A very busy morning. Go around to talk to various tour companies and get waylaid by Señor Zarate, one of the sons of the legendary local trekking guide, Carlos Zarate. He starts explaining to me in detail the kind of tailor-made tours they do of the Colca Canyon and ends up drawing me numerous maps of trekking routes, explaining why they go to this village and not that one, and telling me that you need at least four days to explore even a part of the canyon properly. His local knowledge is impressive; he knows all the villages, the altitude of each one, the distances between them. He explains a bit about guiding in general – how under President Fujimori, it was a free-for-all: no restrictions whatsoever, fly-by-night carpetbagger companies turning up all over the place, people calling themselves guides without having any experience or knowledge…Then under García, things have become more organised; there’s now technically a minimum wage for trekking and mountain guides, roughly set prices for pack animals, etc.
“I’m a guide: that’s all I want to do,” he tells me. His brother, Carlos, does other things, like cycling tours; their services compliment each other. I decide that if I come back to Arequipa, I’d love to do some serious hiking with this wiry, enthusiastic guy who’s barely taller than me; it’s clear that he knows what he’s talking about. He’s very keen on an alternative day trip out of Arequipa, which takes in Toro Muerto and a couple of less-known villages: “You go by local bus and the people are very nice, very curious. There’s none of this: ‘You’re a gringo, so if you take a picture of me, you have to give me a sweetie or a dollar.’”
Collect my laundry. Exchange two books for one at El Lectór bookshop. Visit a couple more hostels. Pay the outstanding fee for the forthcoming jungle trip at the BBVA bank. Call my housemates again; we’re having to look for a new place to live, and it seems that the only places available for four people are way out of central Cambridge; the whole thing is stressing me out, and no doubt my housemates as well.
Go check out the local market; rumours about that it’s dangerous for tourists, but it’s all a matter of perspective. As long as you leave your gold jewellery and expensive camera behind, no one’s going to hassle you or slash your bag. I love produce markets and this is an excellent one. I wander through the rows of bright fruit, smelly chunks of meat, little eateries serving fresh juices, ceviche, grilled chunks of pork, taking in the smells, the clamour, the wandering minstrels and beggars, a weird man in African robes with a necklace made of teeth and a small skull. Not only do I not get mugged, raped or murdered, but soon I’m the proud owner of a very unhygienic-looking cheese; I’m sure it’s delicious once I scrape off the top layer. Gotta recommend this as a top spot for cheap eats and very local atmosphere.
Lunch at Cevichería Fory Fay. I’m such a creature of habit! I really feel at home in Arequipa and realise that the city’s frenetic energy reminds me of Mexico City – rough around the edges, but with an atmosphere that really grows on you.
Catch a taxi to the main bus terminals – the Terrapuerto and the Terminal Terrestre. Check out bus timetables. Have my extra bit of luggage wrapped in clingfilm and put it on a bus to Lima, to be received by my friend Mike. There seem to be lots of night buses, but unfortunately, each guidebook speaks of fatal accidents, robberies, holdups and assaults, so I’ll have to find out for sure whether it’s a good idea or not, whether there have been any improvements in the last couple of years. I just hate wasting time when I could be travelling.
Though my bus ticket to Puno is super cheap (15 soles for a six-hour ride), I actually have to pay departure tax – it’s just one of those Peruvian anomalies. I find out what an Economico bus is, as opposed to a semi-cama or cama; it means that there’s no air-con or heating, so first we’re roasting in the afternoon sun, and then freezing in the evening as it climbs to an altitude of 3,800m. There are also no toilets on board, but hey – if you need to go, the whole highway is your bathroom! The bus stops in the middle of nowhere and a bunch of people pile out to stand or squat by the side of the road. For women, wearing a skirt is handy. The driving is a bit alarming as well; our driver plays chicken with other road users, often driving on the wrong side until literally the last second, overtaking, undertaking, and sometimes forcing smaller vehicles coming towards us onto the hard shoulder to avoid us. I have a prime seat for this – top, front row. I wonder why no one’s claimed them; in Chile, those would be the first to go.
Spend much of the ride planning my day-and-a-bit in Puno, having been here before and having pumped my tour leader friends for up-to-date info and tips. Really get into “The Runner”; the main character who doesn’t care about most things reminds me of an old friend of mine.
It’s dark and cold by the time we pull into Puno and when checking out bus departures, I spot something of great interest: one of the bus companies seems to be offering trips to Puerto Maldonado, the town in the jungle that I need to get to, which I thought was only reachable by plane or by truck due to hideous roads; maybe they’ve fixed them up…Will find out for sure tomorrow.
The taxi driver is very courteous; he welcomes me to Puno, gives me tips on what to see and even waits by the entrance to my guesthouse to make sure I get in okay.
Dinner is great pizza at Machupizza – a cosy little warren of an establishment, decorated with wall hangings akin to those that I bought on the floating islands last time I was here. The pizza comes with spicy salsa and some kind of garlic sauce and it’s the cheapest meal I’ve had in Peru so far, as well as one of the best. Peruvians do pizza better than Chileans, I have to say…
Not feeling the altitude too much; get a bit breathless running up the stairs and have the hint of a dull headache, but that’s about it.
Very full day tomorrow.
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