Aldea Yanapay, Cusco, Peru

So, long time no blog. Namely as I’ve been in one place for a while.

In total I will have been here for 12 days (with a quick jaunt to Macchu Pichu in the middle.) That’s practically a lifetime in travelerville. Up till now the longest  will have been B.A or La Paz, and only each for 5 days. However Cusco is an absolutely lovely place spend a little time. It’s full of pretty churches, cobbled streets, and artisan markets. People definitely get stuck here.
It turned out to be a city of two halves.  The first; my lost party weekend of Wild Rover hostel. Best not to elaborate. Second; my knuckling down to some do-gooding.
Aldea Yanapay is a social project and after-school centre set up for disadvantaged Cusco street kids from 3 – 13 years. (Cue some X Factor sob story music, but it’s all true….) Many of the kids face all sorts of problems from their parents like machismo, alcoholism, domestic violence. Quite perversely, families often have enough money to buy cable TV, but are not necessarily educated enough to buy fridges to keep food fresh and their kids nutritioned, so the povety problem is quite a complex one.
The school tries to provide a safe haven where the kids feel loved for a few hours and day, and teaches them all to be extremely tactile; they start each class by kissing and hugging us for example. This sounds cute at first, till they cough and slobber all over you. My immune system has definitely taken a hit. 
The little lady in the (3rd) pic is my absolute fave. She waltzed in on my first day, and when asked ‘nombre’ (name), replied “Jeremy Wilson.”
“Jeremy” or Jar-A-Mie (girl) as it turns out to be, made us smile by refusing to say anything but her full name. Very formal. Another kid; Santos, nearly made us cry with laughter in ‘the circle of expression’ – a daily hour when all classes come together to talk, sing, answer questions for little prizes. When asked to name a famous French actor, (they like to teach cultural exchange) he came out with “lady gaga?!”
My highlight came on Thursday when I got a break from playing non-stop Connect4, skipping, jigsaws, monopoly (in spanish.) Janik, the co-director, comes into class and asks my friend Rachel and I if we would like a special job. Apparently we look creative. We are not sure how to take this, but still say yes. He leads us to a room, FULL of fancy dress costumes. We think we have died and gone to heaven. Possibly one of the cutest things you can do in life, or with 50 cute Peruvuan kids, is spend the afternoon dressing them as tigers, dogs, trees, unicorns, and in Jeramie’s case in a silver rain mac. We decided she was a mini Kylie Minogue. Even funnier was Santos, who grabbed a red hat and jumpsuit and decided he was ‘Santos Claus.’ Geddit? In the middle of May.
This was all in aid of a huge annual festival that Yanapay organise. Which is how I ended up spending my Saturday in a park , facepainted as a tiger, manning a trampoline. Well, part manning, part rolling around, getting jumped on by adorable 3 year olds. If this is what the circus is like, I want to join. 
That said, reading this back  I realise I’m writing very much through rose-tinted glasses. I did of course learn that a) Despite their cuteness, I’m totally sticking to saving animals in my future do-gooding charity work. b) If you ever want to detox from your busy social life, spend time with some kids – you won’t be awake past 8pm, it’s exhausting. C) I don’t for one second envy anyone that actually dedicates their time to real life teaching. Respect.

Machu Picchu, Peru

Lake Titicaca, Bolivia & Peru

AKA:  My 24 hours as an illegal immigrant. I kid you not.

Welcome to a catalog of errors. Here is how NOT to EVER cross a border.

I should prefix this some a little word from CNN News:  For weeks now there have been widespread protests and disputes between Bolivia and Peru, specifically about the opening of new mines in the North, the growing pollution of water supplies, and generally lots of other unrest that flares up quite frequently. Although I had heard about this on the grapevine, I obviously took it with a pinch of salt. There is so much media miscommunication in both countries; it’s hard to know what to believe.

Part Uno:  Over the Borderline (& Back & Back)

The Copacabana (Bolivia) to Puno (Peru) route is a well worn path on the Gringo Trail. So Niv (from yesterday) and I come off our boat from Isla del Sol, expecting to overnight it for 10 hours on the night bus to Cusco.  Easy Peasy.

“No bus” “No border” “No road” tells the 100 year old crazy lady in the ticket place. We try and ascertain which of these three it is. After 10 mins, and other similar 100 year old ticket ladies telling us pretty much the same thing, we are minded to believe them.

Never mind, we think, we will go tomorrow instead. Apparently there is a special boat . Of course there is. Here is where the fun starts.

Note 1 to self: When buses, borders and roads close in South America, they do so for a reason. Don’t ignore this!

Turns out, there is a big boss of the ticket ladies, who seems to have a monopoly on the special boat. She promises to save us a ticket whilst we go get cash, its 170bs. We come back 3 mins later and it’s gone up to 200bs. She shrugs, and we figure that’s supply and demand. After all there are about 100 travelers stuck around this border from the last few days, and she knows business wise she’s hit the jackpot. Fair play to her. We buy the ticket. Although £20.00 is extortionate in Bolivia, and double what it was yesterday before the crisis erupted, it’s nothing to get where you want to go, we think.

Pleased with ourselves we meet Anna and Stephanie and go for dinner. At some point one of us mentions passport stamps.  Good point. We head back to ticket boss lady. She tells us (in Spanish) that yes; we need to pop to the border to get our Bolivia stamp before it closes tonight. Good job we asked then. We haul ass in a taxi to Kasani, 10 mins away on the Bolivian side.

A drunken border official then giggles away from behind his desk, and seems to be amusing  himself practicing with his stamp on a blank piece of A4 in front of him. We hold out our passports, then realise it’s probably best to get the correct date (i.e. tomorrow) on them if possible. “20 (£2) boliviano’s” he says.  “Ok 10 (£1) bolivianos,” he adds two seconds later before we can even agree. He doesn’t notice that we leave with our stamp dated ‘16th’ without paying him anything.

Lesson to self 2: Never trust a Bolivian border official. Never trust a drunk border official.

So, pretty pleased with ourselves again, we head back to Copacabana. In the country that we have officially just been stamped out of.  We all go our separate ways and have an early night. Not before using the last of our Bolivianos on water/Oreos.  Bolivianos are pretty worthless in the exchange against the Peso, so we might as well, so we think.

8am the next morning. The real trouble starts. Just a random question that came to me in my sleep, but if we are stamped out of Bolivia, don’t we need a stamp into Peru? We seemed to have overlooked this, or assumed it would happen on arrival. We go consult the oracle (aka boss ticket lady) who says yes yes, we’ll get a stamp when we get off the boat. Naive Niv believes her. I definitely don’t. “And where specifically will that be then, Puno or Juli (we are not sure boat docks)? And why would either of those towns have an official man sat with a stamp, when neither are official border crossings?” I ask. “Yes, yes” she repeats.???

Lesson 3: Never trust a crazy ticket lady, when she sells or tells you anything.

It’s 9am. Our boat leaves at 9.30am. These are our options:

*Get on the boat. Hope she’s telling the truth and there’s a temporary stamp office into Peru, in Puno. If she’s lying we just entered the country illegally. In a month’s time I will be stood at an airport getting deported. Is this what British Embassies are for? Naive Niv seems to think this is fine – maybe the Israeli embassy is more understanding about these things, although I doubt it. Plus, I point out, who is going to believe this story, it’s our choice if we choose to enter a country illegally – not the crazy ticket lady who sold us a ticket on a special boat.

*Option 2: Don’t get on the increasingly dodgy boat, and wait it out in Copacabana until the protests stop. This might be days or weeks. It’s the sensible thing to do. Apart from the flaw is we have a bloody exit stamp dated the 16th May! Doh.

*Option 3: Mad dash to the border again. Hope that the Peruvian side at Yunguyo is open, despite the time difference. Hope that we can run across past the men with guns, get entry stamp with the correct date, and then turn and run back into the country we have just left (again) and make it back for the boat, all in half an hour.

We go for option 3. It works. The Peruvian officials seem sober yet are as relaxed about the dodginess of the whole situation as Bolivia. The irony is the stamp is so faint you can hardly see it anyway. Sigh.

Part 2: The long road to Peru.

9.30am. We board the boat. Actually no, we queue in the 100 deep pile of people and rucksacks on the beach for the boat. It’s like Dunkirk in Saving Private Ryan, apart from any stray body parts and Tom Hanks. But we are all united in the feeling that we are being rescued for a better life in magic Peru, packed like sardines in what will become known as Boats number 1, 2 and 3.

Boat 1 and 2 leave across Lake Titicaca to freedom. We find out later they sail straight to Puno, hassle free. I am in boat 3. Boat 3 waits for an hour, sets off, then gets stopped by the coastguard police who check our manifest. Turns out we don’t have permission to sail straight to Puno. I don’t know why.  Eventually we set sail. I sidle up to the noisy group on the top deck. They have red wine. It’s been a hard morning we’ve earned a glass. I sunbathe, and all is well, for a couple of hours.

After 2 hours we reach the far shore (it’s a huge lake), we dock and get out.  Welcome to Peru. Apart from there doesn’t seem to be a bus to collect us. It seems the nice fisherman boat driver has delivered us to the wrong place. We all pile back on the boat and go another hour North to Juli.

We all pile out again, and someone in a uniform checks the passport stamps that we worked so hard for. Apart from he doesn’t even look at the right page of mine, he seems distracted by the other pretty stamps.  Never mind. At least it’s kind of legal now, as he doesn’t really question how/why I already have stamps for a country when I’m just arriving in.

Then we wait. The bus is on its way apparently. There are 42 of us and most of us have booked tickets all the way to Cusco (which is a 2h bus to Puno, and then a 7h to Cusco). It’s 1pm when we arrive, and at 3pm we are all still sat there. Actually, I’m playing cards. Traveller Kim is very relaxed about such matters. There’s no hurry, it’s sunny, chill. I’m only slightly concerned that I only have the water from last night, no food, and no Bolivinos/Soles until an ATM in Cusco, but i’m sure it will be fine.

Lesson 4: Don’t cross a border with no money and no water.

The bus will be here soon though. Probably. That’s what a dude with a mobile phone keeps telling us. We are not sure where he sprung from but he seems an associate of crazy ticket lady, and he’s managing the situation, we think. Either that or he’s talking to his wife about dinner. It’s fascinating watching crowd mentality when things don’t go to plan. There is always one take charge eventually.  This is what happens when Spanish speaking guy in red jumper, decides enough is enough and we should walk to ‘town’ and get taxi’s to Puno. A few of us think it’s pretty weird that the taxis haven’t  come to us already, and capitalised on 42 stranded travellers.

So at 3pm we set off walking, following the mobile phone guy into the village. Something seems to be up however. He is well sketchy, and through the translation skills of Red Jumper, its clear the situ is serious. The protests that blocked the border and road have turned to mini riots, with children throwing rocks, and villagers lighting fires and slashing car tyres. This explains the lack of bus or taxi. No one is willing to risk it.

The solution, you would think, would be to sit tight in this tiny village, maybe for the night until it’s safer to get back on the roads. You would be wrong. It turns out what Mobile guy wants us to do is walk THROUGH the protests, and out of the other side to a village where the mystery bus can safely go and pick us up. The girls in the group have never heard anything so stupid, but find ourselves walking with massive backpacks, through remote Peruvian villages for at least 6k. In Juli especially, it’s like walking through a wild west scene. Whole families and children come out into the streets to stare. They rarely see travellers. We carry on like this for 2 hours, yet I am strangely upbeat and figure you have to laugh. The whole thing is so surreal.

By 5pm the sun starts to set, the temperature drops, and our water supplies start to dwindle. The laughter stops. We start to lose faith in Mobile Guy who is still promising ‘next village.’ The ‘good’ news is that at dusk, the protesters start to disperse (how fickle!) but we do walk 50 meters with our breath held, treading through broken glass, around huge rocks and slingshots, and the aftermath of the afternoon. The remaining gangs seem more curious in us rather than unfriendly, and even mutter a ‘buenos noches.’ They are polite protesters at least. What a relief.

I’m walking with a Dutch couple. The girl is getting as fed up as me, and although we have been tough little soldiers for the past 2 hours, we are starting to crack. The group of 42 of us is spread across a mile or so now. Then suddenly for the first time in hours a random car passes. Me and Dutch girl hysterically flag it down, and incredibly it stops. I have never been so relieved to be in a vehicle ever in my life, and six of us pile into the battered thing. We pay the guy $5 US dollars each to take us the hour we need to Puno. Possibly the best £3.50 I have ever spent.

By 6pm we pull up in Puno bus station and eat the best meal we have ever eaten. We also drink the best beer, but I give half of mine to a homeless guy. I figure I need to redeem my karma after leaving the rest of Boat 3 for dust by the side of the road as we sailed off in a car. And I never know, his day might have been worse than mine. To to be fair we did call for back up for taxis for the others when we reached civilisation. As far as we know they are not still walking.

So I take with me from this epic day: my final lessons in Bolivian/Peruvian politics, corruption at its best/worsted, and the fact that dollars talk. And if you can’t use emergency US Dollars to bribe border officials, enter countries illegally and hitchhike, when can you use them. I still have $15 left.

Copacabana & Isla Del Sol, Bolivia

bolivia all 299Copacabana. Not to be mistaken with the one in Brazil. This one has no song. It’s a small town on the shore of Lake Titicaca; the highest, largest lake in the world.

I spend a quiet afternoon climbing Cerro Calvario hill. After the ugliness of La Paz’s Parque Raul Salmon de la Barre the day before, it’s the peaceful spot that I was looking for. Locals light candles at sunset and stare out over the city. It’s a nice place to think.

Copa is also a launching point for the Isla Del Sol, a pretty big deal if you are into Inca mythology. You can walk from Sun Island in the North to Moon Island in the South, on a 3 hour hike, with some ‘Poco’ hills, I was assured. They were not so small. My new walking friends were Stephanie and Anna from Switzerland, who taught us all about Chocolate making (so Swiss!). Also Niv from Israel ,who taught us all about the Israeli/Palestine conflict, from a real 29 year old’s point of view, and not the stuff you see on BBC News Worldwide. (Not that I watch BBC News, but I didn’t let on.) This sounds all rather high brow – so Anna also taught us all the game of ‘Dark Stories.’ This is basically like the game Mindtrap, with silly insolvable riddles. I told you it was a big hill, we needed distracting. Liz – you would have loved it.

La Paz, Bolivia

It’s hard for me to write about La Paz.  Sad news from real life caught up with me, even in Bolivia. So I’m just going to try to write about something happy that made me smile on a very sad day here:

Whilst taking a quiet walk in the Witches Markets, Arnaud and I were met on a busy junction by two lively Bolivians. They were dressed in black and white animal costumes and holding out their hands to us, whilst dancing. Yes, they were real life Zebra Crossings! Literally, that was their job, to escort you across the road to safety. I like living in a world where things like this happen.

The only other important thing to say is thank you A. For my hug,  for making me laugh, for letting me forget for a while, and for just being there for me. x

Previous Older Entries : The Anantasin is the name of a shipwreck just of the coast of the Sensi Parasise, Mae Haad Bay, Koh Tao, Thailand. It’s one of my many favorite places.

Lit.tle: Just because it’s cute.

Blasts From The Past…

May 2011

Enter your email address to follow this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.

Join 185 other followers