Day 57 - Corpus Cristi festival in Cusco.

Today is the Corpus Cristi festival, which means that all hell has broken loose. Maybe I’m still on jungle time, but once again I’ve been up since 6am, catching up on work, wandering the streets to mark everything of importance onto my maps, double-checking that my Inca Trail reservation still stands, trying to find out more about shaman rituals involving the hallucinogenic ayahuasca vine, when I get swept up in the parade passing through the centre.

Brass bands are playing and men in sombre black suits are carrying an elaborately decorated figure of a saint on wooden supports. A large crowd of onlookers has gathered on the steps opposite the cathedral. Vendors are hawking one-sol flyers explaining the significance of each saint, copas de fruta (fruit salad in what looks like condensed milk), roast potatoes, drinks, hats…On the smaller Plaza de San Francisco, things are really taking off: tables are piled high with roast brown forms of guinea pigs and chickens, the former holding rocoto peppers in their mouths and the latter with peppers up their bottoms; there are heaps of what looks like tortillas (the Spanish omelette), containers of cooked quinoa, stack upon stack of soft drinks, and trays of what looks like black pudding. Upon enquiry, I discover that it’s, in fact, guinea pig tripe. You can’t get more local than that, and I get some of the tortilla (which turns out to be some kind of corn dough concoction with vegetables, soaked through with oil) to go with it. The deep-fried guinea pig stomach stuffed with guinea pig organs, herbs and bits of potato is palatable at first, though I struggle to finish it and won’t ever feel the need to eat guinea pig tripe again.

Meantime, another parade passes through the market; the men are dressed in elaborate, colourful costumes embroidered with beads and wear woollen balaclavas with embroidered faces on their heads. They dance past the stalls and the vendors give them little treats. The crowds are getting thicker and I push past people to watch the masked men dance the salsa in front of the cathedral. I follow another couple of processions, each saint carried by differently dressed folks – colourful ponchos and dresses, some marching, some dancing, with many processions followed by a plain wooden frame supported by grubby street urchins.

I spend more time at the SAE clubhouse, seeking more information about the Inca Trail, and trying to find out where and how I can learn more about the working conditions of the porters. It’s very important to bring the message across to our readers that if they go for a cheap tour, it may mean that their porters are eating leftovers and have no warm place to sleep, and that’s unacceptable. The SAE folks know a local guide who knows many porters who work the Inca Trail, so I make arrangements to talk to him when I get back to Cusco.

When I check out the Coca Museum in San Blas – which turns out to be even more interesting than the Puno one, I get into a long conversation with the curator. He informs me that if I were to get a urine test after drinking coca leaf tea, I’d test positive for cocaine, because it contains the alkaloid, even though it's not active. He also explains to me that the heart of the cocaine trade in Peru is in the mountains between Cusco and Ayacucho; the coca leaves go to Bolivia via Cusco, from Bolivia come contraband goods in return, they are sold and the money is laundered through legitimate business.

The displays show ancient ceramic figures with one puffy cheek showing that they’re chewing coca leaves, texts on research done into the medicinal use of cocaine after Albert Nieman isolated the alkaloid, on Freud’s use of cocaine and his prescribing it for a variety of psychological illnesses, displays on US-funded planes spraying coca leaf plantations with plant killer, trying to destroy the locals’ connection with Pachamama (Mother Earth); displays on famous cocaine abusers, including Whitney Houston, Maradona, Freddie Mercury.

The curator explains to me that though Peru and Colombia are the biggest producers of coca leaves in South America, neither country has a cocaine problem; the cocaine goes to the States, Europe, Argentina and Brazil. While in Peru the leaves are chewed with another plant extract for maximum energy, in Colombia they make the leaves into flour, and put coca flour into a hot drink. Leave with all sorts of coca leaf goodies - cookies, chocolate, tea...

From street food to gourmet: I end my day at Cicciolina, an upmarket place which does imaginative tapas, divine homemade pasta and sublime-sounding dishes involving raw fish. My only complaint regards the bar stools: they are too tall for midgets and in trying to climb up onto one, I simultaneously nearly topple over onto fellow diners and almost twist my arms out of their sockets.

Back to the jungle tomorrow…