waiting, ad infinitum, the guy at the call center eventually said he was going to a ‘specialised section’ and then he found what I had been saying all along. By that stage we were going to be cut off, and he insisted that I give him a phone number on which he could call me, which of course I didn’t have. I was using the call center phone at a LATAM office, and begged one of the assistants to allow me to use her cellphone, which she reluctantly did, telling me it was very much against the rules. Anyway, eventually a call came through, but it was a woman’s voice, and I nearly died – I thought I had to start the process all over again. Luckily not – she was just going to do the changed booking. After half an hour of more waiting, forcing myself to breathe, drinking water and wiping sweat off my brow, she proceeded to offer me a ticket for an extra $212! I almost died again – I had just saved a $200 penalty fee, I was not about to give it out on a new ticket. I gave her a firm ‘no’ and told her that Julian had said there was one available for $39. Another 15 minutes, with the owner of the phone constantly hovering close to me, and I got the $39 upgrade. I was completely light-headed and só relieved that I started crying once I got out of the office. The patience of the operators, the kindness of the cellphone lady and just the sheer tenacity of my own negotiations overwhelmed me. And of course the presence of an ever guiding and protective Hand.

I sommer treated myself to a coffee americano and a slice of lemon meringue pie. And promptly went to book a $200 ticket on the Peru Hop, an organisation that provides tours in Peru and Bolivia. I leave tomorrow at the crack of dawn, working my way to Cusco and eventually Quillabamba, where I’ll be doing the next Workaway volunteer job.

I’ll be back in Lima by middle December, hopefully more at ease, knowing now how things work, and not having to do ticket changes again.

It was a very monotonous 10 hour bus ride from Córdoba to Mendoza last week. A large part of it was through barren countryside and the rest through fields that had not been ploughed or sowed. I do not know why, maybe because of drought, because the eucalyptus trees alongside the road were dying.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!

I walked for a kilometer or two, until MAPS.ME indicated that I should have been at my destination, but the street number was non-existent. I had to hail a taxi – how was I supposed to know that two streets within 2km from each other have the same name? Luckily the taxi driver knew, and $50 (pesos) later he dropped me right at my door. I had a little loft flat all to myself, which was sheer luxury.Early the next morning I decided to explore, and tackled a 5km walk through Parque San Martin and up Cerro de la Gloria, a hill with a statue at the top overlooking the city. It is a detailed and extremely well-crafted sculpture high on a base, homage to San Martin and his Andes Army (made up of Argentinians and Chileans to free Chile from Spain in the early 1800’s). And of course a good view of the city, as well as towards the mountains.My intention was to stay 2 nights and then go to Santiago (Chile) for 3 nights, before returning to Córdoba where I had a plane to catch to Peru. But Providence thought differently. On my way back from the cerro, I bumped into a Swiss girl who told me about the riots in Santiago, showing me pictures of shops being looted and a burning bus. I wasn’t too perturbed, told her we’re used to it in South Africa, but she was clearly shocked by what she had experienced. I díd consult a travel agent though, as I am reliant on public transport, and evidently that was what was being targetted. Two days later the death toll in Santiago had risen to 10, so nót going was maybe a good decision. I lengthened my stay in Mendoza and booked an exursion instead – perfecto!
The day started off with my first glimpse of snow-covered peaks of the Andes – what a breathtaking sight!

We travelled to a place called Cacheuta, in a gorge in the mountains on the road toward Chile. We trekked up a steep hill (1500ft I think), me panting for breath amongst all the youngsters, but the leaders were kind and patient and told me to take my time. I didn’t tell them how old I was, but I díd wonder if the girl in the office where I’d booked the trip had done the climb, as she had assured me it was ‘muy fácil‘ (very easy).
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!

Cacheuta is known for its warm springs, so we had the rest of the day to enjoy the sheer pleasure of the warm (and cold!) water. The terrain is teraced with pools on different levels, and even though there were many people, it didn’t feel crowded. Everything was spotless, with attendants everywhere. It was while lying in one of the pools, having had plenty of exercise for the day, looking at the majestic mountains surrounding me, that the thought struck me: ‘this is surely what heaven must be like’.

Mendoza was devastated by an earthquake in 1861, but rebuilt with more modern buildings, large houses and many squares and parks that are all green and beautifully kept. One such is the Plaza España, with decorative tilework on the benches, lamps, pathways and the drinking fountain. There are scenes depicting Spanish history, and even Don Quixote is represented. I had met an enthusiastic and energetic young man from Paris on the excursion the previous day, and we had drinks close the plaza that evening, sharing travelling experiences and family stories. I think I am becoming a more experienced traveller!

Not being able to go to Chile, I had extra time, so decided to go to San Juan, another big city about 170km north of Mendoza, in the same wine valley. It would provide an alternative route back to Córdoba, if nothing else.I booked an Airbnb room close to the bus station and had a wonderful stay with Agustín and Sandra (his mother) who opened their home and hearts to me. It was Sandra’s birthday on my last day there, and while having breakfast before leaving, they shared photo’s and stories of their family, lives and work with me, rather special. I wrote in my diary that this is what makes travelling meaningful: the contact and interaction with people, be they travellers or locals. Seeing the sights and learning about the history, culture, etc of the country is great, but for mé, ultimately, it is about the people. Oh sorry, and nature.San Juan had two earthquakes, one in 1844 and one as recent as 1970. Sandra assured me her house was safe, it had withstood the 1970 quake – we just had to run outside, and not hide under the bed, as I had intended to do, ha-ha. She proudly told me that they have a modern theatre, built to commemorate the bicentennial, and an auditorium with fantastic acoustics.

The building on the left is the old station building. It is quite sad, the platform and water tank are still there too, but no sign of train tracks.

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.

I was pleasantly surprised by the bus ride from San Juan to Córdoba, as we went via the valley where La Cumbre is, the town where I had worked with Lucia. The landscape was continually changing, and I couldn’t believe how quickly the vineyards disappeared and sand dunes (!) appeared.The trees reminded me of the Karoo: eucalyptus, poplars, wild mulberries, pepper trees an willows.

Some gauchos (‘cowboys’) on the side of the road – horses are everywhere. Not much wildlife though, as a matter of fact, none. A woman on the bus got very excited and pointed out some goats to me that were grazing next to the road. The vastness of Argentina is overwhelming: 500km of riding through an unpopulated countryside, with a few dusty villages in between. Not a sign of life, no animals, nothing. The last 100km to Córdoba were of course through the valley, densely populated and touristic.In the following picture, the extensions on top of the houses are not chimneys, they are built to hide water tanks. There is a problem with water pressure in Argentina, so all houses and buildings have water tanks on their roofs.

Tomorrow I leave Argentina and fly to Peru. I almost didn’t make it as the wind blew the kitchen door of the flat closed with me inside, and the handle broke when I tried to open it. There I was, stuck in the kitchen on the 10th floor, my phone in the bedroom! The neighbours wouldn’t hear if I shouted (I never hear them), and the balcony off the kitchen doesn’t overlook the street. I tried not to panic – at least there was tea and coffee, but no food, as I was going to buy some later. And the cleaners or owners would hopefully come by in the next day or two. The worst would be that I would miss my flight in the morning. Admittedly, weird thoughts ran through my mind… I used a knife and managed to unscrew the cover over the keyhole, but that didn’t help as it doesn’t give one access to the actual lock. I tried sliding the knife over the lock, but it wouldn’t budge. At some point I realised that the knife was actually going into the lock to some extent, so I hoped that it had somehow contracted. I yanked hard at the door – and it opened!! I was immensely relieved and grateful – again a Higher Power had prevailed. I was still in shock for quite some time afterwards, and have shivers down my spine when I go into the kitchen, clutching my phone (even if there is a chair keeping the door open). But thank goodness: Peru here I come!

An artist, a composer and a revolutionary – all having lived within a radius of 3km from each other in a small town called Alta Gracia, 40km from Córdoba. What makes this town so special? The mountain air. In the 1920’s and 1930’s it attracted wealthy Argentinians in search of fresh air and second homes, and doctors referred patients there with lung diseases and problems.

On my way to the first museum, which is the original house of the artist Gabriel Dubois, I walked along a clean, green and shady river, very refreshing.
Gabriel Dubois was a French artist/sculptor, born Gabriel Frederico Eugenio Simonnet. He studied under Carrier de Belleuse, a well-known French sculptor, and was só good, he was given the nickname ‘Le Petit Dubois’, which he adopted as his own. He was an adventurer and came to Buenos Aires in 1895, at the age of 22yrs. He worked there for many years, eventually moving to Alta Gracia in 1932. He had one son, Emilio (Titi), who often spent time with him in his studio, and who appears in many of the artworks.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.

When his wife died, Gabriel made a sculpture of her as the Fallen Angel, with Titi as a little boy (he was an adult by then), because she had always spoken of him as ‘her little boy’. It was placed in the garden, and is still there, very poignant.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.

My next stop was the house of Manuel de Falle, one of Spain’s greatest modern composers of the 20th century. He fled Spain during the Franco regime and moved to Alta Gracia in 1942 because of lung problems. The house was specially designed and built for him. It had two bedrooms, each with their own bathroom, and a balcony which served as livingroom, where he spent much time visiting with friends and enjoying the view of the mountains.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.

Allow me an interruption at this point, as I have to regale a personal incident. I walked through a park and up the hill to the chapel (of course). On my way there I had to go through a residential area. Dogs had been barking at me, much to my displeasure, but suddenly a fierce alsatian came charging at me from behind and attacked me. Fortunately I was carrying my backpack, and instead of my backside being ripped apart, his jaws closed on my backpack. I was furious and turned on him, and thankfully he ran away. One has to be careful – a visitor at the hostel in Cafayaté told me he had been bitten by a dog in Peru, and the people told him the dog had rabies, so he had to have injections, big drama.

Back to my story. La Falle was a very modest and religious person, as could be seen by his sparsely furnished bedroom, simple iron cast single bed and religious artefacts. What impressed me was that the town of Alta Gracia decided to honour him even though he had only lived there for four years, before he died in 1946.

A few blocks away is Villa Nydia, where the Guevara family lived for most of Ernesto’s (Che’s) childhood years, mainly because he was born with bronchial problems that had developed into asthma.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.

In Che’s own words: “… This aimless wandering through our ‘capitalized America’ has triggered major unexpected changes in me…” And: “…My future is linked to the Cuban Revolution. It is either victory or death for me…” He joined the revolution in 1956 and on the 2nd of January 1959 rode alongside Castro when they victoriously entered Havana. He married a fellow revolutionary, Aleida de la Torre, and they had four children. He obtained Cuban citizenship and in that year travelled overseas and met prominent presidents such as Nasser (Egypt), Sukarno (Indonesia) and Nehru (India). He eventually became Industry Minister in Cuba and visited America, Soviet Union and Czechoslovakia on trade missions.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.

I am not a supporter of revolutionaries, and didn’t quite know how to react to all this information in the museum, but one thing became clear to me: he was intelligent, shaped by life experiences and social injustices and committed to rectify matters. He kept a journal, and regularly wrote letters to his family. I was struck by one quote from a letter to his children : “…Always be able to feel in the deepest sense anywhere in the world. It is the most beautiful quality of a revolutionary…” For me, I don’t have to be a revolutionary to believe this, I feel anyway.

After all that cultural information and deep thinking, I walked down to the town centre to have a look at the estancia (ranch) established by the Jesuits in the 17th century to help support the University of Córdoba. It is now a museum.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.